What if Indigo is right? What if my entire life has been a lie? What if the reason my mother—Lynn—has always liked Hannah more is because Hannah’s her daughter and I’m not?
“Okay, I can try to do more things that are exciting, but what about the theory?” I ask as we cross the parking lot.
“What about it?”
“How do we find out if it’s true?”
She links arms with me. “We’re going to do a little research. And if all else fails, we’ll wait until Grandma Stephy gets good and drunk, and then get her to spill the beans.” She grins deviously. “You know she’s a talker when she gets too tipsy. Plus, people tend to get a little crazy when they’re on vacation, especially out of the country.”
“Grandma Stephy is already a little crazy,” I say with a small laugh, but it hurts to smile. Hurts to think.
She chuckles. “Yeah, so just think how crazy she’s going to get while we’re chilling in London or Paris. After a few glasses of wine and a little pushing on our part, we should be able to get the truth out of her.” She pats my arm. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. And we’re going to teach you what excitement is.”
I nod, silently vowing to go along with the plan. Inside, however, I’m terrified. What if it’s true? What if I don’t even know who my own mother is?
Chapter 4
A week later, I’m chilling out on the balcony of a very nice hotel room, staring out at the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower. I’m half-listening to Indigo plot out our plan to weasel the truth out of Grandma Stephy, who’s downstairs at the bar having drinks.
Ever since I discovered I might not know who my real mom is, my head’s been stuck between reality and daydream land, where my mind creates all kinds of scenarios on where this is all going to go, where I’m going to end up if I find out I’ve been living a lie. I keep replaying all the times my parents acted strangely around me, including when my dad didn’t even hug me good-bye before he left Grandma Stephy’s.
“Have fun, okay?” he said as he walked toward the front door to leave. “And take care of yourself.”
I forced a stiff smile. “Okay.”
He gave me an awkward pat on the arm before rushing out of the apartment without even saying good-bye to Grandma or Indigo.
“It’s going to be okay,” my grandma said with a tense smile. Then she clapped her hands together and made herself smile for real. “All right, you two. Let’s finish packing. We leave really early Monday morning.”
And that was that.
The last seven days have been filled with packing, driving to the airport with a bus full of older people, taking the twelve-hour flight to Paris, and getting to the hotel. We’ve been here for over a day, spending a lot of time catching up on sleep. After sleeping for most of the day, I now feel super awake and night has just fallen.
“I was thinking tonight might be the best night to put our plan in motion.” Indigo balances an ashtray on her belly then kicks her feet up on the railing and takes a drag of her cigarette. “I know we just got here and everything, but I don’t think we should waste any time. You’re already stressing out way too much as it is.”
“I’m not stressed … I’ve just been thinking.” I try to focus on her and the conversation. “And which plan are we talking about? The excitement one, or getting Grandma drunk?” I fan my hand in front of my face to cool off.
In Sunnyvale, June temperatures usually hover in the seventies, maybe the eighties, on a super intense day, and the nights bottom to forty. Right now, it’s eight o’clock and feels like it’s ninety degrees outside.
“We aren’t going to get her drunk. We’re going to wait until she gets herself drunk. And we might not have to wait that long.” She taps her cigarette against the ashtray before placing it on the table next to her. “Dude, did you see all the mini bottles she drank on the plane?”
I giggle. “Yeah, I know. I can’t believe she was playing a drinking game with her friends.”
“I think it’s so cool. I hope I’m that cool when I’m old.” She lowers her feet to the ground, leans forward in the chair, and rests her arms on the balcony railing, staring over the edge at the sidewalk below. “I was talking about your self-discovering journey.” She pauses, musing over something while puffing on her cigarette. “I think we should start tonight, but not go too crazy.” She seems to be talking more to herself than to me. “We have to ease you into this.”
“I know I’m not the most exciting person ever,” I say, “but I’ve done some exciting things. You don’t have to go easy on me.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “Careful, Isa. Giving me free reign like that can end up being dangerous.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just partying. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m not just talking about partying; I’m talking about completely letting go. Of everything.” She stares me down, like she’s trying to get me to take back what I said. I don’t crack. Won’t. I’ve spent way too much of my life doing that, something I’ve painfully become aware of over the last week. A slow smile curls her lips. “All right, let’s do this, then.” She jumps to her feet, wanders back into the room, and begins rummaging around in her suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I walk into the room.
“Making you club-worthy,” she says as she sorts through her dresses, shirts, and shorts.
I grow nervous as she holds up a tight red dress that looks like it will barely cover my ass.
“No fucking way.” I shake my head. “I can’t wear that.”
She frowns. “Why not?”
“Well, for starters …” I rack my brain for a reason other than saying I’ll feel like an idiot. “I haven’t shaved my legs.”
She flicks her wrist, motioning me to get a move on. “Well, hurry up and do it, then.”
I nervously pick at my fingernails. “I, um, didn’t bring a razor.”
She looks at me with confusion then suddenly relaxes. “Oh, I get it. You’ve never done any of this before, have you?”
I cross my arms, feeling absurdly self-conscious. “Done what, exactly?”
“Shave. Put on makeup.” She shoves the red dress at me. “Dress up.”
“I’ve never really cared about my looks, and I’ve never really been into girlie stuff.” I pause, feeling idiotic. “And it’s kind of hard, you know, to ask my mom—Lynn—to show me how to put on makeup and all that fun stuff when I know she’ll probably just laugh at me and tell me how ridiculous I am to think that’ll help my looks.”
Like she did the one and only time I asked her to buy me a dress. I was twelve, and it was for the seventh grade dance. I thought I’d dress up, since I heard most of the girls were.
Lynn laughed at me when I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’d look hideous in a dress,” she said.
I fought back tears. “I think I should try to dress up. I mean, everyone else in my grade is.”