Inevitable and Only(6)

“Tragic,” Raven agreed.

“I feel like my soul will never be clean again,” I said.

“You don’t believe in souls,” she pointed out.

“But it’s like I’ve been marked. ‘Cat-killer.’ And I love cats.”

“Well, I guess you could spend the best years of your prime caring for stray cats,” she said. “Wearing cat-lady clothes. That seems like a fitting punishment.”

“My prime? When’s that?”

“Probably right now,” she admitted.

“Ugh, I hope this isn’t my prime. I think you have to know how to drive a car without murdering innocent animals to be considered ‘in your prime.’”

“Stop saying murder, Cadie. You’re being melodramatic.”

“I know, but I’m so good at it.”

“You are. Also, it was an accident. You have to stop beating yourself up about it. You’re going to get back on the horse, right?”

“Horses, sure. Behind the wheel, nope. Never.”

“Never is a long time to be walking everywhere.”

“Then I’ll have great legs.”

“While you’re running around looking for stray cats to feed? With no Farhan to appreciate them?”

“Raven!”

“That reminds me,” she said. “The Fall Ball is in a month. Are you going to ask him to go with you?”

I squeaked. “Me ask him? That would require bravery. Lots of it.”

“Oh, come on. I’m going to ask Max.”

“You and Max have been dating all summer! That doesn’t count. The me-and-Farhan thing is way more complicated. Since there is no me-and-Farhan thing.” But now I was grinning. Raven always managed to cheer me up, sooner or later.

Then Josh knocked on my door and told me that Mom and Dad needed us to come downstairs.



Mom, sitting tight-lipped and red-eyed on the living room couch. Dad, looking sick, perched on the edge of the piano bench. I noticed right away that he was sitting as far from Mom as possible.

“Acadia, Joshua,” she said. “Your father has something to tell you.”

“Okay … ,” I said. “What’s going on? Dad?” I heard my voice rising. “Is everyone all right?”

Josh stood next to me, saying nothing.

“Just have a seat,” Dad said. In a voice I’d never heard him use before. Thinner than Weatherman, sadder than Shakespearean Tragic.

Josh and I sat, squished together on the ottoman.

“Kids …” Dad crossed then uncrossed his legs, smoothed his hands down his pants. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Mom bit her lip and clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles started turning white. “Oh, that’s an understatement,” she muttered.

“Melissa, please.” Dad paused. “Are you sure you don’t want to—process this some more, before we tell them?”

Mom just glared at him, and he sighed. “Kids,” he said again, and I pinpointed it. The voice. Not a Voice at all, I mean. Just a voice, lowercase v. Dad never talked like that. Only normal people talked like that. Everyone else.

“Get to the point, Ross,” Mom hissed. I’d never seen her this upset, either. Not even when Josh fell off the back porch and we thought his arm was broken.

“Kids,” Dad said a third time. “You have—a sister.”

I gasped. “Mom’s having a baby?”

Mom glared at Dad. “Wouldn’t that be the simple way. Nice and easy. But no, your father went and took care of that without—”

“Melissa, I’ll explain.”

“Well then, get to the point already, because I, for one, am getting tired of sitting here listening to you fumble.” Mom was practically spitting.

Dad shifted on the piano bench, stood, clasped his hands behind his head. Turned to look out the window, and addressed his next words to the street. “It turns out you have a half sister.” He paused again.

“I don’t understand,” I ventured, when it felt like the silence had grown thick enough that a hatchet wouldn’t make a dent.

Mom swore, and I felt Josh stiffen next to me. “Ross found out he has another daughter,” she snapped. “Somewhere in Ohio, of all places. And apparently this woman—the mother—has finally gotten around to letting him know. If she’s even telling the truth.” She muttered something else in Spanish that made Dad’s eyebrows jump.

Okay, Mom occasionally swore, but she hardly ever swore in Spanish—only when she had exhausted the level of fury she could convey in English. And she always referred to him as “Dad” in front of us, not “Ross,” unless she had forgotten we were in the room. Which was odd, because she was still addressing us. Not Dad.

“Melissa,” Dad started, “I have no reason to believe she’s lying. And can you please try not to—not in front of the kids—”

“Not to what?” Mom shouted, her eyes narrowed. “Not to what, Ross?”

Dad sighed. “Are we done here?” he asked, so quietly I barely heard him.

“Are we done here, he wants to know,” Mom reported, staring at a point somewhere just over my head. “As if we could file this one away in a neat little ‘Completed’ folder and move on now.”