All Over the Map

17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Leila chatters all the way out to the porch. I wonder if she always talks this much or if she’s like Mia and nerves make her talk more. Not that I mind. But I don’t want her to be nervous. I don’t want her to feel toward me what I felt when I was around Seth.

Not that he did anything wrong. I did.

I realize that’s the first thing I want to talk about with Leila. Why do they seem so comfortable with each other on Instagram when Seth and I were so strained?

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” I say. “It’s so weird to meet my second sibling in a week.”

“How did it go with Seth, by the way?”

“Um, it was awkward? I think that was my fault. He got distant when I asked him anything beyond small talk questions.”

She breaks off some of the tahdig like it’s a piece of peanut brittle and nods her head for me to do the same. “I don’t think it was your fault,” she says. “He’s kind of reserved anyway.”

“Compared to me?” I nibble at the browned rice. It tastes like a cross between popcorn and plain potato chips with a subtle aftertaste of basmati. It’s good.

She shrugs. “Compared to anybody. Max talks a lot more. A little needy, but in a sweet, lonely kid kind of way.” A flash of worry crosses her face. “Don’t mention that on Instagram. If he heard that, it would make him feel so bad.”

“Max?” I repeat.

“Our other brother.” When she sees my confused expression, she looks chagrined. “You haven’t made contact with him yet?”

“No. Seth wouldn’t tell me anything about him. He barely told me anything about you, just gave me a hint to find you in his Instagram feed. So, Max, huh?” I finally have a name for the blue avatar.

“Yeah. He’s pretty young. His mom opened his RootsDNA account for him, and she’s super protective of his privacy because of—” she breaks off.

“Because of . . .?”

“I don’t think it’s my place to say.”

After all her openness, it’s like a door suddenly slamming on me. “I don’t get it.”

“If it were my story to tell, I’d tell it. But it’s Erin’s.”

I’m even more confused. “Who’s Erin?”

“Max’s mom. You have to go through her to get to Max.”

A wave of frustration rises in my chest. “I’ve reached out, sent two different emails to the RootsDNA account. Max’s account, I guess. No answer.”

“I have an email address for Erin. I’ll make sure she knows you’re trying to reach her.”

“Thank you,” I say, but it doesn’t do much for my frustration. If anything, it’s worse to be close enough to almost touch something that keeps dancing out of reach. I have a name now. Max. Tendrils shoot out from it and root in my heart, like the early, wispy roots of the bean plants we grew in third grade. A name means that much when you have so little to start with.

“So Seth,” Leila says, pivoting away from Max. “It’s weird he hangs back so much in person, right, since he’s the one who made his profile totally public? And posts a lot of pictures on social. I kind of expected him to be more outgoing, I guess?”

I nod. “I feel better knowing he wasn’t only like that with me in person.”

“Well, ‘in person’ meaning I’ve only talked to him on FaceTime,” Leila corrects. “But yeah. Not chatty.”

“Not unless you talk about baseball,” I grumble. She quirks an eyebrow at me, and I shake my head, rather than explain. “I thought he would be more like you. Although you surprised me at first how friendly you are in person since you don’t put much stuff on social.”

“That’s interesting.”

A lull falls between us. I can’t think of a natural topic to drift to next, and the early stirrings of anxiety start in my chest. The vibe between us has been so good, and I don’t want it to turn weird and awful.

“Um, so how did you expect me to be?” I ask.

“I didn’t have a lot of time to think about you, specifically. I mean, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to have sisters in the abstract. Before I found Seth, I used to always imagine any bio siblings as looking like me, like Arya does. So I used to imagine a bunch of Persian siblings, but I guess that never made sense since the donor was white.”

“Did you always know you were a sperm donor baby?”

She shakes her head. “I found out a couple of years ago. Arya needed a bone marrow transplant. He’s fine now,” she adds when she sees my face. “I wasn’t even worried about finding a match for him. We have a ton of family, so I figured it was no big deal. But my mom was driving me crazy being so negative about the chances for a match. We got into the ugliest fight ever.”

She stops and her eyes go out of focus. Eventually she blinks and comes back. “Anyway, my dad stepped in, told me that she was worried because the odds weren’t great we’d find a match on his side. And then he told me why. About the donor. Arya and I aren’t even from the same one. So that was . . .”

I watch her and wait. She’s scratching the skin between her eyebrows, a single finger lightly trailing over the same spot again and again. She doesn’t look sad. It’s more thoughtful, sort of, with a tinge of frustration. She looks like I feel when I’m trying to find words I need but I can’t.

“Finding out he wasn’t my bio dad was okay,” she says. “Like it didn’t change the way I feel about my dad, but suddenly a couple of things made more sense, like how we’re not really alike at all. Don’t get me wrong,” she says in a rush, “My dad and I get along so well. We love a lot of the same things, and we’ve always had a super good relationship, mainly because I can talk forever, and he can listen forever. But . . . we’re so different.”

I understand this at a cellular level. Maybe even literally at a cellular level. I’ve thought about it more and more over the last three years, since I got to high school and Mom and I started drifting apart.

“I’m so different from my mom in a lot of ways too,” I say. “I don’t know if it’s a thing that’s me, or a thing from the sperm donor. I don’t know anything. But I didn’t even know I was from a sperm donor until a week ago. She always told me it was a one-night stand.”

The light feathering of her finger stops and her hand drifts down to the table, her forehead now a field of furrows. “Why would she do that? It’s not that big a deal to use a sperm donor.”

“She won’t tell me. Obviously, there was no such thing as a cheap mail-in kit to discover your DNA when I was a kid. Guess she never figured I’d be able to track my dad down so easily.” I give a sharp shake of my head. “Turns out, I could have known a lot more about him this whole time if she would’ve told the truth. I’ve always assumed he’s tall, dark-haired, and green-eyed. Because genetics.”

“She still hasn’t told you anything about him?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ve seen it. The donor profile,” she says.

My heartbeat speeds up. I was afraid to hope for info after Seth.

“There’s no pictures or anything, but my dad showed me the paperwork on the guy they picked. My dad made most of the decisions because he was trying to choose a donor as much like himself as possible.”

Leila shoots up straight. “I’ll show it to you. Then you’ll know everything I know.” But just as quickly the energy fizzles out of her expression, and I recognize the same shadow that flickered over Seth’s face when specifics about the sperm donor came up.

I need to follow up on that, but there’s time. Instead I say, “I definitely want to see the profile.” I want it so much it’s hard to keep my focus on the here and now, but I don’t want to lose the rhythm we’re falling into. “Let’s look at it after we’re finished talking. Did you feel like you learned anything new about yourself from the profile?”

“Kind of? Like that’s where I get my freckles from, and unless your mom has them, that’s where you do too.”

“My mom doesn’t have freckles.” The realization that this is something Leila and I share because of DNA closes around me like a hug, and I lean toward her, studying her more closely. “What else do we have the same?”

We run through quirks in each of our bodies, but there aren’t any other matches. I ask about her favorite colors and foods and music, but we still don’t have much in common. It’s fun getting to know her, but I have a growing sense of sadness that we don’t overlap more. I think I’m being low-key about that, but then she stops and tilts her head at me.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“No, it’s—” But I break off, and take a breath, choosing honesty. “I don’t know. It’s . . .” I’m trying to find the words that don’t sound disappointed in her for not being some sort of walking key to decode myself. The sliding door opens before I can explain.

“Mom,” Leila says in a tone that I’ve heard myself use a million times with my own mom.

But Fereshteh looks up from the two bowls she’s carrying and bursts out laughing. “Twins.”

I glance at Leila, whose expression looks as startled as mine feels, and I realize what set off Fereshteh: we’re both doing that feather-scratch between our eyebrows. I do it all the time, I realize. It’s not a habit I’ve thought much about.

Fereshteh sets a bowl of ice cream in front of each of us. “Bastani. Eat while you talk.”

“Mom, no. You’re going to stuff her until she explodes.”

“It’s okay,” I say, scooping the smallest spoonful of ice cream.

“Good,” Fereshteh says, and disappears back into the house.

I finish swallowing. “Oh, my gosh. That’s so good. It tastes familiar, but . . .” I let another small bite topped with pistachios melt on my tongue. It’s sweet, but in a way I haven’t tasted in ice cream before.

Leila grins. “Rose water.”

“Oh!” I concentrate on the taste for a second. “Yeah. It tastes like smelling roses, but I wouldn’t have realized it if you hadn’t pointed it out.” I push the bowl away. “It’s good, but I can’t eat another bite or I’ll die. I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Pretending you’re going to eat it is probably a better strategy than mine: arguing with her about every single thing.”

It makes me smile, the mischief in her admission, but it’s another way in which we’re different. I usually go along with whatever Mom wants because it’s easier than fighting.

“You have that sad thing again,” Leila says.

“It’s weird. You and I have a great vibe—wait,” I interrupt myself. “Do we? Is that just me?”

“No. I agree. Good vibe.” She holds out her fist for a bump.

I bump and continue. “So I guess I thought you and I would have more in common.”

“And you’d get more answers?” When I nod, she continues. “To questions about who you are and why you are like you are and—” here she changes her voice to dramatic movie announcer style—“clues about your future based on genetics?”

“Exactly. I want everything. All of it. Every last thing. It’s not unreasonable.”

“Not at all.” Then we burst out laughing. So we have our senses of humor in common.

She glances up at the sky. “Golden hour. Can I ask you a favor? Kind of a huge one?”

“Sure, yeah. I don’t think it gets much bigger than me inviting myself to your house for a giant dinner.”

“So I have this YouTube channel. It’s not that big yet. Not quite 10,000 followers. It’s called Truth or Dare with Leila. Would you be on it?”

“What would I have to do?” It’s not really my thing, but I don’t want to tell her no.

“I give you the truth and dare, then you choose. I’ll make it fun and not embarrassing. Come on.” She grips the table and leans forward, her freckles almost dancing.

“Okay,” I say slowly, then nod. “Let’s do it.”

“Yay! You won’t be sorry! Let me get a cameraman. Be right back!” She hops up and heads into the house, and I watch her, hoping I’m right to trust her. Then I take out my phone to search for “Truth or Dare with Leila” to see what I’m getting myself into.