“There you are.” Emma flopped onto the opposite beanbag. She was a little droopy-eyed and unsteady. She grabbed a Hacky Sack from the row of colorful bags, and Kai stood and walked to the window. I settled into the warm spot his body had left, wishing we were still curled up together. I took a deep breath, trying to settle my pounding heart. I glanced at him, and saw he was retucking his shirt and straightening his collar. He met my eyes with a shy smile.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” Nate said, and pointed to the Donkey Kong arcade game. “Old-school cool.” Blythe lifted her brows. She was very into video games, true, but she was also extremely selective. She started to reach for the joystick, but Emma leapt up and grabbed it first. Nate slipped two quarters into the machine, and Emma squealed when the screen lit up. She was definitely not herself. Maybe Kai was right, and she wouldn’t remember this tomorrow.
As Emma slammed the game around, Blythe sat down across from me, looking either very bored or very tolerant, and tossed me a Hacky Sack. Nate intercepted it, then tossed it on.
“I said right, you stupid monkey!” Emma’s blond hair turned all flyaway as she leapt up and down. I glanced up at Kai, who was watching me, gently biting his lower lip and smiling. My heart lurched, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. I looked too long and the Hacky Sack hit me square in the nose. It fell to my lap. I glared at Blythe, who was laughing.
“Sorry!” she said, and I looked down as a drop of blood fell into my hand. “Oh no,” she said as she saw what was happening. A bloody nose. At a party. With the guy who I wanted to keep kissing. Perfect. Donkey Kong made that spirally zero-zero-zero noise that means: You lose.
“You’re hurt,” Kai crossed the room, reaching toward me.
“Stop.” Blythe put up a hand. “Taking care of Sabine is my job.” Kai opened his mouth to argue, but Blythe elbowed him out of the way. She helped me up and hustled me out of the room before my nose became so bad, I’d have a blood-splattered dress. We stumbled down the hall until we found the bathroom, and cut the line.
Inside, I rinsed my hands, letting my nose drip into the sink, trying not to swallow too much blood and humiliation. I gulped a handful of water then pinched the bridge of my nose closed. I didn’t get bloody noses often—not since sixth-grade volleyball. But when I did, I got them good. “That was embarrassing,” I said.
She offered me a decorative pumpkin towel, the kind that my mom would never allow in our house, but I didn’t want to stain it, so I used toilet paper to soak up the blood. “I’m sorry about your nose,” Blythe said. “I didn’t mean to throw while you were ogling.” Her eyes shone catlike under the fluorescent lights.
I glared at her as I stuffed TP in my nostrils. “I wasn’t ogling. I was using nonverbal communication.” She gave me a flat look that said: Have you forgotten I’m your twin? So I changed the topic. “Seems like Nate is pretty into you.” She was still wearing his headband.
She fiddled with the towel, folding and refolding it. Then she picked up another one and refolded it. “I’m not sure he likes me when I’m really me-ish.”
I rolled my eyes, stuffing more TP up my nose. “You’re very you-ish all the time.”
She shook her head and grabbed another towel. “I let him answer a question in class the other day.” I tried to catch her gaze, but her eyes were on the towels.
“That you knew the answer to?” I asked. She glanced at me like: Duh. I made a face, and she carefully hung the towel on the rack. “So you do like him.” She shrugged noncommittally and handed me a new wad of toilet paper.
“I don’t want to talk about Nate. He’s confusing.” I tried to look away, but her eyes found mine in the mirror. “We need to talk about Charlie.”
I coughed, and blood splattered across the sink. “What? No.” If this nosebleed wasn’t going to ruin the night like a model falling off a runway ruins a fashion show, talking about Charlie 100 percent would.
“You should ask him about the Mission Project. It’s pretty interesting.”
“Interesting how?” I didn’t want to talk about this. I just wanted to get back to Kai. I sniffed. I tested my nose again. It was drying up. “Don’t answer that.” I stepped toward the door, but Blythe caught my arm.
“Bean.” She opened her mouth but hesitated. “I want to try to forgive him. And forgive Dad.” My hope bird got very still. My dad was dead. Forgiving him wasn’t even an option. And forgiving Charlie? Much less plausible.
“Dad lied to us, and didn’t want us,” I said, pulling her fingers off my elbow. “Dad was planning to leave us.” Why was she bringing this up now? Bringing her here tonight was supposed to get me on her good side so she’d decide to help me sabotage the house—and we could feel like sisters again. I searched around for a way to bring the conversation back to Nate, but Blythe was gathering her hair up in a ponytail, her eyes shifting back and forth, like she was thinking.
“I . . . read an article in Psychology Today.” She pulled it up on her phone and sent it to me. “It says that in the grieving process, forgiveness is the first step.”
I shook my head. “The first step to where, Blythe?” When our dad was alive, he was the mediator. Literally, he was a mediator by profession, but his skills came in handy with us. Whatever had gone wrong between us, wherever we were, he would come over and stand between us to work it out. I remembered him wading into the shallow end of the pool once, still wearing a pair of gardening shorts and a T-shirt, holding his grimy hands above the water as he said, “Let’s identify what’s at issue.”
But what happened now that he was the issue? “I don’t want to forgive, Blythe. And I don’t want to live with Charlie. And I don’t want to live in a house that’s not a home. And if you can’t see how crappy this situation is and help me try to change it because you’re so ready to forgive everyone, then you’re one more person I can’t forgive.”
I felt as if I had a Manolo stuck in my throat. I should not have told off Blythe, who I loved, and who I needed to be on my side. But it was too late. I unlocked the door and pushed through the hallway toward Kai’s room. Inside, it was now standing-room-only video-game central. I kept walking through the house, into the kitchen, and out onto the balcony. I leaned against the railing, sucking in the cool night air, feeling dizzy. I swept my thumbnail over my lower lip. “They say that time assuages.” I breathed words, in then out. Someday, my heart would feel like a closed wound, instead of an open, seeping one. “Time assuages. Time assuages. Time. Time. Just time.”
I walked back and forth, poeting beneath my breath. Through one of the house windows, I saw a slice of bunk bed. I stepped closer as Kai walked by. I stopped poeting and took a deep breath. I didn’t want my grief and anger to stop me from a good time. But just as I was about to walk back in, Emma danced past the window, trying to balance a red Solo cup on her nose. Beside her, Kai did the same. They laughed and downed their drinks. And her head fell to his shoulder. That’s when I remembered the second line of the poem: Time never did assuage.
I wanted to leave, to give up, to give in. But I swallowed it down and walked back into the party.
19
TEXT MESSAGES REALLY CAN ASSUAGE—
The next morning, I did all my homework, caught up on my favorite fashion blog, dipped into Charlie’s stash of bologna, and drank two of the fancy sodas labeled please ask before drinking without asking before drinking. But by noon, I couldn’t stand it anymore and checked my phone for texts from Kai. Three messages. I sighed in relief, slumping against the kitchen island.
After the nosebleed incident, we’d hung out and played video games, but we hadn’t been alone again the entire night, so when I left, it was with a wave and nothing more. That wave goodbye made me think I might have hallucinated the beanbag hookup, but it had really happened.
I replied to him, telling him I would be happy to visit his boy cave again soon, then put my pho
ne away so I wouldn’t be tempted to over-message and went back to the second of the two stolen sodas. My pocket buzzed. I bit my lip, wondering if Kai was done working for the day. I pulled out my phone just as Blythe tapped my shoulder and said: “Don’t run!”
I screamed and dropped my phone. It wasn’t broken, but I glared at her anyhow. “What are we? Playing hide-and-seek?”
She was frowning like she’d just seen someone insult mathematics. “I know you’re mad at me,” she said. “But I need your help.” I ignored her, my eyes on my phone, rereading Kai’s text. Kai was thinking about me. He wondered if I could come to his soccer game. I smiled.
“Bean,” she said. I was not talking about Charlie again. Or forgiveness. Or anything else. I downed the dregs of my mandarin soda. Blythe covered my phone with a wrinkled and red-marked paper. At the top was a huge C+.
I stared at the paper. “What is this?” Had she picked up one of my assignments for me? But why? I took it from her and put my phone away. When I looked more closely, I saw it wasn’t mine—it was Blythe’s. It was her poetic mash-up, and it was terrible. The teacher hadn’t been kind. She called Blythe and Nate’s poetic choices “unhinged.” And she wasn’t wrong. A mash-up of Dr. Seuss and John Donne made no sense. And I was a big Dr. Seuss fan.
“Sorry? Pretty harsh.” I handed it back to her, but she just shook her head and shoved it back into my hands.
“Fix it.” She fiddled with the edge of the rumpled and ripped assignment. “Please.” I looked at the mess of a poem in my hands. “Green Eggs and Death.” I was not touching this, not even wearing Gucci elbow-length black leather gloves. I handed it back to her.
“Kai has a soccer game, and since I’m done with my homework, I’m going to head over there.”
“Bean, wait.” Blythe rubbed the back of her hand beneath her nose, like she might be having . . . feelings. “MIT only takes the top one percent of any school. That means I have to be perfect. Please.” I just stared at her. “I’m sorry I told you not to poet at school. And sorry I don’t agree with you about Charlie and the house, but—”
I grabbed the sheet from her and squeezed it between my palms. “Where do we go for holidays? For birthdays? What if there was an emergency, and we had to come home from college? What if we get sick? Where do we go? Where will Mom live?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes were on the sheet in my hands. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Maybe you should have.” I started to walk away, continuing to crunch the paper.
“Wait! Okay,” Blythe said, and I turned back to her. “If you help me with this, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll help you talk to Mom and Charlie. Or something.”
“Or something?”
“I’ll tell them we need our own house.” She looked as deflated as an evening gown at the end of a dance. She put her hand out for the “Green Eggs and Death,” but it wasn’t worth saving. I asked her for the assignment instead.
The Rolls Edward Annual
Poetic Mash-Up Contest
Nineteen appearances on nationally syndicated talk shows!
Authenticity
The judges will act as experts to certify verbiage
authenticity. A written submission must accompany
the mash-up for certification purposes.
Poise and Delivery
Students must have stage presence, poise, and smooth delivery. The beauty and singularity of the mashing are essential to success.
Content
Contestants should include all pertinent information about their two poets, including origin, inspiration, and influences. The information should be organized, composed, and in excellent taste. The meter must remain the same, and at least 75 percent of the original piece should be included.
Humor may be a positive influence if it has propriety.
“Okay,” I said, looking from her to the assignment and back. “I don’t get it. How are you supposed to stage this?” She didn’t explain. Instead, she pulled up a video of last year’s contest winners performing on the Rolly playhouse stage. Mother Goose and Mary Oliver, goose costumes and feathers flying. But it worked, and it was really funny.
“This barely sounds like a poetry contest. It’s more like . . .” I licked my lips. It really wasn’t poetry. It was more like costumed performance. And if I’d learned anything from watching runway shows all my life, it was performance. “Can you use song lyrics?”
“Sure. Whatever we want. Obviously. We can use chicken costumes.” She almost smiled, and I almost smiled, but I was still too mad at her for wanting to forgive Charlie and live in a construction site to really smile. “Do you have an idea?” she asked, lifting her eyes hopefully.
“Maybe. Let me think about it some more.” My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I remembered that I wanted to be someplace else. With someone else.
“You have a week to figure it out. Next Saturday is when Nate and I are rehearsing.”
My phone buzzed again, and my heart itched to pull it out. “I can’t help you Saturday.” I smiled, thinking of how Kai had said just the two of us. “I have plans.”
“But that’s the only day we have a chunk of time,” Blythe said. I looked at her, then took out my phone and looked at Kai’s message: Got slide-tackled and I’m out for the rest of the game. Not worth coming by. But see you Monday. And next Saturday? Then a kissy emoji. A kissy emoji. My stomach flip-flopped.
I looked up at Blythe. I had to have her on my side. But I wasn’t giving up a date with Kai. I could help Blythe and go on a date with Kai.
“No problem,” I said.
20
THIS QUIET DUST WAS LIGHT AND LOVE
At nine forty-five the next Saturday morning, Kai and I were in San Francisco. But instead of Kai showing me his favorite places, we were standing outside a glass-and-chrome building that was wearing a colorful sign like a necklace: the mission project. I pinched my eyes closed so as to avoid looking at what I’d agreed to in order to spend the day with Kai. I glanced over at him, hunched into his fleece, the wind whipping his dark curls around his face. His bright eyes took in the building, then, so quickly I didn’t have time to pretend I wasn’t staring, they were on me. I told myself spending the day with him was worth it.
On Friday night, after a week of failing to tell Blythe about my date, and failing to ask Kai to reschedule, I figured I could count on my mom to help. But when I got home, there was a note on the kitchen island: Popped to Vegas for an interior design fair. Bring you home a scarf. I glared at the note. That scarf had better be Hermès. What was I going to do? Cancel my first-ever official date with the most perfect boy ever? Or tell Blythe and lose her help finding our forever home? I dropped my head to my hands.
Just then, Charlie walked into the kitchen, whistling and spinning his car keys. “I’m making Blythe a hot cocoa. Want one?” He tossed the keys on the island and grabbed the milk from the fridge. No wonder they were close: sustenance bribery.
I realized, as he continued his infernal whistling, that I had a third option: Charlie. I just needed to . . . ask for help. Somehow.
“So . . .” I bit my lip. “I overcommitted this weekend. I’m supposed to help Blythe with her poetic mash-up. But I have plans to visit San Francisco with Kai. If I show you my idea for the Mash-Up, would you help Blythe practice?”
“Kai’s a nice young man.” His Southern drawl always made me think of my dad. Always. I pressed my fingers into my temples. This conversation would be worth it if I ended up alone with Kai. For a whole day. “All right,” Charlie said. He tapped cocoa into two mugs. Our eyes met across the kitchen island. I was about to say thank you and run, but he held up a hand. “Don’t light yourself on fire. I have conditions. First, tell me why you’re not telling Blythe. A date is a good thing, right?”
I dug my thumbs into the kitchen island’s butcher block to stop myself f
rom poeting, but instead, everything else came spilling out like I’d opened a too-full closet. I told him about Emma’s Kai crush and how much I adored her. And that because of that, I hadn’t exactly 100 percent told Blythe.
“You should tell your friend Emma. You may think it’s better to ask for forgiveness, but . . .” He’d shaken his head. He hadn’t needed to say more. I knew what he meant then, and I knew now. When he gave me this package to deliver, I knew it was because he wanted me to see whatever was inside the Mission Project. Because he thought it would help me forgive him.
Now I held out the package. “Let’s drop the envelope here and run.”
Kai took the package, and then my hand. “The first rule of battle is: know your enemy. We’re going in.”
I steeled myself as Kai pull me through the tall glass doors and into a narrow, high-ceilinged foyer filled with life-sized black-and-white photographs. It looked like a gallery. At the back of the deep entry below a set of chrome double staircases was the reception area: where I was supposed to drop this package off. It looked very far away.
I took a single step inside, trying to keep my eyes on the reception desk. But the pictures—they were huge. Unavoidable. I glanced over, feeling the squeeze of Kai’s hand in mine. He’d already seen.
Black lettering on the bright white walls announced: the faces of aids. In front of me was a candid close-up of an African-American woman with long beaded hair and an impossibly bright smile. She was so there I almost expected her to say hello. I stopped walking. I didn’t want to be linked to HIV/AIDS, but I was. I was linked to my dad, and he’d died because of HIV. So I was linked to all of these people, even in an infinitesimal way. I tried to turn away from the faces along the wall. I tried. But it was like watching a runway show with way too much camo and threaded cuffs that looked unfinished instead of intentional: I couldn’t look away from the scene.
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