by Carrie Arcos
“It’s safe,” I say, and I link my arm through hers.
“You’ll protect me?”
“With all my secret ninja moves,” I say.
“I knew it! You are a spy. Explains a lot.”
We both laugh.
“Yeah, the first Filipino assassin.”
A car drives by.
“What time is it?” she asks.
I look at my phone. “One thirty.”
“I should get home. Mom will freak if she wakes up and doesn’t find me in my room. Plus it’s way past curfew. We could get in serious trouble.”
“She checks on you at night?” I wonder if Jenny or Dad check on me. If they do, they don’t say anything.
“Sometimes. I hear the door open, but I pretend I’m asleep. Are you still seeing Chris?” she asks, casually, of course, but I know it’s her way of trying to get a read on me.
“No. Last session was two weeks ago.”
“So you’re finally free.”
“Unless you go telling someone about tonight.”
She pushes her shoulder into me. “You know I wouldn’t do that. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For showing me where you go. You didn’t have to.”
“Yep.” I open my arms wide and spin around as if I’m taking in the whole street. “Big secret revealed. Mark Santos is a midnight bridge stalker.”
“At least you don’t go around dressing up in a mask and tights like a vigilante.”
I look at her, surprised. “You really think I’m that crazy?”
“We’re all that crazy,” she says dryly, and does a little dance as if to show her crazy side.
“Nice moves,” I say.
“I was thinking of something Grace used to say yesterday,” she says.
My body tenses as if she’s going to hit me with her words.
“Remember how she’d say, ‘Whatever happens, happens’?”
“Did she?” I ask. I think about climbing the bars. If Hanna weren’t with me, I’d be over them right now. But she’d probably freak out.
“All the time, you know that! And I found myself saying it to someone at school yesterday. This girl was telling me about how she wants to get into this college and she’s all nervous about it, and it just came out. But it wasn’t like I was saying it. I heard Grace’s voice in my head. And then I kind of laughed because it’s as if a part of her is still here.”
I’m listening, but not listening, hoping she’ll be done talking soon. I thought it’d be okay bringing Hanna here, that I was ready, but I’m not. I just want to get out of here. I sense Hanna is getting upset as she fidgets next to me.
“Why do you do that?” she asks.
“What?”
“Go somewhere else when I bring up Grace.”
“I’m right here next to you. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“I mean, in your head. It’s like you won’t ever talk about her, like you don’t want me to bring her up around you.”
“What the hell am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything. It’s like you want us all to forget her.”
My head hurts. I want to tell Hanna to shut up, especially because I can tell she’s going to get emotional. Why can’t she see that I just want to be left alone? Why does this have to be about her?
“I miss her,” Hanna says. “Do you know how hard it is to be back at school without her? I keep thinking I’m going to run into her by her locker, or see her round a corner. That she’ll walk into class. I miss her every day. We had so many plans for senior year. And now that’s all I have, just these stupid plans that we’ll never get to do together.”
I stare at the cracks in the blacktop, at the gum stains and dirt. I imagine dried blood, my sister’s blood, smeared across the pavement. But this isn’t the spot. I know the place. It’s a few paces up ahead.
“I can’t,” I say.
“What?”
“I can’t talk about it, about her.”
“Well, I need to,” Hanna says. “And there’s her list. I don’t want to feel like that’s a bad thing. I want to remember her. Grace was my best friend. I loved Grace.”
I bend over and hold my head in my hands, trying to steady it and my stomach. The bile rises as if I’m going to throw up. Hanna rests her hand on my back, and I want to shrug it off, but I don’t, because even though I’m mad, her touch feels good. It shouldn’t, though; nothing should ever feel good again. I hear her sniffle, and I can’t take her tears. I want to scream.
I stand up. “Let’s go.”
“Mark?”
“What, Hanna? What do you want me to say? Grace is fucking dead. Dead. Okay? You want me to say that I come here to try and what? To find her? Maybe her spirit is still here? I don’t know. The truth is, I’m here and she’s gone. Do I want to jump? Do I want to end it now? I don’t know. I’m alive, and that’s great. That’s fucking great. But she’s dead. Grace is dead, and I know that makes you sad, and that makes you want to cry, but you can’t even imagine how I feel. I don’t want to talk about it, not with you, not with my family, not with Chris, not with anyone. So back off.”
Her eyes, which widened when I started yelling, now narrow like the tip of an arrow. “Grace may not have been my twin sister, but she was like a sister to me.”
We glare at each other until Hanna raises her finger and points it at me. “You don’t own the market on grief, Mark. So you’re the one who needs to back off.”
She drops her hand and starts walking away from me. I follow her back to the car, and we drive home in an angry and sad silence.
Nine
I peek out of my blinds at Hanna’s room across the street. Hers are closed. After sleeping off my anger, I’m now laced with guilt, which is why I have my phone in my hand to text her. Hanna shouldn’t have pressed me like that. She knows better. But I know better too. I don’t think I’ve ever used that many F-bombs with Hanna. Grace always made fun of me when I cussed, telling me it was proof that she was smarter. She said it didn’t take any creativity or intelligence to swear, until she went through a phase sophomore year when she hung out with some UK exchange students. Grace walked around saying, “Bloody hell,” all the time, and the ban on swearing was tentatively lifted as long as I used an accent.
I need to apologize to Hanna, but don’t know how. I send out an exploratory message.
Hey
I wait a few minutes. Nothing. I think about sending another text, but I smell bacon. It’s enough to get me to throw on some clothes and go downstairs. Everyone’s sitting at the table in the kitchen nook. I don’t look at the empty chair in the corner, but I know it’s there.
“Mark, have some breakfast. Jenny’s made ricotta pancakes,” Dad says. Late Saturday-morning breakfasts are one of our family rituals. Even when Dad gets called in to work, Jenny loves making a big breakfast. She’s always trying out new recipes on us.
“Fancy.”
“Ricotta makes everything better,” Jenny says. She gets up to serve me a plate.
“I can get it, Jenny,” I say, and she sits back down. “There isn’t garlic in here, is there?” I ask.
Jenny sticks her tongue out at me. “Funny guy.”
I am only sort of kidding. Jenny uses garlic like most of us use salt. During dinner, no matter what’s cooking, the air is infused with either sautéed, baked, or fried garlic.
“Mark, see what I drew?” Fern says. She holds up a picture next to her half-eaten plate of food.
“Cool,” I say.
“It’s our house.” She picks up a blue crayon and begins drawing stick figures.
I sit next to her and take a bite of my pancakes. “These are great. Thanks, Jenny.”
Jenny smiles a little too widely and looks at Dad, making me stiffen. I know they are concerned about me, but I’m tired of feeling like a lab rat, like everything I do is being watched, measured, and analyzed. This morning I’m doing well. I can tell by the g
lances she and my dad keep giving one another. I can hear their thoughts: He’s eating. He’s saying please and thank you. Maybe he’s back to normal. As if there will ever be a normal again.
“What’re your plans today, Mark?” Dad asks.
I shrug and check my phone. Still no text.
“We’re heading over to the park,” Jenny says. “You want to come?”
“Yay!” Fern says. “Can we go to the big one with the swings?”
“Yes,” Jenny says.
“Actually I’m meeting the guys later to practice,” I say, which isn’t really true. But I was planning on calling Charlie, a guitarist I met at the skate park, and Sebastian to see if they had some time, for our band, The Distorted. Although I don’t really know why I bother. We’ve been together for more than a year and we haven’t played a single gig. Well, unless you count Sebastian’s cousin’s eleventh birthday party. Sebastian told us he booked a paying gig, and I think all Charlie and I heard was “paying,” so we didn’t ask for the details. When I pulled up to a backyard decorated with pink and white balloons and streamers, I considered bailing, but Sebastian met me at the curb with the birthday girl, who was all smiles. She wore a white dress and looked at me as if I were a rock star, so I got out of the car and asked where to set up.
We got paid $150, which we split three ways. They fed us too. By the end, we had twenty-six eleven-year-old girls worshiping us. Not bad for an afternoon. If you get them when they’re young, you’ll have them as a fan for life.
“Want to help me, Mark?” Fern says.
I don’t really, but I pick up a yellow crayon and add a big sun to Fern’s drawing. She has five stick figures standing in front of the house.
“Okay. In that case, can you make sure you clean the bathroom and your room today?” Dad asks.
“Yep.” I can do this: be the good son, be a good brother. I glance at Fern. I’ve got another sister left.
“And your mom called again,” Dad adds. “She says she’s been trying to reach you. She wondered if you changed your number.”
“I might have gotten a text or something. No message, though,” I lie.
Fern writes DAD and MOM underneath the figures in the middle.
“It would be good to call her soon,” he says.
“Yeah, okay.” I have no intention of calling Mom, but I say what he wants to hear.
Jenny begins to clear the table. My dad gets up to help her. He places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, probably because we’re talking about Mom. Jenny smiles at him.
Fern writes my name underneath a figure, and I write Grace’s name underneath the last one. Fern has drawn her with a triangle, like she’s wearing a skirt, even though Grace never wore skirts. Her hair is black and shorter than it should be. I give it some length. I also add some lashes to her eyes and make her smile a little more even.
Fern catches her breath. “That looks just like Grace. You are a good drawer. Look, Mom!”
Jenny comes over to the table. “Yes, it does. Just like Grace.” She places her hand on the figure, and I have to look away. “Let’s get you ready for the day.”
They leave and my dad stays at the sink with the water running, even though he’s finished rinsing the dishes. His shoulders are hunched over. I’m trying to think of something to say, but my phone buzzes.
Hey
I’m sorry, I type, and get up from the table. This time I mean the words. “Bye, Dad,” I tell him, and head back upstairs, leaving him at the sink. He doesn’t respond.
You should be.
I know.
Me too
Come over
When?
An hour?
Maybe
An hour and a half later the doorbell rings. It’s Hanna, standing there with her hands in her jean pockets.
“Well?” she asks when I open the door.
I smile, hoping that will be enough to win her over, but she kind of pouts. I can tell she’s going to make me work for it.
“I said I was sorry.”
“True,” she says, and walks past me into the house. She takes off her shoes and throws them into the shoe basket by the front door before making herself at home on the couch in the living room. “Where is everyone?”
“Park.” I think about joining her, but I sit across from her on the love seat.
“You didn’t want to go?” She asks me all formal, like I’m being interviewed for some after-school job.
“Would you?”
“Probably not.”
Our conversation is stilted as if there’s something still unfinished between us. I consider apologizing again when she stands up.
“You have anything to eat?” She heads for the kitchen.
“Yeah. You feeling okay?”
“Just a little low.” And right on cue, her pump beeps. “All right, Pepe,” she says, and pats her side. “Mama’s coming.”
Whenever her sugar levels are too low or too high, Pepe makes a soft beep. Hanna says he’s just temperamental. Sometimes she sets Pepe on silent so she doesn’t have to explain to people why she’s beeping.
I pour her a glass of orange juice.
“Thanks,” she says. “Maybe my sugar’s fine. I could just be PMSing.”
“Aww, man, why’d you have to do that?”
“What?” She hops up and sits on top of the counter, as she’s been doing since we were kids. She swings her legs back and forth and drinks the juice.
“If I were to say that, I’d never hear the end of it.”
“It’s not like I asked you to get me a tampon or anything.”
I put my hands over my ears. “Not listening.” She knows this kind of talk freaks me out. Some things a guy just doesn’t need to know. Grace used to try to discuss her womanly problems with me too. I guess she and Hanna thought it was funny to see my reaction.
Hanna pulls a book from her back pocket and tosses it to me. It’s Grace’s journal.
“Listen, Mark,” she begins. “If you don’t want to do the list, I understand.” She avoids my eyes. “She probably just wrote it not thinking that she’d actually do these things. It’s not like she thought anyone would read it and follow through. I don’t want to push you. So . . .”
Hanna puts the empty glass down and jumps off the counter. She reaches out and touches my arm as she passes me, and the walls within me start to crack.
“No,” I say.
“No?” She turns around.
“I mean, let’s do it.”
Hanna studies me, and I give her my best I’m serious look.
“Okay,” she says, and smiles. “Let’s start training for the run. Mornings? Six a.m.?”
“That early?”
“I need time to get ready for school. You said—”
“Okay. Okay. Six a.m.,” I say, wanting to avoid another confrontation.
“One other thing. If you do read that”—she points to the journal—“you can’t take it personally. Grace would never say half of those things aloud in real life. She never meant for us to read it, that’s for sure.”
“Why? What’s in there?” Hanna’s caution makes me nervous.
“Just stuff. Nothing damaging, more unfiltered. Thanks for the juice.”
She heads for the front door and I don’t even bother to see her out. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I can move.
The journal is small and so light, but now it feels heavy in my hands. Hanna’s got me curious, even though I think she meant to deter me from reading it. That’s the thing, though: Once you know you shouldn’t do something, you kind of want to do it even more. I flip through and skim a poem. When I turn the page, the first line catches my attention.
I hate that I’m always being compared to Mark.
Okay, Grace, don’t sugarcoat it or anything. Love you too. But I keep reading.
He’s so good in music; why aren’t you, Grace? I can’t help that I’m not a genius musician. I remember when we were little, Mom and Dad used to dress
us in color-coordinated outfits. Both of us had those ridiculous straight bangs. Mark got that bowl cut. Ha ha. Score! At least Mom let me have long hair.
We were always “the twins.” The twins this and the twins that. One entity. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mark. He’s funny and talented and easy to talk to. He’s there for me when I need him and vice versa. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be totally on my own. Sure, I’ve been lonely before, but with Mark, I know I’ll never be alone, not really. It’s a twin thing.
I wish I could be free, kind of like when we switched high schools. Thank God for that, at least I get some break. I like having my own friends. My own life.
That’s how it’ll be in college. I’ll go away, and so will Mark. We’ll start over. We’ll text and call, but we’ll reinvent ourselves. We’ll still be twins, but no one will know me as part of Mark and Grace. I’ll just be Grace. I can’t wait.
I slam the journal shut. She got her wish, except I’m the one without a twin. I’m just Mark. I suddenly hate Grace. I take Hanna’s empty juice glass and throw it. The glass breaks against the wall. I leave the shards on the floor, not caring what Dad and Jenny will say.
Ten
I quickly pull a T-shirt over my head as Sebastian honks again out front. I don’t have time to brush my hair, so I grab my usual brown beanie.
“Mark! Sebastian’s outside!” Jenny yells from downstairs.
“Coming!”
After Hanna and I went for our first run, when we ran maybe a mile—well, more like ran/walked a mile—I thought that Hanna would change her mind about the 5K. I was wrong. We’ve been at it for over a week, and I’m actually sore. I’ve got a lot more respect for runners. I know my body will adjust, like building calluses on my fingers from playing the bass and guitar. I don’t even notice them anymore, but at first they hurt to the touch. I try not to wince as I step down the stairs.
At the bottom, Jenny holds out a brown paper bag with my lunch in one hand and a paper towel with a bagel and cream cheese in the other. I know I should tell her that she doesn’t need to make my lunch anymore, that I can do it, but I like that she still wants to take care of me.