The Accidental Siren

8.3 The Zombie-Ferrets Strike Back

I once stared for an hour at Dad's humming-bird feeders, watching the tiny creatures zip from bottle to bottle, tree to tree, never stopping for more than a millisecond before fluttering away.

“When I gave him the note, he wasn't ready for a relationship.” Livy zipped to her bedroom, dropped her duffle on the mattress, then fluttered back through the parlor with an armful of dirty clothes. “But that was three months ago and now he totally changed his mind!”

Mara swiveled on the piano stool. I leaned against the keys with a clatter of high-pitched tones.

Livy blew past us and into the kitchen. She opened the dumbwaiter door and shoved her laundry into the pit (a basket would catch her clothes at the bottom). “I knew it,” she said as she skipped back to her room. “That day in the library; I was putting his makeup on and he looked at me and said, 'This is so cool.' He was talking about the house, but the way he said it... it was like he was telling me that I was cool.” She was practically dancing as she gathered her second armful of clothes. “Haley's totally wiggin' out. She was all, 'You're like a black Kim Bassinger and Ryan's like Alec Baldwin.'”

Mom slunk from her bedroom and quietly closed the door. “How that baby gets a wink of sleep in this house, I'll never know.” She came up behind me and brushed the part in my hair. “Are Ryan and Livy ‘a thing’ now?”

I was too livid to respond; too busy ruminating about Mara's internal dialogue as my sister gloated about their mutual crush.

Livy ignored Mom's presence and used her feet to sort a pile of shirts in her doorway. “Do you think he'll be embarrassed 'cause I'm younger? Will it be weird for him to tell his friends that he's dating an eighth-grader?” She found a suitable shirt and stepped behind her door. “I mean, it's not weird for me. At school I'll be all like, 'No, my boyfriend doesn't go here; he's in high school.' Eeee!” She reemerged in the new tee, tucked the hem in her purple shorts, and bounded across the parlor to Mara. “I need a makeover, Mara Lynn. And you're my gal!” Livy searched for a smile in her friend’s petrified expression. Then she remembered. “Aww, man,” she said. “I'm such a jerk.” She knelt down and smoothed Mara’s hair. “How've you been feelin'?”

“I've been fine, silly,” Mara said. “I'm so excited for you.”

Livy touched Mara's chin. “Remember what I told you, hon. Focus on your new family and never forget they love you. And take it from me: amazing adoptive parents are better than crappy biological parents any day of the week.”

The next series of interactions played out in slow motion. Mara touched Livy's wrist. Her lip raised just enough to suggest a half-hearted thank you, then returned to complacency. She braced her hand on the piano's ledge and inadvertently pressed a low “D” that reverberated as she stood. “I forgot to clean Dorothy's litter box,” she said.

Livy looked at Mom.

Mara turned and walked downstairs.

“What was that all about?”

Mom hugged Livy in the folds of her marinara-stained apron. “Give her time, sweetheart,” she said. “And tell me all about your special friend.”

Within minutes, Livy had resumed her animated rant. Dad joined us moments later. The giddiness from the eagle sighting was still evident in his stride. He made a crack about his princess being “all grown up,” then questioned her about the intentions of her “evil prince.”

As my sister assured her inquisitors she was old enough to date, I wandered to the mirror between Livy's room and my own. I studied my physique through a frame of etched roses, quietly scrutinizing flat moles that peppered my neck and eyes that would never be so blue.