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  “What did Kim tell you about me?”

  “She told me you were my dad and you moved away for a long time. I’ve had a picture of you and my mom next to my bed my whole life.”

  “Damn her! She tell you how to find me?”

  “You know this isn’t exactly the welcome I was hoping for,” I said, deadpan.

  “I don’t want to talk here,” he whispered. “We better go back to my office.”

  “I hope there are no moats involved,” I whispered back. “I’m not a very strong swimmer.” He didn’t even smile. Father or no father, Max was turning out to be a cheesy a-hole, and to top it off, he had no sense of humor.

  He turned on his heel and motioned for me to follow him as he strode to the back of the store to a door marked THE GREAT HALL. When he opened the door, it looked more like THE GREAT CLOSET. There was a desk, a throne chair behind it, and another chair in front of it. On the desk was a half full bottle of Maker’s Mark. He poured himself a goblet full and motioned for me to sit down.

  “So she didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I never moved away,” he said. “And I’m not your dad.”

  Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was going to pass out right then and there in the Great Closet.

  “Wa-wa-what do you mean?” I stuttered. I had never stuttered before in my life.

  Max took a gulp from his goblet and put his crown on the desk. “We were young and broke. I had a very rich grampa with a very big tumor, but if I wanted to inherit a dime, I had to have a kid. Gramps wanted to be sure his stingy genes were going to be passed down to another generation. Trouble was, I’d had the mumps, and I had no swimmers.”

  The room was kind of spinning, but I couldn’t help but think that maybe that’s why he didn’t laugh at the moat joke—swimming was a sensitive subject.

  “Well,” he continued, taking another gulp, “Kim and I weren’t getting along all that great, but she wanted a kid desperately, so she went to a sperm bank. I thought we were in the clear, but Gramps didn’t trust me. He told me that when the baby was born he wanted a DNA test, so . . .”

  “So you walked out on my pregnant mom and thought it was okay?”

  Max had the decency to squirm a little bit. “I would have made a lousy father. She had a job, and she wanted you. It was the right call. She has you, and I have this.” He gestured toward the store with his scepter remote.

  I leaned over the desk, and even though I wanted to shout, somehow the words came out very quietly: “You have a cheesy store where you dress like the Prince of Pudge in wrinkled tights that probably give you a rash.”

  “Listen, kiddo,” he said, “I have a kingdom.” Then he actually winked at me. “Just between you and me, your mom still a hottie?”

  I grabbed the scepter remote out of his hand and charged out the door. Running down the aisle, scrunching back the tears, I punched the remote so that every set I passed freaked out. When I got outside, I tossed the stupid thing into the nearest garbage can along with every single Max fantasy I may have had.

  I hated him for what he did to me and to Kim. I hated Kim for not telling me the whole story. I was really glad that I wasn’t related to him, but what I hated the most was that now, I had no father at all.

  chapter three

  When I confronted my mom, I thought that she would look at me with her sad, victimy look, but she actually didn’t. Even though her eyes got a little misty, she knew what was coming, and I could tell she was prepared.

  “He had to tell you, Katie. I couldn’t,” she said calmly. “Why not?”

  “I thought that you needed to look in the mirror and see a whole reflection, not just half. I thought that you needed a picture of your father in your heart even if he wasn’t in your life. I thought . . .”

  “You thought wrong!” I snapped. “You lied to me. You let me think I was someone I wasn’t.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “As you got older, I knew I was making a big mistake. I kept planning to tell you, but I just never could, so I told myself it didn’t matter. I think they call that ‘denial.’ The truth is, I didn’t know what to do, and I was scared. I was scared you’d be hurt again, so I told myself I was protecting you.”

  “Didn’t you know this day would come?” I asked.

  “I kept pretending that it wouldn’t. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Her eyes misted up again, but I knew if I started sympathizing, I was going to cry, and I hate crying. I hate being wimpy like my mom, who cries every time she hears anybody sing “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You,” one of the most codependent songs of all time. I was going to be stronger than that, so I hardened my heart. I had stuff I needed to know.

  “Did you think I would want that man for a father? He’s a complete jerk.”

  “He wasn’t when I married him,” Kim said a little defensively. “He was artistic and a little eccentric, but he wanted to be an actor, and he was talented. He played the Duke of Buckingham in a regional production of Henry VIII and got very good reviews.”

  “Oh wow, good reviews in a regional production of one play. Here’s the update: He can’t let it go. He’s playing Henry now, or maybe you know that. C’mon, tell me, Kim, who is my real father?”

  “Your biological father was a sperm donor with a wonderful profile, honey.” She was chattering now, just relieved that we were moving on. “He went to Harvard, he had more than one degree, and he was very musical. That’s probably where you got your talent.”

  “Just tell me which sperm bank you used and what his number was,” I cut in.

  “He was a ‘do not contact’ donor. Most of them were back then. It doesn’t matter, Katie.”

  “It does matter. It matters to me, Kim. I have a right to know who I am, no matter what kind of donor he was.”

  She hesitated. I could see that her mind was racing. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.” She had big tears in her eyes now.

  “Don’t you think it hurts not to know? You have lied to me my whole life, and it wasn’t a little lie. It was the biggest lie ever. Every day that photo sat next to my bed, you were lying. Every time I looked at it and thought I was looking at my father, you were lying. If that matters to you even a little bit, then start telling me the truth. Help me find out who I am. Tell me which sperm bank you used and what his number was. Please, please don’t make me hate you. You owe it to me, Mom. You know you do.”

  At that moment, I saw something click. I think that was the moment when she got where I was coming from. I’ll give her one thing: my mom was big on understanding. She pulled out one of her pink notecards and wrote “806, Cryosperm Bank” on it.

  “I love you,” she said, handing it to me. “I wanted you very much. I thought that would be enough.”

  “But it wasn’t and now you know that,” I said.

  “I do, I really do,” my mom whispered, kind of choked up. “I have to leave for work in five. I’ll have my cell phone turned on.”

  I threw an “I know” over my shoulder and dove into my room. “Call me if you want to talk,” Kim yelled after me.

  I sat staring at the card for at least five minutes as if my dad’s face would somehow appear on it. It was all I had of him, my father, 806, the other half of me.

  Slowly, a memory came creeping into my brain. It must have been a year ago. I was getting dressed for school while watching The Today Show, and this dude came on who was a sperm donor. He was interviewed with some of the kids he had fathered who had found him. He was handsome and smart and so glad his kids had gotten in touch with him. He loved them, they loved him, and the kids all loved each other. They were like some kind of spermy Brady Bunch.

  Then this woman came on the show who ran a website where donor kids could find each other and maybe even find their donor dads. I couldn’t remember the name of it, but I pulled out my laptop and googled “sperm donor children” and that’s how I found your organization, www.donorsiblingconta
ct.org. I read about the way it worked at least a hundred times, and even though it had sibling in the name, there were a whole bunch of dads listed who were looking for their kids. I guess not everyone had a “do not contact” father. Just lucky me!

  My only gripe with you, DSC.org, was that I had to swipe my mom’s credit card to register and then slip it back into her wallet. It was so easy for me, I wondered if maybe my real father was some kind of thief or scam artist, and it was in my blood.

  I know my mom probably would have given it to me, but I didn’t want to have another conversation with her that day. I figured we’d have the conversation when she got her credit card bill, and maybe by then I’d have some half brothers and sisters backing me up. I also figured if she didn’t know what I was doing, she couldn’t come up with one of her lists of reasons not to do it. Now I’m not a socialist or anything, but I think you guys should let kids post for free instead of turning them into credit card thieves, but I guess you need money to run the site.

  Anyway, I want to tell whoever’s running things that, in my opinion, you have a pretty good system. I looked up Cryosperm, St. Louis, and the number 806 wasn’t there so I posted it with my email address. When I saw my entry on the screen, I got a little flash of happiness like something sweet was going to happen. I started thinking about who my father really was and wondering what kind of music he liked. I wondered if he could be an actual musician, if he’d like my songs, and how we’d feel about each other if we ever met. Then I picked up my guitar, wrote a song called “Finding Me,” and waited for my brothers or sisters or “do not contact” father to email me.

  chapter four

  I checked in online at Donor Sibling Contact at least twice every day, even though I knew I would be getting an email if my donor sibs or donor dad saw my posting. It just made me feel good to see the number 806 out there in cyberspace. I didn’t tell anyone, even Sasha, about your website, but I did tell her about Max not being my father and being a donor spawn and all. She said “oh my god” in all the right spots and mentioned that, oddly enough, even after all that bad stuff, I seemed to be in a better mood. I didn’t tell her why: which was that my biological father didn’t even know I existed, not that he didn’t care. Now I had a real hope I was going to find the rest of me. That felt really good.

  Two weeks after I joined DSC.org, I went to band rehearsal at Sasha’s. I didn’t know why I called it “rehearsal.” It wasn’t like we were going to perform anywhere, but “practice” sounded so amateur. Sasha’s dad always moved out the cars and let us use their garage whenever we got together to rehearse.

  Sasha and I first met at the school talent contest at the beginning of freshman year when she played percussion and sang “In the Long Run.” I’m not exactly the chatty type—I hardly ever talk to people I don’t know—but I was compelled to go up to her at intermission and tell her that I was a fan of “old guy” rock groups like The Eagles and that her version of the song was a giant step beyond awesome. She then told me that she thought my guitar and vocal performance of The Band’s “I Shall Be Released” was so fantabulous it almost made her cry.

  Before we even thought about it, we were babbling about music like besties because neither of us was really into what we were hearing on top-ten radio. It was kind of crazy, but we both loved the old, old, old classics. We couldn’t stop talking, and by the end of the show, we had decided to form a band. All we needed was a great bass player, and Sasha said she had the perfect one, someone who she’d known since they were little kids because their moms were BFFs.

  That dude turned out to be Dylan Stewart, who actually was a very good, serious musician. Unfortunately, he segued from saying “hello” to becoming nuts about me, and sadly I was not interested.

  My noninterest, however, didn’t affect Dylan in the slightest. He got increasingly “shmoopy” until he reminded me of my mom, who was the scary poster child for misplaced emotion. I sometimes thought he was really off his rocker, like he had a major leak in his think tank. He once told me I was the coolest, most talented human being on the planet, which made me excruciatingly uncomfortable. The way his eyes got all soft when he looked at me seemed to push all my snippy buttons.

  When I got to Sasha’s, Dylan was waiting for me.

  “Hey Dylan,” I said without much enthusiasm.

  He jumped up and ran to meet me. “Hey, KT, let me take your guitar or your laptop or something.”

  “Jesus, Dylan, they don’t have carry-on restrictions here. In case you haven’t noticed, I brought it this far. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Sasha yelled from inside the house.

  I turned on my computer in case I got any emails and began tuning my guitar. Dylan hovered like I was a light bulb and he was a flying bug. “I wrote a new song,” he said. “It’s called ‘Please Want Me.’”

  I sighed. “Please tell me it’s not about me,” I said. “And please quit writing songs about me. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed already, and I haven’t even heard it.”

  “You’re my muse, KT,” he answered, his big brown eyes all gleamy and disgustingly sincere. “I think about you and words pour into my brain and music pours out of my fingers.”

  “If I knew what that meant, I could argue with you, but I don’t. I like you, Dylan, but not in the same way. Please, please try to get over me, like, now.”

  “Your computer battery is low,” he said. “You better plug in.”

  “And why are you carrying your laptop everywhere all of a sudden?” chimed in Sasha as she walked into the garage. She really knows me and smelled something was weird, so I broke down and told her and Dylan everything. The truth is, I was dying to share it with somebody and they were the most likely (and possibly the only) candidates.

  “It would be sweet if you found someone like a sister to talk to,” Dylan said.

  “If you’re looking for a bitchy sister,” Sasha offered, “I’d be happy to give you mine.”

  I laughed, but Dylan was right. I’d dreamed about having sibs almost as much as finding my donor dad, but I just said “whatever.” Then Sasha took off her jacket and I freaked out. Sasha had a tattoo. There on her forearm was a big, beautiful snake. I had wanted to get a tattoo desperately and had even talked Mom into it. She said yes if she could go with me and it was a tiny, tasteful one. But Sasha’s parents had said “absolutely not.” They were Jewish, and if you’ve got a tattoo, you can’t get buried in a Jewish cemetery. So I agreed I wouldn’t do it because she couldn’t, and here she had gone and become “the tattooed serpent queen” without telling me before or after. I felt totally betrayed. I couldn’t believe that Sasha would let me down. Not her, too. Not my best and only friend.

  “Why are you getting all red?” Sasha asked me.

  “A snake is a really appropriate tat,” I hissed. “I was the one who thought of getting a tat, remember, but I opted out based on loyalty to you. I’m working hard to be a real artist, and that means I have to stay in touch with my dark side.”

  “You are dark, KT, and you are an artist. You don’t need a tat to prove it,” Dylan declared.

  “Just shut up, Dylan!” I snapped. “I’m talking to Miss Sneaky Snake here.”

  “The pain was excruciating,” said Sasha, rolling her eyes in agony. “You would have loved it. You could have called up the anguish for a song.”

  “That’s what I mean. My life is my inspiration, and you know it. So did your parents convert or something? How could you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Sasha burst out laughing. “Calm down, oh Pissed Off One,” she cackled. She was laughing so hard she snorted when she talked. “It’s a temp. It washes off.” Then she tapped me on the head with her drumstick and hit the snare and cymbal for punctuation.

  I was so mortified I didn’t know what to do. “Just kidding,” I muttered. “I knew that. I was putting you on. Now let’s get going.”

  Dylan looked relieved, Sasha seemed to buy it, and I
felt kind of guilty for snapping at him, so I taught them “A Rock and a Sad Place.” Dylan came up with some bass lines and backgrounds that were very cool. We rehearsed for about two hours and then we started packing up. Just when I was wondering if we were good enough to play Kroeger’s Koffee House at Saturday night open call, my computer started shouting “You’ve Got Mail.” My heart thumped every time I got an email alert. I didn’t want to show how excited I was, though, so I put my guitar in its case really slowly.

  “Aren’t you going to check your email?” asked Sasha.

  “Oh,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed, “I guess so.”

  They both peered over my shoulders as I clicked open my mailbox. There were two new messages. One must have come while we were playing too loudly to hear it. The first, sent an hour ago, was from [email protected] with the subject line “806 kid”; and the other, just sent, was from [email protected], and it read, “Good chance we’re sibs.” I was paralyzed. Their emails said that they’d decided we should all meet at Fuddruckers tomorrow at noon wearing something that said “806” on it. Would have been nice if they had asked my opinion but . . .

  “Don’t go in there all bent out of shape, KT,” Dylan warned me. “Show them your good side.”

  “I didn’t know I had one,” I said.

  “You do. Remember when we were playing at talent day last year and I forgot my part? You covered for me and didn’t even yell at me.”

  “You only forgot two measures. It was no big deal.”

  “Yes, it was. That’s when I knew we were meant to be together.”

  “But we’re not, Dylan. I don’t want to be with anyone. I have seen with my own eyes that being with someone never works out. I know that for a fact, believe me.”

  “What I believe is, one day you’ll change your mind, and I’ll still be here,” he said firmly. “You gotta believe, KT. You never know what amazing things can happen.”