“Yes, please,” Olivia said, looking bewildered by her exchange with my friends . . . and no wonder, since they’re psychotic. “So we’re going to New York City right now?”
“Yes,” I said as I was pouring her soda. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
She shook her head, her braids flying.
“I guess not. Dad always said we would meet someday, but not until I was much older.”
I nearly spilled the soda. “He did? When did he say that?”
“In his letters,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “We’ve been writing letters to each other for a long time.”
I couldn’t believe it. My dad, who’d been so freaked out the night before about being Olivia’s sole parent, had been in communication with her this entire time? Well, written communication, but communication just the same. He’d led me to think horrible things about him—that he’d allowed this child to live in total ignorance of his existence—that weren’t even true!
“He gives me all kinds of advice,” Olivia prattled on, accepting the soda I passed her. She certainly isn’t shy, which is definitely a positive if you’re going to be thrust into the international spotlight. “Like he said it was good to keep a diary. He told me it really helps to write down your feelings when you get overwhelmed.”
“Gee, I wonder where he got that idea,” I murmured.
“What do you mean?” she asked curiously.
I hadn’t meant for her to overhear me.
“Oh, nothing. My mom told me to do the same thing—write down my feelings in a diary when I thought I was getting overwhelmed—when I was about your age.”
“Really? Your mom is still alive?”
“Yes. She lives in New York City, too.”
“With our dad?”
My heart, which had been on the verge of melting all afternoon, turned liquid, especially when I glanced at her face and saw that her expression had suddenly become guarded. I had no idea what Dad had told her in his letters, but obviously nothing about me, and clearly very little about himself.
“No, Olivia,” I said. “Our dad and my mom split up a long time ago—right after I was born. Dad is single. He doesn’t live with anyone.”
“Except his mother,” Lilly added darkly.
Olivia didn’t seem to hear her, however. She said, staring out the window at the trees whizzing by along I-95, “It makes sense that he doesn’t live with anyone. Probably the death of my mother, who was very beautiful, still haunts him to this day. That’s most likely why he never wanted to see me before, because I look so much like her, and the sight of me would be too painful a reminder of his lost love.”
I was so astonished by this, I didn’t know how to reply. I don’t think I’d ever seen Lilly clap a hand over her mouth so quickly to keep herself from bursting into laughter.
“Oh!” Tina whispered. “The sweet thing. The sweet little thing!”
Olivia looked away from the window and back toward us, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d sent one of us into near-hysterical gales of laughter and the other into near-tears. I was torn between both.
Olivia’s expression was stormy. “I understand now why Aunt Catherine said I’m not allowed to go there.”
“Go where?” I asked. “To meet your father? Your aunt and I talked about that, Olivia, and we decided that it was okay.” Well, not in so many words, but whatever.
“No, go to New York,” she said. She took a big swallow of soda. It was clear she liked the stuff. We had so much in common already. “My aunt always said New York is too dirty and dangerous for kids. But I can see now that she probably never wanted me to go there because I might run into my dad, and then I’d find out I’m really a princess, and seeing me would probably cause him emotional damage.”
I thought it best to avoid this last topic—especially since it sent Lilly into peals of laughter that she didn’t even bother to hide—and instead asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up (which was both ridiculous and pathetic, because obviously now she’s going to be a princess, and I’ve told myself a million times to stop asking kids what they want to be when they grow up and here I was doing it to my own sister).
But Olivia was all too happy to show me, flipping through her “diary”—actually a notebook—where she’d sketched many cats, horses, and—for unknown reasons—kangaroos.
“I want to be a wildlife illustrator,” she said, explaining that this was one of the reasons she’d always wanted to go to New York City. “They’re the artists who draw all the animals on the plaques outside the exhibits at the zoos and on websites and in books and stuff. It’s a dying industry, thanks to photography, but I’m pretty sure I can make it because I’ve always gotten really good grades in art. My teacher says I’ve just got to keep practicing.”
“Well,” I said, impressed. I mean, really, how many other twelve-year-old girls want to be wildlife illustrators? My little sister is obviously superior. “I think it’s about time you got to go to New York City, then, because we need more wildlife illustrators in this world.”
“We really do,” Tina burst out excitedly.
“Definitely,” Lilly agreed. “You can meet your grandmother, too. I know she’s going to be very excited to meet you, and hear all about wildlife illustration.”