Page 51 of The Intruder

Anton looks at me for a long time without answering my question—I know he can’t think of anyone. Finally, he says, “Look, I’m just saying, Brittany sucks. Don’t act like she’s better than you are.”

“Well, either way, she might be my half sister.”

“I still don’t see how it could be true.”

“We both have the same blue eyes,” I point out. “And my mom has brown eyes, so they had to come from somewhere.”

“That’s bullshit. Both my parents have brown eyes, and my little brother has blue eyes.”

I pause, midswing. “Really? Is he adopted?”

“I wish. But no.”

While I am contemplating genetics, a woman with a baby carriage shoots us a dirty look from over at the slides. That usually happens at least once while we’re hanging out here, even though we’re not hurting anyone. I guess we look like trouble. “You kids are too old to be at this playground!” she shouts at us.

Anton flips her off, which makes me laugh. He grins back at me. “Anyway,” he says, “let’s say this asshole is your dad. Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do you want to happen? Like, do you want to hang out with Brittany’s family or something?”

I chew on my thumbnail. “I don’t know. Maybe? It would be better than my mom at least.”

“It sounds awful to me. What do people like that do anyway? They probably just sit around discussing books they like.”

“And watch documentaries,” I add.

“In other languages.”

“With subtitles.”

We are both laughing, but I actually think it’s probably really nice at Brittany’s house. At this point, I would just take a refrigerator that isn’t full of rotten food.

Except if John Carter really is my dad, he must know it. He must have told my mom he didn’t want to have anything to do with me. If I can somehow convince him I’m a good kid, maybe I can change his mind.

I have to try.

“If you do become Brittany’s half sister,” he says, “promise me you won’t become all stuck up and awful like she is.”

I don’t think Brittany is stuck up or awful, but he’s waiting for an answer, so I say, “I promise.”

“Oh hey, I just remembered.” He digs around in the pocket of his worn jeans. “I got you something.”

“You got me a present?” I try not to sound as shocked as I feel.

“No.” His voice is defensive. “I mean, it’s just…it’s something I saw and thought of you, so I bought it. For you.”

That’s literally the definition of a present. But okay, if he doesn’t want to call it a present, I won’t make a big deal out of it. I just hope whatever it is, he didn’t steal it.

But then Anton pulls a silver chain out of his pocket, and it’s so pretty, it’s hard not to make a big deal out of it. “Oh my God!” I cry.

“Do you like it?” he asks. He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a hopeful expression on his face.

“I love it.”

I take the delicate chain—prettier than anything I own—and I don’t even care anymore if he stole it. Anton helps me put it on, but I know I’ll need to keep it tucked under my shirt because my mom doesn’t approve of jewelry.

Then Anton says he’s got to go home, and so do I. He hops off his swing first, and then he offers me his hand to help me off mine. It surprises me that he always does it, because I wouldn’t think Anton would be a gentleman like that or buy me a present for no reason. He has surprised me in a lot of ways, actually.