Ink Is Thicker Than Water by Amy Spalding Page A

and I tell her she can experiment with my hair because it’s the only thing I can think to do for her.
    “I forgot to check my phone,” I say as Mom uses a little brush to paint streaks in my hair. “What if Sara texted back?” What if Oliver texted again? What if he called and his voice is on my voice mail?
    “Want me to get it for you, sweetie?”
    I do, but there aren’t any messages when Mom brings it to me. “I hope she’s okay,” I say.
    “I’m sure she is.” Mom dabs on a bit more color before stepping back and studying me. “Let it sit for a half-hour, then rinse, then tell me what you think.”
    “I’ll set a timer,” I say. “I should try to work on my newspaper thing. Or some of my other homework.”
    “Good girl.” She kisses my cheek and pushes me to the doorway. “I’ll clean up here. Let me see your hair when it’s dry, okay?”
    I get through most of my homework (though I’ll have to request help from Sara on my Fundamentals of Geometry) while texting Chelsea and Mitchell, before rinsing my hair. For once Mom’s lack of planning leads to something pretty amazing. She’s deepened my natural blond hair but made it lighten toward the ends. It makes me look less like one of those girls who’s trying really hard to be different and more like I maybe just am.
    Unfortunately, even with awesome hair and a backpackful of (mostly) completed homework, I still am at a loss for a column idea. I take my laptop and Adelaide’s business card to bed with me to type up a fast email.
    TO: [email protected]
    FROM: [email protected]
    SUBJECT: sorry
    Adelaide,
    I’ve been brainstorming all of tonight and can’t think of ANYTHING to write about. Can you just run my cafeteria paper this week?
    Kellie Brooks
    After hitting send I decide to check Oliver’s profile just to verify that his status is still silly and pretentious and adorable (it is), and I am about to turn off my computer when a reply pops up in my inbox from Adelaide.
    TO: [email protected]
    FROM: [email protected]
    SUBJECT: RE: sorry
    Kellie,
    There’s no need for melodramatics. Let’s spend some time brainstorming together tomorrow. I have volunteering right after school, but I’ll be free by seven. Can you meet me then at Mokabe’s for coffee? Bring your laptop (if you have one, notepad will do if you don’t) and AN OPEN MIND.
    AMJ
    I don’t like any of this, from spending my evening basically doing schoolwork with someone I really don’t want to be seen in public with—even if that makes me a little bit of a jerk—to that scary command. But I do want to get better at this part. So I respond with a yes before turning off my computer and setting it on the floor next to my bed.
    My eyes are only shut for a few minutes when a light tapping sounds at my door. I try ignoring it. Mom will just be happy I’m asleep at a reasonable hour.
    “Kellie?”
    “Sara.” I bolt straight up. “You’re home?”
    She creeps into my room. “Yes, I’m home, dork. Move over.”
    I scoot to one side of my bed as she gets under the covers on the other side. “Are you okay?”
    “She’s amazing .” Sara’s eyes are big in this way that doesn’t happen often to people who are so smart. It’s tough awing them. “She’s a physicist , Kellie.”
    “Like a doctor?”
    “No, not a physician. She’s a scientist.”
    “‘We are not children here,’” I quote. “‘We are scientists!’”
    “Are you finished?”
    I feel like a jerk for being unable to keep any moment truly serious. “Sorry. And of course she’s a genius like you. Do you look alike?”
    “A little. She’s not as tall, and her hair’s darker, but you can see the resemblance. Definitely. She showed me a picture of my…my biological father. He’s really tall and blond, so that makes sense.” She elbows me. “And I’m not a genius.”
    “Mmm hmmm, genius, sure. So is she young? Like a lot younger than Mom and Russell and