“What do you like to read?”

“Books,” she deadpans.

“It was just a question.”

“From a strange man who happens to be my brother, who until fifteen minutes ago I hadn’t ever met before.”

“My favorite is Brave New World.”

She laughs. “How pretentious. You don’t have to try and impress me.”

“I’m not.” She’s got a bit of a chip on her shoulder. Reminds me of me at her age. Unfortunately.

“Wuthering Heights,” she says. “That’s mine.”

I snort. “Talk about pretentious.”

“It’s romantic!”

“It’s not romantic. It’s about two fucked-up people who love each other so much they want to destroy one another.”

“Romantic,” she sighs. “And it sounds like you’re just projecting.”

I still. “What’d you say?”

“Projecting. It means—”

“I know what it means. I’m just… surprised you do.”

“I am pretty smart,” she says.

“I can tell. I was, too, when I was your age.”

“But not anymore?”

I shrug. “I suppose that remains to be seen.”

“Weird,” she says again.

“You still like weird?”

“For the most part. Your taste in books could use some work.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So you don’t know why you’re here,” she says as she washes the soap away from the sink. “And you’re not smart anymore. And you like fences. Anything else I should know? Any diseases that run in the family?”

“Bear and I tend to speak without thinking sometimes. Well. All the time.”

“Because your mouth works before your brain?” she asks. She sounds delighted.

“Yeah.”

“I do that too. I think it’s just because I have a broken filter.”

“Manic, most likely.”

“It’s good to have an official diagnosis.” She steps away from the sink. “Want to see my room?”

“Sure, kid,” I say without even thinking.

SHE SHOWS me her ant farm (“I’m breeding them,” she tells me, but for what purpose, she’s adamantly silent).

She shows me her collection of books and poems by the Bronte sisters (“Maybe you should branch out a little more,” I tell her. “Like, Twilight or something.” She punches me in the arm).

She shows me her poster of Nikola Tesla (“He was so selfless and so dreamy,” she sighs).

She shows me her yearbook. She’s in the Chess Club (“Pretty much the only one,” she says). She’s in the Botany Club (“President and treasurer. I could embezzle dozens of dollars and they would never know”). She’s in drama (“I can’t act for shit,” she says. “But I like to pretend.”). She’s in choir (“Have you ever heard someone running over a bike horn? Imagine that, and you’ll know what I sound like.”). There’s a signature or two in her yearbook, but they’re mostly from teachers. I ask her about it, and she closes the book and puts it away, averting her eyes. “It’s hard to have friends when you’re so busy,” she says. There’s a challenge in her voice, daring me to question that. I don’t need to. I know better.

“It’s hard being the smart one,” I tell her instead. “I skipped a few grades.”