Abigail Johnson - The First To Know

“He’s got that job interview at my parents’ café after school today. He told you, right?”

I nodded. Nick was trying to save up for a new car. According to Jessalyn, his current rusted jalopy was made of Lifetime movies and people who take their cousin to prom and therefore too sad to drive except under the direst of circumstances. I had to agree it was pretty rough, and it died more often than it ran. Our friend Jill worked as a mechanic at her dad’s garage and had been keeping it alive for him, but she’d recently started begging him to let her put it down.

“I promised to give him a ride and help him with his totally unnecessary nerves,” Jessalyn went on. “I could talk to him a little and maybe subtly hint that his solo silent game around all of us might not be the best way to get a girl to like him.”

I hugged her tight. “Thanks, Jess.”

She gave me a long, considering look when I released her. “Just don’t be that girl, okay? Nick is a sweet guy who really likes you. If you know he’ll never be more to you than he is right now, then save him from worse heartache and cut him loose.”

I appreciated Jessalyn’s concern for Nick, but I did like him, a lot. I just needed to give my heart enough time to catch up to my head. Then there wouldn’t be any heartache at all.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” I said. “But Coach will put the hurt on us if we’re late to practice, so...” I nodded at the cleat she still needed to tie. I checked my phone one last time before putting it in my locker. Most of the girls were already outside, but a few were still here.

“Dana,” Ainsley said, drawing my attention to the far end of the bench. “Will you please tell Sadie that your sister pitched two no-hitters in a row her senior year?”

Technically, it had been her junior year, but I kept that clarification to myself and just nodded my answer.

“Wow,” Sadie said, leaning back and looking sort of dazed. Sadie was our starting pitcher and had, to my knowledge, never pitched a single no-hitter in her life. Ainsley knew that too. She could be petty like that. It was almost as exhausting as fielding grounders for four hours after dinner.

“Don’t sweat it, Sadie,” I said, gathering my hair into a ponytail. “Selena was awesome, but your curveball is nasty.” I looked at Jessalyn. “You’re hitting .400 right now.” Then, to Ivy, “And you’re a vacuum cleaner at first base.” I turned to each girl in the room, naming a unique strength she brought to the team. Even Ainsley, hoping she’d remember we were a team and needed to be strong together. “And your speed.”

Sadie brightened; so did everyone else.

“Nice,” Jessalyn said to me in a low voice as we followed the rest of the girls—all smiling—to the field. “Your dad needs to see you like this. What you do for our team off the field is just as important as what you do for us on.”

With one last thought about the phone inside my locker, I said, “Hopefully, he will soon.”

* * *

Practice was grueling, and my shoulder was screaming by the time I got back to the locker room. It was like my coach had no idea how hard my dad had made me work the night before. I was dreading what Dad would have in store for me after dinner. It was all I could think about as I opened my locker and pulled out my clothes.

My phone was on top of my shirt, and the screen was lit up. I grabbed it...and it was like taking a bat to the gut when I read Brandon’s reply.

Sorry, I live in Arizona too but I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I only just turned 18.

Chapter 6

“Hello? Earth to Dana.” Ivy waved a hand in my face, breaking my stare at my phone screen.

“What?”

“A bunch of us are going for ice cream. Are you in?”

Half a dozen pairs of eyes were on me, including Jessalyn’s.

“Something wrong?” she asked, and then started to smile. “Wait, is it...” Her gaze flicked to my phone, and her grin grew. She lowered her voice so that only I could hear. I hadn’t told anyone else on the team what I was doing, because I hadn’t wanted word to get to my dad/our coach. “Is it something from your grandfather?”

I fought to keep my hand steady as I shoved my phone and cleats in my bag, not bothering with anything else. “No, I just need to go. Sorry.” Then I was pushing open the heavy locker room door and bursting into the now-empty quad.

He can’t be eighteen.

He’s my 65-year-old grandfather.

No.

It was a tiny word, so I said it out loud. “No.” A million times no.

No, no, no.

There was no way that Dad had an affair.

There was no way that he fathered a son.

There was no way that I had a brother less than a year older than me.

Dad would never cheat on Mom.

Dad would never do this to us.

It had to be a mistake.

My steps picked up speed as I headed for the parking lot. I broke into a jog as I reached the blacktop, then sprinted to my car. As soon as I was inside, my phone was in my hand and I was typing.

Brandon,

I must have read the results wrong. I do think we’re related somehow. Maybe you’re a cousin? Would you be willing to meet me? I have so many questions and I think you’re the only one who can answer them. Name the place, name the time.

Dana

I dropped the phone in my lap the second I hit Send. My message sounded hella creepy, but I couldn’t take the time for anything more composed. His message had been sent only twenty minutes ago, so there was a good chance he was still online and would—

He wrote back.

Dana,

You should try to get your money back. I’m the third Brandon McCormick, and before that there were five Davids. We are from Arizona though, going back at least four generations. I’d have to check with my dad to confirm that. I’m not really sure how the family side of all this DNA testing works—I was interested in my geographic heritage, not finding relatives—but my family tree is full up, no unaccounted for branches. But, hey, I work at the Jungle Juice in Mesa. Feel free to stop by if you have any more questions.

Sorry I can’t be more help,

Brandon

My breath came out in a rush. The third Brandon McCormick. As in his dad was also Brandon McCormick. As in his dad was not Dennis Fields. Brandon seemed very confident in his family tree. Could it be a mistake? Had the DNA company messed up the samples? People were fallible; it could happen. I did a quick search for DNA-testing failure rates, and pages of results came back. Something loosened in my chest. A mistake would make more sense than Dad having an affair, which made no sense at all. And mistakes had happened before—not often, but more than once. I needed only once. There was an option to send in another sample for a retest, but I couldn’t swing that without Selena’s help, and there was no way I was waiting another month and a half for the results. I wasn’t waiting a day.

I looked up the address for the Jungle Juice in Mesa. It was only a thirty-minute drive.

I started my car.

Chapter 7

Jungle Juice was decorated like a jungle, complete with massive plaster trees sprouting from each table and along the walls, and fake wild animals prowling through the immense branches that stretched overhead and covered the entire ceiling. There were birdcalls and cat growls playing in the background, and every time the door opened, a monkey scream spiked. I definitely would have lost my mind working there. But it smelled great, fruity and sweet, like sugared mangoes.

There were a number of small round tables scattered about, along with padded bench nooks in the corners. And people—more than I was expecting. Close to a dozen chatting and sipping from tall foam cups or eating sandwiches. I was glad for the people. They gave me cover to slip in relatively unnoticed.