“More like sisters,” Emma says, and I can’t help but look at her suspiciously. So where was she when my mom was homeless? Where was she the first time my mom almost overdosed and had to be in the hospital for three weeks? Emma looks right at me, like she knows what I’m thinking. And it unnerves me because I know rationally that Emma can’t actually read my mind, but also, can she read my mind? Her eyes are huge and dark and honestly creep me out.

I blink, and Emma blinks back. A conversation is happening between us, only I can’t tell what it is. I look away but can’t seem to find anything to focus my eyes on.

Kate/Kaitlin is still droning on and on, her voice a honey bee in the heat. “And isn’t it nice that you all have all summer to get to know each other? Give Mason some time to settle in before he starts senior year. I can’t tell you how perfect this all is.”

Perfect for whom? Simon nods enthusiastically, but Emma and I are both silent and weird and I don’t know what to do with the vibe going on right now. Usually foster moms are gushing over you at this point, showing you to your room, forcing drinks and snacks on you. Emma looks like she’s waiting for me to take the lead, only I don’t know how to. She may be small enough to fit in my pocket, but I’m technically still the kid here, even if I feel exactly three hundred years old.

“We’re really happy to have him, aren’t we, Emma?” Simon reaches for my bag and hoists it onto his shoulder. “Now, what are we doing still outside? It’s hotter than Satan’s mixtape out here.”

Simon herds us in, and Kate/Kaitlin hustles after him. There’s an awkward split second when I don’t know if I should go first or let Emma go first, but she gestures for me to step ahead of her, and I do, quickly, careful not to brush against her. Inside the house is an explosion of objects, the entryway full of hooks and baskets overflowing with jackets and soccer cleats and glittery jelly shoes. From the door I can see into the kitchen, and several boxes of cereal stand open on the table, intermingled with colorful ponies and snarly haired Barbies. Even without visual proof, it’s evident that a lot of people live here, and immediately I have that disembodied feeling again—this house, this family, has layers and history that have nothing to do with me. I’m an outsider. An interloper. Like I always am. My mom having a historical tie to Emma doesn’t change that. If anything, it makes it worse.