Don't You Wish by Roxanne St. Claire

any time.I need some answers, Ayla. She’s no saint. I have to give my lawyer something, and fast, or we’re going to be out a lot of cash.”
    We’re
 … like we’re in this together.
    “And I know I can count on you,” he adds with a smile that looks an awful lot like the one I’ve been seeing in the mirror today. Ayla has a lot of genes from the Monroe side, that’s for sure. But I’m not sure I like all of them.
    “I don’t know, Dad,” I say, even though calling him that feels so wrong deep inside.
    “What don’t you know?”
    Why I’m here. Where this is. And what it all means. “I just don’t know … if I’m in this for the long haul,” I say vaguely. “I might leave … soon.” Like tomorrow, when I wake up back on Rolling Rock Road.
    He laughs softly. “You’re not going anywhere, Ayla. Just do what you’re best at.”
    “What’s that?” I really want to know, but I’m a little scared what the answer is going to be.
    “Play both ends against the middle, that’s what. How could I blame you?” His lip quirks. “You’ve inherited so many of my most impressive traits.”
    He snaps the card onto the desk, next to a single pen. That’s all that he has on his huge block of gleaming wood. Just imagine how much of my dad’s junk this surface could hold.
    But this man, this dream dad, is so not like my dad.
    He slides the card toward me. “Go ahead. Take it. Use it. And do your job. Sneak around a little. Ask some questions. See if you can get her to trust you.”
    Blood money, that’s what he’s offering. Well, blood credit. But maybe with this card, I can convince my new best friends not to steal. With that pathetic rationalization in my head, I reach for the card. As I do, Jim’s phone beeps with a digital melody, and he grabs it before the third note and presses it to his ear.
    “Well, hello there,” he says softly, pushing away from the desk and getting up to walk to the bar, his voice so different and … warm.
    What’s she thirsty for now? Or is this someone else?
    I stand there, but he gives me a dismissive wave and shoulders the phone, laughing softly.
    “I thought you’d like that,” he says, his tone entirely different. “It was the least I could do after …” He glances back to see me riveted to my spot; then he points to the door. “Get out,” he mouths.
    I turn and walk out of the room, knowing instinctively to close the door behind me. As I reach the end of the hall, I turn to find Mom standing right there. Her expression is pained as she looks down at the card in my hand.
    “What’s that for?”
    I just stare at it, then her. “Um, Dad gave me this for … supplies. For a school project.” The words taste sour in my mouth. Have I ever flat-out lied to my mom before?
    But this isn’t my mom. This is some other woman who …
    Who is she? She is Emily, deep inside, the same person I just shopped with at Walmart—
    That’s when all this started. That day in the store, that magazine, that iPhone app and the Picture-Perfect mirror.Maybe Jimbo is right. Maybe she does know
something
. Like what I’m doing here.
    I stuff the card into my back pocket. “Mom, can I talk to you?”
    She looks at me, her eyes impossible to read, like there’s a veil over them. Not the bright, open eyes of my mother, my
real
mother.
    “I’m tired, Ayla.”
    “It won’t take long.” I angle my head toward the hall. “Let’s go into the kitchen and …” With Mom, it was always tea. I’d drink hot chocolate at night, and she’d drink tea. “Have some tea.”
    She frowns, a creaseless effort. “I don’t drink tea, Ayla. And I’m too tired to talk.” She passes me, heading up the stairs.
    “But, Mom, I really want to talk to you.”
    She shakes her head and continues on her way.
    “You’re just going to ignore me?” I call out to her. I mean, she is my mom. On any planet.
    She turns around. “I already talked to your brother, Ayla. Don’t waste your