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“She joked about us being related,” Betsey whispers at breakfast.
“Why are you whispering?” Ella asks. “Mom’s vacuuming. Can’t you hear it?” I listen to the rhythmic roar of the vacuum going back and forth over the carpet in one of the bedrooms upstairs. My guess is that it’s Ella’s.
“Oh, right,” Betsey says. “Anyway, I joked back that we were separated at birth, and I asked where she was born. I’m hoping all this joking will lead to some serious info.”
I swallow a bite of melon. Then, with Sean’s words in my head, I say, “I think we need to figure this out, and if it turns out that she’s the Original, we confront Mom once and for all.”
“And if she freaks out?” Bet asks.
“Then she freaks out,” I say. “It’s not like I’m saying we should go to the police and get her in trouble. But we deserve to know what’s going on.”
“Why not just ask her now?” Betsey asks.
“Well, if Petra’s really Beth, I’d rather know going into the conversation,” I say. “Wouldn’t you guys?” I wait for two heads to nod in agreement before continuing. “Anyway, Bet, I’m sure you can figure it out relatively soon. We can wait another couple of weeks.”
“And then we demand answers,” Bet says. I nod, and we both look at Ella.
“Are you in?” I ask, thinking she’ll say no. Instead, she surprises me.
“Yeah, I’m in.”
At the switch, Ella’s late and she tells me there’s no gas in the car. I can feel a mood radiating from her; something must have happened at school.
“Why didn’t you stop?” I ask.
“I did it last time,” she says, with a little too much sass. I roll my eyes.
“What’s with you?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “Just… Dave was weird today. Sorry. I’ll fill it up next time.”
“It’s okay,” I say, giving her a quick hug before jogging to the car. I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late to Spanish.
I cruise down the hill, music blaring, to the closest gas station. Luckily, there’s no one else filling up. I pull in so the pump’s on the right and hop out with purpose. Then I remember that the gas tank is on the left. Sighing, I climb behind the wheel again and back out, then pull around to the other side so the pump’s on the left. An older red BMW pulls into my former spot.
I want to check my phone, but I’ve read the Internet warnings about being set on fire while tweeting, so I just lean against the sedan, watch the numbers creep up, and breathe in the smell of gasoline. I seem to have gotten one of those pumps that don’t have a “high” setting, and I’m growing more stressed about being late by the penny.
“Nice day, huh?” a voice says. I look over and see that the driver of the BMW is smiling at me. She’s got blond hair, is about my mom’s age, and looks a little familiar. She’s wearing a gray business suit and trendy big sunglasses and I wonder if I’ve seen her on a real estate sign or something. Her look screams salesperson.
“Sure,” I say, glancing at the blue sky and thinking that it should be illegal to comment on the weather in San Diego. I look at the slow-moving numbers on the pump and wonder if I should stop it, then start again to see if it’ll go faster.
“Do you go to Woodbury?” the woman asks, gesturing toward school.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m on lunch break.”
The woman nods, then tips her head to the side. “You look familiar,” she says. “Do you live in Mira Mesa?”
“No, up in the hills,” I say, waving in the general direction of my house. After a lifetime of being taught to fear strangers, I don’t get too specific.
“I’m Mary,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Uh…” I say, looking down and toward my car. I don’t want to tell her my real name, but right now I can’t think of a single other name in the world. Then, finally, I say, “Natasha.”
“Nice to meet you, Natasha,” the woman says, smiling in a funny way. I have no good reason to think this, but I don’t believe that her name’s Mary. Then again, I just told her I’m Natasha, of all people.
The pump keeps crawling and the lady keeps gabbing. I try the stop-and-restart thing; it doesn’t work.
