One

by Sarah Crossan

  Contents

  AUGUST

  SEPTEMBER

  OCTOBER

  EARLY NOVEMBER

  MID NOVEMBER

  LATE NOVEMBER

  DECEMBER

  JANUARY

  JANUARY 21ST

  JANUARY 29TH

  FEBRUARY

  MARCH

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  Sisters

  Here

  We Are.

  And we are living.

  Isn’t that amazing?

  How we manage

  to be

  at all.

  The End of Summer

  Summer’s breath begins to cool.

  The ink of night comes earlier and earlier.

  And out of the blue

  Mom announces that Tippi and I

  will no longer be taught at home.

  ‘In September

  you’ll join a class of juniors

  and go to school

  like everyone else,’ she says.

  I don’t make any

  ripples.

  I listen

  and nod

  and pull at a loose thread in my shirt

  until a button

  falls away.

  But Tippi doesn’t stay silent.

  She detonates:

  ‘Are you kidding me?

  Have you lost your minds?’ she shouts,

  then argues with Mom and Dad for hours.

  I listen

  and nod

  and bite at the skin around my fingernails

  until they start to

  bleed.

  Finally Mom rubs her temples, sighs, and gives it to us straight.

  ‘Donations from well-wishers have dried up

  and we simply can’t afford to homeschool you.

  You know your dad hasn’t found a job yet

  and Grammie’s pension

  doesn’t even cover the cable bill.’

  ‘You girls aren’t cheap,’ Dad adds,

  as though all the money spent on us

  —the hospital bills and special clothes—

  could be saved if we’d both

  only

  behave a little better.

  You see,

  Tippi and I are not what you’d call normal—

  not what you see every day

  or any day

  for that matter.

  Anyone with a jot of good manners

  calls us ‘conjoined’,

  though we’ve been dubbed other things, too:

  freaks, fiends,

  monsters, mutants,

  and even a two-headed demon once,

  which made me cry so hard

  I had puffy eyes for a week.

  But there’s no denying our difference.

  We are literally joined

  at the hip—

  united in blood and bone.

  And

  this

  is why

  we never went to school.

  For years we’ve been cooking up chemistry potions

  on the kitchen table

  and using our yard for P.E.

  But now

  there’s no getting out of it;

  we are going to school.

  Not that we’ll be in a state school

  like our sister Dragon,

  with kids who pull knives on teachers

  and drink Tipp-Ex for breakfast.

  No, no, no.

  The city won’t fund our homeschooling but

  they’ll pay

  for a place

  at a private school

  —Hornbeacon High—

  and Hornbeacon is willing to have that one place

  count for the two of us.

  I guess we’re supposed to feel lucky.

  But lucky isn’t really how

  I would

  ever

  describe us.

  Everyone

  Dragon stretches out on the end of the double bed I share with Tippi,

  her bruised feet pointed while she

  paints her toenails a deep metallic blue.

  ‘I don’t know,

  you might like it,’ she tells us.

  ‘Not everyone in the world is an asshole.’

  Tippi takes the polish, starts on my right hand and

  blows my fingernails

  dry.

  ‘No, you’re right,

  not everyone’s an asshole,’

  Tippi says.

  ‘But around us,

  they all morph into them.’

  A Freak Like Us

  Dragon’s real name is Nicola,

  but Tippi and I changed it

  when she was two,

  when

  she was fierce and fire-breathing,

  stomping around the apartment and

  chomping on crayons and toy trains.

  Now she’s fourteen and a ballet dancer

  she doesn’t stomp anywhere—

  she floats.

  Lucky for her she’s completely normal.

  Although

  I do wonder if being our sister

  sucks sometimes,

  if being our sister

  makes her a freak

  too.

  Ischiopagus Tripus

  Although scientists have come up with ways to

  categorise conjoined twins,

  each and every pair that ever existed

  is unique—

  the details of all our bodies remain a secret

  unless we want to tell.

  And people always want to know.

  They want to know exactly what we share

  down there,

  so sometimes we tell them.

  Not because it’s their business

  but to stop them wondering—it’s all the

  wondering

  about our bodies that bothers us.

  So:

  Tippi and I are of the ischiopagus tripus

  variety.

  We have

  two heads,

  two hearts,

  two sets of lungs and kidneys.

  We have four arms as well,

  and a pair of fully functioning legs

  now that the vestigial leg has been

  docked

  like a show dog’s tail.

  Our intestines begin

  apart

  then merge.

  And below that we are

  one.

  It probably sounds like a prison sentence,

  but we have it better than others

  who live with fused heads or hearts,

  or only two arms between them.

  It really isn’t so bad.

  It’s how it’s always been.

  It’s all we know.

  And actually,

  we’re usually

  quite happy

  together.

  Milk Trudge

  ‘We’re out of milk,’ Grammie says,

  brandishing an empty milk carton and

  a mug of steaming coffee.

  ‘Well, go and get some,’ Tippi says.

  Grammie wrinkles her nose and pokes Tippi’s side.

  ‘You know I have a problem with my hip,’ she says,

  and I laugh out loud;

  Grammie is the

  only person on the planet who ever pulls

  The Disability Card

  with us.

  So Tippi and I trudge to the corner store

  two blocks away,

  which is how we get everywhere:

  trudging

  and lumbering

  along,

  my left arm around Tippi’s waist,

  my right slung over a crutch—

  Tippi mirroring me.

  By t
he time we reach the store we are both

  breathing hard

  and neither of us wants to carry the milk home.

  ‘She can run her own errands in future,’ Tippi says,

  stopping

  for

  a moment and

  leaning on some rusty iron railings.

  A woman pushing a stroller passes by,

  her mouth

  a gaping cavern.

  Tippi smiles and says, ‘Hey there!’

  then snickers

  when this woman with a perfectly formed body

  almost topples over in surprise.

  Picasso

  Dragon spreads a thousand jigsaw pieces

  across

  the kitchen table.

  The picture on the box promises that the mess will turn into a

  painting by Picasso

  —‘Friendship’—

  a surreal arrangement of

  limbs

  and lines,

  of solid blocks of

  yellow,

  brown, and

  blue.

  ‘I like Picasso,’ I say.

  ‘He paints the essence of things

  and not only what the eye can see.’

  Tippi huffs. ‘It looks impossible.’

  Dragon turns the pieces

  face up.

  ‘The harder the better,’ she tells us.

  ‘Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  Tippi and I plop ourselves next to her

  on an

  extra-wide dining chair

  as

  Dad

  shuffles

  down

  from his bedroom

  bleary-eyed and smelling stale.

  He watches us

  rummaging to find the puzzle’s frame

  —the edges

  and corners—

  then reaches over Dragon’s shoulder

  and places in her palm

  the top right-hand corner piece.

  He sits at the table opposite us

  and silently slides bits we’ve been looking for

  into line.

  ‘Great teamwork,’ I say,

  beaming at Dad.

  He looks at me and winks.

  ‘I learned from the best,’ he says,

  and gets up from the table to search in the refrigerator for a

  beer.

  The Launch

  Mom and Dad prepare Tippi and me

  for our first day at school

  like they are

  launching astronauts

  into space.

  Every day is packed with appointments.

  They arrange for us to see our

  therapists, doctors, and dentist.

  Then Grammie highlights our hair

  and shapes our nails

  so we will be ready for our

  Great Public Appearance.

  ‘It’s going to be fabulous!’ Mom says,

  pretending we aren’t being

  thrown into a ring of lions

  without a weapon,

  and Dad smiles

  crookedly.

  Dragon, who’s about to become a freshman,

  rolls her eyes

  and tugs at the cuff of her cardigan.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mom,

  don’t pretend like it’s going to be easy.’

  ‘Well, I’m leaving if I hate it,’ Tippi announces,

  and Dragon says,

  ‘I hate school. Can I stay at home?’

  Grammie is watching Judge Judy.

  ‘Why would anyone hate school?’ she caws.

  ‘Best days of your lives, girls.

  You’ll meet your sweethearts there.’

  Dad turns away,

  Dragon blushes,

  and Mom doesn’t speak

  because

  they all know

  that finding love is

  something

  that will never

  happen

  for us.

  Therapy

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’

  Dr Murphy says,

  and as

  so often happens

  I sit in silence

  for ten whole minutes,

  worrying at a button in the brown leather sofa.

  I’ve known Dr Murphy

  all my life, sixteen and a half years,

  which is a long time to know anyone

  and to have to think of new things to say.

  But the doctors insist we come for regular therapy

  to support our mental health,

  as though that’s the bit of us that’s broken.

  Tippi is wearing headphones and listening to loud

  music

  so she can’t hear what I’m saying,

  so I can

  spew all my suppressed feelings into

  Dr Murphy’s notebook

  without hurting any of Tippi’s.

  And I used to rant a lot,

  when I was seven or eight,

  and Tippi had stolen my doll

  or pulled my hair

  or eaten my half of a cookie.

  But now there’s not much to say

  Tippi doesn’t already know,

  and the talking seems

  a waste of money we don’t have

  and of fifty perfectly good minutes.

  I yawn.

  ‘So?’

  Dr Murphy says,

  her forehead furrowed

  as though my problems are her own.

  Empathy, of course,

  is all part of the service.

  I shrug.

  ‘We’re starting school soon,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I heard.

  And how do you feel about that?’ she asks.

  ‘Not sure.’

  I look up at the light shade,

  at an unspoiled web and a spider gorging

  on a fly bigger than itself.

  I fold my hands in our lap.

  ‘Well …’ I say,

  ‘I suppose I’m afraid the other students will pity me.’

  Dr Murphy nods.

  She doesn’t tell me

  they won’t

  or

  that it’s going to be fantastic

  because lies are not her style.

  Instead she says, ‘I’ll be really interested

  to hear how it goes, Grace,’

  and looking at the wall clock

  chirps,

  ‘See you next time!’

  Tippi Talks

  We go next door

  into Dr Netherhall’s office

  where it is my turn to wear the headphones

  and Tippi’s turn to tell all.

  Which

  I think

  she actually does.

  She talks quickly,

  her expression serious,

  her voice

  sometimes loud enough for me to catch

  a stray

  word

  or two.

  I turn the music up,

  force it to swallow the sound of her

  and then I watch

  as

  she

  crosses her foot over mine,

  uncrosses it,

  pushes her hair out of her face,

  coughs,

  bites her lips,

  wriggles in our seat,

  scratches her forearm,

  rubs her nose,

  stares at the ceiling,

  stares at the door,

  all the time

  talking

  until

  finally she taps my knee

  and mouths the word

  ‘Done.’

  The Check-up

  Mom drives us all the way to the specialist children’s hospital

  in Rhode Island

  for our quarterly check-up,

  to ensure our organs aren’t making plans to pack it in.

  And today,

 
like every other time before,

  Dr Derrick parades his

  wide-eyed

  medical students

  and asks if we mind them

  watching the exam.

  We mind.

  Of course we mind.

  But Dr Derrick’s stethoscope and white coat

  do not permit disagreement

  so we shrug

  and allow ourselves to be

  ogled

  by a dozen trainee doctors

  with tight mouths

  and narrow eyes

  who

  tilt forward,

  ever so slightly

  on their toes,

  as we lift our shirts.

  By the end we are blushing

  and only want to

  leave.

  ‘They’re all good?’ Mom asks hopefully

  when we’re back in Dr Derrick’s office.

  He taps the top of his

  desk.

  ‘Everything clear

  as far as I can see,’

  he says.

  ‘But as always,

  they have to take it easy,

  especially now they’ll

  be at school.

  Right?’

  He points a playful warning finger at us.

  ‘Right,’ we say,

  not planning to

  change a thing

  about how we live.

  Influenza

  Two days after our visit to

  Dr Derrick

  it knocks us down

  flat on to our backs

  without any warning.

  I shiver and shake

  and cling to the duvet

  popping two white tabs of paracetamol

  into my mouth every four hours,

  hoping

  to keep the chills away.

  Tippi is lying next to me

  shuddering,

  sneezing, coughing,

  and making her way through

  a second box of Kleenex.

  Our sheets are wet with sweat.