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ducking. But Amy just frowned a little and walked her home, chattering about Paul the entire time. Only as they neared the Kings’ residence did she seem to remember Chloe.
    “Was there something you wanted to say before?” she asked.
    “Oh, uh, no biggie. I mean, not like this biggie.” Chloe unlocked the door and pushed it open. “You want to come up? We can—”
    There was a crowd of people, well dressed, talking and hanging around the Kings’ dining and living room. Hors d’oeuvres were being passed; champagne was being poured into glasses. Paul was there with his parents, and Mr. and Mrs. Scotkin, and other people who were neighbors or familiar faces.
    “Oh, crap,” her mom said, turning around and seeing her. “Surprise!”

Five

    Two glasses of champagne later, Chloe began to enjoy herself. Even though she suspected that the party was some sort of psychological ploy on her mother’s behalf to make her daughter feel loved, wanted, and appreciated, she had done an excellent job, and Chloe felt all three. She wondered when her punishment for skipping school and leaving the hospital was going to kick in or if that, too, had been canceled in some sort of amnesty.

    Mrs. King could not, however, give up the traditional elements of a birthday party, i.e., an old-fashioned frosted cake and sharing embarrassing photos and pictures of a much younger, and often naked, Chloe.
    And of course, a toast.
    As soon as her mom began to tap on a glass, Chloe looked around for the quickest way out of being the center of attention. No one was budging; she was trapped.
    “As many of you here already know,” Mrs. King began with a sniff, “we aren’t exactly sure when Chloe’s birthday really is.”
    Chloe closed her eyes. She was going to do it. She was going to tell the whole story.
    The crowd waited expectantly.
    “She was born somewhere in the countryside of the old USSR. By the time we found her, the only thing the Soviet officials could give us was a document with some scribbles and a sickle-and-star stamp.”
    Mrs. King pointed to the tattered paper, matted and framed above the dining room table.
    “David and I wanted a baby so badly … and we were so lucky. Chloe was the most beautiful little girl we had ever seen. And she has grown in grace and beauty and intelligence in every way since.” Chloe almost groaned aloud. Amy gave her a look, sympathizing with her horror. “And even though we have our little … fights, I couldn’t be more proud. And if your dad”— had stuck around —“were here, he would feel the same way. Chloe, I love you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Happy sixteenth birthday!”
    Everyone clinked their glasses and hugged her. Chloe mumbled thanks, just glad that the worst part was over so quickly. As soon as the knot of people around her loosened, she dove for the table of hors d’oeuvres, filled up a plate, and stood in the corner behind a tall plant so she could enjoy the caterer’s specialties in peace.
    A pair of people walked by, dangerously close. Chloe froze—they didn’t seem to have noticed her.
    “Remember how badly they were fighting toward the end?” Mrs. Lowe whispered.
    “Yes, Anne’s toast was so diplomatic,” Paul’s dad responded. “Considering how he just took off like that.”
    “Did she ever wind up getting a divorce?”
    “No … it was like he dropped off the face of the planet. He’s never sent a penny for Chloe. Of course,” he considered, reflecting, “I don’t think Anne or Chloe is suffering.”
    They were both silent.
    “More champagne?” Mrs. Lowe finally suggested.
    Chloe chewed contemplatively on a celery stick. Back when her father was still around, when she was young, they also used to celebrate her adoption day, which was just a few weeks later. They hadn’t done it since her father left, though.
    She left the safety of her plant to try and mingle; the revelers were here for her, after all.
    “So where’s the