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played video games with Nate while the rest of us cleaned up in the kitchen. Then the cousins trooped upstairs to my attic room, where we would all be sleeping. Kate had ceded her room to Aunt Joan and Uncle Stanley. Grandma had decided she’d be more comfortable at the local inn, where Calvin Coolidge or some such person had once stayed. (Why does it matter that some long-dead famous person slept on your bed? It’s downright creepy, if you ask me.) Mr. Eli Strong had a room there as well. “
Separate
rooms,” the cousins chimed in meaningfully.
    We talked for hours, first with the lights on, all of us piled on my bed; then in the dark, everyone tucked away in sleeping bags and on air mattresses. I felt bad for poor Nate, the only boy. He had tried to worm himself into our cuz-coven, but we couldn’t risk it. He was bound to repeat something he heard—and my crazy New York cousins were full of wild stories and theories. They had all been in therapy for years and had a running commentary as to what was “really” going on in our family.
    At one point in our marathon gossip session, I thought of bringing up Pablo, but I froze. Although my cousins and I talked about everything else under the sun, we always avoided the topic of my adoption.
    Only one time, last summer, Ruthie had mentioned it. She had been sent to stay with us for the month of August. Her therapist was on vacation, and Ruthie was out of control, Aunt Joan told Mom over the phone. Ruthie had her own version of what was going on: her family was totally dysfunctional and projecting their issues on her. Even her dad, who was the sanest, was passive-aggressive. “I wish I were you,” Ruthie had said. “Then I could at least hope for a second chance with my real family.”
    “This
is
my real family.” I felt hurt. What did she think? That I was
pretending
to be a member of our family?
    Ruthie instantly took it back. “You know what I mean. Oh God, I’m sorry, Mil, oh please, Mil.”
    She must have apologized about a dozen times. There was no room left for me to stay hurt. And really, when I thought it over: it was my own fault. If I’d only talk about my feelings, people wouldn’t be assuming whatever it was they assumed about me.
    But I didn’t really want to bring up Pablo tonight. More than ever, I was feeling so much a part of Happy’s family. If there were dark shadows lurking in the wings, what did I care? In my Banana Republic top, with Happy’s arm in mine and my family by my side, I could handle anything.
    I woke up with a start—at the very edge of my bed, which I was sharing with cousin Ruthie, the all-time bed hog. The digital clock was right in my face: 2:35, it blared, 2:36. Talk about passive-aggressive.
    Just go back to sleep, I kept telling myself. But I couldn’t. The question I had been avoiding for weeks popped right up:
What was I going to do about Pablo?
    I couldn’t hide out forever. I had pretty much stopped going to lunch with my friends. Em and I no longer had much to talk about every night. I had to do something. Suddenly, the answer glowed like the numbers on the clock:
change schools. Of course!
    Champlain Academy was only half an hour away. I could maybe carpool with Meredith. I’d visited the school a bunch of times with Em to see Meredith, and the girls weren’t at all snotty like I’d expected. The school itself was real progressive and emphasized fun, extracurricular stuff. Just this Valentine’s Day, Em and I attended a performance of
The
Vagina Monologues
there, which was awesome. The play, I mean. Meredith was so-so. She just was not convincing as an old lady talking about her tired uterus.
    So why not transfer to Champlain? I’d still get to see Em and my Ralston High friends on weekends. The problem was the tuition, which I knew there was no way my parents could afford. Then I got another winning idea:
ask Happy!
She had talked about sending Nate to private school. Why not her granddaughter as well as