“No, dum-dum,” Mirabelle laughed. “Noah is the teacher. You’re sixteen.”

“Yup.”

“That makes you nine years older than me.”

“Right.”

“I’m good at math. Mom says I get that from my Dad.”

This was the first I had heard about Mirabelle’s father. I couldn’t help but be curious. I propped up on one arm. “So, what does he do? Your dad?”

“He’s a counter,” she said. “He counts stuff.”

“A counter? Oh, you mean an accountant,” I offered.

“Yes. What does your dad do, Jacqueline?” Mirabelle asked politely.

“He, um, helps people make movies, and if you don’t mind, I prefer to be called Jackie.”

“That’s your nickname,” Mirabelle said with a knowing nod. “Nicknames are supposed to come from other people. My friend Elisabeth’s nickname is Tootie because her brother couldn’t say Elizabeth when he was little. If you couldn’t say Mirabelle, what would you call me?”

The conversation had veered off the safe path into territory I hadn’t even known existed much less planned to explore. Mirabelle was guileless and unguarded, while I walked through life like Chicken Little waiting for the sky to fall.

“I don’t know, I guess maybe Belle? Bella?”

“No, too princessy.”

“Um, well, can I have time to think about it?”

“Okay.”

The clouds gave way and the sun streamed down lighting up Mirabelle’s long, silky, yellow hair. I had an urge to braid it or tie it back with ribbons. She was so pretty. A mini version of our mother. I couldn’t help thinking I’d been traded in for a better model.

I took off my sunglasses and cleaned them with the bottom edge of my shorts. I wanted to ask Mirabelle more about her dad but worried the topic might cause her distress.

“Can you make a sand angel?” Mirabelle asked. She rolled onto her back and flapped her arms up and down in the sand.

“I’m an expert at sand angels,” I said. “I used to make these with my friend, Nicole.”

“Was she your best friend?”

“Yup. Still is.”

“Did she give you your nickname?”

“No, I gave it to myself.”

Mirabelle narrowed her eyes like she was scrutinizing me.

“Jackie!”

“What?”

“Your hair! It’s getting all curly.”

“Yeah, the rain.”

“When I curl my hair, it just falls straight in five minutes. You are so lucky!”

“Right,” I laughed.

I turned over on my back and for a few seconds, we flapped our arms together. The sun burned hot on my skin and it felt good to push my arms and legs into the cool wet substrata.

“You and I have the same mother but different fathers, Jackie. That makes us half-sisters and not stepsisters. Stepsisters aren’t as good. That’s what Cinderella had, wicked, ugly stepsisters.”