Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  “No. Again, I’m good.”

  “Aww. Well, if this is about Keegan, the answer is yes. Yes, he misses you.” That definitely wasn’t the question I wanted her to answer, but it’s still nice to know that he thinks about me from time to time. “He took it pretty badly, you know?”

  I look over at him from where we now stand. Keegan isn’t the chipper guy I got to know earlier this year. Our breakup must have affected him more than I thought, and it kills me to know that I made him unhappy.

  “This isn’t about Keegan,” I say. “It’s about Dylan.”

  “Dylan? What’s going on? Does he like me?” I see her eyes widen with excitement. Has she forgotten that she already has a boyfriend and that he’s standing less than ten feet away from us?

  “No.” He better not. “Well, we don’t really talk about you.” Her face droops with disappointment, and then snaps back to reality as if he was easy to get over. “I think he’s in trouble.”

  “Like, he-got-a-girl-pregnant trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, so drugs trouble?”

  “That wouldn’t be my business to tell, but … no.” At least I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s used those study buddy pills since I asked him to flush them.

  “Weed?” I can barely get a word in over her eagerness to answer my question, so I grab her by the shoulders and stare into her eyes to get her to shut up and focus, but my plan backfires. “So, you do want a lesson. I knew it. No one can resist my lips.” I want to shake her and tell her to shut up, but I hold back my urge.

  “Karmin,” I say, breaking up the syllables in her name so that she can understand my every word. “No, I don’t want to kiss you, and no, he’s not in any of that kind of trouble.”

  She leans back, I guess confused. “So what’s wrong with him, then?”

  “I think he’s … depressed or something. He hasn’t been painting much, he’s always down on himself, and he’s been more aggressive than usual.”

  “Oh, is that all?” “Is that all?” What do you mean? “Honey,” Karmin says, placing a semi-comforting hand on my shoulder, “he’s a teenage boy. They’re moody and aggressive. It’s just what they do. And plus, he’s a painter. Artists are emotional.”

  “But he’s failing, too. And he’s one of the smartest guys that I know. You think I should tell my parents about it?”

  “God, no! Trust me, it’ll be a while before he forgives you if you do that. Once, when we were fifteen, I accidentally told my parents that Keegan skipped school with some of his baseball friends to go to LA for a Tame Impala concert. He got grounded for two months, and it took him an extra month post-grounding to start talking to me again. It sucked so much. I mean, not being able to talk to your brother is one thing, but not being able to talk to your twin? Now, that’s torture.”

  I tune her out to be alone with my thoughts, and that’s when it dawns on me: Dylan can be more trouble than he’s worth sometimes. Besides Keegan, he’s the only other guy to ever want to be with me. So while a piece of me feels obligated to stay with him, the other piece feels like I should listen to the voice in the back of my head—the one that urges, Move away from Heathcliff—and end things with him. I know it’s horrible, but when I think back to my time with Keegan, sometimes I regret that I chose Dylan over him. Keegan was simple; with Dylan, I have to jump through hoops daily to keep him semihappy. But I can’t change things now. Dylan’s in a downward spiral, and if I leave him now, it will only get worse.

  “Maybe you’re right, Karmin.”

  “I know.” I want to tell her that she has a problem with humility, but after the conversation we just had, I decide not to. It’s not my place. “And you’re welcome. That’s what best friends are for.”

  Did she say “best friend”?! My excitement instantly turns bittersweet. Of course, I finally get a best friend in the middle of my senior year, right before I leave for college. But then again, better late than never.

  “So did Coach Denise hear back from the competition director yet?” I say to change the subject.

  “Yeah. If we place in the top three at regionals in January, we can go to nationals in March.”

  “We’ll qualify for sure. Our routine is as solid as can be.”

  “Yeah. Also, Coach Denise says that she’s looking for two girls to enter into the solo category. It will help our team score if we can place in those as well.”

  “She have anyone in mind?” I try to come off as nonchalant, but what I really want to do is fall on my knees and beg her to convince Coach to let me have one of the spots. Karmin is the best technical dancer on our team, so she’s basically guaranteed a solo. But I want the other one.

  “Not yet, but we’ll find out at practice today.”

  “I hope I get one.” It’s my senior year, and I want to be remembered for something. Not the shy bookworm who skipped two grades, but the cool, popular girl who could dance her ass off and win competitions.

  * * *

  At the end of every practice, we always sit in a circle and discuss what we’ve improved on and what we need to work on. Today, Coach Denise says that if we don’t place at the regional competition, it will be because of little things like our feet and our legs.

  “Your feet should be turned out at all times, and when you kick, your legs should be so straight that it looks like you don’t have knees.” As she speaks, I try to think back to my performance in the routine we just finished practicing. Were my feet sickled? Were my legs bent? “I received news that we are allowed to enter two soloists into competition. They say that the average score of the two soloists will count for twenty-five percent of the team score, so this is kind of a big deal.”

  I look around the circle, and everyone has on a nervous face. Everyone except Karmin. She knows that she will get one of the spots, so instead of a worried look, she’s wearing a tranquil one.

  “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and the first solo is going to Karmin.” When she says this, Karmin’s mouth falls open with surprise. Save it for the Oscars, I think to myself. I look around the room and try to size up my competition. Sophia’s kicks aren’t as good as mine, but her legs are longer, which gives them that wow factor, and Autumn and I are neck-and-neck for the second-best turns on the team. Will Coach Denise overlook my imperfect practice record and give it to me? God, I hope so.

  “The second girl is going to be…,” she says, dragging out her words. She pauses dramatically, and when she feels like we are about to jump down her throat for the name, she finally says, “Emma.”

  I can’t control my excitement in the same way Karmin did, and I throw my fist into the air, and scream “Yes!”

  “It seems fitting, seeing as both of you are the only seniors on the team. Might as well go out with a bang, right?”

  I feel my fire of excitement die down a little. She didn’t pick me because I have great technique; she picked me because of my senior status. It’s definitely humbling, but I have the spot, and that’s what’s important.

  “Congratulations, girls. We’ll start working on your solos as soon as we return from Thanksgiving break.”

  I stick around today to talk with Karmin. She has a ton of ideas about what kind of dance she wants to do at regionals and is hoping that Coach Denise will take her ideas into consideration when she choreographs our dances. I don’t really care what I do, I just want to dance. I want my parents and siblings to be in the audience watching me finally do something that I love. And I want Dylan cheering me on and giving me roses because I was great, even if I don’t win. Don’t get me wrong, though. I want to win.

  After practice, I race home to tell Dylan. I enter his studio to see his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, a look of great concentration on his face. He’s working on a painting. I stand there for a minute or two before he even notices my presence.

  “Hey,” he says as he sets down his paintbrush and stands to give me a hug.

  “How did your test go?
”

  “I think it went well.”

  Good. “Good.”

  “Thanks, Em. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” The sincerity in his eyes makes my insides flutter. I never thought I’d ever mean this much to anyone. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to reply—“Thanks” doesn’t sound good enough—so I change the topic.

  “You’re finally painting again. I haven’t seen you create anything since the sunset.” I sit on his lap when he reclaims his easel.

  “Yeah. Now that I don’t have chemistry clouding my mind, I can focus on my showcase paintings again.” I take a look at his piece. It’s an image of a blond girl sitting cross-legged in a pile of blush-colored flower petals, reading a book.

  “Clearly, I can’t get my mind off of you,” he explains, and all I can do is smile.

  chapter 19

  Dear Catherine,

  Just so you know, I don’t have to keep this journal anymore—Mr. Lawrence stopped having us journal now that we’ve closed our unit on Wuthering Heights. But I kind of like it. Being able to tell you—someone who can understand—about the dramas of my life makes things a little easier to deal with. Karmin’s my best friend, but even best friends keep secrets from each other. There are some things I can tell you that I wouldn’t dare tell her. So, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your attentive—and never judgmental—ear.

  Okay. Hallmark moment over. Let’s get back to business.

  Something’s wrong. I’m not sure what’s going on with Dylan, but he’s been really off for the past couple of weeks. One minute, he’s happy, and the next, he’s sad, then he’s mad, and then he’s back to happy again. I don’t get it! I mean, I understand that he’s stressed that we might be apart this time next year, but I don’t think this is normal.

  How did you possibly handle Heathcliff’s manic emotions? The temper, the self-destructive tendencies.… I try to comfort Dylan as much as I can and keep his temper at bay, but lately—with the stress of my college apps, normal parental pressure, and my dance competition practices—it’s been a bit much.

  With Keegan out of the picture, I thought that would help, but it seems like nothing I do for Dylan is enough to cure him of this dark cloud. Do you … do you think it could be because he’s no longer taking the study buddy pills? I read online that coming off of that stuff could cause really bad mood swings and agitation, so maybe all of this is my fault? I was just looking out for him, but now I think I’ve created a monster that I can no longer control.

  How can I help him without breaking his trust? Point me in the right direction, Catherine. I’m begging you.

  Emma

  The smell of Thanksgiving food wakes me up, so I figure my mother must be doing some serious cooking. I pull on a set of pajama pants and a hoodie, and head across the way. She’s at the chopping board when I see her.

  “Smells good, Mom,” I say, inhaling deeply through my nose. We’ve spent Thanksgiving in other places, but nothing beats having it at home. I’m always soothed by the smell of my mom’s cooking, especially her stuffing and sweet potatoes.

  “Thanks. Happy Thanksgiving, honey,” she says without looking up at me. Her hair is in rollers, and she has on her robe. She’s probably been up since five this morning cooking, cleaning, laying out her clothes, and doing her hair. She wants everything to be perfect when our family members arrive.

  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Have you picked out your outfit yet? Your aunt and uncle are going to be here at noon.” I glance at the clock. It’s a quarter to eight. “And can you go make sure your brothers are awake? I’ve laid their clothes out already, so they just need to eat breakfast, shower, and put them on, in that order.”

  “Sure thing. Do you want me to help you cook, too?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says, after taking a deep breath. “I’m finished with all of the dinner, but I still have a couple of desserts left to make. You can help me with those.” She takes the cutting board and dumps the pecans she was chopping into a big bowl of what looks like cake batter. She turns on the mixer, and then gives Dad a thumbs-up through the window. He’s outside checking on the turkey that he has on the grill. I hadn’t even noticed him out there when I passed. He probably thinks I’m still mad at him, and therefore ignoring him. I haven’t figured out how to make up with him yet.

  After spending a couple minutes admiring the desserts that Mom has already finished making, I head upstairs to wake my brothers. When I knock on Dylan’s door, he’s already awake, like I expect him to be. He hasn’t slept in in a long time.

  “Good morning,” I say as he motions for me to close the door, which I do. “Mom wanted me to wake you up.”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m up.” I sit on the edge of his bed and lean in to give him a quick kiss, which somehow turns into a full-on make-out session. “So tell me, Emma,” Dylan says when he pulls away from me, “it’s my first Thanksgiving in the Ellenburg house. Should I be prepared for anything unusual?”

  “That depends on who’s coming.” I laugh, but Dylan doesn’t join in. “I’m only joking, Dylan. Mom and Dad have probably invited every living relative they know, and it’s most likely going to be a full house. But no, there’s nothing that you should be worried about. It’s a pretty normal day here, except there’s a ton more people seated around the table.”

  “Okay, good.” I watch as the anxiety in Dylan’s eyes lessens for a moment. It’s kind of cute that he’s so nervous about meeting the rest of my family.

  “I gotta go wake up Matthew, but you should eat breakfast, shower, and get dressed. ‘In that order,’ per Mom’s instructions. Our family members should be arriving in a few hours.”

  “Okay, but before you go,” he says, grabbing my face with both of his hands. When his lips press into mine, a swordfight between our tongues initiates. He hasn’t kissed me this passionately in a long time, and it feels good to have the old him back. Maybe Karmin was right. He just needed some time to pull himself out of his mood.

  “Emma? Is everyone awake?” my mom shouts from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Yeah,” I yell back. “I’ll be right down!” I turn to Dylan, and kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  When I finally make it downstairs, my mother has laid out her frosting supplies on the counter. “Took you long enough,” she says.

  “Matthew was throwing a fit. You know how he has a hard time getting up. I told him he can sleep in for a few extra minutes, and then he has to get moving. Oh, and by the way, he’s not too happy about having to take a shower either, so that’ll be another battle.”

  “That boy would wear the same underwear for a month straight if we didn’t make him shower every day.”

  “Let’s just be happy that he’s more into doing math problems and using proper grammar than eating dirt or bringing home worms in his pockets.” That’s what the boys used to do when I was his age. “So what are we decorating?”

  “A cinnamon spice cake. I’m going to start that while you begin working on the pumpkin pies. We’re making four of them. I can’t believe I forgot all about them. My mom would kill me.” A worried look passes over Mom’s face. She’s stressed.

  I start down the list of directions, but I have to keep checking the paper to make sure I’m doing it correctly. It’s my grandma’s passed-down recipe, and my family will be disappointed if the pie doesn’t taste exactly right. My mom finishes decorating the cake very fast—she’s a pro—and when she comes to help me, I feel as if I’m getting in her way, so I hand her the reins and watch from the other side of the counter.

  “I thought you were going to help me,” she says when she slides the pies into the oven and removes the pan of stuffing. “You’re just like you were as a kid. You would ask to help, and then get distracted and end up licking the bowl.” I chuckle at her memory of me. I’ve been sneaking my finger into her now-empty bowl of pumpkin pie filling since she finished pouring it into
the crusts.

  The corners of her mouth twitch upward for a split second. I know what she’s thinking: this is going to be my last Thanksgiving with them before I go off to college. “Don’t cry, Mom. Please, don’t cry. I’m always going to visit for the holidays.”

  “I’m ecstatic for you, I really am. I just don’t want to miss you. Most parents get eighteen years with their child before they go off to college, but I only get sixteen. I’m happy for you, but it just seems unfair.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  She pulls me into a tight hug. I know she doesn’t want me to leave at all, but I think she’s been trying to convince herself that things will remain the same when I’m gone. “No. Don’t apologize for being great. Most parents would kill for their kid to accomplish what you have, and we’re not going to force you to stay because we can’t handle it.” She wipes her tears before they can fall from her eyes and gives me one last hug before telling me to go get dressed.

  The feeling that I’m breaking my mother’s heart is almost enough to make me want to stay, but I know that I’ll never leave if I do.

  * * *

  Dinner goes by quicker than usual—probably because everyone’s so interested in getting to know Dylan that I get to coast for the first Thanksgiving in my life—and once I finish my plate, I sit down with my grandmother to talk.

  “Emmy,” she says when I wrap my arms around her fragile body. She used to call me that when I was a kid, and I guess she hasn’t given it up yet. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Gran.”

  “You’re becoming such a pretty young woman. Do you have a boyfriend?” Leave it to my grandma to cut straight to the chase; she’s always been frank. “You’re glowing like you’re in love.”

  “No, Gran. I had one, though. Keegan … his name is Keegan, but we just broke up.” I look down into my hands as I speak these words. It’s the first time I’ve opened up about Keegan to any of my family since our blowout at the batting cages. Then I think of Dylan. A grin too big for my face tries to break through to the surface, but I refuse to let it pop up and release the secret I’m holding inside. As much as I trust my grandma, I know I still can’t tell her about us.