The Year I Became Isabella Anders (Sunnyvale, #1)(38)

Things have been bad for years now, but I don’t point that out. “All right, I promise.” And just because I know it’ll make her smile, I stick out my pinkie. “In fact, I pinkie swear.”

She shakes her head, but her smile breaks through and she hitches her pinkie with mine.

The moment we pull away, my dad comes storming in.

“Get. Out.” He looks at Grandma Stephy as he points toward the exit. “Now.”

“Watch your tongue, young man.” Grandma Stephy collects her purse from a chair and slings the handle over her shoulder. “You might think it’s okay to talk to your mother like this, but it’s not. You will respect me.”

“I’ll respect you as much as you respect me,” he growls, stepping toward her. “Telling Isa what you did. You had no right.”

“I’m not going to get into this with you again,” she replies as calmly as she can. “I’m going to go home, and I’ll call you in a few days when you’ve calmed down.”

“Don’t call ever again,” he shouts after her as she walks out of the room. “And you’re never to see Isa again.”

“Dad, stop,” I hiss. “Leave Grandma alone. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

My dad’s attention whips back to me and, by the anger in his eyes, I expect him to yell at me. But when he speaks, he’s unsettling composed. “We’re not going to talk about this ever again. No mention of it, okay?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m going to mention it. A lot. And I’m going to bug you until you tell me who my mom is.”

He ignores me, his back as stiff as a board. “I’m going to go get the doctor.”

Before I can get another word out, he leaves the room.

I grit my teeth, more furious than I’ve ever been. I make another vow to myself right then and there that the second I get home, I’m going to get my hands on my birth certificate.





OKAY, SO I might have been too confident at the hospital about how easy it was going to be to get ahold of my birth certificate. I’ve been searching the house for days and haven’t stumbled across it yet. I did find Hannah’s in a trunk in my parent’s room, so logically it seemed like mine should be in there too. But nope. Not even my social security card was in there. I even tried looking for information on the Internet, but all that came up under my name was my blog and the last entry I made on it, where I broke down and rambled on about my search for my mother.

I thought about deleting the post right after I wrote it, but since I have three followers and none of them are from around here—except for Grandma Stephy—I decided it’s okay to leave it up. Plus, it felt kind of good to talk about it aloud . . . well, aloud in a way.

To add more complication to my life, Lynn and my dad have gone into Isabella Doesn’t Exist Mode. They refuse to acknowledge when I’m in the room, when I speak, or even when I ‘accidentally’ dropped a glass cup on the floor to try to get their attention. My dad did make eye contact with me a couple of times, but mostly he just stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. The look is honestly creeping me out.

If it weren’t for Hannah, I’d seriously believe I somehow got ahold of an invisibility cape and am unintentionally wearing it. But she lets me know I still exist in the visible realm, in a very, very Hannah-like way.

“What’s up with those god awful shoes?” she asks Saturday morning as I enter the kitchen to get some breakfast. She’s wearing her pajamas with no makeup on and her hair’s a mess.

I glance down at the flip-flips on my feet. “I have to wear flats because of this.” I point to the bandage on my knee that covers the stitches.

“You look fucking stupid. Like you’re going to the beach or something, which is just dumb since we live in the mountains and it’s September. Plus, you really need a mani/pedi if you’re going to wear stuff like that,” Hannah sneers as she breaks apart a granola bar. Once it’s in half, she reads the side of the box. “So that makes it seventy-five calories,” she mutters to herself.

All the things I wish I could say to her burn at the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back, mostly because I’m not in the mood to war with her.

While she’s calorie counting, I steal a vanilla cupcake from the platter on the kitchen island and a soda from the fridge. As I’m hurrying out of the room, her eyes zero in on me.

“Ew, is that what you’re eating for breakfast?” she says, glaring at the cupcake in my hand. “You’re going to get fat if you eat like that.”

“I always eat like this.” I lick a huge glob of frosting off the top of the cupcake. “It’s so yummy.”

She practically drools as she eyeballs the delicious treat in my hand, and I find it oddly satisfying, knowing she wants to eat the cupcake, but won’t.

“Good luck keeping the weight off,” she hollers after me as I dash out of the kitchen. “Oh yeah, and Isa!”

“So close,” I mumble to myself. Then I lean back and pop my head into the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“Mom and Dad wanted me to tell you something.” She drums her manicured nails against the granite countertop. “Hmmm . . . I think it was important, but I can’t remember what it is.” A smirk curls at her lips. “Oh, I remember. They told me to tell you that they loved you, to be safe, and that if you need anything to call them.”