"Darling Darlene, Darlene Darlingggg"
Arlo skunked around the kitchen. At nine, he was two years older and a whole foot shorter than me. He was wearing his favorite gangster t-shirt, with a baseball cap jammed on his straight blonde hair.
I turned my full attention to the muffins in my toy stove. That failing, I stuffed my ears to dim out Arlo's not-so-funny sing-song.
Somehow, 'his secret' made me feel a tad less annoyed.
I have a secret to tell you. Yesterday I discovered that my suspicion had been right all along.
Arlo is not my brother. He is adopted. And he is most probably an alien in disguise.
