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He flips the page on his textbook and gestures for me to sit down and read it with him.
“So, I’m reading about epigenetics, which is the modification of gene expression, rather than alteration of the genetic code itself.”
He’s not reading that out of the book. He’s just rattling it off out of his own brain. Vic is so damn smart. That’s why I can’t stand the thought of him throwing his life away on some menial job—or worse, no job at all. Rotting in a prison cell because he made the mistake of trusting a guy like Levi.
“But look here,” he says, pointing. “Here they’re talking about inherited mutations. This one’s on the FOXC2 gene. It’s called distichiasis. It’s the same mutation that Elizabeth Taylor had. It gives you a double row of eyelashes.”
“That’s cool,” I say, trying to remember exactly what Elizabeth Taylor looked like.
“I have it, too!” Vic says proudly.
“What?” I lean in to examine his face.
He does have very thick eyelashes. It made him look like a girl when he was little—especially when we didn’t cut his hair often enough.
“How do you know you have it?” I ask him.
“Cause look—the lashes aren’t just thick. They grow in two lines.”
I look closely at his eyes. It’s true—the lashes grow on top of each other, not just in a single row.
“Is that . . . bad?” I ask him.
“It can cause irritation,” he says. “Not for me, luckily. Distichiasis is really rare. But it’s an autosomal dominant disorder.”
I stare at him blankly.
“Passed from parent to child,” he adds helpfully.
“Did Mom have it?”
Vic frowns. “How should I know?”
I sometimes forget that he doesn’t remember her at all. She never came to visit him, after that night she dropped him off at the house.
I think our dad talked to her sometimes. In fact, I’m almost sure of it, after what Ali said. The only way my mom could have gotten that picture of me is if Dad gave it to her.
Ali said my mom kept it on her mirror. That doesn’t make me feel good.
Actually, it pisses me off. She had no right to look at a picture of me, when she couldn’t be bothered to come see her real, actual daughter, who was still living in the same damn neighborhood as her.
“That’s really cool,” I say to Vic, trying to shake thoughts of our mother out of my head. “Glad to see you studying.”
“I should have time to finish the whole course before the summer’s up,” he tells me.
“That’s great, Vic. I’m proud of you, dude.”
I ruffle his caramel-colored hair, as I stand up from the table.
Vic really is a good-looking kid. He got a lot of our mom’s best features, though he’s more fair.
I try to remember if my mom had thick eyelashes. She had big, dark eyes like me and Vic. But I don’t know if the lashes were anything special.
Actually, much as I hate to admit it, I’ve only ever seen one person with lashes like Vic: Bella Page. And I’ve known her long enough to know she’s had them since we were kids. They’re not extensions like so many girls are getting these days. She’s always had thick, black lashes even when she was a skinny blonde kid . . .
My stomach gives a strange squeeze inside of me.
I saw Bella’s parents once at our high school graduation ceremony. Her mom was slim and blonde, much like Bella. Her father was tall, with a shiny bald head. But he did have one rather striking feature: thick, dark eyebrows and lashes. They made his eyes look oddly feminine in an otherwise masculine face.
