We’ll never go up to the attic in a blackout.
If a tornado is coming, we’ll go to the basement.
If there’s a blizzard, we’ll stay on the main floor and burn wood in the fireplace. (This will never happen. Schools are never closed for snow days. People would rather crash their cars than miss work.)
I think it’s good to be prepared. There’s a flashlight plugged into an outlet in the kitchen. There are boxes of matches in the drawer beside the sink. No one’s allowed to touch the crate of water bottles in the furnace room. Get a drink from the sink, you princess! I tell them. On a trip to Costco I made Mom buy a box of nonperishable food items to keep with the water.
Calgary’s safe from natural disasters, Mom told me. We’re inland so we’ll never have a tsunami or hurricane, and the mountains protect us from tornadoes.
What about the ones that hit Priddis? And Tornado ’87 from the song?
The ones in Priddis were small. We won’t get an F5 like Edmonton because of the mountains.
It could still happen.
Mom let out a sigh. Yes, anything could happen.
* * *
As I was saying, there are fourteen steps on the main staircase and only twelve here. Here the stairs are thin and steep and you have to wear socks because you can get a splinter. At the bottom the floor is cold uneven concrete. I step onto the path of rugs that lead to the couch. Take a deep breath.
Look up, Audrey. Be brave.
Clare doesn’t notice me. Adam turns his head in my direction and gives me his best lopsided grin.
My heart pinballs against my ribs.
He’s sitting with his hands behind his head and his legs stretched out onto the ottoman. Beside him Clare is completely absorbed in her game. In front of them is the large TV Adam bought. Mario is dodging fireballs on the screen.
Clare?
She jumps and looks at me, and a fireball hits Mario in the face. Burn.
What the hell? she yells. What are you doing down here?
I came to see you.
Her face scrunches like a paper ball. You haven’t come down here in months. The blue streak disappears as she turns to the wall. Look, she says, because that’s how she always starts sentences with me now. (Look, what do you want? Look, I’m busy.) I kind of like this being my space now.
I don’t know how to respond. I want to tell her to be happy I might come back to her school. I want to ask if she remembers when we used to be best friends. I want to tell her how much I miss being twins with her.
But I can’t get the words out.
Clare rolls her eyes and picks up the remote. Aims it at the TV. Mario is resurrected again, floating down from heaven in a bubble.
Look, I’m in the middle of a game, so unless you have something to say, leave me alone.
Adam smiles and pats a spot on the couch beside him.
I turn and go back up the stairs.
Mom and Dad are in the living room. They each have a glass of wine and the fire’s going so they want to be alone. I go upstairs to my room and close the door.
At first I was happy when Adam moved downstairs. I wanted my own room. In my own room I could do the things Clare made fun of me for doing. I’m too old to play with toys but I still do it sometimes. In secret. I take a bunch of toys that don’t belong together and act out a scene.
Now I miss sharing a room. It meant Clare had to talk to me.
At my desk I turn on the lamp and open my sketchbook. I like all breeds of dogs. I didn’t even want to buy an expensive breed because I’ve heard of puppy mills. I wanted a rescue dog. But Mom and Dad said no, so I started drawing the dog in the sky that belongs to everyone. Sirius the Dog Star is the fifth nearest star known to man.
The hardest part about drawing Sirius is that he needs a background or he’ll disappear. His fur is white and fluffy like a teddy bear. I like to bury my face in it and pry apart his puppy finger pads. He’s never scratched me. Not even once.
I tell Sirius the things I can’t tell anyone else. He’s my only friend now.
A tear hits the page and I wipe it away.
Sometimes I wonder if Clare would like me more if we were identical twins. It seems like such bad luck that we aren’t. Clare and I weren’t even born on the same date. We don’t even share the same star sign. Only I was born under the twins. Clare was born under the bull.
Maybe there was a mistake in the hospital and my identical twin is with Clare’s identical twin right now.
The first night Adam babysat, the three of us watched a documentary on the Dionne quintuplets. The Dionne quintuplets were the very first quintuplets known to have survived infancy. They lived in a nursery for only the five of them and wore identical dresses in five different colors. At night they slept together in a long room with five identical beds. The room was full of toys. People came and watched them play on the playground from behind a glass mirror. It was called Quintland. They became instant stars.
After that I thought people might be interested in us.
I asked Clare, Do you think people would pay to see us?
She blinked at me.
It was because they were identical quintuplets, Adam said. That’s very rare.
I meant if we were identical twins. Do you think they would then?
Clare blinked at me again. She was doing it on purpose.
That was a long time ago, Adam said. Things have changed. There are laws against that kind of thing now.
Oh. I was kind of disappointed.
It’s messed up, Adam continued. The Ontario government made them “wards of the king” and took them away from their family and put them on display like animals. They made money off them as a tourist attraction.
Still, I liked the idea of being famous. But maybe I already was. Maybe there was a hidden camera floating above my right shoulder. When Clare wasn’t with me, I skipped to school sometimes. So it would be more entertaining to watch. I picked flowers and talked to them so the viewers could know what I was thinking.
One day I was bending over the garden talking to a flower and someone said, Are you talking to yourself?
I looked up and the sun was in my eyes, but I could tell it was a group of girls in my grade and the grade below me.
I’m not talking to myself. I’m talking to the flower.
They all started laughing.
That is so weird, Sharon said. You know flowers can’t understand you, right?
I didn’t want to explain I was pretending about the camera so I just walked away. But after that all the kids started calling me weird.
You don’t want to be like everyone else, Mom said. It’s a good thing to be yourself.
It was the first time she didn’t tell me the truth.
Clare
After Audrey leaves, I pause the Nintendo and just kind of stare at the screen. Then I throw my controller onto the floor. I know I’m being a jerk, but I can’t stop myself. Now when I see Audrey, I just fill with rage.
Not that I was a particularly good sister before. Adam used to tell me to be nicer to Audrey. One time she tried to join us when we were playing Mario Wii and when I told her we were busy trying to pass a level, Adam jumped in and stuck up for her like he always did. He told her she could play instead of him.
“That’s okay,” she said, and went back upstairs.
After the basement door closed behind her, Adam said to me, “You shouldn’t act like that. She looks up to you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You mean she looks up to you.”
“No, I’ve seen it. She idolizes you. She wants to be like you.”
My hand kind of faltered on the button and Mario plummeted to his death. It was like Adam was saying she couldn’t be like me. Then Mario returned to the screen, floating in a bubble. Adam-as-Luigi jumped up and freed him. I started playing again.
“You don’t understand,” I said finally.
“You’re embarrassed of her. I get it. Mom and Dad make you take care of her all
the time, and your friends bug you about it.”
I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t that simple, that I wasn’t just trying to be cool. Sure, it bugged me that whenever I went out, Mom said take your sister like she was a friggin’ jacket, but that was the easy part. The hard part was that I cared about Audrey so much, it hurt. I flinched whenever she was called on in class because I was terrified of watching the other kids make fun of her. Audrey is my twin. I feel her pain like my own, and sometimes it’s a lot to bear.
But I didn’t know how to explain any of that, so instead I said, “It’s not that simple. You all think of me as some popular girl. You don’t get that I’m just trying to survive.”
“We all feel like that, Clare,” Adam responded. “But it’s not worth hurting people you care about just to fit in.”
“Stop judging me.”
“I’m not judging you.” He shoved a hand through his hair and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I guess I’m just saying life is short. Don’t look back and have regret.”
“I’m not being mean to her,” I muttered, hating the idea that Adam was looking down on me.
“You’re not being nice, either. And one day you might actually miss her.”
I purposefully jumped off a cliff and tossed the controller aside, ending that particular conversation. But Adam never stopped trying to make us get along. Behind me the curtains around his room flutter, and it feels like he’s here with me again.
“Adam?” I whisper. “Can you hear me? If you can, give me a sign.”
The curtains continue to flutter, fed by the vent, and I feel my heart sink because I’ll never be able to talk to him again. I’ll never be able to ask him.
Now that he’s dead, does he finally understand how I feel?
* * *
The next morning, I wake up to Mom banging on my door. It’s the same routine every school day: my alarm goes off, I hit snooze after snooze until Mom eventually bangs on my door and yells at me through the wood that I’m going to be late. She doesn’t understand I’m a normal teenager because Audrey wakes up at 7:00 a.m. sharp every single morning.
The first thing Mom says when I walk into the kitchen: “You’re not wearing that to school.”
I feel my entire body tense and grip the handle of my bag tighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s start with the shorts.”
“Everyone wears these shorts.”
Mom leans back against the kitchen sink and crosses her arms. “Ripped shorts with the pockets hanging out? I doubt it.”
I plaster on my fakest sweet smile. “Well, maybe when you drop me off at school, you can take a moment to look around a bit.”
It’s meant to be a jab. Mom has spent the entire semester focusing on everything Audrey—talking to Audrey’s teachers and making sure Audrey’s doing okay. She’s always worried about Audrey “doing okay,” as if she’s afraid Audrey is somehow going to get worse. I don’t even see how that’s possible.
Mom mimics my fake-pleasant smile. “Well, things might be changing. Then I can keep an eye on both my girls again.” She glances over at Audrey, who is wearing a sweater Mom knitted for her and baggy jeans and staring at the back of the cereal box. Her mouth is moving slowly, but no words are coming out. She’s probably trying to read the French.
Mom looks back at me and frowns. “You’re wearing too much eye makeup.”
“Seriously?” All right, so when people say Audrey and I look nothing alike, it’s because she’s the pretty one. Like Mom, Audrey is super cute with her large blue eyes, long eyelashes, and thick dark curls. I’m gangly with thin blond hair to match, and small brown eyes you can barely see without liner.
But that’s not why I’m wearing it. I’m wearing it because it’s my war mask.
“Yeah.” Another glance at Audrey. “You should dress more age-appropriate.”
Now it’s taking all my energy not to flip out. Audrey can’t even wear buttons. The mere thought that the buttons on her coat might not be spaced exactly the same distance apart triggers a panic attack, so Mom can only buy her coats with zippers.
When Audrey gets up and leaves the kitchen, I let out an exasperated breath, letting my eyes roll back in my head. “Are you actually telling me that I have to change so I fit in with Audrey?”
“This has nothing to do with Audrey.”
That was a lie. Everything has to do with Audrey.
“She probably won’t wear makeup until . . . well, ever.”
The moment I say it, I realize how ridiculous I sound. I was implying that she’s immature, but really she’ll never wear it because she doesn’t need it.
“Aaaaghhhhh!” I scream and stomp out of the kitchen.
Upstairs in my room I open up drawers and yank clothes out, drop them on the floor. I’m trying to make a mess for Mom, but if she calls me out I’ll say I was stressed finding a new outfit. I toss the shorts into the corner, then pull on the jeans version of my shorts but with even bigger holes. Ha!
The joke’s on Mom. The joke’s on everyone. Because that girl downstairs, the one who yelled about wanting to be like every teenage girl . . . she doesn’t really exist. She’s a role in the movie of my life. I’ve gotten pretty good at playing her too. But if that version still isn’t good enough for Mom, I might as well show her the real me.
So I change into the clothes I actually want to wear rather than the ones I wear to look like every other girl. I peel off my sheer, sparkly black shirt and replace it with a black zip-up sweatshirt over my tank. Mom hates this sweatshirt. She hated it when Adam wore it, said it made him look like a lowlife. It has a skeleton tree on the back. He gave it to me years ago, after he grew out of it. I wipe the majority of the eyeliner off but slip the pencil in my pocket.
My hands are shaking and I have to ball them into fists as I go back downstairs. I’m so angry. I’ve felt angry for so long, I can’t even remember what it feels like to not feel angry. To not want to break the world around me, rip the sky into pieces and toss them back again. Kyle thinks everything I feel is completely normal. He claims anger is one of the stages of grief and that’s why I’m “laying unwarranted blame on Audrey.” Whatever, dude.
When I enter the kitchen again, Audrey is climbing into the car. Mom pauses halfway out the door, and her eyes widen when she sees me. I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter and take a bite, my eyes locked on hers as I silently dare her to say something about this outfit. If she does, I’ll throw back that nothing will make her happy.
Instead she turns away and says, “Your lunch is on the counter.”
Audrey’s in the front seat and I’m in the back. It’s always like that with the three of us now. When we were little, we used to fight over who had shotgun. Now we climb into our usual seats and no one suggests we do anything different. Mom is probably relieved she doesn’t have to talk to me. I don’t know if the two of them talk either, because I put in my earphones and stare out the window the entire drive.
I suppose I have to get to how it happened. It’s not enough to say Adam died, even though that’s all I’ve been able to tell anyone who asks. If they push, I might be able to add car accident.
A few months before Adam died, the ’rents decided to send Audrey to a shrink. She was always in her head and disrupting class. She wasn’t growing out of the behavior like they’d hoped. Dr. Jackson tossed around a bunch of theories, including attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and autism spectrum disorder, before deciding he needed to spend more time with Audrey in order to settle on a diagnosis.
Then one day he suggested she try more extracurricular activities. She wasn’t any good at sports, and T-Rex was a better ballerina. She wanted to try karate. So Mom bought her a karate gi and a white belt, and they dropped her off at her first class and went out for dinner. About fifteen minutes into the class, the house phone rang. It was Audrey. The collar of her gi was rubbing the back of her neck. She wanted to come home.
&nbs
p; Adam didn’t want to interrupt Mom and Dad’s date night, so he said he’d pick her up. I told him not to and make Audrey deal, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He said he had his new car and was happy for an excuse to drive.
He never made it there.
* * *
The first thing I do when I get to school is go to the bathroom and apply the eyeliner again. Charlotte and Rhiannon stay outside to have a smoke in the courtyard, but Sharon follows me. She leans a hip against the sink beside me, arms crossed over a bra stuffed with gel packs.
“What’s up with your outfit today?” she asks. “Ripped jeans and a sketchy sweatshirt? Really?”
“It was my brother’s.”
“You look emo.”
I laugh darkly and apply the liner to the other eye. “Good.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
I ignore her and step back to study myself. I look badass. Tough. The dark, smoky eyes are in stark contrast to my blond hair with the thick blue streak. All I need is a bunch of piercings and black lipstick, and then Sharon really will have something to complain about.
“I mean it,” Sharon says as we leave the bathroom, “you’re going too far into this ‘I’m depressed and want the whole world to know it’ emo act. It’s making the rest of us depressed.”
Am I really hearing what she’s saying correctly? Because it sounds like she’s saying my mourning phase is bumming her out.
“Seriously,” she continues, “it’s been, like, three months.”
I stop in the middle of the hallway. Directly in front of me is the fire hose wrapped up in its protective glass case. I imagine breaking the glass and wrapping the hose around Sharon’s neck over and over and over again . . .
Instead I turn to face her. “You know ten months isn’t a long time, right? Like in the span of our lives, not just stupid high school?”
She glances around, obviously afraid all the people walking past us in the hall are going to overhear. “I’m not saying you should be over it or anything. But there’s a way to handle stuff like this.”
Under Shifting Stars Page 3