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  But I did it.

  A chunk of the curb is smashed to dust. The sod in the median looks as if a pair of moles did the cha-cha underneath. I won’t find out for a week if I passed.

  But I did it.

  Mom walks over and hands me a hot cocoa. We lean against the front bumper of the car. I’m careful to avoid caving it in.

  “I almost wasn’t strong enough,” I say. Not for this situation. Probably not for a lot of situations. I trace my finger along the dent that reminds me that next time, the opposite might be the problem. “Sometimes, I worry that—”

  “Gracie,” Mom says, following her finger behind mine and taking my hand, “you’re the perfect amount of strong.”

  Karen Akins writes humorous, light sci-fi for young adults and the young in spirit. When not writing or reading, she loves lightsaber dueling with her two sons and forcing her husband to watch BBC shows with her. Her YA time travel novels Loop and Twist are available now from St. Martin’s Press.

  “When I finished my graduate degree in counseling, I had no idea what I wanted to do with it. But I did know that I had a heart to bring hope and encouragement to hurting people. I ended up in a position as a regional director of a nonprofit adoption agency.

  Over the next few years, I had the privilege of counseling birth parents who faced some of the most difficult decisions they’d ever make, of preparing and educating adoptive parents, and welcoming children to their forever families. I never could have predicted the beautiful and bittersweet journey it would be.

  And on a completely selfish level, I also never could have predicted the joy and completeness that my precious nephew brought to my life when he joined our family through adoption. I love you, Noah!”

  The Sign

  by Erica M. Chapman

  On my way to school I pass a sign that’s in front of nothing. The painted letters have faded away, and all that remains are an A and an F. The withered wood has even warped toward the vacant emptiness behind it as if it’s trying to run away from reality. Like we all are in some way. I’ve always wondered what used to be in that spot behind the nameless sign. Was it a restaurant or a school? What happened to the building? Did it close down? Did it burn?

  Does anyone else care that it’s gone?

  My mom would. She cares about everything. She even names inanimate objects and talks to them as if they have hearts and cells. One time she hit a baby bunny with her car, and I swear she didn’t stop crying for two days.

  She doesn’t know I’m here standing in front of my past that’s dressed up in a white house with blue shutters and a welcome mat that says “Hi, I’m Mat.”

  My birth father is on the other side of that ugly blue door, and I have no idea what that means to me. If I’m going to fill that space behind my own abandoned sign or if he’s going to take one look at me and decide to build somewhere else. I reach in my jacket pocket for the letter he sent. The corners are bent, and I’m not sure if it’s from me reading it so many times or maybe because he crunched it in his hand after he wrote it, contemplating whether or not to send it. I glance down at his handwriting. It’s loopy but firm. Is he going to be the same way? The letter’s short, only a few sentences about how he wants to meet me, and how he had no idea his daughter lived so close.

  I wonder if we look alike. I have dimples in my chin and my cheeks—could that be from him? Does he have dark hair like mine that’s always half-curly and half-straight when I do nothing to it? Does he have blue eyes that have flecks of brown like mine?

  My breath sounds like a windstorm, and my palms are clammier than when I had a fever last month. Maybe I’m getting sick? No, that’s not it.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  I knock on the door, once, twice.

  It flies open like he was waiting for me. Instead of my birth father, though, I’m greeted by two men. One has longish black locks, and the other is shorter, with pale, almost-yellow skin and hair to match. They are the perfect contrast to each other. My . . . dads?

  “Is that her?” the long-haired guy asks the other.

  The blond looks at him as if he’s nuts, and then turns back to me. “Caden?”

  I nod and lick my lips a few times because I can tell they’re getting chapped. Confusion sweeps through my brain. Too much is happening at once. I don’t know where to focus my eyes—if I should be glancing at the blond guy or the long-haired one. Will one of them be hurt if I don’t look at him? Maybe they’re nervous, too.

  The long-haired guy leans over and lifts me up in a huge hug. I let out an audible “oof,” as he says, “We’re so glad you’re here.”

  Partner, definitely his partner.

  I pat him on the back a few times to see if he will release me. No such luck. A hundred minutes later he finally sets me down. I take a deep breath in.

  The blond takes a similar breath in, too. Yoga breath, I recognize, in the nose and out the nose. I’ve been doing the same thing since he opened the door, trying not to pass out.

  “I’m Sam,” the blond says, “your . . . uh . . .” He pauses to look at his partner for help, maybe?

  “Your father,” his partner finishes for him, with a friendly nudge in the side.

  Sam gives me a nervous smile. “Yeah, dad . . . or, yeah.” He takes another yoga breath. “This is Mason, my husband.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, a little breathless, my voice sounding like I have rocks tumbling in my vocal chords. I clear my throat.

  Mason opens the door wider and grabs my arm gently. “Come in, come in. We made lasagna, but it’s not just regular lasagna; it’s made with gluten-free noodles and eggplant and chocolate sauce,” he says in an excited tone.

  Did I hear him right? “I’m sorry, chocolate sauce?”

  Sam starts laughing. “He’s kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s a mole sauce,” he says seriously, like how dare we doubt him!

  Sam’s smile disappears, and he and I shoot confused glances at each other. We both turn away quickly as if looking at each other breaks some sort of first-meeting law. I have no idea how to act around him. Should I have hugged him too? Should I call him Dad instead of Sam? Should I leave and never look back?

  “Is Julie coming?” I ask, passing the stainless-steel-everything kitchen. The room smells like garlic and pasta and all the best restaurants.

  “She’s at a friend’s. I thought we should . . . um, eat alone tonight, anyway.” I try to conceal the sigh of relief, but Sam must notice because he gives me his first sincere smile. “Are you as nervous as I am?” he whispers so Mason can’t hear him.

  The posture I’d been holding up finally collapses, and I breathe a real breath for the first time since entering the house. “Oh, thank god it’s not just me,” I say as I sit at the table.

  His posture quickly follows mine. “This is kind of awkward, and I’m the adult, so I’m supposed to be making this all work, right?”

  I laugh. “I don’t think there’s a handbook.”

  He laughs, too, and I realize we have a similar chuckle, kind of scratchy. Instantly I want to run out of that room and go home. I don’t belong here with him and our shared laugh. I have parents. Parents who love me and a brother who is mostly annoying but who I think in his own special way loves me too. I shift in my seat.

  Before I have a chance to bolt out of there, Mason serves the lasagna. It smells amazing, but the idea of chocolate and lasagna together is like mixing pickles and peanut butter to me. “You’re going to love this. It’s my mom’s recipe. I’m usually a horrible cook—just ask Sam.” Sam nods vigorously in agreement, and Mason smacks his head without looking. “I know you’re agreeing. I don’t have to see you to know that.”

  I smile again without meaning to. Am I smiling too much? Should I be smiling? This is a man who gave me up. Shouldn’t I be mad inst
ead?

  We eat dinner and it’s actually pretty good. Not my favorite, but not bad. I could barely eat anyway. I mostly munched on bread like a bird picking at a worm.

  After dinner, Mason directs us to the living room. It’s white with blue accents, and photos of them and Julie are all over. It’s obvious they’ve built a good home.

  “I know you’re probably wondering why I contacted you after all these years,” Sam says.

  I nod, my chest tightening with every second that ticks by on the ancient-looking clock that they probably got from IKEA instead of an antique shop.

  Mason looks at the floor and starts fidgeting. Before Sam can say anything else, Mason pops off the couch and runs out of the room.

  I’m so shocked I just sit there and look around like I’m being filmed for a reality show.

  Sam closes his eyes briefly, his expression tired, concerned, annoyed. Like he’s had to deal with Mason’s outbursts before. “I’ll be right back,” he says, getting up slowly. He doesn’t move very fast, as if he has arthritis or something.

  A few minutes later, Sam returns but Mason doesn’t. I don’t hide my worry. “What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?” Sam slowly sits back down on the couch. I didn’t notice how he sat down at dinner. I must have been paying attention to something else. The room starts to shrink and the family photos start to creep in toward me. Something’s wrong with him. Why am I here?

  “He’s worried about me. About you. He’s a worrier.”

  “Why is he worried about you?” I manage to squeak out. My eyesight blurs, and all I want to do is run away, far away from everyone and everything.

  “I’m sick, Caden. I’ve tried dialysis, medication . . . even a new kidney, but I’m not sure it’s working like it should, so I’m . . .” He runs a hand through his hair and glances at the photo on the white wall. They’re all in matching coral shirts, and the smiles couldn’t be bigger. Disney’s castle looms high in the background.

  “I . . .” I expect sadness to be my first emotion. Where is the sadness? The fear of losing him? But that’s not what’s here. It’s red and burning and regret, and I’m pissed off. “How could you do this to me?” I whisper, trying to find my voice. A rage I’ve rarely experienced starts in my toes and travels up to my mouth, and my voice comes back. “You find me just to tell me you’re dying? Tell me, ‘hey, here I am,’” I yell with my arms wide. “‘Sorry I’m late, but I’d like to get to know you for the five minutes I have left!’” I stand up from the chair and realize tears are coming out of my eyes. No. He doesn’t get my tears, dammit. “You don’t get to know me.” I know I’m irrational. I can see his face and how sorry he really is and how there’s so much more he wants to say, but I can’t. I can’t do it. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Caden, wait,” he says, and I know he tries to get up to chase me and I know he’s slower because he’s sick and I’m an awful person.

  I run until I can’t feel my legs, until the sun bleeds into the horizon. I lean over to breathe into my knees. Huffing and heaving and no matter how far I run I can’t get rid of this insane combination of feelings that I’ve never had at once. Fear and anger and regret and sadness and pain and so many nameless other emotions. This is so unfair. All of it. Sam dying. Having to find out this way. Finding out at all, really. I could have just lived my good life with my parents and my brother and never known and then I would be blissfully unaware that my father isn’t going to be here long enough for me to get everything I should from him. For me to show him everything I have and want and dream of. I never even let him explain why he and my birth mom gave me up. She’s dead, so she can’t, but he can. He can answer all my questions, but at this price it’s not worth it. I can’t say goodbye to someone I don’t even know.

  When I wake up the next morning, I tell myself what happened yesterday was a horrible nightmare. But it wasn’t. My sign has crumbled into a million pieces and its only use is kindling. Sam is dying, and I yelled at him. How long has he been sick? Is that why Mason ran out of the living room? How much time is left?

  He could be dead now for all I know.

  I get ready in zombie mode and head to school, passing that damn sign, wishing that someone would just build something behind it already so I can stop wondering why. I arrive at school early because I didn’t look at the clock when I got ready and I got up an hour before I normally do. When I get to my locker, Julie is buzzing around it like a helicopter looking for a criminal. Her gaze meets mine. She knows. She knows everything.

  My sister.

  “Caden,” she says with a sorrowful look on her face. It seems a little fake, but I’m not trusting anything anymore. Emotions are shifty little buggers.

  “Julie.” She purses her lips and I don’t know how to react to her, how I’m supposed to treat her knowing that she’s my sister, that the damaged blood flowing through our father’s veins is the same. He’s dying. She’s known him this whole time, her whole life. “I’m sorry,” I say without knowing if I really am, then want to take it back instantly.

  Why am I apologizing?

  I shouldn’t be the one who apologizes here. My whole life changed in one night and here I am saying sorry to the girl who got to live my life. The girl who called me a toad in third grade because a frog jumped on my lap at recess, the girl who stole Jacob Taylor from me in seventh grade and kissed him in front of everyone. What if all that was supposed to be mine? What if it was supposed to be me kissing Jacob Taylor?

  Wait. This is ridiculous.

  No, I liked my life. I like it now. If I let them in, would my mom be mad at me? Would our relationship change? I would have another dad—a Sam. My dad’s not perfect. He plays video games all the time and yells at the TV, and he always looks bored when I’m talking about Snapchat or what book I’ve read, but he’s been there. He’s here now. And Sam wasn’t.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to, but it feels wrong. It feels like a kind of betrayal.

  She relaxes her lips and posture, and sadness starts to creep onto her face. That face that I’ve seen for three years, and I haven’t noticed that maybe there are similarities to mine. That the dimple in her cheek is the same, that her blue eyes have flecks of brown in them. It’s not fair that she got our dad and I didn’t. He looked in those eyes and saw the flecks. Did he see them in mine? Did I even give him the chance? “I heard you stopped by.”

  I don’t say anything back. Not sure what she knows and doesn’t, and frankly I want to hibernate in a hole and come out in the spring.

  She shifts the books curled in her arm to the other, then back to the original arm. “I think you should talk to him. I know . . .” She pauses, and her eyebrows crease like she’s thinking. “You have every right to be mad, but he didn’t know about you until recently. I promise. He’s the type of dad who would have found you if he could.” Her gaze is pleading, and I want so badly to believe her. “He’s on meds for the new kidney, but we don’t know if they’re working or if they will. It was by chance he found you. He’s been in a frenzy lately to discover his past and . . . well anyway, he found out about you through your grandma? I guess. He never liked her but he wanted some closure, to tell her sorry or something, and that’s when she told him about you. Your mom kept it from him for some reason.”

  Why didn’t he tell me that? You never gave him a chance.

  “Why?” is the only question I can think of. Why would my mom do that? Was she too young? Did Sam do something to make her angry? Did her parents disapprove of him? What?

  “I don’t know.”

  So my mom never told him. I’d found out she was dead last year when I went searching for her, but there was never a dad listed. He was like a ghost. So when I got the letter from him last week, I didn’t think it was real.

  She smiles, and it’s so similar to his it’s creepy
. Jealousy burns in my veins at that. She can’t get his smile, too. Does she have his laugh? Is that something I have to share with her, too?

  “Look, I know you’re trying and I appreciate it. But I yelled at him. He’s not going to want to see me.”

  She gives me a thoughtful expression, and I have to glance behind me to see if she’s actually giving it to me or if someone she really likes is standing behind me. She shakes her head and places her hand on my arm gently, soothing. “Come by tonight. Mason’s not cooking. It’s pizza night.” She smiles.

  “Okay,” I say without thinking again. It’s as if my brain wants something my heart doesn’t.

  I have no idea what I’m doing, if I’m about to make a huge mistake by letting Sam into my life, but I’m willing to take the chance just to see what we can build together.

  I don’t have to knock this time when I show up. Sam is the one that answers and he’s alone. His yellowish skin makes sense now, his slow movement, his awkwardness. My instinct is to help him. To make sure he’s not in any pain. I ignored that the last time I was here.

  “I’m so glad you decided to come back,” he says with Julie’s smile.

  “I thought I’d give you another chance. That, and I wanted to try some more of Mason’s cooking, but I heard it was pizza night. Darn,” I say sarcastically.

  My laugh pours out of his mouth and I can’t help but join him. His posture relaxes and he envelops me in a hug that rivals Mason’s. “Thank you,” he whispers.

  That night on the way home from the Parkers’, I pass the sign in front of nothing and for the first time I don’t wonder why it’s there.

  Erica M. Chapman writes dark, emotional YA novels with bursts of humor and lighter contemporaries with smart-ass protagonists. Her first novel, Teach Me to Forget, was published by Merit Press in December 2016. She’s a member of SCBWI & Sweet16s and a lifetime Lions and Michigan football fan who loves alternative music. She loves to tweet and watch various CW & Freeform shows while typing her next story on a MacBook in a Detroit Lions Snuggie.