Mom and Lilla had an argument about something. I’ve never heard Mom yell like that. It scared me. Not because I thought she was going to hit Lilla or anything. I was scared for Mom. Because how upset would she have to be to holler like that?
What were they arguing about?
This whole thing with Lilla being here after all these years is wild. I think Mom thought somebody was going to bring baby Georgina home. I really think she thought she was going to get a two-year-old. Maybe even wearing the same clothes she was wearing when she got snatched. But Lilla’s sixteen, and acts like she’s twenty-six. Or maybe fifty-six. Sometimes I think she acts more mature than Mom. Georgina’s so grown-up and so smart. But she’s also weird. She reads a lot. And she’s into history. She and Dad talk a lot about things like movies and books and Viking graves in Iceland. Sometimes, I feel like both of them are from another planet.
Or I am.
I creep down the hall toward Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Their light is on, but the door’s shut. I glance behind me. Lilla’s door is shut, too. It’s, like, not even nine o’clock yet and everyone is in their rooms. I don’t know what went down, but it was something big.
I listen at the door. I can hear Dad talking.
My phone dings and I jump. I grab it out of my back pocket. I don’t know how the mute got off. It’s Makayla.
I’m bored.
Not boring here, I text back.
Sup?
M & L had a fight. Yelling.
L yeled at your m????
It’s funny, Makayla is the smart one of the two of us, but she’s always misspelling things in her texts. I don’t know if she’s a bad speller or a bad texter. It’s not something you bring up with your best friend. Not at this point. Not when she’s been misspelling things in her texts since we got phones when we were twelve.
Both yelled.
Makayla sends an explosion meme, which makes me smile. Then she texts:
Big bummer here. Not going on vacay this year with you. Dad’s work. M say we’re staying home to “be supportive.”
I roll my eyes. This is bad. Bad. Spending a week trapped with Mom, Dad, and the big sister in a condo sounds like a disaster. If Lilla runs away when we’re in a different state, how do they think they’re going to find her?
Bright back, I text.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. I hear Mom’s voice. I hear Georgina’s name, but these old doors are thick. And Mom and Dad are sneaky. They talk quiet when they don’t want me to hear them.
I go back down the hall toward my room. But I stop outside Lilla’s door. I can smell the new paint. I wonder if she has a window open for ventilation. Can’t smells like that kill you?
I kind of want to see if Lilla’s okay. I want to knock on her door. But what will I say that won’t make her think I’m an idiot? Or butting into her business. Am I supposed to check on her? Or am I supposed to leave her alone?
I never thought about what it would be like to have a sister. Or be a sister. Because I never had one. Well . . . I’ve always had a dead sister. I know what that’s like. When you have a dead sister, your mom cries a lot and talks about her a lot. And you try to make up for the fact that you’re here and she’s not. But you know you never can.
The light under Lilla’s door goes out.
I stare at the crack in the door. Did she hear me? Now do I have to knock, otherwise she’ll think I’m stalking her?
I try to think about what to say. What excuse I can use to knock. Maybe I could ask her about her trip to the bakery yesterday. Mom let her take the streetcar to get bread by herself again. Mom only let her go because Dad said so. And Mom stood at the kitchen island the whole time Lilla was gone, drinking coffee and looking at the clock on the stove.
I could ask Lilla how the ride on the streetcar was. Or maybe . . . tell her thanks for the donuts she got at District Donuts. I love their donuts. She got this kind that had a flower on it and she gave it to me when she got home. She said she got it just for me. It was so pretty I didn’t want to eat it. But I did and it was so good.
Before I chicken out, I knock.
There’s no answer.
Her light has only been out a minute or two so I know she’s not asleep. I knock again and press my mouth to the crack in the door. “Lilla,” I murmur. “It’s Jojo.”
I wait.
Nothing.
I’m standing there trying to decide if I should knock again or just forget it, when I hear her voice. “Come in.”
I open the door thinking this is a dumb idea. She doesn’t want to talk to me. She doesn’t even want to live with me. Which I totally get. Makayla and I were talking the other day and we were imagining what it would be like if this happened to one of us. Like . . . what if the police had come to our door and put Mom and Dad in jail and made me go live with Lilla and Sharon? I’d freak out. I’d probably run away or maybe go on a hunger strike or something.
I push open the door a little farther.
She’s lying in her bed, which is still in the middle of the room because she’s still painting her walls. Even though there are bags of clothes she bought sitting next to the door, the room is pretty empty. And really clean. There are always clothes all over my floor, and thrown over my chair and my desk and hanging from all the doorknobs. And trash: balls of notebook paper, disposable coffee cups, broken pens, shopping bags.
Lilla’s propped up on pillows, her computer on her lap. I wonder if Mom snooped in her laptop when she was at school this week. Mom’s a snooper. I know she checks my Facebook page. That’s why I don’t post there too often. Mom doesn’t know how to get into my Snapchat so that’s the way my friends and I tell each other stuff, if we don’t want to text. Mom used to be able to read my texts from her computer somehow, but Dad and I convinced her that was an invasion of privacy. And it’s not like I’m doing drugs or dudes. I don’t know why she thought she needed to see what my friends and I were saying. More of the whole “everyone wants to kidnap you” psychodrama, I’m sure.
The light from Lilla’s computer illuminates her face. She looks like she’s been crying. I feel bad for her.
“I, um . . .” I feel stupid, not knowing what to say. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
She looks at me and I look at her. There’s no expression on her face. I can’t tell if she thinks I’m a dunce or not.
“I, heard you guys yelling,” I add.
She glances at her laptop. “I’m okay.”
I hesitate, then ask, “What were you guys fighting about?”
Her expression changes, like she’s trying to figure something out. I think she’s trying to decide if she should say anything to me. Like she’s wondering if I’ll run across the hall and tell them everything she told me. I don’t do that. Not with Makayla. I’d never tattle on Makayla even if I was in trouble. So I figure the same rule goes for sisters as friends.
“Doesn’t matter,” she says.
But I can tell by her face that it does. I take another step into the room. If Mom opens her door, I don’t want her to be able to see me or hear me. “Mom wouldn’t tell me, but . . .” I touch a zit coming up on my chin. “I’m sorry. I know this sucks. All of it.”
She looks up at me and kind of smiles. “It does suck.” She keeps looking at me and then she says, “I’ve been looking forward to Mardi Gras for months. To see some of the parades. I’ve seen them on YouTube, but I really wanted to go to one. When Sharon told me we were moving to New Orleans, even though I’d already started the school year in Baton Rouge, I told her it was okay. Because of the parades.”
“Right,” I say. “And now Mom wants to go to Austin. Because Mom doesn’t do parades because kids get kidnapped during parades. Her kids. Kid,” I correct.
Lilla chews on her bottom lip. “It wasn’t my fault Sharon kidnapped me.”
The way she says it makes me want to cry. I don’t know what to say. But for the first time, I feel like she’s not just some stranger staying in our s
pare room. I mean, I don’t feel like she’s my sister because we didn’t grow up together, but . . . she means more to me now than when she was just photographs and Mom’s memory.
“I don’t think she thinks it’s your fault. Mom’s just . . . paranoid. Overprotective,” I add. “Sometimes a little psycho.” I say that part nice, not mean. Since Lilla got here, I’ve felt like I kind of need to defend Mom. Dad can be harsh on her sometimes.
Lilla doesn’t say anything.
“I could talk to them, if you want,” I suggest. “I don’t want to go this year, anyway. Makayla can’t go.” I’m quiet for a second. “And it would be kind of fun to see one of the parades. I live in New Orleans and I’ve never seen a Mardi Gras parade, either. It’s whack. You want me to talk to them? I bet Dad would go for staying here and seeing a parade if we like . . . promised to chain ourselves together or something.”
She kind of laughs. Which makes me smile. She’s right. It really isn’t her fault Sharon kidnapped her. Babies can’t be held responsible for that kind of stuff. “I’ll talk to them. Okay?”
She smiles, but keeps her lips together, so it seems like a sad smile. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” I back out of the room. “Night.”
“Night.”
I close her door and I’m in the dark in the hallway again. The walls are covered with pictures, not of the old farts like going down the stairs. These are pictures of me and Lilla, previously known as Georgina. Mostly her, which makes it creepy. Downstairs in the parlor, there’s a little place on a marble-top table with a picture of Lilla when she was little and there’s a cross there and a candle Mom lights. Like a shrine. Which is super creepy.
I check my phone. I’m still not done with my geometry homework. I’m supposed to be able to identify a bunch of shapes for a quiz tomorrow. I can spot a circle, a rectangle, and a square easy enough, obviously, but all those different triangles . . . I can never remember their names. If I fail geometry, Mom’s going to kill me. But if I do fail, I’m going to tell her it’s her fault. I knew geometry was going to be too hard.
I’m not even supposed to be in the ninth grade, technically. I was homeschooled when I was little and when Dad said it was time for me to go to Ursuline, they had me tested. Mom wanted to have me bumped up so I could be in the same grade as Makayla. So she could be my bodyguard or whatever, I guess. Like fourth graders can protect you. Makayla is only three months older than me, but because my birthday fell after the deadline, and hers didn’t, I should have gone to third grade. I think the Broussards have given a lot of money to Ursuline over the years and that’s why they let me in. Mom said it wasn’t true, but if it was, would she tell me?
I check my cell. Makayla texted me when I was with Lilla.
U their?
It’s supposed to be here, not their. I laugh and text back. Hang on
Mom and Dad’s light is still on. I guess this is as good a time as any to tell Mom and Dad that I want to skip the escape–Mardi Gras vacation this year, too.
I push my phone back into the pocket of my sweatpants and go to their door. Knock. “It’s Jojo.” I say my name because yesterday Dad said that Lilla and I sounded a lot alike. I don’t think we do, but he’s old so maybe he’s already starting to lose his hearing. Granddad wears a hearing aid. Otherwise he has to turn the TV up so loud, it blasts out the lady in the room next to him. There was a big incident in the fall about it. I guess she wasn’t into Planet Earth.
“Come on in,” Dad calls.
I open the door slowly. I’m fine with Dad being here. I mean, it is his ancestral home, but it feels weird for him to be in Mom’s bed. He’s lying on his back on top of the quilt. He’s got plaid flannel pajama bottoms on and a black T-shirt. The girls at school think he’s hot—for a dad. I bet they’d like it if I took a pic of him right now and Snapchatted it.
I glance at the bathroom door, which is closed. I hear the shower running. I wonder if she’s really showering or just hiding. I hope she’s okay.
“What’s up?” Dad says.
I point at the bathroom door, but don’t say anything.
“She’s fine,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Um . . . I don’t know if I’m supposed to wait for our next family meeting or if this is something I’m supposed to say when we go to family counseling again, but—” I wrinkle my nose, lowering my voice. “Do I have to go again? To counseling? It seems dumb and I bet it’s expensive. I’d take my share in”—I shrug—“I don’t know. Gift cards from Lululemon?”
“No.” He holds up his finger and smiles at me. “But good try. What did you need?”
I take a breath and just say it. “Mardi Gras.”
He makes a face. When I was little, I loved the faces he used to make. I don’t love them as much anymore.
“Dad, I’m not, like, taking Lilla’s side on purpose, but I don’t want to go to Austin, either. I want to stay here. Makayla says they can’t go.”
“Your mom know the Parkers can’t go?”
I shrug. “But serious, Dad. Isn’t it kind of dumb that I was born in New Orleans, that I live here, and the only parade I ever saw was when I was three months old?”
“You’ve seen parades. You and I did the uptown St. Paddy’s Day parade last year.”
“I want to see the Krewe du Vieux parade.” I say it with a French accent. My French isn’t too bad. I actually get A’s in French. Except when I forget to do my homework. “I don’t care if it’s downtown and it’s crazy. I just want to go once.”
He sits up in the bed. “You and Lilla talk about this?”
He’s lowered his voice. Which means this is for our ears only. But the shower is still running, so Mom probably can’t hear us anyway.
I hesitate, then nod. Which is not tattling. I didn’t say what Lilla said. “I just talked to her. She wants to go to a parade. She had to leave Baton Rouge after the school year started, but Sharon promised her she’d be here to see the parades.” I rub the zit. I know I’m supposed to leave them alone, but how am I going to go to school tomorrow with a gigantic zit on my chin? “I think you guys are making this out to be a bigger deal than it is. I know it’s hard to get around during Mardi Gras because of the traffic and all the tourists, but we could take our bikes downtown. We could borrow Aunt Annie’s for Lilla.”
I can tell he’s thinking.
“Please, Dad? My sister’s back. I think I should get to be like other girls now.”
“I’ll talk to your mom.”
I think for a second. “I know parades scare Mom. She wouldn’t have to go. Lilla and I could go with you.”
“I said I’ll talk to your mom.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks.” I turn to go.
“Jojo?”
I turn back.
“I’m glad you talked to your sister about this. We’ve all agreed this is hard for her, but I know it’s hard for you, too.”
I just stand there because I don’t know what to say. Dad’s right. This does suck. Having this girl in our house I don’t know. Mom being upset. Dad being here pretending they’re married. Because I think Lilla thinks they’re still married. I don’t think they told her that Dad has been gone for years and that he came back because she was coming back.
“Your sister could use a friend right now. Or a sister,” he adds.
I think about that for a minute, but I don’t say anything about it. “Gotta go finish my homework. Good night.”
“Night, Jojo. I love you.”
I walk out the door. “Love you, too, Dad.”
25
Lilla
“How was your day?”
“It was okay.” I stare out the window, watching the buildings we pass. Harper Mom picked me up after school. Jojo had to stay for basketball. It’s raining today. Who knew it rained so much here? And cold. Cold for Louisiana. I can’t wait to get out of my uniform and put on my new sweatpants. I got some cool stuff at a resale store I went to with Dad. The sweatpan
ts look like no one ever wore them and they were six bucks.
“You talk to Em about walking home with you tomorrow after school?”
I can feel her looking at me. I wish she’d watch the road. You have to pay attention every second. Especially in city traffic. I learned that when I took driver’s ed. And Sharon talked about it when she let me drive a little. We had a car when we moved here, an old Jeep. One of the big ones, not the little ones. It was in a shop getting the transmission fixed when this all went down. I wonder what happened to it.
“Your dad or I will be home by six. We can give her a ride home, if she wants.”
We stop at a light and I watch a girl my age carrying a bag of groceries. She must go to a school around here. She’s wearing a uniform, but she doesn’t go to Ursuline. No dorky skirt. I wonder if she’s going home to make dinner for her family. I wonder what she’s going to make. I think if I was making dinner tonight, I’d make pho, which is a Vietnamese noodle bowl thing. Sharon made great pho.
“I’ll ask her tomorrow.”
“I can call her mom if you like.” The light turns green and Harper Mom eases off the brake.
I made the mistake of telling Dad at dinner last night that there was a girl in my English class who was being super nice to me. She asked me if I wanted to maybe go see a movie Friday or Saturday. Her best friend just moved away at Christmas. Which I know makes me her second string, but I don’t mind. She’s nice and she likes The Great Gatsby. We’re reading it in English class. I read it freshman year, on my own, but that’s okay.
“You can’t call her mom,” I say before I catch myself. At that point, I figure I might as well go on. Dad says I need to tell them what I think. What I want. He says that doesn’t mean they’ll agree with me, or let me do what I want, but I have to learn to speak up. Sharon and I always had the same kind of deal. “You can’t set up play dates for me.” I sneak a peek at her. I feel like we’ve both been walking on eggshells. Since we hollered at each other last week. But it’s weird . . . a part of me almost feels better since then. Like . . . a little more normal. Like I’m not just standing off to the side, watching myself, hearing what I say.
Finding Georgina Page 18
