Page 64 of Middlegame

Her smile endures until Smita emerges from the bathroom. Erin turns and heads for the back door, slowly enough to encourage Dodger to trail along behind her like a duckling following its mother. She doesn’t want to shake the girl more than she already has been. Fun as it is to see Dodger off-kilter and unsure of her next move, there’s such a thing as taking it too far. If she pushes Dodger past her limits, there’s a chance she’ll snap, and the consequences could be dire. The timeline can’t handle another reset this close on the heels of the last one. Worse, a timeline reset might result in Roger going to Boston, and that would be bad.

In the backyard, Roger is still stringing popcorn and cranberries, while Peter is back at the grill. Erin steps aside to let Dodger see, and watches the other girl sag in relief.

“Oh,” she says. “No blood.”

“See?” says Erin. “I told you. They just needed to sort things out. Come on.”

The three of them reclaim their seats. Roger doesn’t look up, but slides a cranberry onto the needle and says piously, “I’m not going to forget that the two of you took Dodger and left me alone. You may not understand the import of what you’ve done, but I assure you, you have made an enemy this day.”

“I shall make a note in my day planner,” says Smita. “I’m sure I’ll rue the day.”

“Isn’t it cute, how he thinks he knows how to sound scary?” asks Erin. She picks up a strip of construction paper. “Somebody give me some glue.”

“I thought you were terrifying,” says Dodger, passing a glue stick to Erin.

“Thank you,” says Roger. He glances up long enough to flash her a smile. “It’s all good. We just needed to talk a few things out. No one got punched, and I think he’s cool with me being here now. Or well, maybe he’s not cool, but he’s not asking me to leave, so I’ll take it.”

“Cool,” says Dodger, and smiles back, and for a while, the only sound is the rustle of construction paper, the snick of scissors, and the occasional soft curse when Roger jabs the needle into his finger instead of into the popcorn. It’s actually a surprise when the glass door slides open and Heather steps outside.

“All right, you lot,” she says. “Time to get decorating. Roger, you’re the tallest, and Dodger, you know where things go. Erin, Smita, can you help me with the dishes?”

“Of course, Ms. Cheswich,” says Erin, suddenly all sugary politeness. She gets up and follows Heather inside, leaving the others to blink after her.

“That was terrifying,” says Dodger.

“That was my cue,” says Smita, and trots after Erin.

“I didn’t know Erin did ‘friendly,’” says Roger. He holds up his popcorn-and-cranberry garland. “Where do I hang this?”

“I’ll show you,” says Dodger, and stands. He follows.

The next few minutes are the sort of thing people never truly outgrow, even as they try to convince themselves that they’ve moved past childish things and don’t miss the simple rituals of their past. Dodger points and Roger hangs, paper chains and popcorn strings. Heather, Smita, and Erin move behind them, setting dishes on the table; plates and flatware at first, then moving on to serving trays, baskets of rolls, platters of corn. Absorbed as they are in the process of getting everything exactly right, Roger and Dodger don’t even seem to notice.

Peter walks over with the turkey, holding the massive bird like an offering, and stops, blinking. Somehow, they’ve managed to string an elementary school’s worth of paper chains from the roof of the covered porch, their ends tangled festively around the support beams. Dodger is atop the stepladder, Roger holding her hips to steady her, as she ties the last of the garlands. There’s something about the scene that’s so profoundly, simply accurate that for a moment, he knows in his bones that both of them grew up in this house: that he’s been watching his daughter and her brother decorate for Thanksgiving since they were big enough to work a pair of safety scissors without cutting themselves.

The moment passes. Peter Cheswich says the only thing he can think of: “When were you two going to tell us you were related?”

Dodger jumps. It would end in disaster if not for Roger: his hands won’t let her fall, not even when she twists, grimacing apologetically, and says, “We’re not absolutely sure, Daddy. We still have to get tested. Smita’s going to do that when we get back to school.”

“That’s a formality,” says Peter. “You know it, or you wouldn’t have brought him home.”

“I’m not related to anyone here,” says Erin. “Neither is Smita.”

“You’re different,” says Peter. “We’ve had classmates before. Never for a major holiday, or even for a dinner, but it’s not like we kept Dodger locked in a tower. She’s never brought home a boy, and she’s definitely never brought home a boy who looks like her.”

“We don’t look that much alike,” protests Dodger.

“Yes, you do,” says Heather, stepping up next to her husband. “Maybe not if you’re used to looking at yourself in the mirror, but for the rest of us? You look so much alike that it hurts.”

Erin leans back in her seat, watching with interest to see how this plays out. They’re off-balance, both of them, rendered uncomfortable by scrutiny and parental attention. She can learn a lot from their reactions.

Part of her role is to watch them. Part of her role is to protect them. And part of her role is being prepared to take them down: finding their weaknesses, however small, and knowing how to exploit them. They’re fine in an academic setting, presenting a united front against whatever challenges the school can throw at them. Their early connection must have allowed them to survive their undergrad experience with a minimum of tears; based on the pairs that didn’t connect before high school, without the time they’d spent together as children, they would have been hopeless at the subjects that weren’t innately theirs. Dodger was never going to be a linguist, any more than Roger was going to be a mathematician, but they could cope, which was more than some of their fellows ever learned. They balance each other.

That doesn’t mean they’re equipped to face their parents—although if they must face a pair of parental figures, better hers than his. At least hers want what’s best for her, and not for the experiment.

Smita emerges from the kitchen. For the moment, she’s silent, observing; taking it in.

“Were you adopted?” Peter asks, looking at Roger.