The waiter takes our drink orders—mint iced tea for me and orange soda for Kyle—and then disappears. Our table is right up against the window, and with my back to the rest of the dining room, it feels like we’re all alone in the place.

I make an effort to forgive Kyle his slouching and ask, “How was the surf today?”

“Wicked,” he says, sitting forward. “The wind kicked up right at high tide and there were some killer waves.”

I smile, but even I know there aren’t really killer waves at Ocean Beach. Down the coast, maybe, but up here the waters are a little less . . . gnarly, as Kyle would put it.

“Must have crested at six feet or more,” he continues. “Yokie took a header and almost cracked his skull on his board.”

Yokie is actually Eric Yokelson, and he is my least favorite of Kyle’s friends. He doesn’t go to St. Stephen, doesn’t even go to private school, which alone isn’t enough to indict him. Despite what my alleged sisters might think, even I’m not snob enough to think the only people of quality are those who can afford private school. No, it’s more that he has hit on me every time we’ve met. And not a subtle Hmmm-was-that-a-pass-or-not? hit, but a full on, get-the-heck-out-of-my-face come-on. I try to avoid being around him.

I wouldn’t cry if he had cracked his skull on his surfboard.

Kyle is still going on about today’s surfing when the waiter brings our drinks and takes our appetizer orders. I thank him for the tea and let Kyle order for both of us. Taking a sip of tea, letting the cool earthy taste invade my mouth, I glance out over the Bay.

The fog is thin tonight, and even in the faint light of dusk I can make out the craggy outline of Alcatraz. At night, when the tourists are gone and the only inhabitants are gulls and a pair of National Park Service guards, the island looks positively eerie. A glowing monument to a haunted past.

“Hope you’re in the mood for calamari,” Kyle says, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.

My lip starts to sneer, but I quickly get it back under control. Kyle knows how I feel about fried foods—or at least he should. In the year we’ve been dating, I’ve made it perfectly clear that nothing soaked in oil will ever enter my system to threaten my perfect complexion. My aesthetician would have a fit.

He must sense my displeasure, because he leans forward quickly and says, “Grilled, of course.”

“Grilled,” I repeat with a genuine smile. “Sounds perfect.”

Thank goodness he got that right. After he made me drive here, I might have to leave if he ordered something he should know I don’t eat.

Kyle looks relieved by my pleasure.

“What about you, babe?” he asks. “How was your day?”

How was my day? Where do I even begin? School was routine and I spent the afternoon finalizing details for the alumnae tea. On any other day, the details of my argument with Veronica would be the perfect dinner conversation, but all I can think about is the doorbell ringing and opening the door to find my look-alikes standing there, telling me crazy stories about monsters and Gorgons.

That’s not exactly the sort of thing you tell your boyfriend over grilled calamari. Or, at least, that’s not exactly the sort of thing I tell Kyle over grilled calamari.

I haven’t even fully processed the information yet. I’m not ready to tell anyone I’m probably adopted, let alone the other ridiculous stuff.

So, in the interest of an enjoyable dinner, I recount the phone conversation with Veronica about her ice-sculptor boyfriend.

“A dragon ice sculpture?” Kyle asks, his voice a little too full of awe for my taste. “Sounds radical.”

I clench my jaw. It’s not his use of entirely outdated slang—he’s single-handedly trying to bring back the eighties’ surfer lingo—that bothers me. He’s my boyfriend and he’s supposed to take my side. In everything.

Guess who’s not getting a good-night kiss.

“Sorry, babe,” he says, trying to sound contrite. “I know you hate the idea, but it might be way awesome.”

“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to get into another fight today. I’ve got bigger things on my mind. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Ah, thank you, my man.” Kyle changes track as the waiter arrives with our appetizer. He grins at me. “Fruits of the sea.”

I can’t help but smile back. It’s hard to stay mad at Kyle for long—his grin is infectious. And tonight I’d welcome having his carefree attitude about everything.

While he squeezes fresh lemon over the plate, I look out the window again. For the rest of the evening I promise to let go of all the things that have gone wrong today. I will sit here with my boyfriend, enjoying a five-star meal, while I look out over the—

“What the—?”

Kyle looks up, a forkful of calamari halfway to his mouth. “What, babe?”

I quickly look away from the scene below. That can’t be happening.

“What?” I ask, my voice high and startled. I swallow and try again. “Why?”

“You just said, ‘What the—?’ like you saw something crazy.” He looks down at the water below, looking for whatever startled me.

“It’s nothing,” I insist in a rush, trying to get his attention away from what I cannot possibly have actually seen. “I was thinking. About the dragon ice sculpture.” I resist the urge to glance back down out of fear that it might still be there. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”