A Feeling Like Home

I’m having second thoughts.

We’re driving down my sister Allison’s driveway, the one that makes a loop in front of her house. Judging by how slow she's driving her roomy Lexus down said driveway, she's having second thoughts about this, too.

Not that anyone cared to ask for my opinion before exiling me for the entire summer.

Not that I deserve to be consulted.

Allison sucks in one of her cheeks as she ekes the car farther down the drive, headlights marking our path in the waning sunlight. The painfully slow drive mimics my hesitation. Texas wildflowers sway against the orange skyline in the summer night. From inside the car, I can just barely make out the familiar scent of tall grass and weeds that cling to the tiny, wealthy city of Old Oak, Texas.

Justin moved all the boys' toys out of the guest bedroom, so it's not a playroom anymore. And we told Cam he's not supposed to bother you. So, you know, hopefully he won't.

I snort, a smile springing to my face despite my nerves. No chance my five-year-old nephew is going to listen to that rule. He'll be bounding onto my bed by 6 A.M. no matter what, just like he did the whole week I stayed here last spring break. But with his wide brown eyes and fuzzy crop of black hair, it’s hard to stay mad at him. He's the only one I let call me by my old nickname, Piggy, instead of my real name, Paige.

When we reach the end of the driveway, my sister the garage door opener attached to the roof of her car, and the white garage door slides open. After parking inside, she pulls the keys from the ignition and turns to me.

Should we talk about it?

And there it is. I lift one shoulder and give my head a small shake, stomach uneasy. It’s always uneasy lately. Mom already told you everything.

I heard her on the phone, huddled in a corner of the dining room early one morning, whispering loudly like she always does when she thinks she's being discrete. Mom told Allison everything. My face grows hot just thinking about what she knows. That night with Griffin, the police, what it did to Dad…

She nods, a faint pink creeping along her ears. But you could tell me too. It might be nice to hear your side.

My teeth tug at my bottom lip. I swore I would not spend all my time here rehashing the events that led to this, to my punishment.

I messed up, Ally. It was stupid, but I didn't think... Something catches in my throat and I can't finish. What was I going to say, anyway? That I didn't think I'd get caught?

That's true.

But really—I never thought Mom would take things this far. That she'd send me thousands of miles away to teach me a lesson. When Dad got sick the first time this year, what did I do? Sneak out in the middle of the night to meet Griffin. And when Mom grounded me for it? I spray-painted her name on the underside of a bridge in bold, drippy letters.

My eyes blink shut for a second before I release a deep breath. Can we talk about this later?

Allison nods a little too eagerly, her long brown hair cascading back and forth. Absolutely. We'll talk once you're settled in.

I lift my suitcase from the trunk and follow her inside through the door that leads to the kitchen. Her flip-flops make a swish-swish sound across the grey tiled floors. Even with all the lights dimmed, her house is beautiful. It's one of those shiny white and grey modernist designs, but it's not cold and lifeless. Alongside the sleek lines and stainless-steel appliances are upward of one hundred framed pictures. Allison doesn't have much time for her photography business now that she has two kids, but she still takes a ton of pictures of her own family. From where I stand in the kitchen, gazing out across the open floor plan to the living room and dining room, a dozen photographed versions of my two nephews grin back at me.

My sister holds up a finger and walks through the living room and then through a door at the far corner of the first floor. Hold on, she says.

I blink, one hand still squeezing my suitcase handle, the other skimming across the cool, black granite countertops. Five seconds later, she reappears with my brother-in-law, Justin. Even though I have older brothers of my own, Justin is one of my favorite people. When Allison brought him home to meet everyone for the first time over Christmas break, he spent the entire week teaching me how to play Phase 10. And even though I can't prove it, and he vehemently denies it, I'm almost positive he lets me win half the time—just to be nice. It would never occur to any of my older siblings to do something like that, even though I was still a little kid that Christmas. So, yeah. Justin is kind of special.

He strides toward me now, lips stretched wide in a familiar smile, and long arms outstretched. I let my bag drop and slip one arm around his waist and squeeze. He steps back to look at me, his thick black eyebrows lowering.

I heard you've had an interesting couple of months. What's up with that?

My heart zooms up from its normal place to an uncomfortable position in my throat. I can't forget about what I did for a minute, not even here.

From behind him, Allison shakes her head, making a growling sound. She just got here.

He nods slowly, still sizing me up. I shift under his stare while Allison sighs deeply. She hooks an arm around her husband's waist and moves her gaze toward the shiny black clock hanging above the dining room table. It's past our bedtime. Do you need help with your bags?

My eyes follow hers. It's not even ten. This is where I'd usually tease them for being incredibly old and boring, but I chew on the inside of my cheek and force a grin. Better not to rock the boat the first day I'm here. I shake my head and sling my duffel bag up, tucking it under one arm. I've got it. See you guys in the morning.

They head off to their bedroom, and I walk to the staircase on the other side of the floor. Up the stairs, past the bathroom and two other bedrooms, where yellow flickers from nightlights peep under the doors. The guest room door is slightly open and the bed's made sheets tucked in tight—just like Mom taught us.

The door firmly closed behind me, I lower myself to the bed and unzip the small bag at my side, sweeping past my newest romance book and pulling out the letter Mom sent with me with explicit directions to open it once I arrived. My eyes glaze over the first half—it's all boring sentimental stuff that sounds like she copied it from a generic parenting book. Instead I skip to the end where what she's written sends icy shivers down my spine.

With Dad’s health, we can’t afford to spend all our time afraid the police will show up at the house. I'll email you a link to Hopkin’s Boarding School later this week. It's the same place your Aunt Sarah attended when she was having trouble in high school, and it did wonders for her attitude. Remember how much we love you. This is all for your own good. I hope you know that.

XO-Mom and Dad

At the last line, my lip involuntarily curls. For your own good is code for we're the bosses, so do what we say or else.

Or else boarding school.

My stomach flips over and over, like it’s bobbing in deep water and struggling to stay afloat.

I appreciate space from my parents as much as the next sixteen-year-old, but still. Boarding school is not my idea of a good time. Most of the time I actually like my family. And Dad…

It’s hard to ignore Mom’s not-so-thinly veiled suggestion that I’m the cause of his recent bout of sickness. Crohn’s disease can be exasperated by stress, but have I really been that bad?

My hand tightens around the letter, crumpling it in my fist.

Probably.

A big reason I'm in this mess is because after twenty-nine years and five kids, Mom and Dad got too tired of parenting to pay attention to me. Neither of them has the energy to deal with what Dad deemed my wild streak, especially with his worsening health. Something tells me Hopkin’s Boarding School is full of the youngest children with wild streaks. I'd be one of many. Again.

I slip a pen from the front pocket of my bag and flip over Mom's letter. Numbering one through three for every month I'll be here, I start at the top. For June, I can write apology letters to everyone back home, starting with my parents. I'm surprised apologies weren't Mom’s first requirement. Letters will definitely impress her. In July, I can work on myself somehow. Mom's letter says I need to change my behavior, so how about a big change? I write change down with a question mark after it. I can come back to that. And for the last month, August, I know what I have to do. Something big to prove that I'm not a lost cause. Some trick or easy lie that will make them sure I’m the good little girl they need me to be. We’re past the point for authentic grand gestures, and I think deep down even Mom knows that. Really, there’s only one thing my list should include, and it’s the only thing I’m not sure I’m capable of doing: Don’t. Self. Sabotage.

I slide my hand across the cool cotton sheets, lean back on the bed, and lay against the silky white pillow. I made some huge mistakes, but all I have to do is lie low this summer and do my community service, and then I can fly back to Washington in time for school in the fall. I’m not going to boarding school. I'll fix this.

I have to.

I'm going to die.

The sun isn't even up and there's this loud rapping against the guest bedroom door. It's got to be five or six in the morning based on previous nephew wake-up calls, which is a full four hours earlier than I can be bothered to wake up in the summer. Loud whispers sound from the hallway, and a tiny screechy cry pierces through the crack between the door and the carpeted floor. I’m never going to survive if this is the normal wake-up time.

Eyes blind with sleep, I fumble in the dark for my phone, which I plugged in before I crashed last night. Instead of the time at the top of the screen, my eyes focus on the unread text alerts littering my home screen.

All from Griffin.

Warm, sticky shame washes over me at the words. I miss you so much. Call me when you get there.

I haven't thought about him once.

The cries outside my door intensify, sounding more like what I'd imagine from a wounded raptor than an infant.

Bang!

My door shudders open and hits against the wall, a scruffy little boy with a tuft of jet-black hair and wide eyes somersaulting toward me.

Allison's right there, too, with her eyes narrowed and baby Mattie on her hip.

Cameron Woods! I asked you to leave Aunt Paige's door alone. Now you woke her up and almost gave yourself a concussion.

She does such a spot-on impression of Mom, and my heart beats erratically in my chest. And I'm not the one in trouble.

I swipe the back of my hand over my half-opened eyes and roll to the ground. Grabbing Cam with one hand and scooping him into my lap, I blink back at my sister.

Don't worry about it. I've been up for a while, anyway.

She gives me a sidelong glance. It's five-thirty.

I shrug. Guess I'm a morning person now.

Cam smooshes his head against my arm and squeals so loud I'm tempted to reach for the headphones in my duffel bag.

Auntie Piggy!

Ugh, that name. Mom says I originally got the nickname because I was such a fat baby. I guess she expected me to grow up as stick-thin and tall as her and Allison, or else she might have thought twice about it. Still, the corners of my mouth curve upward at his squeaky voice and his sweaty little body.

From my doorway, Allison sighs and lowers a squirming baby Mattie to the ground, where he crawls toward Cam and me like a trained infant assassin. He goes for the kill, grabbing two chubby fistfuls of my hair and pulling my head close enough for his mouth to make contact. There's slobber everywhere. I duck my head and wipe the drool on the shoulder of my t-shirt. Long, frizzy dark hairs from my head float to the floor as he releases his grasp. Ouch.

I snap the thick black hair tie from my wrist and wrap it around my hair. Mattie's full cheeks quiver as he watches me pull away from his entertainment. Allison walks into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, observing as I balance both of her kids on my lap.

You'll be okay with them, right?

Her hands wring in front of her, and she lets her feet dangle off the side of the bed.

Part of the deal is that I'll stay here and watch the kids a few days a week while Allison reopens her photography business. A pretty easy setup compared to the summer job my parents first threatened to sign me up for: picking up highway litter with convicts. I nod my head toward my lapful of kids like, What do you think?

Baby Mattie, all white-blond fuzz and milky skin, lunges forward to find my hair again and tumbles over on unsteady knees. Forming a cradle with one arm, I catch him before he lands upside down on the rug. He coos against my elbow, soft baby hairs tickling my skin.

Allison chews her lip. All moms are supposed to be protective of their kids, but she worries a lot. Maybe more than normal since she wasn't able to get pregnant, and they decided to adopt. It's like she's afraid if she doesn't watch closely enough, her babies will disappear in a puff of smoke.

I tuck one little boy under each arm and smash them toward me until Cam squeals in my ear so loud I'm afraid he might set a car alarm off.

I promise to take good care of them. Go get ready. I can handle breakfast.

I mean, as long as breakfast is a bowl of cereal.

She stands and stares at the door. I look up as Justin stops in the doorframe, eyebrows raised. Allison wordlessly answers him back with a tiny nod. Glancing between them, it's obvious there's something they're not telling me.

Justin ducks through the door. Mind if I come in and talk for a minute?

I blink back at him, shoulders lifting as he squats down on the carpet next to me. Allison does the same, and Mattie immediately crawls to her, then stops, his arms outstretched for his mom.

Whatever this is, it can't be good. It's eerily similar to Mom and Dad’s ambush when they sprang their summer plans on me. But I don't know what could be worse than your own parents exiling you. I suck in a stuttering breath just the same.

Allison tucks her hair behind her ears. First one side, then the other. Paige, we just want to make sure we lay down some rules.

Heat splatters my cheeks. Great. Not even my sister trusts me.

Um. What you did in Washington—the destructive stuff—you can't do that here. You know?

She runs fingers through Mattie's tiny collection of hair, watching me.

There's a tight dryness in my throat, but I manage to squeak out a response. I know. I wasn't planning on it. Especially not with the threat of boarding school breathing down my neck.

I turn to Justin, too, since he's here to support Allison while she plays at authoritarian.

No destructive stuff, no graffiti, no breaking windows. I promise. My fingernails curve into my palm as I list my past nefarious activities. Maybe I should reach out and cover Cam's ears so he doesn't get any ideas. But he's snaked my phone off the bed and his eyes are glassy as he scrolls through who-knows-what.

Allison sighs, a tiny gasp of a breath. Look—we're not planning on being spies for Mom and Dad, but if you get into trouble like that again...

She won't, Justin butts in. Right, Paige?

Cam hums to himself as he snaps a blurry picture of his foot. I press my chin against his hair and inhale that fruity, floral smell only little kids seem to possess. It’s like the world’s most delicious shampoo mixed with a scent all their own.

Right. My stomach hurts so bad that saliva pools in my mouth. I was hoping my sudden onset of stomach pain was something I could leave back in Seattle too. Apparently, not so much.

The second Mattie closes his eyes for his afternoon nap and I've successfully tiptoed out of his bedroom with Cam's hand clutched in mine, my phone rings.

The sound probably isn’t loud enough to wake him up, but after forty minutes of attempting to rock him to sleep, I'm ready to throw my phone against a wall if it'll keep him down.

My hand fumbles inside my pocket until I've felt my way to the button to silence it. Then Cam and I scurry downstairs to pillage the pantry. Turns out watching two kids might be more exhausting than collecting trash off the side of the road.

While Cam shovels Goldfish into his mouth at the table, I press my phone to my ear and play the voicemail from Griffin.

More about how much he misses me. More asking me to call him so we can talk about what happened.

I don’t think I can handle talking to him so soon after our break-up. Maybe tomorrow.

Instead, I scoot into the chair next to Cam's and snag a handful of crackers from his pile. I flip over my book from where it sits face down on the table, ready to use the quiet time to dive back into relationship drama that’s not my own. Cam’s little face folds into a frown, and his nose wrinkles as he whips his arms into a folded position and shrieks, Hey! Those are mine, Piggy!

I press a finger to his lips to remind him we have to be quiet while the baby naps, and then I drag a hand through his silky hair.

Sorry, bud. Piggies get hungry too.

I unload a handful of Goldfish crackers into my mouth. Salt and my childhood—that's what they taste like. Cam goes back to eating his snack, eyeing me after each bite to make sure I'm not planning on stealing any more.

Ding-dong. The chime rings through the entire house, echoing against the walls and sending me scraping backward out of my chair, book flying, and heart beating out of my chest. Whoever's on the other side of the front door better hope their doorbell ringing didn't wake up Mattie. Or else they're about to deal with one angry aunt-slash-babysitter.

I grip the knob so tightly that white streaks my knuckles, and I whip the door open. A guy around my age blinks into the sun on the front porch.

I narrow my eyes. Can I help you?

He shakes a mop of dark hair out of his face. Yeah, I guess so. I'm supposed to deliver this to Allison Woods. Is that you?

Unlike most of the residents of Old Oak, his southern accent is barely there. I’d miss it if it weren’t for the way he slips the ‘s’ of ‘is’ into a ‘z’ sound. With one hand, he extends a flat manila envelope with the words Prince Prints in bold at the top. Underneath that, Allison's name is written in black ink.

No, but I can take it. I'm her sister.

He points to his white collared shirt bearing a matching Prince Prints logo on the left side. Joey is embroidered on the right in loopy black lettering.

My boss told me to put it directly into the hands of the person with the name on the envelope. Is your last name Woods, too?

A wail spirals down the stairs. It’s Mattie, awake already thanks to Mr. Prince Prints over here.

I shake my head, my neck warming. Nope. But like I said, I'm her sister, and I'm in charge while she's gone, so this will be safe with me.

I tug on the envelope and his grip loosens, but not before his light brown fingers slide against mine, all warm and awkward and slightly sweaty, no doubt a result of the early summer humidity.

He pulls back his hand like I have scalded him. What's your name?

I frown. He can't be serious. Mattie’s cries pick up, and this guy has to hear them. I narrow my eyes, wondering if he’s really that oblivious or just plain rude.

Still staring at the envelope I've wrangled from his grasp, he knits his eyebrows together. I need to know so my boss can tell your sister who her pictures were delivered to if she asks.

Mama! Mama! Mattie screams like he’s being tortured, which would worry me, but Ally swears that’s what he always sounds like when he fights his naps.

I press a hand to the envelope, apparently full of prints Ally ordered. I can tell her myself when she gets home. But if it makes you feel better, I'm Paige, and sorry, but I’m kind of busy.

He nods. Paige…?

Unbelievable. He’s staring me down like I'm some kind of criminal, which makes my heartbeat pound in my head and my breath come out short and fast. It's not like telling him my full name matters, and I can’t figure out why he’s being such a freak about it. I gesture up the stairs behind me to the sound of pitiful baby cries and Joey Prince shifts, but has