by Lisa Jackson
“He’s a jerk,” Mary Theresa had decided.
“Who needs him?” Maggie had preferred to walk to school on her own anyway. “He’s just a pain.”
Mitch had gone to great lengths to show his disdain of the girls. He’d laughed at them with his friends, shown Maggie’s diary to anyone who wanted a peek, and put locks on the door of his room to make sure they wouldn’t violate his privacy and sanctuary.
But now things had changed. Mitch’s animosity had diminished, and Mary T, as he called her, didn’t seem to mind hanging out with him. Maggie secretly thought Mary Theresa had finally figured out that Mitch’s heretofore nerdy friends had become hot when they’d started driving, playing varsity sports, and growing serious facial hair where there had once only been severe cases of acne. Whatever the reason, these days Mary Theresa spent more time with Mitch and his friends than she did with Maggie.
Not that it mattered a whole lot. Sure, Maggie missed hanging out with her twin, but it wasn’t the end of the world. They were starting to separate finally, their interests weren’t the same anymore, and probably the biggest reason they didn’t get along was that Maggie refused to be led by the nose by her sister.
Mary Theresa had always made the decisions about what they were going to do, what friends they would share, or where they would go. But Maggie was sick of it. Sick of being a twin. Especially being the paler version of her flashy sister.
When they had started having “woman cycles” or “the monthly curse,” as their mother had called their periods, Mary Theresa was the first to get a cramp and therefore able to give Maggie more advice than she’d ever hoped to hear by the time her body had come to grips with womanhood six weeks later. Somehow it made Mary Theresa a know-it-all on all things related to blossoming womanhood and femininity.
A few years back Mary Theresa had gotten into clothes and nail polish and lipstick and listening to music that didn’t appeal to Maggie. She’d taken to smoking cigarettes in her room and blowing the smoke out her window late at night, bleaching streaks into her hair, and sneaking out once in a while, never confiding in Maggie about where she was going or what she was doing or whom she was meeting.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she’d said once when Maggie had caught her slipping through the window. Mary Theresa had been wearing skintight white shorts and a cropped-off yellow top that showed off her flat abdomen. “Just cover for me.”
“And say what?”
“I don’t know. Use your imagination. You’re supposed to be so good at it. All the English teachers say so,” she added with an envious edge to her voice. “As if you’re gonna be a writer or somethin’.”
“Well, I can’t imagine where you’re going or how I’m going to lie to Mom and Dad.”
“You’ll come up with something,” Mary Theresa had replied, clutching her pack of Virginia Slims in one hand while holding on to the sill with her other. She flashed her sister a radiant smile, then slipped into the yard, ducking past the pools of lights from lamps placed strategically between the rosebushes that had been in full, fragrant blossom.
Fortunately, their parents had never noticed Mary Theresa’s absences, and Maggie had never been forced to lie. Well, not yet anyway.
Now as she skimmed through the water and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing and the steady rhythm of her strokes, the unrest in the family ate at her, destroying her concentration.
Whenever Mitch’s friends came around, Mary Theresa lit up like a Christmas tree while Maggie felt as if she disappeared into the woodwork. Mary Theresa flirted and giggled, dodging playful pinches, hot-blooded leers, and sensual remarks with an aplomb that left Maggie speechless.
It was bound to happen, she supposed. Who cared anyway?
She sensed rather than saw the edge of the pool, touched it with the tips of her fingers, and tucked quickly into an underwater somersault that propelled her back toward the house where Mary Theresa, disgruntled at the shade cast by the hedge, was shifting in the chaise.
Quickly Maggie swam twenty laps without a break. Her muscles began to ache. One more turn. She saw the edge of the pool near the house and knifed through the water. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Her lungs burned. She stretched and finally her fingers touched cement at the shallow end. She broke surface and gulped in air.
“Done already?” Mary Theresa asked, one eyebrow lifting over the tops of her Ray-Bans. Her body was slick with oil, tanned to a dark tawny shade, her hair piled onto her head.
“For now.” Maggie snagged the white towel she’d dropped at the pool’s lip.
Mary Theresa sighed. “Waste of time,” she muttered under her breath.
Irritated, Maggie patted her face dry, then, spying Mary Theresa basking with conceited calm on the lounge, she reached into the water, and on a whim, flung some cool drips onto Mary’s flat belly.
“Hey!” Mary Theresa shrieked and shot out of the chair. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nothin’,” Mary Theresa mimed in a high-pitched voice, her face pulled into a nasty pout. “Pulllease, grow up for God’s sake, Maggie. Do you know what an embarrassment you are?”
Unperturbed, Maggie placed her hands on the ledge and hauled her body out of the water in a quick, lithe motion. She didn’t see how she could be that much of an embarrassment because she looked a lot like her sister. Maybe not quite as pretty, but close enough that once in a while people called them the wrong names. Oh, that really burned Mary Theresa’s butt. Maggie loved it. “You’re an idiot, a…a…kid. Why don’t you go and ride your damned horse or something?”
“I will.” It sounded like heaven. Anything to get away from this house and all the ill will that seemed to grow as the summer wore on. When had it started to happen, Maggie wondered, thinking back to when she and Maggie were in junior high and Mitch had just started high school. They’d been happier then. All of them.
Maggie didn’t remember the muffled arguments behind her parents’ bedroom door, or the empty vodka bottles piled high in the trash, or the frigid silence from their mother, an intense, heavy lack of conversation that seemed to radiate from her while quieting everyone else. Bernice Reilly’s deadly silence was able to numb them all. One icy look from her furious eyes was capable of bringing conversation and laughter to a standstill at the dinner table or stopping all communication in the car.
As Mary Theresa brushed the offending water droplets from her body, Maggie eyed the long, rambling house set on the crest of the hill. This place had been her parents’ dream, and recently, she thought, it had turned into a nightmare. Ancient oaks, olives, and eucalyptuses shaded a well-tended yard and the stucco house where they resided. Painted a soft dun color and resplendent with a sweeping red-tile roof and terra-cotta patio that stretched to the pool—their father’s pride and joy—the house seemed cold and empty as a tomb to Maggie, and she longed for their little three-bedroom rambler in the valley.
But with his professional jump to a rival company, Frank Reilly had elevated himself to this house, a new pool and sporty red Mercedes while Bernice had been able to hire Lydia, their Spanish-speaking maid, and for the first time in her life was able to spend hours having manicures, pedicures, and facials between her tennis matches and bridge club.
Maggie wasn’t certain the move had been so good. She missed the neighbors and small yard where she could sneak through the broken fence into Jamie Tortoni’s vegetable garden. They could share secrets while watching Jamie’s father’s goldfish swim lazily in a cement pool he’d designed and built. Whenever Maggie had been fighting with Mary Theresa, she’d been able to count on Jamie as a friend and confidante.
But that was a long time ago. When they’d moved, Mary Theresa and Maggie had gone to a different high school. Maggie and Jamie never saw each other anymore.
In the meantime Mary Theresa had changed. At the old house Maggie and M.T. had shared a room decorated with lavender paint, matching twin beds covered with purple-and
-pink patchwork quilts and a gold-shag carpet littered with Barbie dolls, stuffed animals, and clothes that never quite made it to the laundry hamper.
Maggie remembered a time when they were about eleven—God, it seemed like eons ago. Late at night, after everyone else in the house had gone to bed, she and Mary Theresa had huddled together, hidden under the covers of Mary Theresa’s bed with flashlights to read a dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine that Maggie, while searching for Mitch’s stash of licorice whips, had discovered buried under his bed along with his crusty old socks and dirty jockey shorts.
“Yuk. Look at that,” Maggie had said, horrified as she eyed the centerfold where a tanned model with huge boobs and thatch of blond hair at the juncture of her legs was pictured in a sprawled, come-hither position. Long-maned and almond-eyed, the centerfold wore nothing but an endless strand of pearls that, caught between perfect teeth were draped from her wet lips, past her breasts to nestle deep in the misty blond curls at the apex of her thighs and disappear to God only knew where. Maggie didn’t want to consider the possibilities.
“Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” Mary Theresa, awestruck, had asked as Maggie held the flashlight so that its beam shone straight on the pages.
Maggie had shaken her head, unable to tear her gaze away from the woman’s exposed private parts.
But Mary Theresa had rotated the magazine, looking at the model from all viewpoints, pointing out the fact that the naked woman had flawless skin, interesting green eyes, and high, sculpted cheekbones. Maggie only saw her buttocks, boobs with those silver-dollar-sized nipples and…well, all that other stuff that made her blush.
“You know this is art, don’t you?” Mary Theresa had said with all her eleven-year-old wisdom.
“Then why was it hidden under Mitch’s bed, beneath his dirty clothes?”
“Because Mitch is a moron.” Mary Theresa bit at her lower lip and sized up the slick pages. “Do you think she had a boob job?”
“A what?” Maggie felt something brush against her toes as they hung outside of the sheets. “Oooh!” She threw back the covers, certain her mother, arms crossed and an expression resembling that of an army drill sergeant, would be standing at the foot of the bed. Instead, Flint, their silvery tabby cat, hopped onto the bed and walked with soft, tiny footprints on Maggie’s back. “Man, you scared me,” she said to the cat, and pulled him under the covers with her. She adjusted her flashlight again and noticed that Mary Theresa’s concentration hadn’t so much as glitched. “What were you saying?”
“I was telling you about this kind of surgery to make ’em bigger.” She pointed to the model’s enviable chest. “It’s called breast enhancement or something. Linda Stone’s mom had it done a couple of years ago.”
“How do you know?”
Mary Theresa tossed her a look that silently called her naive. “Linda said, and if you look, you’ll see that she’s a lot bigger than she used to be.” Her eyes narrowed on the picture. “I can’t see any scars.” Mary Theresa’s eyebrows drew together thoughtfully as she studied the photograph.
“Ick. Who cares if there are scars?”
“I care.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it seems important. Boys like big boobs.”
“Would you ever have it done?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Maggie shook her head. No way would she have some doctor cut her open and…and do what? She didn’t want to know. “Besides, boys are stupid.”
“I know.” Mary Theresa smiled. “Real stupid. But they like big tits.”
That statement seemed profound today, Maggie thought as the lazy-afternoon sun dried the drops of water on her body. She watched Mary Theresa stretch out on the chaise again, perfect, nonsurgically enhanced breasts overflowing from the top of her neon orange bikini.
Toweling dry her hair, Maggie stood, her shadow daring to cross Mary Theresa’s legs.
“Careful,” her twin said. She felt Mary Theresa’s restlessness, knew that she was annoyed that Maggie had disturbed her. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“Don’t you?”
Mary rolled over and sighed in disgust. “God, you’re pathetic.”
Maggie wanted to chime, I know you are, but what am I, then decided that would sound far too childish, only driving Mary Theresa’s point home.
She didn’t bother to say goodbye, just walked into the cool house, changed, and badgered her mother to let her borrow the car so she could drive to the horse barns where her mare, Ink Spot, was leased. She spent the rest of the afternoon riding through the connecting paddocks of Rio Verde Canyon and relaxing. The sun was hot, heating her crown with lazy rays as it slowly disappeared into the western horizon.
Hours later Maggie stopped at a local drive-in, where she ordered fries and a Coke. She hung out with some kids she knew from school for a while, then, knowing she was late, pushed the speed limit on the way home and parked her mother’s car in its spot in the garage.
Her dad’s Mercedes was missing, thank God. Maggie smiled to herself as she pocketed her keys because she’d lucked out and avoided a lecture on coming home late. Obviously her parents were gone, out for the evening.
The house was dark, only the exterior lamps lighting the way to the front door, but Mitch’s Mustang sat in the driveway, its paint polished to a sheen that looked almost liquid in the lamplight.
Intent on swimming a few laps under the stars, Maggie sneaked around the outside of the house, avoiding the pools of light cast by the exterior lamps. She’d just cool off, swim three or four laps, then call it a night. She was rounding the corner and struggling to pull her T-shirt over her head at the oleander hedge when she heard the noises: the notes of a piano and Elton John’s voice singing a song Maggie barely remembered, soft, happy giggles and splashes of water over the gurgle of the hot-tub jets.
Maggie froze.
“Don’t!” Mary Theresa ordered, but her voice was playful, teasing.
The hairs on the back of Maggie’s neck raised slowly, one by one, as a deep male voice rumbled in laughter.
It wasn’t much of a surprise really. Mary Theresa attracted a lot of male attention; she always had a date.
“Why not?” the guy asked, and Maggie’s gut clenched as she recognized the voice.
“I said—oooh!”
Maggie’s stomach turned over. Her throat was cotton, and though she knew she was making an irreversible mistake of life-altering proportions, that she would never be able to undo what she was about to see, she peeked through the hedge surrounding the hot tub and stood frozen, eyes locked on the white mist rising from the bubbling water and the two heads that were visible in the muted light. Mary Theresa, her hair piled on her crown, wet tendrils framing her face, was locked in an embrace with a strong, muscular male, one who held her close, his hands splayed over her spine, his face buried in the perfect breasts that she was so proud of. A bottle of vodka—part of their mother’s stash, from the looks of it—was opened and sat on the tiled lip of the pool.
Mary Theresa was moving up and down as the man untied the back of her bikini and let it float away. He lifted his head for a minute and Maggie caught a glimpse of Mitch as he started licking and teasing at her twin’s chest.
No!
Bile shot up Maggie’s throat. She gagged, suddenly on her knees as the contents of her stomach spewed onto the ground. No! She couldn’t have seen what she’d thought. No way. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. They had to be.
“What was that?” Mary Theresa’s voice, slurred.
“Nothin’. Just a dog or somethin’.”
“No…stop…quit it…I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Oh, come on, M.T. Please. You give it away to every other guy—”
“I…I can’t, this…oh, God, what if Mom and Dad came home?”
“They won’t. They’re at the Kavenaughs. When they do show up they’ll both be shit-faced.”
“Wh
at about Maggie?”
“Wha’ about her? She don’t know nothin’. She’s out ridin’ that damned horse, isn’t she? If you ask me, she’s havin’ a love affair with it. Won’t be home for hours.”
“She’s smarter than you think. Stop it. Mitch, for God’s sake—” There was splashing as someone climbed out of the pool. Maggie struggled to her feet. She had to run away, to hide, to—
She heard the sound of footsteps, tried to dash behind an olive tree, only to see Mitch looming, his silhouette cast in shadowy relief with the back lights of the ornamental lamps. “Jesus Christ,” he said, ramming a hand through his hair. “What’re you doin’ slinkin’ around here and spyin’ on people?”
“What is it?” Mary Theresa rounded the edge of the hedge and her eyes collided with Maggie’s. “Oh, shit.” She was tying the straps of her bikini bra.
“Nothin’ happened,” Mitch said, taking a threatening step forward, his foot slipping on the pool of vomit. “Oh, hell. What’s this? Puke? You were pukin’ here?” Twisted in pure, outraged fury, his face suddenly suffused with bright, burning color. “How long you been here?”
“I…I just got here. Just this minute and I got sick and you…you came,” Maggie stammered, wishing she was anywhere other than under his hard stare. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen, wouldn’t! They both had swimming suits on and though Mary Theresa was disheveled, her hair dripping, mascara running down her face, she and Mitch weren’t…they wouldn’t…
“Nothin’ happened,” Mitch said again.
“I…I know.”
“I mean it, Maggie. No matter what you heard or saw, nothin’ was goin’ on.”
Oh, God, how she wanted to believe him, but the look of sheer terror in Mary Theresa’s eyes convinced her otherwise. Her stomach quivered, she turned away and nearly retched all over again. Her head was thundering, her heart pounding, denial pouring through her bloodstream. This couldn’t be happening! It couldn’t. Not Mary Theresa and Mitch. Oh, God, no!
“Maggie—” Mitch warned, the hard edge to his voice testament to his feelings.
Emotions roiling, Maggie didn’t wait. She pushed past him and started running, through the bushes, down the gravel path, and into the street. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. She just had to get away. Far away.