“Spit? Spit?” Aunt Camellia said, hand dramatically to her chest. “A lady doesn’t spit. Poor manners. Not done.”

“What in the world?” Aunt Iris said. “Why would I spit in a tube? Does that sound sane?”

“It’s for a DNA test,” I said. I scraped my fork across my butterscotch pie plate. No need to waste this scrumptious pie. A lot of people don’t know that butterscotch pie is good for them.

“A what?” my mother said, but she said it with a sharp tone that indicated she knew what it was but couldn’t believe we were doing it. I stopped scraping my plate and studied her.

“You spit in this tube,” Jules said, flipping her blonde hair back, “and I’ll mail it back to the DNA company and then they’ll tell you what you’re made of, what countries our ancestors are from.”

The silence was prickly.

“Where I’m from?” Aunt Camellia said, with an edgy tone. “I’m from here. We’re from here, San Orcanita Island. Our parents are from here. I left for forty years and wandered, but that is all I need to know.”

“Aunt Camellia, you’re not one hundred percent American Indian,” I said. I saw Mars out of the corner of my eye. He was trying to climb a stack of books. Yep. He brought them down. What a mess. “You said your dad was half Norwegian and half English. You said your mother was half French and half Greek. But if you spit in this tube, you’ll know for sure. It’s this new genetic test. Evie and I already did it.”

“You what?” my mother snapped. I turned to her, as did Jules. She seemed alarmed.

“Jules and I already did it and sent off our kits.”

“You already did a DNA test?” my mother asked. She leaned forward, intense.

“Yes,” Jules said. She looked as confused by my mother’s sharp reaction as I felt. “I mailed it off when I was in town the other day and sent Mack a love letter.”

Aunt Camellia’s face froze.

Aunt Iris dropped her glass to the table, and it spilled.

My mother lost all color in her face.

What? What was going on here? Why the silence? Why the stricken atmosphere?

“Here, Mom, spit away,” Jules said. “It’ll be cool. Like a genetic puzzle. We’ll all come up related, linked up on the DNA website when we get our results back. It’ll show that you’re our mom and that you two are our aunts, because we share the same genetic stuff.”

“The website can link us up?” my mother asked, her voice choked. “They can tell you who you’re related to?”

“Yes, because we’re family,” I said, baffled by her response.