the engine, and I pull out my phone to see if either of my cousins added to our group chat since this morning. Milly has; she’s posted a summary of her travel schedule and a question. Should we try to all take the same ferry?
When I first got my grandmother’s letter—which Dad immediately assumed I would agree to, no questions asked—I looked up both my cousins online. Milly was easy to find on social media. I sent a follow request on Instagram and she accepted right away, unlocking a timeline filled with pictures of her and her friends. They’re all beautiful, especially my cousin. She’s white and Japanese, and looks more like a Story than I do—dark-haired and slender, with large, expressive eyes and cheekbones to die for. I, on the other hand, take after my mom: blond, freckled, and athletic. The only characteristic I have in common with my elegant grandmother is the port-wine birthmark on my right forearm; Gran has one almost the exact size and shape on her left hand.
I have no idea what Jonah looks like. I couldn’t track him down anywhere except Facebook, where his profile picture is the DNA symbol. He has seven friends, and I’m not one of them because he still hasn’t accepted my request.
Jonah barely posts in our group chat except to complain. He’s angrier than Milly and I about getting sent to Gull Cove Island for the summer. Now, as Thomas pulls out of the Recreation Center parking lot, I distract myself by scrolling through yesterday’s conversation.
Jonah: This is bullshit. I should be at camp this summer.
Milly: What, are you a counselor?
Jonah: Not that kind of camp. It’s a science camp. Very competitive. Nearly impossible to get into and now I’m supposed to miss it?
Jonah: And for what? A minimum-wage job cleaning toilets for a woman who hates our parents and most likely hates us too.
Aubrey: We’re not cleaning toilets. Didn’t you read Edward’s email?
Jonah: Who?
Aubrey: Edward Franklin. The summer hire coordinator. There are lots of jobs you can choose from. I’m going to be a lifeguard.
Jonah: Well bully for you.
Milly: You don’t have to be a dick about it.
Milly: Also, who says “bully for you”? What are you, 80?
Then they argued for ten minutes while I ghosted the conversation because…confrontation. Not my thing.
The last time I saw any Story relative was right after we moved to Oregon, when my father’s youngest brother breezed through for a weekend visit. Uncle Archer doesn’t have children, but as soon as he arrived, he dropped onto the floor like a Lego expert to help me with the town I was building. A few hours later, he vomited into my toy chest. It wasn’t until recently that I realized he’d been drunk the whole time.
Dad used to call himself and his brothers and sister the Four As, back when he still talked regularly about them. Adam, Anders, Allison, and Archer, born a year apart from one another. They all had distinct roles in the family: Adam was the golden-boy athlete, Anders the brilliant eccentric, Allison the reserved beauty, and Archer the charming jokester.
Uncle Anders, Jonah’s father, is the only one who didn’t inherit the family good looks. In old pictures he’s short, scrawny, and sharp-featured, with eyebrows like slashes and a perpetual thin-lipped smirk. That’s how I picture Jonah whenever I read his messages.
I’m about to put my phone away when a new message pops up, from Milly to me. It’s the first time she’s ever texted me without including Jonah. Aubrey, important question for you: Is it just me, or is Jonah a total ass?
A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as I type, It’s not just you. I open Thomas’s glove compartment, where he keeps a handy assortment of snacks, and dig out a brown sugar–cinnamon Pop-Tart. Not my favorite, but my stomach is rumbling with postmeet hunger pangs.
Milly: I mean, nobody’s thrilled about this. I might not be signed up for Genius Camp, but I still have things I’d rather be doing.
Before I can respond, another message pops up, from Jonah in our group chat. That ferry time is inconvenient and I don’t see the point in arriving in tandem anyway.
Milly: Omg why is he such trash???
Jonah: Excuse me?
Milly: …
Milly: Sorry, wrong chat.
Milly, in our private chat: Fuck.
I laugh through a mouthful of Pop-Tart, and Thomas glances at me. “What’s so funny?” he asks.
I swallow. “My cousin Milly. I think I’m going to like her.”