It’s Clare.
She steps in slowly. Cautiously. Her eyes skitter across the room like they always do when she comes in here, which is almost never. She looks around like she stills sees Adam’s things.
I turn back to my sketch because I’m not drawing Sirius so I don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s a drawing of Lake Louise. I’m using a photo I took when we stayed at the chateau. It was just after Adam died and they wanted us to spend family time together. Only that was the trip when I realized Clare hated me.
She’s right behind me now. I can feel her breath on my neck. The back of my neck gets all tingly.
Now who’s in whose space?
I want to say it but I just keep drawing. I wish I were using pastels instead of charcoal because Lake Louise needs blue. No, teal. The teal is what makes it so famous. I once saw a joke online of a man painting the bottom and then refilling it. What do they call those? A meme.
That’s really good, Clare says.
Then she walks away. What does she want? My hand shakes but I keep drawing. Through my armpit I see her sit on the bed.
I get it if you’re mad at me, she says. I’ve been kind of a jerk.
My hand stops. I let out the breath I was holding. Okay. This is new. I turn to face her, gripping the charcoal tightly. I still haven’t spoken a word and I’m too afraid to. What if I mess it up?
She trails a finger as thin as a spider leg along my bedspread and shrugs. I guess I just don’t understand.
I watch as she pushes the blue streak behind her ear with the opposite hand. Her middle finger has a thick ring on it. Adam’s ring. She’s wearing Adam’s sweatshirt again too. She wears one of his sweatshirts almost every day now.
She looks up at me. Look, I just don’t get why you even want to come back. You weren’t happy. You hated school.
No I didn’t.
Audrey, everyone was mean to you. Don’t you remember? Clare kind of cringes like she doesn’t want to be the one to remind me.
As if I could forget.
I need to go back! I shout and then tell myself to calm down. Otherwise I just prove Clare right that I’m not ready.
Maybe if I go back now and I’m older, I can show them . . .
That you’ve changed? Clare asks quietly.
No. My voice is very quiet. I can barely hear myself speak. I take a deep breath. That I’m who I used to be.
Oh. Clare goes totally still. Then her hands find each other like two spiders entwined in her lap.
The thing about teenagers, she says, is that they’re mean. High school is worse than middle school. Kids are meaner. They pick on each other so people are too afraid to pick on them.
My hand tightens on the back of my chair as I wait for her to finish.
Do you remember Billy?
I nod.
He snaps all the girls’ bras. Like all the time. A bunch of them have told him to stop doing it, and told the teachers on him too, but it doesn’t make a difference. He keeps doing it.
Why?
She throws her hands up. Because that’s what guys do! And then there’s Sharon. Remember what a bitch Sharon was to you all the time? Well, I told her you might be coming back, and she was like Oh my God, please tell me you’re joking! She is totally going to pick on you, Audrey.
I think of the picture Sharon posted of me on Facebook and the back of my neck turns hot. Soon the heat will move to the front and then climb up to my face and Clare will see it. I grip the chair harder. Clare doesn’t notice. She keeps talking.
Do you remember that time Rhiannon made you cry in the bathroom all afternoon? She made fun of your drawings and you ran out of the room and never came back. The teacher sent me looking for you. It was awful.
Now I can’t even look at her. My face is so hot it burns. I know she can see it and that makes it burn hotter. Clare is embarrassed of me. I hate that she’s embarrassed of me.
Look, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. If that’s what you’re trying to do. You don’t need to do whatever I do.
I’m not trying to copy you, Clare.
Do your own thing. Be yourself.
There it is again: Be yourself. Be yourself be yourself be yourself. Except no one likes it when I’m myself.
I realize I’ve said it aloud when Clare stands abruptly. I blink once and she’s beside my chair.
I’m trying to protect you, Audrey. I’m your twin and I love you. My school sucks. Trust me, you’re better off at Peak.
With people like me, right? Well shows what you know because those people are nothing like me either.
Clare’s eyebrows knit together. Her hand reaches out like she’s going to touch me, but she doesn’t. She’s nodding.
Sometimes I feel like that too, she says. Sometimes it doesn’t matter where you are. You can still feel like no one else in the entire world is like you.
What do you mean?
She looks down at the floor. I’m saying I feel different from everyone else too. So I get what you’re going through.
You do not know what I’m going through. I ball my hands into fists in my lap. You have no idea. You have everything, Clare. You have friends and a normal life. What more do you want?
Get it together, I tell myself. Don’t get emotional in front of Clare. But I know it’s futile. I’m breathing faster now. The tears are imminent.
Do you know what it’s like to have everyone think you’re a freak?
Then I start to yell.
You’re popular! People like you. So don’t pretend I’ll be happier at Peak when you know you’d hate it yourself, Clare. Don’t come in here and lie to me.
Clare’s eyes widen. Her mouth falls open. It’s the first time she’s ever looked afraid of me.
Get out of my room! I scream.
She turns and runs.
Clare
Audrey’s words ring through my head as I pull her door closed behind me.
You’re popular!
People like you.
Don’t you dare come in here and lie to me.
Still grasping the doorknob, I suck in large breaths of air. I can hear Mom and Dad talking downstairs, oblivious to what just happened up here. All the times I ignored Audrey or treated her badly, I never considered she might actually stop liking me. If only she knew everyone else has stopped liking me too.
Lately it feels like my world is shifting. Being popular was part of my identity. Audrey was the beautiful but weird twin, and Clare was the popular twin, the socialite who could morph her personality to make anyone like her. Now I’m finally trying to embrace the real me, and Audrey’s trying to prove she can be someone else. Worse, she’s trying to be someone else because of me.
I wonder what Adam would say if he could see us switching places. Maybe one of us has to fail for the other one to succeed. Maybe that keeps the balance in the universe.
In the bathroom I stare at my reflection, at my blah blond hair that’s grown too long, well past my shoulders, and the makeup that no longer feels like a war mask. Whereas a few weeks ago I thought I looked badass, now I just look like a strung-out girl. And I don’t want to look like a girl.
What has my hair ever done for me? It’s annoying to have to take care of it. Most importantly, my hair is my strongest feminine characteristic. My hair is a crutch. I hate my hair.
Before I can think twice about it, I yank open a drawer and root around in it for the first-aid kit. Mom keeps scissors in there to cut gauze and stuff. They’re small and shitty but my hair is thin, so it won’t take me too long. After a quick glance at the door to make sure it’s locked, I grab the streak of blue hair and lean over the sink, chopping it off at the halfway mark. When I step back, I have a blue chunk of hair hanging at my chin.
Not good enough.
I repeat the step, but this time I chop even higher. Then I move all around my head hacking and sawing off as much hair as I can until I’m left with a really messy version of a pixie cut. I dump half a bottle of
eye makeup remover onto a cotton pad and rub it across my eyes, removing makeup that has probably been layered on top of makeup for weeks.
Now when I step back, a new person is staring back at me. Raw and uncomplicated and real. The true me.
I kind of wish I’d made a YouTube video.
The sink is full of hair. I’m going to need a real haircut to even all this out, and fix the blue spot on the side, but for now I gather handfuls and drop them into the wastebasket. Then I tie the bag and remove it, rinse whatever remnants are left down the sink. Not like the ’rents aren’t going to find out what I did, but at least they can’t get on my case about leaving a mess.
My heart is racing—partly excitement and partly fear. What are my parents going to do to me? What are kids at school going to say tomorrow? Will they think I’m going crazy?
I can hear Mom and Dad in the kitchen making dinner when I leave the bathroom. Audrey’s door is closed. I rush into my own bedroom and toss the bag of hair, etc., into the trash under my desk. Then I turn on my laptop and open tabs to my favorite forums, the ones I’ve been looking at compulsively for two weeks. It’s time to finally join. I want to be a part of the conversation. I need to tell someone what I just did because it’s the first major step I’ve taken in becoming my true self.
I direct-message Sam the Man and tell him how much his story inspired me. Then I introduce myself to the group under the username Skatergirl/boy and open up to them about how I shift between feeling like a girl and feeling like a boy and that I literally just cut off my hair. My hands are shaking, and I feel high from the rush. I create the same username on the next forum and copy the message introducing myself and announcing that I did it. I cut off my hair.
Someone responds to my first announcement while I’m still working on the fourth.
You’re so brave! It takes a lot of courage to do that.
Other messages start pouring in and it’s like being hugged by a warm blanket. Online I’m already the person I want to be.
Way to go! You should be proud of yourself.
Congratulations!!! How amazing did it feel? You’re freeeeeee!
And a response to the one above: When I cut off my hair was one of the best days of my life. It was like two feet long and I sent it to charity.
Sitting back in my chair, I read the messages as they come in from people all around the world, people I genuinely consider friends of mine now. These people and their stories have made me realize I’m going to be okay, that there are seven billion people in the world and some of them are like me.
I haven’t shown my family yet, I write. I’m only fifteen and have to go downstairs for dinner soon.
Maybe you should wear a hat ;).
No way! Go down there with pride. It’s your f@$#ing hair. You do what you want!
I laugh and type back, My mom is going to Freak. Out.
My mom did the same thing. But she got over it because what can she do? It’s not like I can glue it back on.
I bet she forces me to wear a wig.
Lol. Take it off the second you’re out the door.
The conversation makes me feel better at first, but then I realize that even if I have online support, I’m still going to have to face the flesh-and-blood people in my life at some point, and suddenly I feel back where I was before: alone. Adrenaline from my bold move is dissipating and it’s starting to feel less revolutionary and more reckless. Maybe I really should go out and get a wig.
As if on cue, Dad calls up the stairs, “Dinner’s ready!”
Dad and his family dinners. Now I’m really regretting having used up all my sick excuses.
Sweat breaks out under my arms and I pace the end of the bed, desperately trying to come up with a plan. Wear a hat? Too obvious. Wear a hoodie and pull the hood up, maybe slap on a pair of headphones while I’m at it? Totally unacceptable dinner-table behavior, they’ll say.
Well then, I guess it’s now or never.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door a crack. Audrey’s door is wide open now. She probably went downstairs the second Dad called. I step out onto the landing where I can hear them chatting downstairs. Mom and Dad both laugh, and it feels like a knife in my back.
I wish they understood who I was and didn’t think I was a bad person all the time. Yeah, I kind of deserve some of it because of how I’ve been acting lately, but why can’t they see all the ways I’ve been an awesome twin as well? All the times I’ve walked Audrey to school, looked out for her, stressed when people were mean to her . . . Sometimes at school it felt like I had to be her mom because Mom wasn’t around.
None of this matters right now! a voice yells inside my head. You’re just trying to distract yourself from the very real present problem.
Then there’s Dad. He comes home for dinner at six after working a ten-hour day and has no idea what is actually going on here, so he just listens to Mom. I’ve seen him in Audrey’s room having a heart-to-heart, but he hasn’t once stopped by to see how I’m doing. Not even about Adam.
Earth to Dad: Clare isn’t doing so stellar.
You don’t have to ask permission to cut your own hair, I tell myself as I take the first step. Don’t be such a wimp. It’s your f@$#ing hair.
Holding my head high, I descend the stairs, walk down the hall, and enter the kitchen.
Audrey notices me first. Her mouth falls open and she drops her fork onto the plate with a plop. What a drama queen. Dad and Mom twist around in their seats to see whatever has set Audrey off. Mom’s hand flies to her mouth and she makes an old-lady cry, a mix between shock and dismay, before exclaiming, “Oh, Clare!”
Dad just tilts his head to the side and then nods like this isn’t something completely unexpected. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
“I cut my hair.”
“We can see that.” Dad’s voice is creepy calm. “Why don’t you come sit down?”
An uneasy feeling settles over me. I sit down beside Audrey, who is still looking at me with wide eyes. In my mind I snap my jaws at her and she wipes that look right off her face.
“You cut your hair,” Dad repeats in the same eerily calm voice. “Just now. Upstairs.”
I nod.
“What made you do that?” He sounds casual enough, but I wonder if in a moment he’s going to pull out his own hair.
I shrug. “I wanted to.”
“You just had the urge to chop off all your hair.” Mom isn’t coming off quite as self-contained. In fact, she keeps blinking at me like she thinks it’s an illusion. Dad puts a hand on her leg.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” I tell them. “Then I decided, why not just do it now?”
“Why not?” Mom repeats like a robot.
Dad glances at her and I can tell he wishes she weren’t in the room. I wish she weren’t in the room too. Since Adam died I always feel guilty for upsetting her, and I don’t want to have to feel like that right now.
“We’ll discuss it more after dinner,” Dad says, and his meaning is clear: Audrey is still eating her dinner and they don’t want her to hear whatever they have to say to me.
“There really isn’t anything to discuss.” I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. “You know, since it’s done.”
Now Dad actually glances at Audrey.
“Stop treating her like a baby!” I snap. “She’s fifteen like me. She isn’t some naïve idiot you need to coddle, and you shouldn’t treat her like one.”
There’s a stunned silence. Then Mom shakes her head, snapping out of her daze. She looks thoroughly shocked. Dad’s cheeks are a bit pink and he’s looking at his lap. Good.
I sneak a glance at Audrey and I’m surprised to see her give me a small smile. It makes me feel strangely nostalgic, like tears might pop into my eyes or something. I’m almost tempted to reach out and take her hand under the table like when we were kids.
With a sigh, Dad raises his head and looks me right in the eye. “All right, Clare. We’ll have an
adult conversation. Your mother and I have been concerned about you recently, and we’ve actually been thinking about talking to you about it.” Here he looks at Mom, who manages to nod even though it looks like her neck can’t bend that way. I’ve never seen her sit so straight. “We understand adolescence is a time of exploration and discovering who you are. We remember what it was like—rebelling against our parents and testing limits.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” I jump in. “This has nothing to do with you. Either of you.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Dad says. “Because we’ve been noticing you’re acting differently lately, most noticeably wearing different clothes. A lot of Adam’s old clothes. So we wanted to ask if you’re depressed about Adam? By wearing his clothes do you feel closer to him?”
I laugh-snort. “Of course I’m depressed about him. Aren’t we all depressed about him?”
I glance around at everyone and see Audrey’s head fall. She does that whenever she’s hiding her tears.
“Yes, we’re all very sad, and the grieving process is going to take a long time. In fact, it will never end. Grief becomes a part of us and something we learn to manage, not forget. Does that make sense?”
“Not really,” I mutter.
“Do you understand the difference between being sad and being depressed?” Dad presses on. “Depression can follow a loss of a loved one, and it’s much more serious than feeling sad sometimes. It’s a pervasive feeling that life is hopeless and a feeling of being lost. Do you feel that way?”
I take a moment to respond. “I don’t feel like life is hopeless, no.”
“But you feel lost?”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, arms still crossed. “Aren’t I supposed to talk to Kyle about this stuff?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“Not really. But I’m not depressed,” I rush to add. “I just like wearing his clothes more than my own.”
“Okay . . .” Dad draws the word out. “So my next question is: Why? I mean, you used to like dressing more . . . feminine.” Now he looks crazy awkward. “What I’m trying to say is, well, is this some kind of fashion fad or does it mean something more and that’s why you cut your hair?”
Under Shifting Stars Page 14