“Good to know,” Glory said, fanning her tanned forehead with the brim of her straw visor. “Has it always been so caliente in here, or am I going through the change?” She stepped down to the sunken living room and opened the doors to the ravine.
Cool air lured them to the couch, where Beau kicked off his black man-dals and reclined. “Beaking of the change, what’s with the bird feathers, Melly?”
Candace laughed.
Glory lifted her husband’s arm and nuzzled up to his chest. “Joke all you want, Beau, but that look is trending right now,” she said. “It makes one look very regal.”
“You mean seagull,” Beau said, high-fiving Candace.
“It’s nice to see you embracing fashion, Melly,” Glory said. “But if you want some motherly advice, I suggest losing the hoodie and going for a fitted denim top or black cashmere.”
“Thanks, but shouldn’t motherly advice be coming from my mother?” Melody blurted.
“Me-owie,” Candace purred.
Glory lifted her head off Beau’s chest. Botox kept her from looking shocked, but her tone couldn’t hide it. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You seriously have no idea?” Melody asked. “Because I haven’t been able to think about anything else all week.”
“Oh yeah.” Candace propped a pillow under her head and rubbed her palms together. “This is getting goooood.”
Melody turned to her sister. “Will you please go in the kitchen and get me some water?”
Candace began blinking and then stood. “With plea-sha.”
Beau watched his daughter skip into the kitchen. “Is she really doing it?”
“Yup,” Melody said, as if Candace had spent a lifetime taking orders from her baby sister.
Her parents exchanged a confused glance.
Melody’s heart beat up a gale so mighty it forced out her words before she had time to finesse them. “Glory Carver, are you my mother?”
Glory began blinking. “Yes, Melody, I am.”
Hmmm.
“Okay, then are you my birth mother?”
“Melly…” Beau murmured, pulling Glory in close.
She blinked more.
“Are you? Are you my birth mother?” Melody pressed.
Glory twirled her silver gift shop bangles and whispered, “No.”
Glass shattered against the floor. Everyone turned. Candace, green eyes wide and spray-tanned skin pale, stood by the couch surrounded by crystal shards and water. “What did you just say?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Glory claimed. Beau squeezed her shoulders.
“We knew we’d have to discuss this eventually,” he murmured into his wife’s auburn hair. Her narrow shoulders shook.
Now what? Melody had spent all week anticipating her reaction to this worst-case scenario. Now that she was living it, the only thing she felt was stunned.
“Did you give birth to me?” Candace asked.
Glory lifted her tear-soaked face and nodded.
“Sweet!” Candace blurted. And then to Melody, “I mean, whatever. Either way is fine with me.”
“Candace out.” Melody pointed to the stairs.
“Guh-ladly,” her sister said, taking them two at a time.
Melody felt gauzy and light. Ignoring her mother’s aversion to smudges, she sat on the glass coffee table instead of the couch. It was too soon to share furniture.
“So, who am I?”
“You’re our daughter,” Beau said lovingly. “You always have been.”
Hugging her knees to her chest, Melody studied her toes and wondered who had made them. “Do you know my birth parents?”
“No,” Glory answered. “We adopted you from an agency when you were three months old. We love you just as much as Candace and—”
“Why wasn’t she adopted?”
Glory looked at Melody, her mouth half open and ready to answer, but no words came out.
Beau ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed.
“Tell me.”
“When your sister was born,” he began, “she was this perfect-looking little baby….”
Why do all of his Candace stories start that way?
“We created perfection on our first try and…” He paused, considering his next words. “And I was afraid.”
“Of what?” Melody asked.
“Of not being able—” His voice snagged on emotion.
“He was afraid—” Glory broke off, then started again. “We were both afraid that next time we wouldn’t be so lucky. So we agreed to have only one child. And then we, you know…”
Melody shook her head. She didn’t.
“We closed the family business,” Glory said.
“What business?” Melody asked.
Her mother air-scissored her fingers toward Beau.
Oh.
Glory sighed. “One year later we regretted it.”
“So we adopted,” Beau said with a clap of his hands. “And thanks to you, we got perfection twice.”
Melody knew he meant it. She never questioned their love, just their honesty.
“It was an absolute miracle,” Glory began with a nostalgic grin. “We had been working with Small World Adoptions, and it was taking forever. Then one afternoon in July—I had just won the singles tennis tournament at the club, and your father got his first celebrity client—a letter arrived from the Achelous Agency. It said they’d found the perfect baby.”
“I thought you were working with Small World.”
“We were,” Glory said. “I assumed it was a referral. So we signed the papers and took you home the next day.”
“They didn’t tell you anything about my mother at all? Anything having to do with her voice, or feathers, or her name?”
“Nothing other than that she had named you Melody,” Beau said. “I suppose we could have pushed for more details, but we were so happy to have you that we didn’t want to do anything that might change her mind. Besides, from that moment on you were ours. Where you’d come from didn’t matter.”
To you.
“So that whole thing about wanting to name me Melanie but Mom had a cold and the nurse thought she said Melody… that was made up?”
“Yes.” Glory sniffled. “By your sister. She used to tease you with that silly story all the time. We never told you it was true.”
Melody finally managed to lift her gaze. Her parents looked so vulnerable staring back at her. Their eyes were wide and expectant, like defendants waiting for a verdict. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
The rest of the conversation played out like a made-for-TV movie about adoption. They’d wanted to tell her but could never find the right time. The love they felt for her was no different from their love for Candace. If they had to do it all over again, they wouldn’t change a thing. They wouldn’t stand in the way of helping her find her real parents, although the Achelous Agency closed one week after Melody was placed, so they wouldn’t know where to begin….
How about with the fact that people have been doing whatever I ask them to? Or that the “trending” feathers in my hair have been landing on me all week? Or the possibility that I’m a RAD? Melody stood. Drained of her anger, she now felt only emptiness. What good were answers if they only led to more questions? “I need air.”
“Sweetheart, you can’t leave every time—”
“I’m not leaving. I mean, I am, but I’m fine,” Melody said. And she meant it. “We’re fine. I just feel like walking. I’ll be home soon.”
Her parents stood to hug her. This time she hugged back.
The night was disappointingly mild. An icy slap of wind might have sobered her sloshing thoughts but—
Omigod!
A woman was leaving Jackson’s house.
They’re back!
Melody dashed across Radcliffe Way. “Ms. J?” she whisper-called.
The woman sped up.
“Ms. J!” she called again, chasing the person dow
n the dark street. “It’s me, Melody.”
The woman kept going.
“Stop!” Melody commanded. But unlike the others, the fleeing figure didn’t obey. And before Melody could catch up, she was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE O.C.
If asked to describe the live recording of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” Frankie would say smoky and sullen, with bursts of giddiness. The same way she’d describe her mood.
Gazing out the train window, playing and replaying the track on her iPhone, she also played and replayed her decision to meet up with Brett. What if her parents found out? What if it was a trap? What if Bekka was there with a hose full of makeup remover? What if Brett didn’t show up? And what if he did? What if he proved his innocence and she fell for him all over again? Then what? A secret, long-distance RAD-normie relationship? That was the last thing she needed.
Clearly, no good could come of this. Frankie knew it the minute she agreed to the Saturday afternoon rendezvous. Still, curiosity had gotten the best of her. Not to mention she’d found the perfect tights and turtleneck for her plaid mini and was not above being admired, even by a heart-space breaker. Oh, and her hair—pulled high at the sides and clipped in the back—was va-va-va-voltage.
But wait. Billy. Mustn’t forget about Billy. Abercrombie-hot, Six Flags–fun, hopelessly devoted, her fellow RAD was a mint catch—and her official date for the Gaga concert. And he didn’t have a psycho-ex-girlfriend. Way better than Brett. But wait again. She had recently left D.J. for Brett. Now she was leaving Brett for Billy. What if she was a serial crusher? The type of girl in love with being in love? Like Drew Barrymore. Maybe Frankie wasn’t capable of true feelings for anyone. In which case, she might as well love being in love with the RAD. So it was settled. Billy it was.
Frankie turned up the volume and listened to “Poker Face” again. Closing her eyes, she imagined the concert. Singing with Billy. Laughing as he got their entire row dancing. Feeling like a proud princess every time another girl checked him out. Her mother was right: Billy made more sense. The faster she cut ties with Brett, the sooner she could refocus her energy on liberating the RADs. With that, Frankie leaned back against the cream-colored seat and enjoyed the rest of her ride to Closuretown.
“Oregon City!” called the conductor.
The train slowed and then rolled to a stop. The station lacked the romance of, say, the Gare de Lyon in Paris, where art nouveau collides with Old World architecture. For one thing, there was no roof. No polished marble floors or flower vendors. No crying couples making the most of a final embrace. The station was a slab of concrete the same dreary color as the overcast sky.
Frankie stepped out onto the platform. The other passengers scattered like the Glitterati on cage-cleaning day. But she was totally unable to move. Smoky and sullen had morphed into scared and nervous. Bursts of giddiness were now sparks. Behind her, the doors kissed shut and the train continued north. There was no turning back.
“Welcome to the O.C.,” called a familiar voice. Brett was waving from the last bench. The sight of his skull ring made Frankie’s insides surge, dredging up what must have been the final crumbs of her feelings for him.
Rolling back her shoulders and swinging her amp purse, she strode toward him like a runway model.
“Can’t read my,
Can’t read my,
No, he can’t read my poker face…”
Brett stood and hugged her. It felt awkward, strained by their collective insecurities.
“You look great.”
“Thanks,” she said, beaming. It would have been the time to tell him he looked great too, but up close Brett looked worn. His denim-blue eyes had faded. His spiky black hair hung limp. The black nail polish was gone. And his rugged outerwear had been replaced by a baggy maroon rain slicker. Still, Frankie felt a tug in her heart space. It was probably just one last crumb. Because like the 11:22 from Salem, that train had left the station.
“Ignore my clothes,” he said, as if reading her mind. “They’re my cousin’s. I split town without packing.”
Frankie nodded politely, still expecting a giant ambush. Instead, she got a box of assorted saltwater taffy.
“What’s this?” she asked, knowing.
“I promised, didn’t I?”
“Thanks.” She smiled, resisting the urge to try a piece. What if it’s poisoned? Instead, she sat. Screeching brakes on an incoming train provided a necessary distraction. They watched it pull away. “Listen, I think we should—” Frankie said at the exact same time Brett began speaking.
They giggled.
“You first,” he said.
“No, you.”
He swiveled to face her, then reached his arm across the back of the bench. His fingertips grazed her hair, warming her insides like a charge. “I can tell you still don’t trust me. But I swear, I had nothing to do with the whole Channel Two thing. You have to believe me. I mean, look.” He pulled the rain slicker away from his body. “Obviously, this has been rough on me too.”
Has he always been this charming? She giggled and unwrapped a piece of strawberry taffy. The smell reminded her of Billy’s Starburst.
“But the worst part is, I miss you, Stein.” The lively flicker returned to his eyes.
He leaned forward.
She leaned back.
“Omigod, you would have loved what Melody did to Bekka in bio the other day,” Frankie blurted; she’d get to the cutting-ties part after she filled him in.
Brett smiled and gasped in all the right places. And then the flicker in his eyes started to dim. “So, did you really start hanging out with someone else?”
“Uh…” Frankie put the lid on the taffy box. Her sweet tooth was gone. She lowered her eyes and stared at the plaid pattern of her skirt until it blurred. Telling him about Billy would crush Brett. Not that there was anything to tell. They hadn’t even kissed… yet. Still, she had made her choice. And it was a smart one. The right one.
“I’ll be home as soon as those reporters forget about me. Probably in another day or two. Then things can go back to the way they were.”
“No, they can’t,” Frankie said sadly.
He removed his arm from the back of the bench. Twirling his leather cuff, he asked, “Why?”
Frankie swallowed hard. “Brett, you know I think you’re voltage, but everything is so dangerous right now, and with you being a normie and—”
“Maybe these will help change your mind.” He dug into the crinkly pocket of the rain slicker and pulled out two tickets to the Lady Gaga concert.
Is this seriously happening?
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, more exasperated than excited. “How did you get those?”
“Ross from Channel Two,” he said.
Frankie stiffened.
“Be-fore the show aired,” he quickly added. “I was going to surprise you, but I think you’ve had enough surprises lately.” He held out the tickets. “You in?”
A vision of Brett leaning over and kissing her during an acoustic set almost made Frankie accept. “Uh…” She began pulling the seams around her neck.
“Don’t pick.” Brett took her hand and lowered it. His touch Olympic-torched her insides. Does he feel it too? Frankie pulled her hand back. It felt like stepping away from a fireplace on a cold winter night.
“It’s so nice of you to think of me and everything, but it would be better if we did our own thing for a while.”
Brett was silent. Was he shocked? Sad? Angry? Frankie was too emotional to look.
“You should take ’em anyway,” he said, placing the tickets in her hand. His touch torched her again. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I can’t.” She stuffed them back into his pocket and stood.
“Frankie—”
She peered past his shoulder at the incoming train. Brakes screeched. It was time to go.
“It was good to see you again,” she said, unsure if she should take the taffy or leave
it. “If you want this back too, I understand—”
Before she knew what was happening, Brett was kissing her and she was kissing back. It felt like being showered in hot lava.
This wasn’t a Paris train station. The floors weren’t marble. And there wasn’t a flower vendor for miles. Still, there they stood, a couple, close to crying, making the most of their final embrace.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
POWER FAILURE
Candace click-clacked around her bedroom, putting the final touches on her date outfit. “I should have known you were adopted.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melody asked.
“Going out on a Saturday night is not in your blood.” She spritzed her Black Orchid perfume and then walked through its heady mist. “Now, will you step away from the window and stop spying on that house? You’re acting like a sniper.”
Letting the adoption jab slide, Melody released the powder-pink curtains and applauded her sister’s proper use of sniper. But she was freaking out about Jackson. Ms. J had promised they would stay nearby, and yet Melody hadn’t heard from him at all since they met at the coffee shop more than a week before. Looks like it was good-bye after all.
Meanwhile, Candace had been busting out sister-from-another-mister jokes all day—her way of dealing with shocking news. Melody had opted for the Jackson method—seek, accept, adapt. So far it was working perfectly. The truth had set her free. Now, if she could just find the strange woman who had run from his house… maybe she’d get some closure on Jackson’s location too.
“How are these?” Candace asked.
Melody turned to find her glamour-loving sister wearing round, wire-frame glasses, a buttoned tweed blazer, and bootcut jeans. Her wild curls had been tamed into a bun, her feet jammed into sensible heels. “Ha! Maybe we are blood after all.”
“Why? Do I look like a shut-in?” Candace turned to her full-length mirror and smoothed her blazer. “ ’Cause I was going for a reader.”
“Of books?”
“Yeah. Shane is a lit major at Willamette University, and for some reason he thinks I am too.”
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