“Loving the hair, by the way.”
“Thanks.” If possible, I blush even harder. “I’d better get back to class.”
Their lip twitches into a smirk. “You said that already.”
“I sure did.” I back away step by step and give a little wave. “So here I go. Heading back to class.”
With a laugh, Taylor mimics my movements, backing toward the art room. “See you tomorrow.”
Audrey
Today Mom doesn’t drive away when we drop Clare off. We watch her walk right by her friends and into the school. Then it begins to rain. It’s an imminent thunderstorm but Mom just turns on the wipers and we still don’t leave.
I’m worried about her, Mom says.
Aren’t you happy the blue streak is gone?
Mom puts a hand on my knee. At least things are going well with you.
I think things are going better with Clare, too, I say. She’s changing for the better.
Mom’s eyes fill with tears. I think so too.
The storm makes it hard for Mom to drive. She turns the wipers on quadruple speed and leans over the steering wheel like an old lady. I run as fast as I can into Peak and still get soaked.
In class Marianne writes the date on the blackboard: June 3. Mom said three days is a long time to wait for someone to call you, but I’ve been waiting twice as long. Calvin said he was going to visit his Dad and that he would call when he got back. But when did he say he would get back again? I realize I forgot to ask Calvin’s birthday. I also forgot to ask him his favorite color. I mark down fuchsia for now because it’s mine but add that question to my new list of conversation topics.
I think about Calvin on the swing during lunch hour.
I think about Calvin as I work on my math questions.
I think about Calvin while Marianne shows us a map of the United States of America. Why do they need fifty states? Canada is bigger and only has ten provinces and three territories.
I think about Calvin until Monsieur Martin says, Audrey, you’ve been staring at the wall for five minutes.
I wonder if we can call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend now that we’ve been on a date. Will Calvin and I fall in love?
No, that is silly. That is childish. Teenagers only fall in love and get married in the movies.
If he hasn’t called me yet, he probably isn’t going to call me at all.
At the end of the day, Marianne doesn’t give me a gold star to put on my chart. I’m really sorry, she says. Then she draws a frownie-face with permanent marker.
I don’t tell Mom on the drive home. I don’t tell Dad at dinner, either.
When we’re finished eating Dad says, Get your coat. Time to go.
Go where?
To see Dr. Jackson. It’s the first Monday of the month.
I’ve been focusing so hard on school and Calvin, I forgot. I’m very tired. Focusing on focusing all day is very exhausting. One can only be on for so long. Going to Dr. Jackson today is risking slipping. Up.
I’m not feeling well, I say.
Dad looks at Mom. Mom avoids looking at Dad.
It’s too late to cancel, Dad says. Get your coat.
He means raincoat. Everyone keeps saying, I’ve never seen so much rain. It reminds me of that Winnie the Pooh episode.
Tut-tut, it looks like rain. Tut-tut, it looks like rain.
Water flies off the sides of the car like giant swan wings.
I remembered to make a plan for Monsieur Martin, but I forgot to make a plan for Dr. Jackson.
Do it now. Do it right. Do it before it’s too late.
But it’s already too late. The ride is rumbly and the car is warm. “Imagine” is playing on the radio.
Dad gently shakes my shoulder. Honey, we’re here.
I sleepwalk my way into the appointment.
* * *
Seven things that are impossible not to notice in Doctor Jackson’s office:
It takes six steps to get from the office door to the patient chair.
Dr. Jackson has bits of whatever he had for dinner in his beard. (Tonight: pastrami sandwich.)
The room smells like meat.
There is no window. Only an air vent in the ceiling.
The plant beside the patient chair has a bite in it.
The motivational posters rotate. (This week: Walk the Talk written above penguins walking on a sandy beach.)
The clock on his desk ticks loudly when no one is talking. At the end of the session an alarm goes off. (This terrified me on our first day.)
Dr. Jackson opens his top-secret notebook and crosses one leg over another as he skims it. Right, I remember, he says. Interesting. Very interesting.
What is so interesting? My legs start to bounce. They’re moving on their own. They’re going to leap across the coffee table. Next my arms are going to grab the notepad. Disarm him.
I clasp my hands in my lap. Imagine myself behind a brick wall. Try to contain myself.
As Clare used to say, Try to contain the weird.
Dr. Jackson glances up. Are you okay, Audrey?
No. There are cracks in my bricks.
He frowns and jots something down in his notebook.
The best thing to do in a situation like this is to avoid talking. That way, you can’t reveal anything at all. If only I’d claimed laryngitis. I could have written it on his pad and caught a glimpse at the same time.
Can’t talk today. Laryngitis. Reschedule?
Your father called me the other day and said you would like to return to your old school. Let’s explore that. How do you feel you are progressing at Peak?
My chart is full of gold stars.
That’s marvelous news. And have you made many new friends?
No.
Are you finding it hard to talk to the other kids?
I haven’t tried.
Dr. Jackson frowns. Why not?
Because I don’t plan to stay. I want to return to my old school with Clare.
Yes, but why is that?
I think the answer is obvious. Yet I don’t know how to answer.
Dr. Jackson crosses one leg over the other and leans closer. You once told me you didn’t feel like you had a lot of friends at your old school, so what makes you think you’ll be happier there? Clare has friends she wants to spend time with as well, and you should too. You’ve been trying to fit in with your twin for so long that you haven’t tried making your own friends. Perhaps if you give the kids at Peak a chance, you’ll discover that some of them share your interests and have more in common with you. Maybe you’ll even like them.
I think about Calvin and how we both like playing pretend. Then I think about Kira and how I made her cry last week. I wish that hadn’t happened. I should probably apologize for hurting her feelings. The truth is I actually do like Kira. Maybe we could be friends.
I would like you to try talking to one new person a day. Can you do that, Audrey?
Yes. I will.
Good. Dr. Jackson sits back in his chair again and props the notebook up on his leg. Now, a few weeks ago we talked about that game you play in your mind, the one with the letters. Do you still play it?
Sometimes.
I’d like to discuss that game in further detail.
Why, are you writing a rule book?
Don’t be rude, Audrey.
I’m not. I want to know.
He considers this. I can tell because he taps his pen against his lips.
No, I’m not writing a rule book, he says. It’s your game. I would like you to tell me more about it. The truth, please.
And then I have to tell him.
Sometimes I dissect sentences, I tell him. Like Hello, how are you? would be split into four groups of four. The question mark is worth two because it’s broken into two pieces.
He blinks at me.
(Hell)(ohow)(arey)(ou?)
I see.
You could do two groups of eight, but I like to break it down into as many groups
as possible. I used to count spaces but I don’t anymore.
How often do you do this? he asks.
Sometimes when I read a sign. Sometimes when someone speaks to me. I’m very good at it now. I can do it in seconds.
Dr. Jackson sits back. He puts the tips of his fingers together like he’s making a tent. And when did you start doing this?
Shoot, that’s twenty-nine. I guess I can change it to a period instead of a question mark to make it work. Seven groups of four.
Audrey, please answer the question.
I don’t know. Probably since I started to read. At school I do it in French.
Do you play any other counting games?
Whenever I drive somewhere, I count the number of green and red lights on the trip. Whenever I take a stairwell, I count the number of stairs and memorize it. So that I won’t trip during an emergency.
An emergency?
A blackout.
Ah, I see. What about walking on flat ground? Do you count steps then?
Only in places that make me nervous.
Does my office make you nervous?
Yes.
He doesn’t answer but writes something in his notebook again.
It’s unfair. Counselors take notes about you, but you never get to see them. Even though you’re paying them to do it.
What did you write? I ask.
He glances up and smiles. You’ll have to change that question mark to a period.
I smile too. I know, I say. I hate seventeen for that reason. I hate most prime numbers for that reason.
His smile grows larger. I have a question that will stump you. You said you count question marks as two points, so would an exclamation point count for two as well?
Of course.
Okay, then why not a lowercase i?
That’s a very good question. Thank you, Dr. Jackson.
You’re welcome, Audrey.
I think this is going very well.
* * *
Dad seems tense when he drives me home. His hands are doing the white-knuckle thing on the wheel.
How did the appointment go? he asks.
Je ne sais pas. He never lets me read the notes.
He told me about your game. Dad’s voice sounds funny. Like he’s trying to speak but there’s an orange peel across his teeth.
Oui. He gave me some pointers.
At this Dad looks surprised. Yeah? Like what?
Like that the i should count as two points as well. Like the question mark and exclamation point.
Dad frowns. I don’t know why he would do that.
Do what?
Dad glances over at me. Smiles the way that doesn’t reach his eyes. Are you sure you want to switch schools, honey?
Sure. Certain. Positive.
It’s just . . . Dr. Jackson is a bit concerned.
Concerned? When did he express this concern? I want to ask. When I went to the bathroom? I clench my fists. After-session bathroom sabotage!
He doesn’t think you’re ready, honey.
Why not?
He says he’s observed some changes in you. He’s concerned you seem more anxious since Adam passed. He’s worried you’ll spend time playing games in your head and fall behind in a large classroom.
I won’t. This whole drive I only counted three red lights. I’m too busy talking to you.
Dad rubs his chin and looks out the window.
At home he and Mom retreat to the attic. They always talk in the attic when they don’t want us to hear. When it’s an especially private conversation, they pull up the ladder. But you can still hear them through the vent in the bathroom. I lock the door like I’m using the toilet and then sit on the lid and listen.
Dr. Jackson said psychological disorders don’t always work in isolation, I hear Dad tell Mom. They can feed off one another. What is the word he used? Comorbidity.
That’s convenient. He still can’t settle on a diagnosis so he’s put together a bag of tricks.
That’s what I thought. What exactly are we paying him for? We could have just surfed WebMD.
Silence while they consider this. Maybe Mom is booting up her laptop.
So what does he recommend? she asks.
He said that he would like to keep using the broad term neurodivergent at this time. He wants to keep focusing on treatments and strategies that work for Audrey as she continues to develop.
Maybe we should get a second opinion?
Do we really want to put Audrey through that? I think she has a level of trust with Dr. Jackson now, and you know how much she hates change.
The ceiling creaks as someone paces around. Probably Mom. She’s the pacer.
Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way, Mom says. Maybe it’s better that he wants to keep working with her rather than give her a quick fix. Maybe we’re causing her more heartache by trying to fit her into one box.
Maybe. Dad sighs. You should have seen her face when I said she might not be able to go back with Clare. I suppose sometimes being a parent is making the tough calls.
And sometimes being a parent isn’t doing what the books or anyone else says. It’s making decisions based on our gut feelings. What do we think is right, Stewart? In our hearts?
I don’t know. I promised her I would really consider it, but the classes will be bigger: thirty kids instead of the fifteen Audrey is used to now.
More pacing by Mom. Then: She won’t be thrown to the wolves. They’ll help us create an individualized education plan, and they have a private study room where she can work with other students with learning differences. We can get her a tutor if need be.
Marianne emailed us that Audrey spaced out all day.
Yes, but we’re seeing improvement. It’s clear she can succeed when she has a goal, right?
Silence. Maybe Dad is nodding. I wouldn’t know.
Then he says, But things are already difficult with Clare. You told me you were terrified to drop her off at school today, that you watched her walk all the way in, worried some kid was going to pick on her.
I was, but we have to let her live her own life, right? We can’t protect her all the time.
I know.
So shouldn’t we give Audrey the same chance?
It’s not the same. What if it just doesn’t work? What if it ends up being a disaster and she feels even worse?
Isn’t it better to take that risk? To do everything we can to help her succeed and be there to support her if she fails? Isn’t that our job as parents, to give her every opportunity we can?
I don’t want to be the bad guy here, Margaret.
There’s a long silence and then Mom’s sewing machine starts up. I hear her pumping the pedal while Dad puts down the ladder. It squeaks as he descends. Louder and louder until he’s right outside the bathroom door.
I hold my breath for ten seconds and then step into the hallway. Empty ladder. Dad downstairs. Mom in the attic. I dash to my room.
My eyes are burning. They’re not going to let me change schools. I know it. I can feel it.
* * *
Ms. Nguyen is pleased when she receives my permission slip on Wednesday. Wonderful! she says. Have you decided on a subject?
The twins, I tell her. The GMO twins.
Okay. I have a thinner piece of stone I think we can work with. It will be hard work, but I have faith in you, Audrey. And I can help.
No! I want to do this on my own.
She jumps a little at the tone of my voice. Okay, Audrey, whatever you want. Just remember I’ll be here to support you.
I feel a bit bad about yelling. Ms. Nguyen is so nice. But she’s on the other side of the room at the cabinet already so I don’t say sorry. She comes back with a large green rectangular block, a pair of goggles, and a bundle of canvas wrapped around what looks like a set of dentist tools for a giant. Including a hammer.
We’ll be using chisels and files. She picks one up. It’s the smallest tool in the set. We’ll start with the file fi
rst to create the outside shape of the womb and base. The important thing to remember is to file away from you. Slide it forward and lift it off the stone. Then return to the starting position until you’ve filed away the amount you want.
Next she picks up the tool with the wider end. We’ll use the chisel to cut away the portion that needs to be removed. We’ll save this part for last. When we’re more confident. The key with the chisel is to tap it lightly with the hammer. Let the tools do the work for you and don’t worry about hitting air.
I’ll go over this again when it’s time. After the general shape is formed, we’ll smooth down the sculpture with sandpaper. I’ll help you apply wax to keep moisture out.
I’m so excited. This will be the best thing I’ve ever made. Better than the K’Nex towers. Better than all my drawings and comic strips combined.
It will fix me and Clare. When she sees it she will remember that we are twins and what we used to be like. Everything will go back to normal. She will forgive me.
I reach for the file but Ms. Nguyen plucks it from my fingers. She lays it back down on the table. My apologies. The very first step is to trace the outline of your design onto the stone with pencil. Then you can see where to file and there is less chance of making a mistake. Remember to trace the design on the side of the block as well.
I pick up my pencil and pull the stone toward me. Glance up. Ms. Nguyen is hovering. She gets the hint.
Don’t start filing without putting on the goggles. The dust can be very harmful to your eyes. I’ll come back in a half hour.
Alone in the studio, I begin.
If Clare had been born thirteen minutes later, she would have been a Gemini like me. Geminis are always searching for their other half. The person who will understand them. For most of my life that person was Clare. But Clare didn’t need me.
When we were in grade one, our teacher asked us to write about our first memory. She said it’s hard for some people to pinpoint their very first, but I didn’t have any trouble.
Mine was Clare. We were lying side by side in a crib. I remember turning my head to look at her.
Our teacher didn’t believe me. People don’t start retaining memories until they’re at least two years old, she said. I must have used my imagination to come up with that memory.
Under Shifting Stars Page 16