The pamphlet for the house sat on the little wooden table by the window, and he was able to reach for it without getting off the bed. Roderick, said the cover. Historic Pennsylvania Home. And there was his house. There was his front yard where he and his dad had carved their names into one of the sycamore tree trunks. There was his bedroom window. There was the roundabout driveway where he’d parked his car. Inside, he saw that sad old kitchen, that fussy dining room, the chandelier above the entranceway. That crazy grand staircase that seemed better suited for a Southern plantation house. The stained-glass windows and the old four-poster beds in every bedroom and the window seats and the secret passageway that led from the guest bedroom down to the kitchen, probably once meant for servants. Scott used to play in that secret staircase, which wasn’t really a secret at all, as his parents knew full well it was there, but they pretended it was his and only his. Once, he wrote a message that said SOS, I am from another planet, who are you? and left it on the stairs, hoping someone—Charles, especially—would find it and write back. Every day he checked. He even hinted to his brother that there was something strange on the staircase, but Charles never took the bait, never cared. A few days later, a new slip of paper appeared, lifting Scott’s heart. My name is Mom, said the message. Welcome, extraterrestrial! Would you like to come for dinner? We feed all kinds from all planets.
Scott leafed through every page of the pamphlet until he got to the very back, which listed the phone number, hours of operation, and showed a picture of the house’s gift shop. And to his astonishment—although he realized just a few seconds later that he shouldn’t be surprised at all, for it made complete sense—the gift shop was where his apartment used to be. They’d cleaned up the water damage, smoothed the splintering wood floor, and ripped up the kitchenette, and now there were small tables of books, T-shirts, stickers, and other knickknacks. Squinting at the inset photos of the featured items for sale, the things sold in the gift shop had no significance to the house at all. Little animal finger puppets for kids. A heavy ceramic frog paperweight. A book of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes.
It wasn’t really his house anymore. It wasn’t really any of theirs, and maybe it never had been.
He hugged his knees to his chest and then looked at his cell phone. When he moved to Tucson, he’d changed over his number to one with a 520 area code, but he’d keyed in all his contacts from his old phone from Pennsylvania, including everyone in his family. Even though he’d staunchly told himself that he wanted nothing to do with them, some part of his brain told him to keep their numbers safe. Maybe his mother hadn’t changed her cell phone number. Maybe his brother lived in that same development. There were ways of finding them.
A car rumbled past outside. The air smelled like sweet, Pennsylvania spring, a sharp contrast to the dusty, gritty, baked smell that permeated Tucson. But he liked it there. He liked it a lot. It felt like an epiphany, admitting that. It felt like the first time he’d conceded to liking anything.
The cell phone’s interior light glowed a dull, ice-pop blue. He scrolled through his contact numbers and pressed SEND. As he listened to the phone ringing, he felt lighter and lighter, a balloon rising higher into the sky. There were lots of things he liked. There were a lot of things left to do. It was possible that if he pestered the adoption agency enough, they would tell him something. It was possible that he could be what Veronica wanted him to be. At least he could try for her.
He could bring Veronica back here, walk her through the historical house, pretending he was a tourist, and show her the map of the life he’d once lived. The table where they’d eaten meals together. The backyard where so many parties had been held. The garage where he and his father worked on cars. His brother’s room, which he’d sat outside of sometimes when he was small, listening, hoping for an invitation inside. The chair in which his mother sat in his room when she read him stories before bed.
The phone rang, and then there was a click. “Scott?” Veronica asked, in lieu of hello. “Is that you?”
He pressed the phone close to his face, feeling its inert, mechanical warmth. “Yes,” he answered. “It’s me.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to the early readers of this book: Cari Luna, Colleen McGarry, and my mother, Mindy Shepard. The business of writing is so difficult, but you make it much less solitary. Much appreciation to Cathryn Summerhayes, Andy McNicol, and Anais Borja at William Morris for their many read-throughs and insight. And I would be lost without the brilliant support of Carrie Kania, Jennifer Hart, and Amanda Kain at Harper Collins, and especially my editor, Maya Ziv. They keep me going, they’re always my champion, and they’ve given me such fantastic support. I feel so fortunate to have them on my team.
Thanks to Doug and Fran Wilkens for opening their house to us, where much of this novel was completed. And, finally, much love to Joel, for still being here, for being okay, for getting through this year. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
About the Author
SARA SHEPARD graduated from NYU and has an MFA from Brooklyn College. The author of the bestselling young adult series Pretty Little Liars and The Lying Game, as well as the adult novel The Visibles, she currently lives outside Philadelphia with her husband and dogs.
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