"Don't forget about the Creative Arts Faire," I remind my parents. I'm standing in the kitchen by the center island, twisting off the lid of the peanut butter jar, preparing an early lunch for my sisters and I. For once my parents are home, together in the same room and not screaming their heads off. I think it's because they're ignoring each other, simply as if the other does not exist. "The performances start at seven, but the auditorium opens at six. Try to come early."

"All right, Shannon," Mom replies, testily. She's standing at the sink pouring coffee into a travel cup. "You've told me twenty times."

Dad's near the doorway, wearing ridiculous brown plaid pants and swinging his new golf club. "What Creative Arts Faire?" he asks. Obviously, twenty times was not enough for him.

"The Creative Arts Faire at our school? The one we've been talking about for weeks? I wrote a play, Tiffany created a collage, and Maria's tap dancing. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Dad says, absently, taking another swing.

"Seven o' clock. Don't forget."

"I won't."

Tiffany snorts from where she's sitting on the counter, crunching noisily on a carrot.

"Mom?" I say.

"Yes, I'll be there!" she snaps. "And now I'm late. I have an Open House in New Hope at noon. I'll never make it on time."

"Mom?" Maria says from the table. "About the entomology club - "

"Whatever it is, I don't have time!" Mom cuts her off, sharply. "Tell Shannon. She'll take care of it." And without another word, Mom rushes out of the kitchen. The front door slams.

A few seconds later, a car horn blasts outside. "Ah, Phil," Dad says, glancing at his watch. "Right on time." Phil is Mr. Jardin, Meg's father. "Have fun, girls."

"Don't forget!" I call out, but he's already gone.

"They aren't coming," Tiffany tells me, hopping off the counter and dipping her carrot in the peanut butter jar. "I hope you realize that."

I don't look at her. I continue spreading creamy peanut butter on a slice of sourdough bread. I cut off the crusts just like Maria likes. "They might," I reply, stiffly.

"Yeah, right."

After lunch, I run upstairs to brush my teeth, then I leave for Anna's house. She told me to come over at noon. She didn't have much to say last night while everyone else enjoyed their pie and ice cream at Thelma's Cafe. She ordered french apple, then pushed it around her plate, oblivious to Kristy and Abby's animated conversation. When Elizabeth dropped me off outside my house, Anna said, "Come over at noon," and that was all.

I knock loudly on the front door and ring the bell. I wait a few seconds, then peer through the glass paneling on the door. The Stevenson house looks dark and empty, as usual. When Abby's home alone, she turns on all the lights, as if it will make her feel less lonely and more like a family lives there. Tired of waiting, I open the door and walk in, calling out to Anna, then to Abby and Mrs. Stevenson. No one answers. I hear the soft sound of Anna's violin drifting down the stairs. When Anna plays, she enters her own world, blocking out this one. I could call and call until my voice goes hoarse and she would never hear. I pass through the foyer and living room, filled with antique cherrywood furniture covered in a thin layer of dust. I rarely come over here, even during the summers and holidays when Anna's home. Honestly, the house gives me the creeps. It's like walking through a museum or a ghost town, silent and uninhabited. The white and beige striped couch in the living room looks as new as the day the furniture store delivered it, no worn spots or stains.

Anna's bedroom door is open. She's seated in a high-backed wooden chair, very straight, facing the window, her bow sliding slowly over the violin strings, filling the air with a mournful song. Anna's bedroom is like the rest of the house, oddly ordered and untouched. I lean against the doorframe, listening and waiting for her to finish.

"Anna?" I say when the song ends and her bow stills.

Anna startles slightly and turns her head. "Oh, Shannon," she says, surprised. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in."

I smile. "That's okay. Where's Abby and your mom?"

"Mom didn't come home last night. There was a message for Abby on the machine when we came home. Mom had a lot of work to finish. She decided to stay over at her office. She bought a futon a couple years ago so she could do that," Anna answers, leaning over her open violin case, so I can't see her expression. "Abby's at volleyball practice. It was last minute."

"I'm not sure any amount of practice can save the team at this point," I admit, realizing it's a little rude to say so to Abby's twin. But it is the truth.

Anna nods. "So I've heard."

I finger the silver chain around my neck, watching Anna latch the violin case and slide it under the bed. "Do you want to talk?" I ask, bluntly, not able to help myself. We can't spend the afternoon standing around her bedroom in politely stilted conversation.

"Yeah," Anna replies. "Let's go downstairs though." Anna slides passed me in the doorway and begins down the stairs. I follow her into the kitchen, where the curtains are drawn. The kitchen is hardly ever used since Abby eats most of her meals with the Thomas-Brewers. Most of the appliances are covered in dust, like the furniture, all except the coffee maker. Anna takes two mugs from the cabinet and fills them with coffee. She spoons plenty of sugar and cream into mine, knowing that's the only way I'll drink it. I resist the urge to find a rag and wipe down the kitchen. Instead, I take a seat at the table and wait for Anna to join me.

"Tell me about your forty year old," Anna says, setting a mug in front of me. It's the Elvis one I gave Abby for her birthday.

"He isn't forty. He's twenty-six," I reply, making an effort to not sound irritated. I test the coffee with the tip of my tongue. Too hot. "He doesn't look that old, right?" I ask, doubtfully.

Anna smiles slightly and sips her coffee. She likes it steaming hot. "No. I'm just teasing you," she says and I'm glad she's behaving so pleasantly considering what I've done. "I thought he was more like twenty-four when I saw him. Still too old for you," she adds.

I frown and blow on my coffee. "It's complicated," I say, then staring into my coffee, tell her the absolute truth, starting with Mick's and my break-up because I suppose that's where the story truly begins. I don't leave out any details. I relate my initial meeting with Wes, followed by all my lies. Anna watches me intently, not interrupting, simply sipping her coffee and watching, nodding and frowning every so often. I end with last night, the moment Anna caught me. "And that's everything," I finish, then take a long drink of coffee. It needs more sugar.

"So, Janet and I are the only ones who know," Anna says, frowning thoughtfully. She stands and refills her mug, looking back at me over her shoulder with that same thoughtful frown. When she sits again, she says, "I know you don't want to hear this, but I agree with Janet."

"That I've completely lost my mind?"

"No, just all sense of reason," Anna answers, matter-of-factly. "You're getting yourself into a real mess, Shannon. What are you going to say when he finds out? You've already been caught twice. Not everyone is going to turn and walk away like Janet and I. Imagine if Kristy caught you." Anna gives me a long, silent look, letting that possibility sink in. "Think of how bad you felt when Mick dumped you and you learned about his other girlfriend. Wes is going to feel just as horrible, if not worse, when he finds out he's dating a seventeen year old."

I shift, uncomfortably. Why must Anna be so serious and reasonable and right? "I told you, it's complicated," I reply. "I've only lied about my age and attending Stoneybrook University." I push aside all the others lies built on those foundations. "Everything else is me, Anna. He likes me. I'm too mature for guys like Mick. Wes is a real adult, who I can relate to and be myself with...to a certain degree."

"Are you sleeping with him?" Anna asks, point blank.

"No!" I gasp, nearly dropping the mug. "We've only been dating a week! I dated Mick for six months and I wouldn't even let him take off my shirt. Remember?"

"Mick wasn't twenty-six years old."

I toss back my hair and narrow my eyes, slightly. "You and Janet have one-track minds. I'm glad you both think I'm going to suddenly turn into a whore. I didn't to keep Mick and I won't to keep Wes either."

"I didn't say you were a whore," Anna protests.

I slump back and fold my arms, looking away. I stare down at the tile, studying the beige and salmon swirls. I hear Anna tapping her foot against the chair leg, taking tiny sips of her coffee.

"You're mad because you know I'm right," she finally says, again in that matter-of-fact tone.

"Maybe you are."

"You know I am."

I look up from the tile and sit straight in my chair. I'm behaving like a petulant child. This is what I expect from Emily Michelle Brewer, not myself. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" I ask.

"Of course not. Your mess is your own."

I nod, slowly, pretending not to notice Anna's deepening frown. She hoped she'd talked some sense into me, that I'd abandon my lies for the truth. She doesn't understand. I don't even fully understand, understand why I can't stop.

We stay silent a few minutes, watching each other. Finally, I break into the quiet. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?" I ask, casually, attempting to not sound overeager or nosy.

Anna's disapproving frown disappears, replaced by the same unreadable expression she wore last night. She doesn't look at me, but rather over my shoulder, staring at something in the distance. Or maybe at nothing at all. I wonder if she's changed her mind like I feared and plans to keep her secret bottled up and tightly capped.

"Upstairs," she says, pushing away from the table and standing up.

I follow her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. But we don't make a left toward Anna and Abby's bedrooms. Instead, we make a right toward the master bedroom, Mrs. Stevenson's room. The door is cracked and Anna pushes through with me behind her. Unlike the rest of the house, Mrs. Stevenson's room looks lived-in, but in a way that it appears lived-in but forgotten. The bed is unmade, the gold and navy comforter spilling onto the tan carpeting in a tangle. Clothes are tossed over the back of the desk chair, blouses and panty hose, and long silk scarves. The blinds are cracked, so thin streams of light leak into the room, giving it an odd dim, shadowy look. I discreetly run a finger over the dresser as I pass. It's barely dusty. Anna leads me into the bathroom, which is almost as ridiculously large as my parents'. There are sinks on either side of the room. One is cluttered with cosmetics and perfume bottles, many tipped over on their sides. The other is covered with stacks of folded towels and washcloths.

Anna ducks into the walk-in closet and motions for me to follow. She flicks on the light and shuts the door. Mrs. Stevenson's closet is crammed full with clothes, the wooden bars sagging under their weight. Four metal shoe racks are filled haphazardly with pumps and sandals. Anna raises onto her toes and stretches upward, pulling a small floral-print box off the shelf. She lifts the lid and rummages through the contents. She takes out a small silver key, then pushes aside several floor-length dresses to reveal a small black safe. She crouches down, blocking my view. I hear the key turn in the lock and the door spring open, then Anna shuffling through papers. When she stands again and turns to me, she's holding a six-by-nine manila envelope.

"It took me two days to find the key to the safe," she tells me, lifting the flap of the envelope. "It doesn't matter what I was looking for. I found this instead." She hands me a folded white paper, then watches as I unfold it, again with that unreadable expression.

I stare down at the paper, not understanding, eyes flicking back and forth. It's a photocopy of a birth certificate. "Who's Baby Girl Stevenson?" I ask, confused. "You have another sister?"

"You didn't read everything," Anna says, flatly.

My eyes scan the rest of the paper. Mother: Rachel Goldberg Stevenson. Then my eyes settle to the right. I try to swallow the gasp coming up my throat, but fail. "Who is Michael Bergman?" I ask, lowering the paper to look at Anna.

"The father of my half-sister, apparently."

I glance back down at the paper, rereading every word. I don't know what to say. Questions rush my mind, clouding out all rational thought.

Anna points over the top of the paper. "Look at the date," she instructs. "Abby and I were three years old."

I open and close my mouth a few times, the only sound coming out a strangled gasp. "Anna...you didn't know about this? How could you not know?"

"I was only three. How would I remember?" Anna removes something else from the envelope. A tiny pink hospital bracelet with a number and Stevenson - Girl typed across it. Anna takes out some more folded photocopies. "Letters from a lawyer," she explains. "Signed adoption papers. My mother had another man's baby and gave it away, then resumed her life with me and Abby and Dad."

I unfold one of the forms, an adoption form, signed by Mrs. Stevenson and Michael Bergman, whomever he may be. Anna takes the papers from my hand, folds them back into the envelope, neatly, with the hospital bracelet. I can't believe how matter-of-factly she's speaking, behaving, like she's showing me a recipe in a new cookbook, not a hidden truth that may shatter her life.

Anna closes the safe and returns the key to its hiding place. "I have something else to show you," she says, slipping by me, out of the closet.

My head is spinning as I follow Anna out of Mrs. Stevenson's bedroom and down the hall. What do I say? What does Anna expect me to say? I'm sorry, Anna, that maybe your life has been a lie and you have a sister you didn't know about and maybe your mom is a tramp. Sorry, really I am. So, I say nothing, following obediently.

Anna closes her bedroom door behind us and strides quickly to her bookcase. She pulls a teal-colored photo album off the bottom shelf and carries it over to the bed, where I'm sitting. Anna sits next to me, very close, so our legs and sides are touching like we're a single person, streaming into the next. Anna opens the album over our laps, flipping through the pages. Anna and Abby breeze passed on each page, little girls in matching outfits.

Anna stops at a page in the middle of the album. "Here," she says, pointing at a photo of herself and Abby at their second birthday party, wearing their cake on their faces and in their hair. "Our second birthday. Look at all these pictures," she says, turning several pages. "Then a few on Thanksgiving and at Hanukkah, then there's this huge gap. The photos just stop. There's a couple here, it looks like springtime, of us with our grandparents. No others. Then, look, August of that year, the photos begin again, slowly, sort of trickling in through the autumn." Anna turns each page carefully, pointing at the photos. "No photos of my parents. Not for a long time. There's one of my dad in the background. But look, January and February. My mother. Look at her!" Anna stabs angrily at a photo.

I stare down at it. There is Mrs. Stevenson standing between Abby and Anna outside her parents' house in the Hamptons. She doesn't seem to be looking at whoever's taking the photo, but staring beyond them, looking completely miserable. She's wearing a huge, thick gray pullover. In all the photos, enormous sweaters and bulky coats, perfect for concealing an unwanted pregnancy. The baby was born mid-March. No one would have suspected.

"Oh, Anna..." I say in a half-gasp, half-sigh. "Did you ask your mother about this?"

Anna shakes her head. "Of course not. And I didn't tell Abby. I couldn't. I don't even want to know. Abby wouldn't want to know either." Anna bites her lip and flips several more pages to the summer. Mrs. Stevenson's now dressed in shorts and t-shirts, smiling, at least with her mouth. There's something odd in her eyes. "You're the only one who knows. You and Adelaide. I found those papers in August before I left for school. I didn't intend to tell anyone ever, but you can't live in the same cramped room with someone and have them not notice something is wrong. Some secrets are impossible to keep," Anna says, touching a photo of her family. "But not for my mother," she says, bitterly.

"But Anna...if you haven't asked, you don't know the whole story. Maybe it's not what you think. Maybe...maybe...your mother wasn't a willing participant in..." I let my voice drop off. I can't say it, just like I can't suggest the word rape. I shudder. It's too terrible to think, even worse than the other possibility.

Anna shakes her head again.

"You can't be sure. You don't know who this Michael Bergman is."

"Yes, I do. He worked with my father. And he attended our synagogue." Anna's voice begins to strain and I fear it may collapse within her throat. "He worked in a different department, on a different floor. I remember I went to the office with my father once and saw him in the elevator. I said, 'Daddy, that man goes to B'nai Jacob too' and my father ignored me and walked by him without a word. I didn't remember that until I found those papers. I guess it stuck in the back of my mind because my father was never rude to anyone. He was friendly, even to strangers." Anna pauses for a moment staring down at her family photo. "He was married. He and his wife got a divorce. I remember that too. It was a few months after my father died and Gram Elsie came over and told my mom. Then she shooed me and Abby out of the room and closed the door. Gram Elsie knows, Shannon. She knows! And Shannon...what if...what if he divorced his wife because my father died? What if he wanted Mom back? Shannon, what if it never ended?" Anna's voice breaks and tears begin rolling down her cheeks. She buries her face in her hands and sobs, loud and wracking.

I put my arms around her, hold her tight, ignoring the photo album as it falls to the floor. I don't speak. I just hold Anna and allow her to cry out everything she's held in for so long.

When Anna finally lowers her hands and grabs a tissue from the nightstand, she says in a shaky, wavering voice, "And what if...Shannon, what if my father isn't really my father? What if Michael Bergman is? Or some other man that..." Anna doesn't finish before she begins crying again, shoulders quivering within my arms.

I reach down and pick up the album, pull it back onto my lap. "No, no, Anna," I tell her, soothingly. I flip through the album until I find a close, clear photo of Mr. Stevenson. He looks so cheerful and pleasant, a tall man with windblown brown hair and glasses. I wonder if when this photo was taken he knew, or at least suspected. "Anna, look at this picture. Look, this is your father. You have his eyes."

Anna stops crying long enough to look down at the photo and nod. Then she shoves the album off my lap. It falls onto the carpet, open, pictures facing down. Anna collapses sideways on the bed, rolls over so her face is buried in her pillow. I don't hear her sobs, but see the shaking of her body, shuddering, rising and falling. I sit sideways on the bed, rubbing her back, silently. There is nothing more I can say. Nothing I can do to make it better.