Get Real by Betty Hicks Page B

radio? I heard the most exciting finish in the history of college basketball on a radio? If I’d been home, at least I could have seen it on TV.
    â€œLook. They had to drive all the way back to Greensboro,” Jil says defensively. “That put them home a whole hour later than us, ya know. And it was late. And Penny’s only ten.”
    The silence in the room is almost as deafening as the one that followed the three-point shot that sent the game into overtime. It’s probably just as loud as the silence immediately before the second overtime. Maybe even before the third one.
    But how would I know? I wasn’t there.
    Three overtimes! And I had to listen to all of them on a radio that was turned down so low—so as not to wake up the child who was still wearing my T-shirt—that I could barely hear it.
    And then, when we got to my house, Jane says, “I hate to wake her up. Can you wait until next week to get your shirt?”
    And Jil gulps and answers, “Okay.”
    I remember the gulp. I heard it. So, Jil does feel rotten about this whole thing. She has to. She just doesn’t want to admit it.
    Okay, I think. I can relate to that. Embarrassing family members. I can relate to that totally.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I apologize into the dark of the room. “It is a school night. And they probably have no clue how big that game is.”
    Jil’s sheets rustle. I hear a tiny whimper. The sheets rustle again.
    â€œJil?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAre you crying?”
    â€œNo.” Her voice cracks.
    â€œYes, you are.”
    â€œOh, Dez,” says Jil. And then all I hear is sobbing.
    I switch on my lamp. “Jil, it’s okay. Honest. Do you know how lucky I feel to have been there at all? I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Jil,” I plead, “stop crying. Please. I’m such a jerk!”
    â€œTurn off the light.”
    â€œIf I do, will you talk to me?”
    â€œAbout what?” Jil is lying with her back to me, her arms over her head as if she’s protecting herself from someone swinging a baseball bat.
    â€œAbout everything!” I shout.
    â€œFine,” Jil answers flatly. “Just turn off the light.”
    So, I do. And for the next hour, we talk about everything I’ve wanted to talk about since the day she met her mother. She even confesses that her parents were hurt.
    â€œSeeing them upset,” says Jil, “it killed me. But Dez, ever since I can remember, I’ve had this dream that my real mother is my fairy godmother. She has wings that I can see through, and she’s wearing a dress with soft fabric that floats around her like a cloud. And she fixes all my problems.”
    I’m picturing Mrs. Lewis, but I know Jil is imagining someone else.
    â€œThen I wake up,” Jil continues, “and I know how stupid that is. Only I can’t stop myself from dreaming it. “But I have this wide-awake dream, too.”
    I hear her nestling back under the covers.
    â€œHave you ever had someone tell you that you look exactly like their brother’s friend in Cincinnati or somewhere?”
    â€œYeah,” I answer. “My aunt Mary says I look just like the girl who lives three doors down from her. And once, when I was going into a movie, somebody kept calling me Ginger, and—”
    â€œExactly,” says Jil. “Well, I swear, it happens to me all the time. And every time, I wonder if I’m related to that person, or if I have a twin or a sister. And now I know.”
    â€œAre you glad you know?” I ask, hoping she won’t cry again.
    â€œYes. Definitely.”
    I wish I could see her face to see if she’s lying, but I promised I’d leave the light off.
    â€œEven more, I’ve always wanted to know why she gave me away.”
    â€œDo you know now?” I ask softly.
    â€œYeah. Because she had to. I mean, she was having a baby, and my dad wanted to marry