“Would you stop that?” he said. “It’s like you’re brainwashed or something.”
“What?” Jonah said defensively. “Those are the correct terms. Birth parents are the people who give birth to you. Real parents are the ones who change your diapers and get up in the middle of the night when you’re a baby and show you how to ride a bike without training wheels and, and….” He stopped because he thought maybe he was quoting directly from What to Tell Your Adopted and Foster Children.
Chip slid down to the floor, crumpling like one of those rag dolls Katherine used to drag around by the feet.
“My parents didn’t show me how to ride a bike,” he said. “They left that to the babysitter.”
Jonah thought for a moment.
“Well, at least they were the ones who paid the babysitter.”
Chip groaned. He balled his hands into fists again and pressed them against his eye sockets.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why did my real parents give me up?”
This time, Jonah didn’t bother correcting Chip out loud, though his brain translated, You mean, your birth mother set up an adoption plan….
“You know, there are lots of reasons people can’t take care of their own kids,” Jonah said cautiously. “Maybe your birth parents died. Maybe you’re adopted from Russia or someplace like that, where things are different.” He waited a second. Chip didn’t move. “Maybe…maybe now that you know you’re adopted, your mom and dad might tell you more about your story, if they know it. Sometimes, even if the records are sealed at the time of the adoption, people change their minds and decide they want to be more open….”
Okay, now Jonah was almost certain that he was quoting directly from one of his parents’ books.
Chip began shaking his head again, so hard it rattled the door behind him. Then he glared over at Jonah, his eyes burning.
“My dad said—” Chip choked, swallowed hard, tried again, “—my dad said I didn’t need to know anything else. He said he never wanted to talk about this again.”
And then Jonah felt the anger boiling up inside of him. Jonah didn’t get mad often. He’d never met Chip’s dad, just seen him drive by. (He drove a nice car—a BMW.) Jonah probably couldn’t have picked Chip’s dad out in a line-up. But right now Jonah wanted to stalk over to Chip’s house, swing his best punch, and hit Chip’s dad right in the mouth. He wanted to hit him a couple of times.
Jonah clenched his fists. Chip was still staring up at him, but his expression had slipped over into helplessness now—helplessness and hopelessness.
“What can I do?” Chip asked.
“When you’re a grown-up,” Jonah said, “you can try to find your birth parents. You won’t need your mom and dad’s permission for anything then. And until then—until then, I swear, I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
FOUR
“Try 10-28-66,” Chip whispered.
“Why?” Jonah asked.
“That’s Dad’s birthday,” Chip said. “He’s so conceited and stupid, he’d use his own birthday as the code.”
It’d been two days since Jonah and Chip had each gotten their “ YOU ARE ONE OF THE MISSING” letters, and Chip was acting crazier than ever. Today, coming home on the school bus, Chip had gotten obsessed with the idea that he had to see his birth certificate, that it would tell him everything he needed to know. So now the two boys were crouched beside a wall safe in Chip’s basement.
Jonah paused with his fingers poised over the digital keypad.
“Really,” he said, “even if your birth certificate’s in here, it’s not going to help. Like I told you—like it said on the Internet—when a kid’s adopted, they issue a new certificate and lock all the old papers away. Your original birth certificate’s not going to be in here unless it was an open adoption and somehow, I don’t think, if your parents won’t even talk about you being adopted—”
“Just try the code,” Chip insisted. “My hand’s shaking too bad.”
Jonah glanced over at his friend, who did indeed look shaky. Even in the dim light of the basement, Jonah could tell that Chip had a panicky sheen of sweat on his face. Chip’s curly hair was mashed down because he kept clutching his head, like he had to work hard to hold himself together. He seemed about one step away from being one of those loony types who mumbled to themselves on the street downtown.
Jonah sighed and began punching in numbers: 1 0 2 8 6 6.
Nothing happened.
“When’s your birthday?” Jonah asked.
“Mine?” Chip said. “September nineteenth.”
“And you’re thirteen?”
“Yeah, why?”
Jonah didn’t answer, just began punching in a new combination: 0 9 1 9…
The safe beeped, then there was audible click. The safe door sprang open, just a crack.
“Bingo!” Jonah said. He kind of wished his own mom or dad were there just then, because they would be able to tell Chip, “See? Your parents must care about you some, if they use your birthday as the code to their safe.” But Jonah couldn’t say anything that goopy himself.
“Go ahead and open it,” Chip said. “I can’t look.”
He had his shaking hand over his eyes, but he kept lifting it to peek out.
Jonah gripped the door to the partly open safe.
“Are you sure you want me to do this?” he asked. “This is like breaking and entering or something.”
Chip scowled at him.
“You’re in my house,” he said. “I asked you to open the safe.”
“But your parents—”
“What they want doesn’t count,” Chip said harshly.