“Charlie told me that it was Dad’s childhood in the South that gave him the idea to have transitional housing.” A frown creased Blythe’s forehead. It was the look she got when she was having trouble with an algebra proof: half irritation and half determination. “Did you know after he left home, he was homeless, sleeping in Greyhound stations and parks for a few weeks?”
I swallowed down guilt, lifting my thumb to my lower lip. I looked at my thumbnail, wanting the soothing feeling of the words filling me and spilling out. But I put my hand down. “Yeah. I knew he’d had some adventures.”
“Don’t you want to hear about Dad’s dream?” Blythe reached across me and stole a piece of scone. A blueberry popped out of the flaky dough and landed in the grass.
I tilted my head back against the tree, wondering why I didn’t want to hear about Dad’s dream. But—I didn’t. I didn’t even want to hear about it, let alone live in it. “Why didn’t he tell us himself? If this was his dream, and he didn’t want to be our dad, why didn’t he just tell us?”
“I don’t think it’s one or the other,” Blythe said, her tone even, practical.
“But it was.” I sat up. “He was planning to leave Mom, leave you and me, and live here full-time.”
“But only after we went to college.” Blythe’s brow creased further.
“Is that when you’re planning to stop being my sister? You’ll go off to MIT and leave me at Cal State. Is that when we won’t be a family anymore?” I felt the scone crumbling in the napkin. I squeezed it the way I’d squeezed my finger.
“Stop being ridiculous.” Blythe stood up and tapped her Converse on the tree. “Just come inside and apologize to Mom for walking out. And apologize to me for leaving me to eat an omelet in the most awkward silence ever.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry about the awkward omelet. But I’m not apologizing to Mom. If anything, she should be apologizing to us. And Charlie? He should be getting the house ready to sell.”
“Charlie’s not that bad, you know.” She kicked the tree again, her eyes skittering to mine, then away, as if she knew she’d said the wrong thing. “He’s the one who taught Dad snap-crackle-pop.” She clapped her hands together and pulled them apart, making a loud pop. When we were little, she and I slapped palms until our fingers hurt, trying to make a pop sound as loud as our dad could. Blythe wore a little smile, as if it were so easy to replace one hand with another. As if you could replace one dad with another.
I stood and threw the scone to the grass, the napkin swirling through the air behind it. “What is wrong with you? Charlie’s not our dad. And this shouldn’t have to be our life. They need to sell the house. And we need to move away from him.” I turned and started off before she could stop me, sweeping my thumbnail over my bottom lip. The words came as fast as the sting of tears. “One and one is—one. One and one is—one. Two is done. Done.”
This was the final proof—twins were nothing more than two people. Two people with nothing in common.
12
I DWELL IN THE IMPOSSIBLE—
At number six Magnolia, no one spoke to anyone for the rest of the day, which meant I had a lot of time to make the fabric on the subjonctif board look just right. But when I walked into class on Tuesday, I saw we were the only ones with recycled poster board. Everyone else had laptops, laser pointers, and those wireless slide clickers. Had we done this big project completely wrong?
As I watched a clearly professionally edited video, I wondered if Kai had been wrong about “old-school.” I glanced down at our fabric swatch–covered board. Maybe the poster board we’d made wasn’t charming, but boring. “We can’t compete with this,” I whispered.
Kai turned his head, but shrugged. “We have personality.”
I sunk my thumbnail into the edge of the board. “Could we ask for an extension? Just until tomorrow?”
Monsieur Cade’s voice rang out: “Pas de parler!” No talking! Rolly rules were so strict.
“Seriously,” Kai whispered, and the back of his hand touched mine. He brushed his knuckles past mine. Once. Twice. “We’re good.” Then his fingers twined with mine. My heart tumbled in my chest. He was right. I was worried for no reason. They’d love our décoration intérieure poster board. Clapping filled the classroom, and the light flicked on. We dropped hands.
“Mademoiselle Braxton. Monsieur Thompson.” Monsieur Cade was bearing down on us, his cheek pulsing in anger. “You are dismissed. Return when you can stay silent.”
“But . . .” Kai’s mouth dropped open. “We were next.”
“Ne pas maintenant.” Not anymore. Monsieur Cade strode to the door.
“Mais c’est notre tourner.” But it’s our turn, Kai said, putting on his best good-student smile.
Monsieur Cade gestured for us to leave. Were we seriously getting kicked out of class for whispering? This was so much worse than a low grade on an assignment. Monsieur Cade nodded to the door. “On y va.” Go on.
The classroom twittered. I couldn’t let this be over. Pinpricks tickled my arms. Kai tossed his French book into his bag with a thud and stood. His face was bright red, and he didn’t look at me. I grabbed the subjonctif board and held it up like a shield. I was going to get us out of this. That or get us suspended.
“Arrête!” My hands were shaking where I held the poster board. Kai stopped and turned to me. He gave me the universal look for: Seriously, do not make this worse for us. A shiver ran down my spine. Breathe. I rubbed my thumbnail over my lower lip—just once—just to calm myself down, but once was too much.
“Je demeure dans la possibilité. Je demeure dans la possibilité—” I dwell in possibility. I dwell in possibility. My fingernails sunk into the poster board, stopping my French poeting. I turned to Monsieur Cade, and the worst French of my life tumbled out. “This was all my fault. I was nervous so much. Because of I’m new to—at—in this school. Because all we have is this terrible paper and these other excellent students have cinematographers. Please, please, let us have a turn? Please? Please? Did I mention I was born just the other day?”
Kai’s mouth hung open. The classroom twitters became snickers. Monsieur Cade looked at me strangely then let the classroom door close. “Je demeure dans la possibilité? Emily Dickinson, non? Mon poète favori.” Emily Dickinson was his favorite poet? He crossed and uncrossed his arms. Then he nodded. “Cinq minute. Et après, Mademoiselle Le Principal.”
I stood slack-jawed for three heartbeats. Then I turned to Kai, who was staring blankly at me. I mouthed Come on and gestured for him to get up as I fumbled our poster board and dropped my notecards to the ground. When he figured out what was going on, Kai hurried to the front of the class, wide-eyed and nervy, and welcomed our clients. He explained our fabric choices and gestured to where the “houndstooth” sofa would go. But he kept saying the wrong form of the verb as he described what we “had done,” instead of what we “would do.” So I kept correcting him. And then it began to seem as if he was doing it on purpose, and I began rolling my eyes and pretending to be upset with him, and the class began to laugh. Monsieur Cade even smiled once, right before he sent us to the principal.
Our backpacks thumping along, we walked in silence toward the main office. After the no talking fiasco, which was, admittedly, 90 percent my fault, I was afraid Kai would never speak to me again. He kept his eyes straight ahead the whole way through the breezeway, so I did, too. But as we ducked into the office and handed the receptionist our shameful yellow infraction notices, Kai shot me a conspiratorial look. Maybe getting kicked out of class was only 75 percent my fault?
The receptionist lifted his brows and pointed down the hallway. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but clearly Kai was, because he trudged to the end of the hall and stopped outside Principal Chambliss’s door. He dropped his backpack and sat down in one of two wooden chairs. I did the same, afraid to ask what we were waiting for.
&n
bsp; I pulled my knees to my chest, my cheeks burning. “I’m sorry I got us in trouble with my unchecked school-related anxiety.” I could hear a litany against my actions in my mind: having side conversations during a peer’s presentation, talking back to a teacher, poeting in another language. “Is this going to mess up your GPA?” I asked.
I held my breath as he looked over at me. His lashes were so long they drooped at the edges, casting shadows on his cheeks. I let one of my legs flop down, and he tapped my foot with his. “I guess we’ll see.” A door opened and closed at the front of the office, and we both glanced down the hall. When it had been quiet for a while, we looked back to each other. He didn’t look mad, but maybe I didn’t know him well enough to know his mad face. Then he wrinkled his nose. “So, are you the president of the Emily Dickinson Fan Club, or what?”
I was tempted to pull my leg up, curl into a ball, and play wombat until he went away, but then he tapped my foot with his again. I looked at his striped Adidas beside my brown boots with the multicolored stacked heel. “No . . . I just have a weird little habit of poeting when I get nervous.”
He let out a short laugh. “Poeting, huh?” He pulled his Hacky Sack from a pocket. “No weirder than most people’s habits.”
We sat in silence, glancing toward the closed door of the principal’s office. “So, come here often?” I asked, not sure what I wanted the answer to be. Too many of the kids at Rolly were so . . . sweater set. I wanted more glitter. More sparkle. More Kate Spade.
He threw the Hacky in the air then caught it, turning it in his hand. “Let’s just say it’s not my first time waiting in this hallway.” He glanced back toward the assistant’s desk.
“Should I be worried?” I really didn’t need to get into more trouble with my mom, especially now—it was only a matter of time before she found out I broke Charlie’s kitchen window. “Delinquency’s never gone with my look before, but I could adjust my wardrobe.”
“I’m not sure you could stand out more if you tried,” he said, leaning into my shoulder a bit, like he was telling me a secret. My face flushed, and I dug my thumbnail into my hip to keep my hands by my sides. The truth was, I’d never wanted to wear anything other than what I liked; my dad said it showed confidence. I wasn’t sure I believed him then—when I wore one of my mom’s altered prom dresses to the first day of high school—or now, sitting here, trying not to chew my lip. And not, under any circumstance, to poet.
I shook my head. “It’s Emma who’s truly original. I find cool clothes, and I’m not afraid to wear them, but she—”
“You’re not afraid of a lot of things. What did you say to Cade back there anyhow? You saved my ass. I had two games this weekend, and work, and I didn’t have time to study. And I should have. French is my toughest language.”
“You speak more than one language?” I asked.
He nodded, then shrugged. “For Doctors Without Borders. I know French, Tagalog, and a little English. Oh, and pidgin.”
I purred in a pigeon impersonation. “What did I just say?”
Kai busted up. I hadn’t heard him really laugh. It was loud and throaty and bigger than his wiry frame would suggest. And it kind of gave me the chills. “Hawaiian pidgin.” He said. “My mom’s taught me some. It’s like English and Japanese and I don’t know what else.”
“So you’re Hawaiian, and you speak like, twelve languages, and you’re one of only seven people at this school who know what style looks like . . . What other amazing things don’t I know about you?”
“Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “There are some not-so-amazing things—” Outside, the rising commotion of passing period brought shouts and shuffles, slammed lockers and slapped palms. On the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, Emma walked by, a single-sleeved dress swirling around her. She looked over and stopped midstride. She made the motion for: What in the world did you do to be sent to the principal’s office?
I pointed at Kai. Then he pointed at me. He pushed my hand away, and I pushed back. Then he grabbed my hand, pointing with his other hand, and I grabbed back, and we were laughing, our hands linked with each of us trying to pull away to point blame at the other. When I turned back to Emma, she was walking away. Kai blinked, his eyes still on the place she’d disappeared. I pulled my hands from his quickly.
I didn’t know what I’d been thinking. Or, I’d been feeling, but not thinking.
“We should be studying,” I said, just as he said:
“What you don’t know is—” His eyes were wide. My hope bird peeked out from a fluff of feathers. I knew I should shove that bird away, but I just couldn’t. I nodded for Kai to go ahead. “I don’t have a car.” His voice was low. “I don’t have a family estate, not even one that’s falling apart. I’m lucky to get new shoes when mine get holes. I can’t take you anywhere that costs more than five dollars. But I know all the hidden paths in the Thornewood Rose Garden. If you wanted to go. Maybe today?” He tapped the heels of his Adidas in a way that said maybe he hadn’t just grabbed my hand in class to stop me from freaking out. Maybe he wanted to hold my hand. “I don’t have practice.”
He was watching me carefully. I tried to think of Emma, to frown or shake my head. I tried. But I couldn’t do anything but smile and nod. He let out a long breath and flashed a gleaming, gorgeous, show-all-his-teeth grin in return. He turned from sharp and striking to warm and sweet, and with a sudden rush I realized he was holding my hand. “So, is that a yes?”
“Don’t let me interrupt.” An African American woman with long braids wearing a dark suit and amazing purple lipstick stood over us, her arms crossed. “I’m only the principal of the high school with the single most excellence awards in all the Greater Pacific West. But I’m sure your side conversations are more important than keeping us in first place. Of course they are.” She took off her glasses and twisted her mouth. “But what if I let everyone break the rules? No more awards for my trophy shelf. Then what would I put on my shelf?”
She looked from me to Kai as if our heads might be the answer. “Elevate your flirtation in the hallways. And never on my time.” Then she turned and shut the door behind her. We sat in silence for several heartbeats.
“That’s it? No detention?” I asked. Kai shrugged. “They keep us in line through fear alone?”
“Do they need more?” he asked, and gave me a wicked grin. He pulled me to my feet, and we hurried toward our next classes, a minute until the bell. In the breezeway, he squeezed my hand, then let go. When I sat down breathless beside Blythe in Civics, I could still feel his palm against mine . . . and his fingerprints on my heart.
13
THE HEART ASKS PLEASURE FIRST, FIRST, FIRST
The clang of last bell was still in the air when I walked to the quad to meet Kai. I didn’t know what I would say to him, but I had to either tell him I couldn’t go on a maybe-date to the rose garden, or let him know what Emma had told me: that he was already taken.
As if she could feel me thinking about her, Emma messaged me: Got a peek at Grandmamma’s calendar. Beware surprise inspection Thursday! My thumb hovered over the forward icon, ready to send it to my mom. But I couldn’t deal with it right now.
In the quad, I found Blythe and Emma talking poetic mash-ups, their project for Honors English. Blythe looked like she was about to hyperventilate as she tried to remember the first line of some John Donne poem. I was looking it up for her when Kai came around the corner, tossing his Hacky Sack in the air. When he saw us, he stopped and threw it high, then caught it on the back of his neck. He popped it off and caught it again. Nate ran up behind him and snatched the Hacky out of the air. His hair flocked out from the sides of his head like wings. What was with that hair?
“Juvenile,” Blythe said, and I looked from her to Nate.
Nate kept his eyes on her as he hopped up on a quad bench and placed a hand over his heart like a Shakespearean actor.
“Friends. October is nigh. We are in the last days of sunshine. What shall be done about this?” I glanced around. Kai hadn’t told Nate about our plans, and Emma clearly didn’t know. And I hadn’t had a chance to tell Blythe. I glanced at Kai. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Why wasn’t I?
I realized I could solve the problem of the maybe-date right now. “Let’s all go to the rose garden,” I said.
Blythe shook her head. “We have homework.”
“Come on,” Nate said, saving me from an argument. “We can review the great American poets while enjoying the great outdoors.” Agreement passed through our circle, but as we walked to Nate’s car, I glanced at Kai to find him watching me, his brow furrowed. Then I glanced at Emma.
It was the right decision. No regretting it now.
The mayor of Thornewood was bald, stocky, and stately. Everything a statue should be. Nate ran up to the statue and leapt in the air to high-five him. “Hello, old friend!”
The rose garden grew in the valley of Thornewood’s hillside. From the lower entrance, winding trails curved up to a pillared central building, and a stone stairway led to a misting fountain. But the rest of the paths were shrouded with overgrown vines and rosebushes, hidden by crumbly half-stone walls and flashes of wilting, once-colorful flowers. At the statue, Blythe read aloud: “‘Johnston McMichaels. First mayor of Thornewood. Founder, Beautification and Historic District Society.’ Too many titles? Or just enough?”
“Is the first mayor of Thornewood your great-grandpa?” I asked.
“And he’s still alive. Why do you think Grandmamma gets away with being such a historic nuisance? I should say hello. On Tuesdays she does garden tours.” Emma winked at Kai. “I’ll ask if she’ll give the tour in Latin.” She walked up the hill toward the building.
When she was gone, I took a tiny step closer to Kai and tapped his elbow. “You didn’t list Latin among your talents.”
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