“They also knew our adoptive moms and dads would come for us. And our adoptive parents did come for us. And now we not only have those families, but because of where we started out, we also have each other.
“So I think, in a way, the blankets really are from our birth moms, and they do let us know that our birth moms really did love us. That’s a much stronger connection than any piece of yarn from a blanket could ever be.”
This was our story, and it was the truth, and no one could ever take that from us.
Dear Ms. Marcia,
Well, I’ve finally realized why Mom knew that going to camp with Avery and Becca was such a good idea.
Mom’s not from China. She’s not adopted. And she was never, ever an orphan. But Avery and Becca are all those things. And that’s why we’re good for each other. And yes, Ms. Marcia, I’ll say what you’ve been waiting to hear me say. It’s why the three of us have a special connection—one we’ll never have with anyone else.
Julia
PS I know you didn’t really handpick this cabin, but it’s kind of funny how all six of us ended up being good for each other.
28
During dinner, I ran up to the cabin by myself to get a clean T-shirt. Becca had decided to propose another toast to White Oak, this time for working everything out. She had gotten a little too enthusiastic, so I’d ended up with a cupful of milk all over my shirt.
Back at the cabin I dug in my suitcase. A week of camp had left my clothes dirty and damp, but I hoped to find one more clean shirt. I lucked out and found one way at the bottom of my bag. I pulled it out, and with it came an envelope. I opened it and found a note from my mom.
Dear Julia,
We’ll miss you while you’re gone.
Can’t wait ’til you get home!
Don’t ever forget you’re my one in a million.
Love,
Mom
Mom had probably planned on me finding this note earlier in the week, but with all that had gone on, I felt like I was finding it at just the right time.
Reading the note gave me the same strange homesick feeling I’d had when I lost the yarn, but this time it felt good. I was homesick for my mom, and that was the best kind of homesick feeling you could have.
As I headed into the bathroom to change my shirt, I noticed the life collages hanging on the wall. I stopped and looked at mine. Had it really only been five days ago that we’d made them? So much had happened since then, and now when I looked at the photos on my poster, I felt like one was missing.
I went over to my suitcase and dug out the baby photo of me in the orphanage. The one I hadn’t wanted to include on my collage. I had hidden it in the inside pocket of my suitcase that day after our cabin’s time in the arts-and-crafts room. But now I walked over to the wall by the bathroom and added it to my collage. Now my life collage was complete.
When I looked more closely at that photo of me in the orphanage—ignoring the hair that stuck straight up, the bug bites on my cheeks, and those puffy clothes—I realized that I did look just like me in that photo. Just like I was supposed to look. My life story had begun exactly the way it was always meant to begin—in an orphanage in China right next to Avery and Becca. And yes, the three of us would probably never know our birth moms, but we knew each other and our connection to one another was really something special.
All the other photos on my collage showed how my life story was supposed to continue—with an Irish mom and an Italian dad.
So no matter how many other baby girls from China had an orphanage photo just like mine, there was no one just like me.
Dear Ms. Marcia,
If my mom knew what I had been pretending about the baby blanket, would she wonder if I loved her as much as she loved me?
No way!
She wouldn’t wonder that at all!
My mom thinks I am one in a million. One in a million in a good way. One in a million in the BEST way. And because of that I’m sure she knows just how much I love her, no matter what I pretend and no matter what I have to do to figure things out in my life.
Julia
PS Maybe in your adoption article, one thing you could say is that sometimes people don’t want to look back because they are afraid of facing the truth. But sometimes, facing the truth we’re afraid of is what makes us who we’re really supposed to be.
29
Later that night we stayed so long at the bonfire—talking and laughing and singing—that by the time we got back to the cabin, we were too tired to even change into our pj’s. All we could do was collapse in our bunks.
Within seconds of us sliding into our sleeping bags, heavy breathing sounds of sleep filled our cabin. But even so, I lay awake in the dark. My body hummed with exhaustion, while my mind raced with thoughts of all that had gone on that day.
I knew there was something I had to do before I’d be able to put my thoughts to sleep. Actually two things, so I reached for my flashlight and my “Ms. Marcia” journal and headed under my covers.
Dear Mom,
You’ve always told me I was never really an orphan, and now I know why—I’ve always been your one in a million, and you’ve always been mine. My mom.
Love,
Julia
Ms. Marcia had suggested that we write a letter to our adoptive moms, but I knew there was one more letter I needed to write.
Dear Birth Mom,
I’ll probably never meet you, but I know who you are. You’re my Chinese birth mom. You loved me enough to let me be someone else’s one in a million. And I hope that somehow you know I love you too.
Love,
Julia
30
The next morning, I woke up still wearing my shorts and T-shirt from the day before. My shirt smelled like campfire smoke, and it had sticky spots from all the marshmallow drips I’d spilled on it while we devoured s’mores and sang every song Donnie had taught us that week.
“I can’t believe it’s the last day,” Avery said.
“Me either,” Vanessa agreed.
“I can’t believe we’re all still alive,” Becca said.
We all laughed.
“Technically, it is kind of surprising that we didn’t all kill each other,” Avery said.
“Hey, there’s still a little time,” Gina said.
“I heard that,” Tori called from her counselor room.
We all laughed again.
“You girls better get moving,” Tori said, coming out of her room and heading into the bathroom. “You’ve got to pack up and be ready for the buses by ten.”
We all groaned but slowly started emerging from our sleeping bags.
Instead of making our beds, we peeled the sheets off our mattresses, rolled up our sleeping bags, gathered up clothes hanging from the wooden bunk bed rails, and collected the toiletries from our cubbies.
“I can’t believe we all have to say good-bye to each other today,” Avery said. “Bummer.”
“But now we’re camp sisters,” Gina said. She started dancing and singing “We Are Family,” trying to lighten the mood a little, but then she flopped back down on her bunk, unable to keep her upbeat mood going.
“I’m really going to miss you guys,” she said.
She almost sounded like she might cry.
Then Vanessa surprised all of us by saying, “Gina, you should come over to my house sometime when Meredith spends the night.”
“And next summer,” I said, sitting next to Gina on her bed. “Same time, same place. Right?”
“Maybe next year we could actually win the camp competition,” Meredith said.
“That would be killer!” Becca yelled, bouncing her soccer ball hard against the concrete floor.
I looked around the cabin for anything I’d missed that was mine. The clothesline outside the cabin was ful
l of empty clothespins, and our still damp clothes, swimsuits, and towels were shoved into plastic bags and crammed into suitcases that didn’t close as well as when we’d packed them at home.
“Hey, what are we going to do with these?” Meredith asked, holding up the two long-handled spoons we’d made for our Egg Emergency practice.
“Let’s take them apart and use the chopsticks at breakfast this morning,” I said.
Avery and Becca looked at me.
“You want to eat with chopsticks?” Becca exclaimed.
“Maybe,” I answered, smiling.
I grabbed my Chinese fan, the one Avery had saved for me. She had given it to me at the bonfire the night before. I waved it in my face. Then I waved it in Becca’s face while Gina started taking apart the chopsticks.
I climbed back onto my bunk bed to make sure I hadn’t left anything up there. I found a sock wedged between the mattress and the bed frame, probably left over from our paper and sock war the day before. And when I lifted the mattress to pull it out, I saw something else. Something blue. A piece of yarn. The lost piece of yarn from the zipper on my Bible case. The lost piece of yarn from my baby blanket.
Even though I knew everyone would be happy that I’d found the yarn, for some reason I wanted to keep it a secret. It had brought us altogether, so even though it was just a piece of yarn, it was kind of special in a weird way. So I shoved it in my pocket and jumped down from my bunk without saying a word.
As I slid the sock into the side pocket of my suitcase next to other dirty clothes, I felt the half-finished friendship bracelet—the one I had brought along for my friend Madison. I hadn’t worked on it since the bus ride to camp, but finding it gave me an idea.
“Hey, do you guys think we have time to go down to the arts-and-crafts room before the buses leave?” I asked.
I stood in the middle of the cabin, waiting for an answer as I fanned myself with my Chinese fan.
“We should have enough time,” Avery said, looking at her watch.
“Then let’s go,” I said.
Dear Ms. Marcia,
It turns out I do believe the proverb about the red thread.
When we said good-bye to each other, Becca, Avery, Gina, Vanessa, Meredith, and I pinkie promised we’d never take off the friendship bracelets we had made in the arts-and-crafts room on that last morning of camp. But I know none of us will keep that promise. I bet after a week or two at home, the bracelets that seem so important now will end up in the bottom of our closets or in the back of our desk junk drawer.
Even so, the twisted and braided red-and-white gimp means more than just friendship to me. It reminds me of a connection that runs deeper than all the red threads in China.
So, even if the bracelet doesn’t stay on my wrist but instead ends up in the pocket of an old purse or the bottom of a backpack, I know that what the red thread reminds me of can never be lost or broken.
I went to camp with my Chinese sisters, but I left with much more than that. I left with friendships that are worth a lot because we had to fight for them. Literally.
And I left with the truth. The truth about me. The truth about my life story. And as it turns out, there’s a lot of peace in the truth once you learn how to accept it.
And once you accept it, that peace becomes part of you.
Love,
Julia
One in a Million
Author’s Note
Just Like Me was inspired by my own experience as an adoptive mom.
My husband and I adopted our daughter from the Hunan Province in China when she was ten months old. Though Just Like Me is a work of fiction, I hope that Julia’s experience of discovering how special she is and how important close friends can be rings true for readers no matter what their backgrounds might be.
Julia’s story is about appreciating our individuality, no matter what our ethnic roots are. Doing this allows us to treat ourselves and others with the kindness, patience, and respect we all deserve.
Acknowledgments
I’ll start by thanking my fabulous editor, Aubrey Poole, because her creative vision, her cheerful patience, and her amazing insight propel my books to become something I never thought they could be. I don’t think there’s a way for an author to love and appreciate her editor as much as I love and appreciate Aubrey.
Next I want to thank Holly Root, my agent, for keeping my career on track and always offering the kind of steady, constant strength and encouragement that authors need to keep believing in themselves. None of my books would have ever happened without her.
A huge thank-you to the whole Sourcebooks team. First, you make my books look like candy on the shelf so that readers can’t help but grab them and read them. Then you take my books everywhere and tell everyone all about them with your irresistible enthusiasm. I am so grateful for all you do and for the way you love my books as much as I love them.
And thank you, Dominique Raccah, because I absolutely love being a Sourcebooks author!
A special thanks to my daughter, Chaylee, and her four Chinese sisters—Eliza, Aliana, Grace, and Mia—and yes, all five of these girls are from the same orphanage in China. Thank you, girls, for bringing so much love and laughter to our lives and for inspiring this story about the special connections all of us have with the people in our lives.
Thank you to Madeleine Kuderick for sitting with me at Panera and talking “shop” for hours, while the Panera workers vacuumed around us, trying to get us to leave. Your writing friendship and “friend” friendship kept me going when I wasn’t sure I could fill the blank pages with words.
And to Ron, who always believes I can do it, even when I’m not sure that I can. Thank you for your love and patience, and most of all for being the one who’s always there.
Finally, I am thankful for God’s blessings. He gives me more than I can ask or imagine. I am truly blessed!
About the Author
Nancy J. Cavanaugh is the award-winning author of This Journal Belongs to Ratchet and Always, Abigail. She has been an elementary and middle school teacher, as well as a school library media specialist. She and her husband and daughter enjoy winters in sunny Florida and eat pizza in Chicago the rest of the year.
Visit www.nancyjcavanaugh.com.
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Just Like Me Page 13