Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Like he’d promised, an army of furry rodents (mostly squirrels, with a few chipmunks and a stray woodchuck thrown in to keep things interesting) rose up from the forest floor to feed like bubbling trout in a kiddie pool. “Quick,” I said, reaching for the crackers. “Gimme some.”

  He passed me a stack and I crumpled and tossed them into the clearing, the animals sucking them up like a troop of hungry vacuum cleaners.

  “You might wanna slow down,” he told me after a couple of minutes. “We’re gonna run out fast at this rate.” Hypocritically, he chucked a whole cracker at a tree stump. It skidded to a lazy stop before being nabbed by a pair of bushy-tailed squirrels, which began a tug-of-war over it.

  “If you say so, Mr. Big Spender,” I joked. I waved a cracker-filled hand over the menagerie, our forest friends closing in on us. “They’re pretty bold, aren’t they?” As if to prove my point, a skinny juvenile squirrel did a flying leap at my hand, missing by a mile.

  I bent down, offering my remaining crackers to the politest rodents of the bunch, which had somehow figured out how to form a line and wait their turns. Their manners were quite entrancing, really, explaining my level of distraction when . . .

  “Cass,” George said, calmly at first. Then: “Cass! Look out!” He snapped his fingers, made a grab for my leg.

  But it was too late.

  I didn’t know what had hit me, literally, until I smacked to the ground, my head landing on a pillow of newly fallen leaves (thank God!), my shoulder crunching beneath me. “Ow!” I gasped. I rubbed at my eyes, the stupidest thing ever developing into view: a crazy-looking, wiseass raccoon, which had apparently—I’m spitballing here—taken me down from behind like an NFL linebacker.

  And the dummy was still hanging around, inches from my face, that little bandito mask taunting me.

  George scrambled to his feet, let loose a string of expletives and chased the degenerate off—albeit slowly, since the raccoon seemed suddenly comatose—with a series of deliberately misplaced air kicks; meanwhile, I picked myself up off the ground and dusted my jeans.

  “You all right?” he asked, the raccoon scampering out of sight.

  “Sure. I think so.”

  He gave me a head-to-toe once-over, then, with a sly grin, said, “Leave it to you.”

  I reminded him, “This was your idea.”

  He slung a friendly arm around my shoulder, making me wish a cougar would materialize to nip at my toes. “I guess maybe you’re right.”

  chapter 13

  The outcome of my computer’s overzealous messaging was not what I expected. In fact, it was the polar opposite, considering that instead of despising me or concluding I was a lunatic stalker, Aleks Smullen thanked me—thanked me!!!—for telling him about George and their mother, whose story he seemed to be on the trail of without my meager assistance. What he proposed next, though, left me gobsmacked.

  Ready?

  The beautiful, mysterious twin of my dead love wants to come to Milbridge. And stay with me (or, well, my family). And meet George’s adoptive parents. And, ideally, buddy up to George’s friends too. Which, to be honest, is creeping me out a tad. I mean, he can’t become George. He knows that, right?

  I stalled him with a good excuse: the parents. And it wasn’t a lie either. As much as they love me (and LOVED George), it wasn’t a slam dunk that they were going to let a strange boy (I guess, technically, Aleks is a man, the thought of which stings, since George never reached that eighteenth birthday milestone) crash at our house—and into our lives. When I brought up the idea over breakfast, though: another surprise. They couldn’t wait to meet him. Mom and Dad both. In unison, they’d squealed, “Absolutely!”

  Freaky weird. Now I just have to let Aleks know so we can hammer out the details of his visit, which will be virtually immediate due to the impending fall semester.

  He’s messaged me his cell number, so I dial it. As soon as the phone starts ringing, my pulse goes haywire. “Hello?” I hear in George’s soft, warm voice. Out of everything, that’s what gets me most: they sound the same.

  “Uh, hi. It’s Cassie.”

  “Oh, hey there.”

  “So I, um, talked to my parents . . .”

  “And?”

  This is surreal. I can’t get over the feeling that we know each other. “They’re up for it. They can’t wait to meet you. George was sort of like their third kid, so . . .” Okay, that was icky to admit, but also pretty much true.

  He mumbles something out of range of the phone, then tells me, “Great. I’ll see you Saturday then? Around four?”

  I give my schedule a mental run-through. “Actually, I have work until five.” We’ve lost two waitresses in the past week, so Mom and Dad need me to fill in. “Maybe you can come later? Or, well, just pop in to the restaurant?”

  I practically see his face wrenching in concentration. “The restaurant?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I forget. . . . Anyway, yeah. It’s called The Moondancer. Great burgers. You’ll probably be starving from the drive, right?”

  He crunches something in my ear (a Lay’s Salt & Vinegar potato chip?). “If it doesn’t rain, I’m going to take my bike.”

  As in a bicycle? “Oh. Okay.”

  My voice must’ve revealed my ignorance, because he explains, “It gets sixty miles to the gallon. Better for the environment and all that.”

  This isn’t going to work, I think. He looks like George, sounds like George, AND drives a motorcycle? Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into? “How responsible,” I say, unsure whether I’m coming off like a pathetic suck-up or a sarcastic wench.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Yeah, so, Saturday at four? Or five?” I confirm.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  I’d rather not ask Haley for a favor, but since she betrayed me to Mom and Dad, she owes me one. “What do I have to do?” she asks as I brief her on the morning’s mission.

  “Nothing. Just go with me and back me up,” I say, tucking Clive into his cage after an overdue outing. “Piece of cake.”

  “Why is he . . . ? I mean, don’t you think it’s weird that he wants to meet everyone?”

  “Of course not.” I dig George’s hoodie out of a pile of laundry and knot it around my waist, mostly for show. If his parents see me wearing it, they might be more receptive to our proposal. “It’s perfectly normal. Anyone who found out they had a dead twin would want to . . .” I root around my makeup drawer. “Have you seen my mascara?”

  Haley slips off the bed, pretends to be scanning the novels on my bookshelf. “Huh?”

  What a snake.

  “My mascara,” I repeat. “I know you’ve been ‘borrowing’ it.” I toss a couple of empty lip gloss tubes in the garbage, then flip over a compact of blush to find the edge of a Funyuns bag peeking out at me.

  “Geez, don’t go all crybaby over it,” says Haley, my eyes misting over. “I’ll get you another one.”

  This unexpected burst of emotion has happened before, but usually I can control it. I sniffle hard, pat the corners of my eyes with my fingers. “Forget about the mascara,” I say, shoving the makeup drawer closed. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  * * *

  The Brookses’ yard is as pristine as ever when Haley and I trudge up the front walk. “You knock,” I tell her, pushing her gently toward the granite steps. “I’ll do the talking.”

  She whips her head around and glares at me. “Fine. But after this, we’re even.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Oh, and you promised to help Opal’s mother with the rummage sale. You’ve still gotta do that, you know.”

  Our parents fronted the four hundred dollars to bail Mrs. Madden out of jail. The only way she can repay them is by selling off a church full of ceramic elephants and lava lamps. “Dad doesn’t care about the money,” I state flatly.

  Haley raps on the door, her
knuckles no match for the hunk of hardwood. “Don’t start that again. It’s embarrassing. Opal doesn’t want to—”

  “I know.” I give a shallow sigh. “She’s too proud.”

  Haley goes to knock again, but before her fist makes contact, the door soundlessly opens on Mr. Brooks. “Yes?” he says, his pupils dilating in the sunlight.

  I step up, forehead to chin with the man. “Um, hi, sir,” I say in a stumbly voice.

  He smiles. “Hello, girls. What can I do for you?”

  I move my gaze into the foyer, a place I haven’t visited since before George died. “Can we come in?”

  A tick of curiosity flashes across his face. He pulls the door wide open. “Certainly.”

  On cat feet (he wears fringed suede slippers at four o’clock in the afternoon, which tamp his footsteps) he leads us to a formal parlor, George’s least favorite room of the house. “Please, sit down,” he says, motioning at a pair of matching wingchairs with long cherry legs and stiff backs. He takes a spot opposite us on what I believe is called a “smoking chair,” a gothic-looking black leather thing with rolled arms and ornately carved trim.

  My toes barely reach the floor, and Haley’s patent leather Mary Janes simply dangle over the oriental carpet. I have no idea how to explain why we’re here, so I scan the parlor for an icebreaker (maybe a photo of George I can innocently comment on before delving into the information about Aleks). The problem is, unlike the Rabinskis of Queens, the Brookses of Milbridge have nary a trace of photographic evidence in sight. “How are you doing?” I end up asking.

  Unless it’s my imagination, Mr. Brooks looks suspicious of us. “Coming along quite nicely,” he says. “And you?”

  “We’re good,” blurts Haley.

  Mr. Brooks uncrosses his legs and recrosses them to the other side, eyeing us ponderously. “Excellent.”

  I ask, “Is Mrs. Brooks home?” Maybe I’ll have better luck summoning my nerve with her.

  He frowns. “Sorry. I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, the thing is . . .” I start to say. “Um, you know how George was adopted?” What am I, an idiot? Did I really just ask that?

  His eyes pinch together. “Hmm?”

  Trying to help, Haley says, “We found out something.”

  Mr. Brooks only stares. And who could blame him?

  “Do you know anything about George’s biological parents?” I ask, hoping to put the conversation back on track. “Or where he came from?”

  “What’s this all about?” he says, planting his feet and leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a bulb of a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

  For a moment, I think about ditching the plan and telling Aleks that George’s parents are missing in action. But instead, I come out with, “George had a twin. His name’s Aleks Smullen. He lives in New York City, and he wants to meet you.” There. That about sums it up. The ball’s in his court now.

  I shoot a sidelong glance at Haley, who stops chewing her lip to back me up. “That’s right.”

  Mr. Brooks does a few robotic blinks. “How does he know about us?”

  That’s an odd question. I feel kind of guilty admitting it, but . . . “We told him about George and, well, you guys.”

  A dense silence stretches into uncomfortable territory. Mr. Brooks fidgets around nervously in his chair. “This boy desires a meeting? With us? Lillian and me?”

  I nod and Haley says, “Uh-huh.”

  He stares us down. “When would this meeting transpire?”

  “I know it’s short notice,” I say, cringing as I deliver the news, “but he’s coming tomorrow. So Sunday would be good, if you’re free.” I flash a hopeful smile.

  He abruptly stands, motioning for us to do the same. “I’ll discuss it with Lillian,” he says, hustling us for the exit, “and phone you with the results.”

  “Um, okay . . .” I manage to mumble as he whips the door open, flooding the foyer with late-summer heat.

  Haley and I hit the porch just in time to hear the deadbolt clunk into place, punctuated by a stiff, “Good day.”

  * * *

  At six o’clock on Saturday, the dinner rush is in full swing. Even though I should be topping off coffees and clearing away dirty dishes, all I can do is gawk at The Moondancer’s entrance like a neurotic puppy with separation anxiety.

  Haley gives my ankle a kick as she whizzes by, a teetering tray of food balanced on her shoulder. “C’mon. I’m dying here.”

  I slip my phone out of my apron and check it for messages. Like the last fifty times I’ve looked, though, there aren’t any. Where is he? I wonder about Aleks, a trickle of panic creeping up my throat. Irrationally, I can’t help thinking he’s crashed and died, like George.

  Haley blows past me in the other direction. “Thanks a lot, douchebag.”

  I want to help my sister, save Mom and Dad a night of frustrations, get the guests fed, watered and on their way. But until Aleks Smullen’s perfect face lands in my field of vision, I feel as if I’m trapped underwater, my limbs leaden with anticipation and fear. “Be right there,” I promise Haley, but she’s already gone. I shuffle toward the kitchen, groping inside my apron for the crystal pendant I’ve been toting around all week as a good luck charm, despite its dubious track record. When I find it, I roll it back and forth between my fingers, begging the universe for Aleks’s safe arrival.

  “Order up!” Dad barks when he sees me coming. He slaps his palm down on a metal bell, triggering a ringy-dingy sound that hangs in the air for a few seconds.

  I love Dad’s passion for food and the way he acts like he’s starring in his own episode of Hell’s Kitchen. “Got it,” I say, transferring the plates from under the heat lamps to a serving tray.

  Dad drags his arm over his forehead, clearing a line of perspiration. “Your friend show up yet?”

  I force an upbeat tone. “Nah. He should get here soon, though.”

  Dad gives a sideways nod. “Send him my way when he does. I’ll show him how to whip up a Bronco Burger.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Sure thing.”

  The port-holed door swings wildly in my wake as I glide back into the dining room, where my prayers are finally answered.

  At an orphan table by the coat rack, my sister fawns over a mussy-haired Aleks Smullen, whose face is aglow with a fresh sun bronze. I deliver the entrees I’m saddled with, then bound in his direction, an all-too-dopey smile plastered on my lips. “You’re here!” I chirp, the enthusiasm in my voice nauseating.

  Haley’s eyes roll back, but Aleks returns my happy grin. “Hey,” he says, giving The Moondancer an extended look-see. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “George liked it,” I reply like a goof.

  “Coke?” Haley asks, wedging her ticket pad into her apron.

  He nods. “Yes, please.”

  I say, “Aren’t you hungry? Dad—my dad—wants to make you a burger.”

  He pats his stomach. “Sorry. I gave in to temptation an hour ago.” He pulls a sad puppy-dog face. “Forgive me?”

  It’s not like I have a choice. “No problem,” I say, waving away the apology. “Forget about it.”

  * * *

  “These things reek,” Haley proclaims, drawing a pair of funky bowling shoes to her face for a sniff. Her nose recoils. “Ick.”

  Ian asks the attendant, a beanpole of a guy with long, stringy hair, a flannel shirt, and hipster glasses, for a size nine and then turns to me. “You’re up.”

  “Six and a half,” I say, requesting a size smaller than normal, since the bowling shoes run big.

  The attendant skids a scuffed pair across the counter and rolls on.

  There are seven people in our party at the moment, including Haley, Opal, Ian, Aleks, and me, plus two relatively new friends of mine from school: Noelle and Jaye. Rosie is supposed to join us in an hour, assuming she gets off work in time.

  I step aside and wait for Aleks, who, in the nin
ety minutes he’s been here, has become my manly shadow and the object of everyone’s morbid curiosity. “So you never knew George?” asks Jaye, a pretty girl with a round face, almond-shaped eyes, and a mess of spiral brunette curls. I get the urge to remind her that she only knows George through my gushing memories, since he died a year before she and I made friends.

  “Uh-uh,” Aleks mumbles as we tramp off toward lane number one.

  The cool thing about Pinhead’s is that they have “glow bowling” on the weekends, which means we’ll be chucking balls down the spit-shined alley in semidarkness, any specks of white we happen to be wearing aglow like The Big Dipper against the midnight sky.

  Oh, and there’s music: a peppy mix of dance hits from the last twenty years, blaring out of megaphone-style speakers mounted to the ceiling. As we change into our dancing shoes, I can barely hear myself think.

  Noelle takes the first practice shot (no surprise, since she’s the athlete of the bunch, her schedule crammed with track meets and softball tourneys, her calves—which are perfectly bisected by the turquoise leggings she’s flaunting—taut balls of muscle). Even though I’m average sized, her extreme fitness endows me with a feeling of flabbiness that, I fear, can only be squelched by a liquid diet and a pair of stiletto heels.

  I don’t know Aleks well enough to gauge his sportiness, but I do know his DNA. And his DNA tells me he’ll be a shoe-in for second place, Ian being a bit bumbly and the rest of our gang being—shall I say?—a skosh south of middling in the accuracy department.

  “Phew, I’m thirsty,” I declare to no one in particular, after knocking down a spectacular four pins out of ten. “Anyone want anything from the snack bar?”

  Aleks jumps to his feet. “I could use something to eat,” he admits with a coy grin.

  Jaye makes like she’s going to tag along until Ian reminds her that she’s up next in the rotation. “Get me a Sprite?” she says instead, pressing a couple of ones into my palm.

  Aleks and I lope off to the snack counter, where a cluster of kids hogs the rotating stools, shoveling French fries and nachos down their throats, laughing and punching one another and spitting food everywhere in the process.