“This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “We should have exactly the same genetic background as sisters. Our percentages would be different—you’d be 10 percent of one country, like Scottish, because of Dad, and I’d be 15 percent—but we’re not . . .” I peered back and forth at the computer screens, as Jules was, comparing and contrasting. “This can’t be right, Jules. We don’t share any of the same countries at all. Not one.”

“They probably got the spit mixed up with someone else’s,” Jules said.

“Right. There was a spit mistake.”

“This is a mess,” she said. “I can believe the English, Scottish, and Norwegian in our DNA. We were told that by Mom and Dad and Grandpa. And having German in us is believable, too. But what in the world with the Bantu and Mali and Senegal? And what about Grandma? She said she was French and Greek, but neither one of us has French or Greek in us. . . .”

What the heck? “I have no idea. . . .”

“This has to be wrong. Here,” Jules said. “Let’s go online and check out who we’re related to. Maybe somehow we’re related to the same people, you and me, and they got that part right. And the part about where we’re from, that’s where the mistake is. Yours is wrong or mine is wrong or they’re both wrong.”

“Yes, let’s try it.” It didn’t make sense, but . . .

We went online to the ancestry website. We figured since we were getting our genetic information, we could meet long-lost cousins, so we had bought the whole enchilada. We logged in. We went to the place where relatives could be found and messaged.. . .

“Look at this!” Jules said. “We have second cousins on here, third cousins. One’s in Galveston. Two are in Norway, one in England. A German . . . Huh. I don’t get this. This is confusing. There are two second cousins in Mali. One in Senegal. And . . . these are their photos.”

The cousins in Mali and Senegal were black.

“I don’t get this,” Jules said. “But they’re both pretty.”

We studied the people on our screens, back and forth, back and forth. There was something very, very wrong again. None of Jules’s relatives matched mine. Not one. My relatives were in Portland, Oregon, three of them. They were in Mexico and Russia, and several in Ireland and one in Wales. They were in Texas and California . . .

“Okay. They’ve screwed this up,” Jules said. “We need to call the DNA company and tell them about this. Geez. This is irritating. Mack and I need to know what recipe our kids are going to be. What ingredients.”

I studied my screen, totally confused.