One

by Sarah Crossan

  in the city

  ‘loved’ him

  and ‘practically’ offered him a teaching job on the spot.

  Mom clears the plates.

  Dad’s cell phone rings.

  ‘Yes. Yes. OK.

  I understand.

  Thanks.

  Yes. OK. Yes.’

  Dad studies his phone

  then fires it across the room.

  It hits the wall

  and smashes,

  bits of black plastic and glass

  raining down on the kitchen countertops.

  ‘Another job will come along, son,’

  Grammie says,

  and Dad replies,

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Mom.’

  It is the last thing he says

  for three whole days.

  Hitchcock

  Three crows land in the yard

  and peck at our tiny square of lawn.

  They are joined by a magpie who

  scowls at us through the patio doors.

  Tippi points. ‘Not good,’ she says.

  Tippi is not superstitious,

  but she’s an Alfred Hitchcock fan

  and squirms at the sight of more than one bird.

  She caught the bug from Mom and Dad, who started dating

  the same week a Hitchcock season opened at Film Forum in

  New York City.

  They snuggled together

  in the back row

  on red velvet seats for two weeks

  becoming Hitchcock experts and

  falling in love.

  So when they found out we were twins

  it was a no-brainer to name us

  after two of Hitchcock’s biggest stars,

  Tippi Hedren and Grace Kelly,

  who were so beautiful it sometimes feels like a cruel joke.

  But in any case, Tippi loves Hitchcock

  and has seen every one of his movies.

  So while I make notes on the Whitman poems

  we were given for homework,

  Tippi watches Psycho and mouths Vera Miles’s lines

  telling me not to worry about her or the assignment,

  that she’ll read the SparkNotes online

  and be just fine.

  Preparing for an Apocalypse

  A hurricane threatens

  the East Coast

  and we are sent home early from school.

  The weather reporters warn that

  the storm will bring

  flooding and power outages,

  so we prepare our

  ground floor apartment

  for an apocalypse.

  Dad clears the patio,

  puts everything in the hall,

  Mom piles sandbags

  by the backyard doors,

  and Grammie sends Dragon to the store

  for canned fruit and toilet paper,

  then makes Tippi and me

  fill the tub and every jug we own

  with water

  just in case.

  Maybe I should be worried,

  but I’m just disappointed

  that the weather is stopping us

  from being at The Church with Yasmeen and Jon

  where I feel

  free to breathe.

  ‘Can we go to the waterfront?’

  Dragon asks,

  and Dad barks back an angry

  ‘No,

  it’s dangerous, dammit.’

  Maybe he’s trying to be caring,

  but he has a crappy way of showing it.

  And so with nothing else to do

  we watch out the window

  with Dragon

  and wait for the

  great tide

  and furious winds

  to devour our city.

  In The Dark

  Tippi is snoring

  next to me

  while the wind whirls and whistles outside,

  and I want to get up and see what’s happening,

  but I’m too scared to wake her

  in case she screeches,

  complains she can’t get back to sleep.

  So I lie quietly

  and listen

  and try to imagine what the

  hurricane is like,

  and how it might be

  to get up and look

  out our bedroom window

  all by

  myself.

  Palpitations

  I do not know what I dream,

  what the nightmare is,

  but it wakes me

  and I find myself

  panting,

  my heart palpitating,

  my head a fog of grey words and swollen pictures.

  Tippi opens her eyes.

  ‘You all right?’ she croaks.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her.

  ‘Go back to sleep.’

  The View from Hoboken

  Before the city is quite awake,

  Tippi and I slog

  up to Stevens Institute,

  the highest point in Hoboken,

  to look down at New York City

  across the river

  and see for ourselves

  how resolutely rooted to

  the ground the skyscrapers have remained.

  All is as it should be:

  The Empire State Building is standing up straight

  and Chelsea Piers is

  already open for business,

  the golfers slamming balls

  against high-rise nets to stop them

  dropping into the Hudson River

  and sinking

  down

  down

  to the bottom.

  ‘I guess the hurricane changed its mind

  about visiting New York,’

  Tippi says.

  ‘I don’t blame it.

  That city stinks.’

  And she turns away

  to head down the hill,

  pulling me toward

  home

  and breakfast.

  Storm Apples

  The only damage the storm managed was to

  rip a ton of ripened apples

  from the tree in the middle of our yard.

  Now they’re lying on the grass

  like forgotten red billiard balls on green felt.

  I’d been trying to

  knock them down for days

  —banging a broom on the branches

  and throwing

  Dad’s football at the biggest of them—

  the ones highest and fattest and really red.

  Tippi never helped.

  She hates baking and knew that’s all we’d do

  if I managed to get any down.

  She huffed and yawned and said,

  ‘Can we go inside now, Grace?’

  until we did just that.

  Now all the apples are

  a bit bruised and traumatised

  but OK

  for pie.

  Tippi says,

  ‘You know we could buy pie for a few dollars at the

  store and save ourselves hours.’

  Which isn’t the point.

  I want to hear the clean slice of

  a sharp knife through the apple’s flesh.

  I want to roll the pastry flat and lay

  it over the filling like a friendly blanket.

  I want to watch the clock

  and check the oven

  and feel anxious about the results.

  ‘Can’t you pretend to be pleased?’ I ask,

  and Tippi sniffs.

  ‘I can pretend,’ she says,

  which is a lie:

  I’d be asking too much

  for Tippi to pretend

  anything,

  ever.

  Pie

  Dragon spends her free day at the dance studio.

  Mom heads into work.

  Grammie goes downtown to see a friend and

  Dad just disappears.


  We are alone

  with nothing to do.

  So.

  Reluctantly

  Tippi makes the flaky pastry

  while I core, peel, and slice the apples,

  and together we bake a pie

  stuffed with cinnamon and sugar and definitely

  better than anything you could

  buy in a store.

  When Tippi tastes it,

  she concedes—a little:

  ‘It’s good,’ she says,

  pouring cream over her portion

  and snaps a picture to post online

  so everyone can see what we’ve done

  with the flotsam from the storm.

  Tippi looks into her licked-clean plate

  and then at her phone as it buzzes.

  ‘Yaz liked the picture of the pie,’

  she says.

  The phone drones again.

  ‘And Jon, too.’

  ‘Great,’ I say quickly,

  and serve myself another slice,

  wondering what I was doing

  when Tippi friended them online.

  Beautiful

  Jon is

  leaning in

  toward Yasmeen

  and doesn’t see Tippi and me

  come into the common room

  and perch

  behind the piano

  on an unsteady stool.

  I suck up the

  last dregs of my green smoothie through a

  straw and the slurp

  almost drowns out

  what Jon is saying.

  But not quite.

  ‘It’s shitty because they’re so damn pretty,’ he says.

  ‘What a waste.’

  Yasmeen looks up and flushes all the way

  from her collar bones

  to the tips of her silver-studded ears,

  so we are in no doubt

  who they are talking about.

  Tippi stands, dragging me with her,

  kicking the stool away

  and shouting:

  ‘A waste?

  We’re a waste?’

  Fury boils our blood and

  our bodies pulse with rage.

  Jon stands up, too,

  tries to take my hand

  but I pull away and glare at him,

  daring him to say it again

  or to defend his words

  with ones that would be just

  as hurtful.

  ‘I didn’t …

  I didn’t mean …’

  His voice is quiet,

  his eyes

  hard and defiant.

  ‘All I mean is that you’re beautiful,’

  he says.

  ‘That’s all I mean.’

  I want to believe him,

  talk to him,

  let him

  say more,

  but Tippi

  drags me

  along the hall

  to hide in a classroom.

  And I hate it.

  I hate hiding here

  where I normally feel

  safe.

  ‘I thought they were different,

  but they’re just as ignorant

  as everyone else,’ Tippi says.

  I don’t respond.

  All I can

  hear in my head is the word

  beautiful

  and it’s as much as I can do not to

  weep

  with joy.

  Yasmeen’s Explanation

  We weren’t gossiping

  we were just saying how happy

  we are you’re both at Hornbeacon

  and we weren’t wishing you were any different

  we were just saying how hot you are

  come on we wouldn’t hang around with you if

  we didn’t think you were cool

  we hate almost everyone here but we don’t hate you

  and coming from us that’s a fucking miracle

  so stop being moody and let’s go to

  The Church for a smoke.

  Jon’s Apology

  Yasmeen explained why I was wrong.

  And I promise it was me who said it,

  not her.

  But I’m so sorry if I made you sad,

  even for a second.

  Because I didn’t mean anything by it.

  And I think you’re both perfect.

  But I know how it sounded.

  And I want to be friends.

  So please forgive me.

  And let me make it up to you.

  Because the only

  waster is me.

  But

  I meant what I said.

  You’re beautiful.

  You know that,

  don’t you?

  Punishment

  Tippi and I work with each other in class,

  away from all the other students

  including Yasmeen and Jon.

  During free periods

  we stay away from the common room

  and wander around the school grounds

  looking for somewhere to sit

  without getting stared at.

  At lunch

  we fend for ourselves in the cafeteria

  and take our trays out to the quadrangle,

  where we eat on a bench and watch

  grey squirrels

  scampering up and down

  the chestnut trees.

  We don’t go to The Church

  during study hall.

  I use the time to draw little stars along my fingers

  with a Sharpie

  and Tippi cleans out her backpack.

  In the halls between lessons Jon tries to talk to me,

  grabs my arm and whispers rushed apologies.

  Yasmeen sends Tippi one hundred texts.

  But we stick to our guns.

  We stay really mad at them

  until it’s pretty obvious that

  they aren’t the only ones being punished.

  Skyward

  Dragon is in an amateur production of Swan Lake.

  She is playing the Swan,

  dressed first in

  wispy layers of white netting

  all puffed up like a French pastry

  and then from

  head

  to

  toe

  in raven frills and feathers.

  At the theater,

  sitting in the back row

  where no one can leer at us,

  I am mesmerised by her feet,

  by the black ballet slippers bound to her

  and how they

  seem never to touch the stage.

  I am mesmerised by Dragon’s

  legs and arms

  and the way she can spin

  and hold herself up so

  high she seems suspended in the air—

  not a galumphing dragon at all but a

  dragonfly,

  a butterfly,

  a bee.

  I am amazed and for a moment

  I am jealous

  because before Swan Lake

  I never knew

  that this is what other people

  could do

  if they only took the time

  to train—

  I never knew that normal people

  could fly.

  Out of the Spotlight

  After the show

  Dragon poses for pictures

  and hordes of proud parents

  huddle together

  holding out their phones

  and snapping photos.

  But Mom and Dad

  have vanished.

  ‘Where did they go?’ I ask Tippi.

  ‘Dad went to get the car,’ she says.

  We shuffle toward the stage

  but by the time we reach it

  we are too late:

  the group is breaking up.

  Dragon is already out of

  the spotlight.
/>   Thin

  At Malibu Diner on Washington Street

  where we all go for a celebratory dinner

  after Swan Lake,

  Dragon says,

  ‘I want to dance Romeo and Juliet with Nureyev.’

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  My family dive into a plate of nachos.

  ‘Oh, no one. Nureyev is dead

  so there’s no chance of dancing with him.

  But he was the greatest in history.’

  Dragon nibbles

  like a gerbil

  on the edges of a taco

  and I notice, suddenly,

  how skinny her fingers have become—

  like twigs with knots for knuckles.

  ‘You’re so thin,’ I say,

  taking her wrist and wrapping my

  thumb and forefinger too easily around it.

  Mom orders more soda.

  Dad another beer.

  Tippi is tucking into her taco.

  ‘I know,’ Dragon says,

  and flushes,

  quite delighted

  by what she sees

  as a compliment.

  A Joke

  Dragon is teaching us the five basic ballet positions,

  letting us use chairs for balance but

  tipping a ruler against our backs to get them straighter

  and under our chins to lift them.

  Tippi and I haven’t exactly got

  the bodies of ballerinas

  nor the discipline

  and end up giggling so hard we topple over.

  And she is laughing and laughing

  until she realises that I am not—

  that I can hardly breathe,

  that every ounce of air

  seems to have been sucked from the room.

  Dragon shrieks and runs.

  By the time Mom and Dad have arrived

  Tippi is panting, too.