A key turned in the front-door lock. A kid entered, taller than her, his red hair dark from the rain. This must be Charlie, the legitimate son. She sat up straight and pulled her hand across her face, wiping away the tears that had leaked. Kids already called her names. She didn’t need him to see her shaking and go telling everyone she wet her pants or something.
Catching sight of her finally, he stopped short.
“Who are you? What’s going on?” he said.
“Your parents are fighting.”
“No shit, Sherlock. They always fight. I asked who you are.”
“I’m Kathy. Who are you?”
He took off his coat and hung it on a hook near the door, looking at her through narrowed eyes.
“Charlie. What are you doing here?”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“What are you, like homeless?”
“No. My mom is sick.”
He nodded, not unsympathetically. “Okay, but why did they bring you to my house? Your folks know my folks or something?”
She should claim to be that long-lost cousin, or there’d be hell to pay with Mrs. Wallace. The lie was on the tip of her tongue. But that ugly word rang in her ears—bastard—making her hot with rage. Screw that lady; it would serve her right to tell her precious son the truth. She itched to rock the boat, even if she tipped it over.
“No. It’s because I’m your sister.”
His face went slack. “What?”
“They brought me here because Eddie is my dad. Last time I checked, that makes me your sister.”
His eyes registered shock, then resistance, then the fear that she was telling the truth. The kid knew his father well enough to wonder, at least.
“If he’s your dad, then who’s your mom? Not my mom?”
“No, you wouldn’t know her. Her name’s Sylvia.”
He stared at her open-mouthed.
“You do know her?” Kathy asked.
“I met a Sylvia one time, with my pops. At a Red Sox game. Really pretty, blond hair, red dress?”
Sylvia had made quite the impression, apparently.
“That’s her.”
“You don’t look like her.”
She shrugged, but underneath the bravado, she felt gut-punched. Her mom had gone to a Red Sox game with Eddie’s kid and didn’t invite her. And now she might die, so they’d never go to Fenway together. It wasn’t fair.
Kathy wasn’t the only one upset. Charlie sat down beside her hard enough to rock the couch. There was an ugly flush under his eyes, and his chin was trembling.
“Oh, are you gonna cry?”
She needed to take her pain out on someone, but the taunt didn’t have the intended effect. He sniffed hard, squared his shoulders, and turned on her.
“Girls cry. I’m not a girl. I’m just pissed because I wanted a brother, and I got you. Wait, you are a girl, right?” he said, casting a snide glance at her flat chest.
“Yeah. No shit, Sherlock.”
That wrung a grudging smile out of him.
“You have a crooked tooth on top, like me,” she said, pointing to her own.
“So what?”
“And we both have reddish hair.”
“I don’t give a crap about that shit. What I care about is, do you play video games?”
“Tetris with my friend sometimes.”
“Tetris is for dorks. I play Super Mario. I got a Nintendo for my birthday.”
“Nintendos are cool.”
“You never played Nintendo in your life.”
“Maybe not, but you could show me.”
“You’d mess it up.”
“I’m careful. Tell me what to do, and I’ll listen.”
“Humph,” he said, but she saw that he was warming to the idea.
“I promise.”
“Okay, but if you break it, you pay for a new one.”
Like she could afford that. He led her down the narrow hallway where Eddie and Mrs. Wallace had disappeared earlier. There were three closed doors. As he reached for one, another flew open, and Mrs. Wallace stepped out. There was an angry red handprint across her left cheek and a glint of murder in her eye.
“I thought I heard your voice, young man. What do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re gonna play Super Mario.”
“Not in your room you’re not. No girls in there.”
“You think I’m gonna do it with my sister? Gross.”
Mrs. Wallace’s small, colorless eyes flicked to Kathy.
“What did you say to him?” she said, her voice quiet as death.