Something I Don't Know

19: not every long lost sibling is an evil twin

I've barely raised my fist to knock on Midge's front door when it swings open, revealing Midge in an unrecognizably stained sweatshirt and a pair of matching sweatpants, her hair piled up on her head and riddled with flyaways. She looks at me, gasping my name in relief.

"Midge?" I say. There's so much emotion on her face that I don't know how to react. "How did you—"

"I was watching the door," she pants. "When Jamie and—when Jamie and his sister came and told me they had to leave you there, I don't know, I just—"

I shake my head, stepping inside the house. I shut the door behind us, and just because it seems right, and just because it seems like she needs it, I pull Midge into my arms. "Shh," I say. "I'm right here. Sorry for the wait. But Jamie—Jamie and Violet are here? They made it?"

Midge nods against my chest, and I'd be lying if I said relief doesn't flood through me as she does. Of course I'd known they would make it, but even I have my doubts, sometimes.

"They're in the living room, with my parents," Midge tells me, tightening her grip around my torso, as if to make sure I'm really there. She pauses, then asks, "Jamie has a sister?"

"Yeah. He told me not so long ago, actually, but I guess neither of us thought we would ever meet her."

Midge sighs, releasing me. "She's pretty."

I tuck a strand of her hair back into place. "Sort of."

"In a weird, ethereal sort of way."

"Hey, that's exactly what I thought."

"I know. I read your mind."

I cast her a withering look. "You have so got to stop doing that."

"As soon as you stop getting yourself into trouble," she scolds, then chuckles at me and leads the way down the hall. I want to remind her that she's the one that de-aged Jamie a few hours ago, but it seems like a low blow, so I don't.

But the mind-reading thing, really, it has to stop. There's a reason I don't voice every thought in my head. Some—a lot—are about Midge. Some—a lot—are about Midge, but are not appropriate to share with Midge.

You're a creep.

It's Midge's voice, in my head. When I glance up from the floor, she's grinning at me, and I swat at her shoulder playfully as we enter the living room.

It's a strangely somber scene, actually, somber enough that it wipes the smile from my face as soon as I'm part of it. Midge's father is reclined in a leather arm chair, cleaning his glasses, his mouth in a frown. To be fair, I have never seen Mr. Osborne smile. The few times I've talked with him have been brief, mundane conversations. I'd never tell Midge this, but sometimes I doubt he's an actual person and not just a figment of everyone's imagination.

Beside him, perched upon a stool, is Mrs. Osborne. She has her wrinkled, fine-boned hands interlaced beneath her chin, and she's peering at Jamie and his sister as if waiting for them to spout some vaguely threatening message and then self-destruct. It's a peculiar look in those dark eyes of hers. I don't really know how else to describe it.

Then, of course, manning the couch are Jamie and Violet, Jamie's legs folded underneath him, his eyes staring off into space, Violet with her small hands folded in her lap, a frown on her face.

Mrs. Osborne looks up as Midge and I enter. I almost think there's some sort of reassurance on her face when she sees me, some comfort of some sort, but I could be imagining it.