1 BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY It’s a bright Saturday morning in June, and I’m lounging in my terry-cloth yoga pants in my family’s large kitchen. On the table sits a carafe of coffee, just-baked lemon-poppy muffins, and a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from our orange tree in the front yard. Out the window, the Arizona sky is a postcard-perfect robin’s-egg blue, and a hummingbird flits to the feeder hanging over the back patio. It would be an idyllic, peaceful moment—if it wasn’t for my little sister, Laurel, being such a pain. “Pleeeeease, Sutton?” Laurel flutters her long eyelashes at me. Her voice is grating. “You told me I could ride with you to the Vegas’. I’m failing Spanish, and Thayer is my only hope! You promised!” I pour myself a glass of juice. “I never promised anything like that.” “Yes, you did.” Laurel pouts. “You’re going over there anyway to see Mads. What’s the big deal?” I stare at Laurel, taking in her long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and pink, pouty lips. We couldn’t look more different—I have dark hair and am tall and thin compared to her short, curvy frame. Then again, I’m adopted, while she’s our parents’ biological daughter. We’re not even in the same gene pool. Laurel’s bottom lip trembles like she’s about to cry. “You’re being overdramatic,”