Get Real Read Online Free Page B

least eighteen and really want to know. But mine’s different.”
    Jil sits straighter. She clenches her fists in front of her heart. “She wants to meet me. I just know it.”
    If eye expressions could burn, hers would burst into flames. “Dez,” she says, “I want to meet her, too.”
    Oh, no. That sounds like a mistake to me, but I’ve seen that look before. Like the time she decided she wanted to learn to play tennis and nine months later she won the club championship for her age group.
    My head is swimming with questions and doubts. I stare down at the paper pile and try to straighten it a little with my feet.
    â€œStop cleaning up!” snaps Jil.
    â€œSorry.” I jump as if I’ve been caught cheating on a test. I know I can be a little nutty about my neatness thing. Sometimes it’s a curse.
    â€œBut your mom told her not to call anymore. Right?”
    â€œRight.” The energy pulsing out of Jil’s eyes right now could launch a rocket ship to the moon.
    â€œSo, that’s the end of it. Right?”
    â€œIt’s broke!” Denver whines from the kitchen. He marches into the room holding out his toy disc player, which appears to be pretty much swimming in grape jelly. His hair is filled with peanut butter. And his fingers are a combination of both.
    â€œNoooo,” I groan, snatching up the player before it oozes permanent purple onto the carpet. I head for the kitchen sink. As I wipe away the mess, I wonder if Mom and Dad will make me pay to replace it.
    â€œWrong,” says Jil, her eyes narrowing to two tiny slits.
    â€œHe’s only three,” I answer.
    â€œNo, I mean you’re wrong about this being the end of it.”
    â€œEnd of what?” says Denver.
    â€œNone of your business,” I growl, peeling off a paper towel and pushing it into the tiny speakers with a clean knife blade.
    â€œBut, what can you do?” I ask Jil.
    She sticks out her right thumb and pinky and holds them up to her ear, like a telephone.
    Denver does the same thing with his PB&J hand.
    â€œNo way,” I say. “You don’t know her name or number.”
    â€œWhose name or number?” asks Denver.
    Jil points to our phone.
    â€œTelephone,” says Denver, picking up the kitchen phone with his gooey purple and peanutty fingers and saying, “Hello. Denver’s res-dence.”
    Jil pries the now-yucky phone away from him. She dangles it with two fingers to minimize her contact with its freshly-coated peanut butter and jelly finish, and points to the small clear screen above the numbers.
    â€œWhat?” I say, wishing we could just talk. Wishing we didn’t have to dream up sign language to fool Denver. And hoping this disc player will play again when I finish scooping jelly out of it.
    And then I get it.
    Of course.
    Jil’s mother’s number is saved on the Lewises’ Caller ID.

Chapter Five
    I don’t understand Jil.
    Not at all.
    I gape at her while she grins expectantly at me, still pointing to the Caller ID window on my telephone. Would she really have the nerve to call up her long-lost mother? The one who’s a total I-know-zero-about-you stranger?
    Would meeting her be exciting, or creepy?
    Brave, or dumb?
    Would it make Jil’s parents mad, or sad?
    â€œWh-what the heck will you say?” I stammer. “‘Hey, you don’t know me?’” I toss the paper towel that’s all icky with peanut butter and jelly into our trash can. “How about, ‘Hello, we met in the delivery room a long time ago, but you might not recognize me anymore because the brown birth hair that I had fell out and came back blond?’”
    Jil’s eyes burn into mine. “Dez,” she shouts. “This is not funny!”
    Of course it’s not funny. It’s scary. That’s why I tried to make a joke.
    Blap! A car door slams shut in our driveway.
    â€œDaddy!” screams