The Shipley house is a sprawling brick ranch on a crapload of land. When we head up the long, winding driveway, there isn’t a house in sight at first, but then the thick trees part and there it is, almost as if it’s about to be swallowed by the forest. It looks clean and well-kept, with a little decorative well in the front, its bucket spilling with purple flowers, and a lamppost with a sign that saysthe shipleys.
It takes me a second to rememberI’ma Shipley now.
Legend has it, I’m the daughter of Uncle Dan’s older brother, who lives overseas and is kind of a dick. I’m here because my mom just died and he didn’t want to deal with me.
“Home sweet home,” Maggie says as she cuts the engine. “Do you like it? After my mother-in-law moved to Florida, we renovated the entire house. Stripped it down to the studs, added the extension in the back…”
She prattles on, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. All I know is that it’s a far cry from my cramped attic bedroom in Gran’s row home on Chew Street in Allentown. The house where she died. I came home from my first day of senior year two weeksago to find her sitting in her recliner, just as she’d been when I left for school…but pale and ice-cold.
“It’s great,” I say, stepping out onto the gravel drive.
“I told your uncle to pick up some fried chicken from Maryville as a treat for dinner. I hope you’re okay with that?”
I nod, though my stomach’s churning. The last thing I want to do is eat.
The screen door opens and out bounds a girl with dark brown hair styled in long, cascading waves. She’s wearing tight jeans and a white crop top.
“Cousin!” she squeals.
A tall, leanly muscular boy in sweatpants and a black T-shirt follows her but doesn’t speak. The resemblance between them is uncanny.
“Ryan,” Maggie says, beaming. “These are the twins, Jasmine and Connor. They’re sixteen.”
I give a half wave. “Hi.”
“Seventeen in five months and three days,” Jasmine reminds their mother. “Full driving privileges.”
Maggie rolls her eyes. “As if I could forget! Remind me, Ryan, how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
Jasmine brightens. “You have your full license?” Clearly she has a one-track mind.
“Uh, yeah, but I didn’t have a car, so—”
“Of course not. I bet in Europe, they bike everywhere, right?” Connor joins the conversation. “You must have serious calves, biking those Alps.” His gaze falls to my legs.
“Um—”
Jasmine rushes forward and links her arm through mine. “I’m so psyched you’re here. You and I are bunking together, cool?” The words escape in a tumble. “Come with me.”
She practically yanks me through the door.
“Whoa, Jaz, think you might want to let her breathe first?” Connor says, following us. “Wait, were you close to Germany? You go to any of the clubs there?”
“Well…not reall—”
“Or Paris? You probably havesuchsick clothes. You think we’re the same size?” Jasmine asks, looking me up and down.
Maggie calls, “Guys, give her a little space.”
Jasmine doesn’t listen. She pulls me down a hallway full of photographs of the twins in every stage of life, from first birthdays to baseball games to family vacations on the beach. I don’t even have time to be envious. She tugs me past a gourmet kitchen that smells like freshly baked cookies, then down another hallway, only pausing to look back at her twin.
“Get lost, Con,” she growls at him, leading me into a room and slamming the door behind her. “He’ssoclingy.”
I glance around the bedroom, which is twice the size of mine. I take note of the red-and-white cheerleading pom-poms on the floor, and the impressive collection of photo booth strips and movie ticket stubs scattered on the dresser and tacked onto a bulletin board over the desk. There’s a double bed pushed against one wall, and a twin bed across the room.
“I know it’s smaller than mine,” Jasmine says, following my gaze, “but it’s all we could make fit in here.”
