“That’s okay. Really, I’m okay.” Kenna springs up quickly, brushing herself off. Aside from a massive grass stain on her baggy, jeans shorts-clad butt, she doesn’t seem worse for wear.
Kid’s got moxie!
The old tagline from the show pops into my head unbidden.
“Do you see it?” Dean asks. “Isn’t it crazy? She’s a dead ringer for you.”
“I don’t know about that, Dean.” Kenna rolls her eyes. “I think you might be overselling it.” And then she turns to me, all earnest-eyed and open-faced. “I did get called Moxie all the time as a kid, though.”
There’s probably a word in German for the disorientation you experience when unexpectedly encountering your own doppelgänger. A vortex opens in the time space continuum, sucking both of you in and spitting you out somewhere else entirely in the multiverse. But of course, the whole time, it’s still Tuesday.
“Really?” I ask casually. “That’s adorable. I don’t see it, but I’ll have to take your word for it,” I say while digging in my tote. “I’m sorry I don’t have any items to give you from the show. I think I have some Ember trading cards. Or I could sign a take-out menu for you if you have one?”
“You don’t see it?” Dean splutters. “Have you had your eyes checked lately, Lorelei? Same nose. Same chin. Same eye shape.”
“Lorelei’s right,” Kenna agrees amiably. “Totally different hair color, and look at Lorelei’s eyebrows. They’re perfect! I’ve always wanted eyebrows. Mine are practically invisible.”
As would be mine, if I hadn’t had them microbladed. Beats dying them constantly. And as for the hair color? I’m not sure, but I do suspect that if I took off my wig in the sunshine, it would be pretty darn close to Kenna’s color.
Realizing all of this makes me uncomfortable. Extremely uncomfortable. Who is this girl, and how dare she look so much like me? It’s unnerving. Is it bothering her, too? She seems to be having trouble looking at me. She won’t even meet my eye.
Determined not to show how much it’s freaking me out, I continue to feign disinterest, all the while taking stock. I think she’s around my age. Maybe a little younger, but it’s hard to tell. Same high cheekbones and wide-set eyes.
“I don’t care what you say, Lorelei. If you ask me, you two could be twins!” Dean insists.
The odds of this stranger being my blood relative are insanely low. But it doesn’t take much to set my wondering wheels in motion. Could we somehow be related? I know less about my biological parents than most international adoptees because I was not given up by a birth parent. I was found on the steps of a church in Siberia almost thirty years ago.
“There is another reason I wanted to introduce you to Kenna Papadopoulos,” Dean says, interrupting my train of thought.
“Papadopoulos?” I ask. “Is that Greek?”
“My family is Greek,” Kenna nods. “I know. It’s a cliché. Greek people owning a diner. My uncles are actually the ones who own it, though. I just help them out.”
She’s talking too fast. Clearly, she’s nervous.
“Your uncles?” I ask. “So, your family is from Ephron?”
“Actually, I grew up in Bellingham until I was fourteen.” Kenna kicks at a tuft of grass. “Um … my mom died, and I came to live with her brother and his partner—the uncles.”
“Jesus, Kenna.” Dean’s eyes grow wide. “I didn’t know that about you. I guess I was already in college when you moved here. I’m so sorry. That must have been so hard for you.”
“It was, at first. But my uncles have always made me feel welcome. My mom and her brother were super close. He actually traveled with her to pick me up when she adopted me. I was still a baby, so he’s been really involved in my life right from the start.”
My heart starts racing, and there is a lump in my throat threatening to choke me. My goose bumps have goose bumps. I take a big gulp of water before I speak.
“You were adopted?” I ask. Casual. Keep it casual.Be cool.“Where from?”
“Oh, I’m terrible with geography,” Kenna laughs. “I always forget the name of the town. Somewhere in Russia.”
I wonder if she’s ever done a DNA test.
I signed up for one of those DNA sites several years ago, hoping to find relatives who might be able to help me fill in my backstory. I want to know why my birth mother abandoned me. And who I get my freckles and acting abilities from. In the first few months after I signed up with the service, every time I got a “You have a DNA Match!” message in my inbox, my heart would stop beating for a moment.
But of course, every time I clicked, it was a terribly distant relation. Nothing traceable. I have a fifth cousin in France. A sixth cousin in Ireland. The closest match I’ve found thus far is a possible third cousin living just outside the Arctic Circle in Finland.
“So, Russia? Wow! Have you been back?” Dean asks. “Do you remember any Russian? Aren’t you curious about your real parents?”
I grind my nails into the palms of my hands. Dean’s managed to hit the trifecta of idiotic things to ask an international adoptee in one fell swoop. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck starting to stand on end, and my wig feels way too tight. I’m on the verge of launching into a lecture when Kenna laughs.
