I try to untangle his sentence. “Why is French Gram’s first language? Wasn’t her dad American?”

“Her stepdad,” Dad says, and I blink in surprise. “Gram lived in France as a little girl. Her biological dad died, and my grandmother moved here for a new life.”

“What? I didn’t know that!” I twist and stare at him. “You always said Gram grew up in the city.”

“She did, sort of. She and my grandmother moved here when Gram was a young girl.”

My mind is reeling. I guess that might explain the French passport. But why the Russian one?

“Where in France did she grow up?” I ask. “Did she ever tell you about her friend Jacob?”

“I’m not sure. I think near Paris?” He glances over at me with a funny smile. “Lots of questions about Gram. I have some albums and things in the garage if you’re interested. I’m not sure I remember a Jacob, though.”

“I’d like that.” I fidget in my seat with all the questions I want to ask. I don’t want Dad to know why I’m trying to find out about Gram’s past, so I need to be careful. But if he knows about France, then maybe he’ll know why she knows Russian. “Did Gram ever live in Russia?”

He frowns, and my stomach drops. Have I asked one too many questions?

“Why would you ask that? France and Russia are nowhere near each other. As far as I know, Gram’s never even been to Russia, much less lived there. Matter of fact, I don’t think she’s even left the United States. Not since she arrived here when she was about your age.”

“Oh, yeah. I was just wondering about the accent she has sometimes. Doesn’t it sort of sound Russian?” I ask. I watch his expression for any sign he knows what I’m talking about.

“Yeah, your mom and I were talking about the accent thing,” he says. “But I think she’s just been tired lately. And now that you mention it, it might be her French upbringing coming out. When I was a little boy, sometimes she’d say things in French. I used to love that.”

Dad pulls into the parking lot next to the stucco buildings of the college. A small group of kids call out a greeting to him as they walk by. He waves and grins, his shoulders higher than they are at home, his steps lighter as we walk inside the ivy-covered building.

Now all I want is to be at home so I can look through the stuff in the garage. Who knows what I might find.

Dad strides to the front of the classroom and waves me in. “Good morning, hooligans. This is my daughter, Lulu. She’s here to keep you on your toes.”