The First To Know. Abigail Johnson

matches I found and contacted, and longer still if I needed information from any of them to track down closer relatives. Still, I couldn’t stop the excitement buzzing through me. Family for Dad. Family that I found—with Selena’s help, but that I made happen. That would be worth more than all the softball games she ever won him.

      * * *

      I turned out to be right: six to eight weeks did not go fast. As we approached the six-week mark, it became impossible to focus in Biology, my last class before lunch. Not even Nick working up the nerve to ask me out—something he’d started but abandoned the last three days in a row—could completely hold my attention.

      He sucked in a deep breath. “Dana, I was wondering if... I mean...do you...” A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead and he gave up yet again. “Can I borrow a pen?”

      So close, I thought, passing Nick a pen. I could have asked him out, but I really needed him to find that initial bit of courage. Otherwise I’d end up running all over him in a relationship and that wouldn’t be good for either of us.

      Glancing at the clock again, I didn’t have any more time to give Nick in the hopes that he’d try again before class ended. “Hey, so if I leave early, can you cover for me with Mr. Rodriguez?” I was already packing up my stuff and eyeing our teacher, who was helping a student in the back row. “I need to be home when the mail is delivered or else my dad might get it first. Just tell him I went to the bathroom if he notices I’m gone.” And then I slipped out the door, mouthing thanks to a dumbstruck Nick as I did.

      Our house was only a few miles from Superstition Springs High School on the outskirts of Apache Junction, tucked into a development of identical midsize homes that were distinguished from each other only by the cars parked out front. In our case, Mom’s red mini SUV and Dad’s silver hatchback. We had a corner lot, which meant we had twice as much backyard as our neighbors and could practice a little without having to drive to a park. That had been the number one selling point of the home, the trade-off being that it had only three smallish bedrooms, one of which we converted into Mom and Dad’s office because the large bay window afforded it the most natural light. It also gave me a perfectly unobstructed view to spy through. I slowed as I drove by, banking on the hope that they’d both be too consumed in their work to look up and recognize my car. Sure enough, Mom was fastidiously writing code on her computer, while Dad was filling his with design mock-ups for whatever website they were currently working on—I could never keep track. It was a good business, one that allowed Dad to set his own hours and still coach our high school softball team while giving Mom’s analytical mind the challenge she craved since she had to code whatever designs he came up with. A right brain and a left brain working together in near-perfect harmony.

      Neither glanced up as I drove by, but they would if I pulled into the driveway, so I had to be insane and park around the block, skulk/sprint through neighbors’ yards and duck behind the bougainvillea bushes in front of our house. Then I spent the next twenty minutes crouched and pulling pink petals out of my hair while waiting to accost the mail carrier before she reached our house.

      I’d never felt more excited in my life.

      As soon as I heard the distinctive sound of the mail truck, I started disentangling myself from branches, emerging from my hiding spot just as Dad stepped outside. I didn’t know how he missed me diving back into the bushes, and I really didn’t know how he failed to hear my strangled breathing as I watched him share a greeting with the blue-clad mail carrier and then slowly walk back into the house with a stack of envelopes. The DNA test results were addressed to me, but I hadn’t wanted to risk Dad seeing my name along with the DNA Detective logo in the corner and asking questions—and he would ask questions—so I could only hold my breath and wait while he stood in the entryway, shuffling the first letter to the back, then the second, and on and on while I tried not to have a heart attack. But then he tossed the stack on the table and closed the door behind him. I leaned my head back against the stucco-covered wall, my heart jackhammering in my chest.

      After that day, I started leaving Biology earlier and earlier, as soon as attendance was taken, so that I could be home before the mail in case it came early. But the real problem was Dad. Twice more that week he beat me to the mail, which meant two more near heart attacks for me. Not good. Plus, while Nick might have had trouble expressing his feelings for me, he was a lot less reticent when it came to his thoughts on me skipping out early.

      Nick had a perfect attendance record. He’d even come back to school after having his wisdom teeth removed during lunch hour. He understood why I was leaving early, but he really, really didn’t want to be a part of covering for me. So far, Mr. Rodriguez’s move-around-the-room-as-you-will policy had kept my absence from being noticed, but Nick was growing increasingly unsettled by the prospect. It probably didn’t help that he abandoned several more attempts to ask me out. Each class, it was worse, the sweating, the nervous glances, the bouncing leg under our shared desk. I made a huge mistake one day when I pressed Nick’s knee still with my hand. He made the most insane noise, somewhere between a yelp and a gasp. Needless to say, the entire class—including Mr. Rodriguez—turned in our direction. Nick’s face was on fire, and I was too distracted by the need to beat the mail to play off Nick’s outburst convincingly. For the rest of class, Mr. Rodriguez watched us too closely for me to slip away. I was almost as agitated as Nick by the time the bell rang and I could race home. Thankfully, the results didn’t come that day either.

      When the mail truck started down our street on Wednesday, Dad heard it as soon as I did. He looked out the window, pushed back his chair and stood up. Mom was softly head-banging to the heavy metal music pounding through her earbuds, oblivious to anything else. I started counting steps while watching the approaching truck. Five to the hall. Ten to the front door. He was going to beat me again.

      I pulled my phone out and called home. Seconds later, I heard it ringing inside and, through the windows, saw Dad head back to the office to answer it.

      “Dana?”

      “Hi, Dad. I think I left my History homework on my desk upstairs. I can come by before lunch is over if it’s there, but could you check for me?” As soon as he moved to the stairs, I slid out of the bushes and waved at the mail carrier while directing Dad to search every random spot I could think of in my room. “It might have fallen behind my desk—can you pull it out and check?”

      He put the phone down but I heard his grunt of effort as the mail was placed into my waiting hands.

      “I’m not seeing it anywhere. Are you sure you left it? Dana?”

      I was only half listening as I sorted through random bills and magazines. “Did you look under the bed?”

      He said something about my messy room, but I didn’t hear it, because the second letter from the bottom was from DNA Detective.

      The envelope shook in my hand along with my voice. “It’s here.”

      “Look more carefully next time. And you’re cleaning your room the second you get home today, do you understand me?”

      I hurried to put the rest of the mail in the mailbox. “I will. Thanks for checking. Love you, Dad.”

      “You too.”

      For once I didn’t care that he didn’t say it back. Mom always said he had a hard time verbally expressing love since he’d had so little growing up without a family, but just because he rarely said the word didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. I did know he loved me, and once he opened his birthday present, I’d get to feel it full force.

      As soon as I was around the corner, I tore into the envelope. I skipped the geographic-ancestry and health reports as fast as I could shuffle the pages, until I had it: the possible-relative list. At first the onslaught of information was overwhelming. On the left were default symbols indicating the gender of each potential relative; next to that was the percentage of DNA Dad shared with each person, followed by the predicted relationship. Most were listed as third to fifth cousins, but I barely saw them.

      The top result had a 47 percent DNA match, with the predicted relationship listed as “father or son.”