I grabbed her hand and examined her nails. They were short and ragged. “I have a file,” I said. “I’ll do a manicure on you. I have nail polish in my bag.” Her eyes widened. “You’re not the only one who can plan ahead,” I said, laughing.

At first she protested, but while her nails were drying, she kept holding her hands out, admiring the color and the smoothed-out edges.

“Do you remember Pinocchio?” Mattie asks now from the other end of the hammock.

“Pinocchio?” I repeat, pulling on the blanket again.

A hammock sounds like a comfortable place to sleep, but it’s not easy to fit two girls. And each time one of us grabs for more of the blanket, it releases a cloud of dust that makes Mattie sneeze. She’s very proud of herself for bringing all her supplies, especially the tissues.

“Pinocchio, you know, the puppet who wanted to be human? With the nose?” Mattie flops and the hammock sways again. “Do you think my nose is growing?”

I’ve told so many lies. Little lies, like wanting Gaby to come over when I really just wanted to be alone or being fine with sharing my fries with Tristan when I wanted to eat all of them four at a time. And bigger lies like telling Mom that I wanted to have ten girls come to a sleepover at our house, or that I didn’t mind that she travels so much.

“Are you sure, Mercedes?” Mom had asked. She was sitting on the edge of my bed like a mom in a movie. Since Tristan was born, she almost never did that anymore. She’s the least movie-like mom ever. “I’ll be in Australia for eight weeks. It’s so far away, there’s no point in coming home before the project is done.”

“It’s fine, Mom,” I said, and turned my back to her. I will never tell anyone that I cried that night.

“You take care of Tristan,” she had said. But she didn’t need to even ask. I will always take care of my brother.

“I hate lying,” Mattie says. She’s exploring her nose, checking to see if it’s growing.

I laugh. “I thought you were enjoying all those stories you made up today.”

She giggles, too, but then stops. “I feel terrible for lying to my mom, though. She trusts me. And what if something bad happens? She won’t be able to find me.”

I push against the wall and make the hammock swing a little like that lullaby. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop. Mom sang that to Tristan when he was a baby. I don’t remember if she ever sang it to me.