“What do you mean?” I attempt to laugh off that feeling. My mom used to say it was like someone dancing on your grave. “You don’t actually think … I mean, there’s no way. And you even said it yourself. We don’t lookthatmuch alike.”
“Are you kidding me?” Lorelei sits up straight now and places a hand on top of her head. I’m not even sure what she’s doing until she pulls the wig off, exposing a head full of thick, strawberry-blonde curls.
Just like mine. With her sunglasses off, and no makeup on her face, the resemblance is startling. Irrefutable.
“See?” she says.
I am stunned, speechless. And when I do finally regain the ability to speak, what I say is, “But … you have brown hair!”
“Ha!” Lorelei laughs and swigs her tea. “I thought it was brown, too, but it’s been so many years since I let my own color grow out, I really had no idea. I decided to do a little experiment when we were filming the last Titanium Man film. I had to wear a wig for my Ember character, and it was a much easier process in hair and makeup without my own hair being in the way. I got a buzz cut while we were filming, and afterward, I just let it grow. My agent and my manager didn’t want me going out in public bald, so they insisted I continue to wear a brown-haired wig. And they still want me in it because—branding. But honestly, I’m pretty over it.”
She tosses the wig onto the side table and runs her hands through the messy curls.
“My God, that feels better. I was suffocating under that thing.”
I don’t know what to say. My brain feels like I just shoved a fork into an outlet.
“You okay? Say something.” Lorelei pokes me.
“I’m just … surprised,” I say.
“Yeah, that was a real drama move, whipping off the wig like that,” Lorelei concedes. “But aren’t you curious? Have you ever done a DNA test?”
“No,” I say. “I mean, I did get my blood type tested one time, in case I had to give Uncle Stavros blood when he had his appendix out. Apparently, I’m a universal donor. But he didn’t need my blood. Good thing. I hate needles.”
I’m rambling.
“You don’t need to give blood to get your DNA tested,” Lorelei says. “It’s just a cheek swab.”
“Huh?” I swallow. “Interesting.”
“Would you consider doing a DNA test, Kenna? I signed up with one of those services years ago, but all they ever turn up are super-distant cousins. Wouldn’t it be wild if we were somehow related?”
“I guess …” I say. “It seems like a long shot, though. I mean, what are the odds?”
“I don’t know,” Lorelei says. She suddenly looks younger. Much more like her Moxie McAllister self. Much more like me. “Think about it. Both of our moms went to Russia around the same time. Maybe they went to the same region. I’ve heard stranger stories.”
I ponder the possibility. “I’m not sure where in Russia my mom went,” I say. “I have to ask the uncles.”
But in the back of my head, I’m replaying the stories they told and remembering the significance of it being summer. It wasn’t cold because it was summer. And if it hadn’t been summer, it would have been really cold. Siberia?
“It can’t hurt to do the DNA test. I mean, you also find out a bunch of health-related stuff, so it’s a good idea for adoptees. It’s not just about finding family.” Lorelei lobbies for the test again. “I can have my PA set it up.”
“I guess it would be nice to know that stuff.” I nod my head. “But I’m not really looking for relatives, and it seems like a total long shot that we could be related.”
“Of course.” Lorelei sits back in her chair. She seems more relaxed now that I’ve agreed to do the DNA test. “I’ll just text Tabitha to take care of getting us the kits.”
She taps out a series of messages into her phone and then sets it aside, satisfied. Having a PA must be a little like having magical powers. You just make a wish andpoof!Tabitha takes care of it.
“Okay,” she says. “It really would be something if we were sisters, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess?” I say. I want to share her enthusiasm, but it’s all coming at me way too fast, and it seems so preposterous.
“Well, I mean, I’d be thrilled, but maybe you don’t want to be the butt of any more Poxy Moxie jokes,” she says, raising her eloquent eyebrows at me.
“Ugh, how did you know?” I groan.
“I AM Poxy Moxie,” she says. “The OG. And I’m willing to bet with how much you look like me, you caught some of the flak when I decided to ditch the good-girl act.”
