The Other Half of Me (17 page)

For once, someone has read my mind exactly. I had hoped that someone would be Alexa, but I never dreamed it would have happened like this. “Did you?”

Alexa rolls her eyes and runs her hands through her hair. “All I wanted to do was get to know you through him. Haven’t you ever wanted that? To slip into someone else’s world and see what it’s like?”

The question doesn’t even register. I just want her to stay away from Tate, and me, at least for a while. “Stop making excuses. It’s pretty clear what you wanted to do.”

Alexa knocks over her pile of clothes with a clenched fist. “I don’t like Tate! What do I have to say to get that through to you?”

Her proclamation leaves me absolutely cold. In my head the only thing I can think of is that Shakespeare line, “The lady doth protest too much.” “Right now there’s nothing you can say.”

As I walk out of the room, I notice that tears are streaming down Alexa’s face, but it’s not until I wander into the bathroom and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that I realize tears are streaming down my own.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Hey,” Russ grunts at me in the hallway once I leave the upstairs bathroom. My eyes are still a little red and puffy from crying. I hope he doesn’t notice. “Hold this.” He has a long, wide piece of wood balanced on the banister, so his mind is completely preoccupied.

“A little light lifting?” I ask as I take one end and he takes the other. My hands aren’t even remotely steady, thanks to the fight with Alexa and the worry of not knowing what’ll happen with her, my paintings in the art show, and Tate. Why does Faye have to be unreachable at a time like this?

“Try not to drop it, Jen.” His forehead is sweat-wet and his face is flushed. “And don’t forget to bend your knees.”

“Let me guess; this is left over from the brilliant new garden.” My heavy sarcasm bothers me, so I try my new technique of saying what I feel. “I’m glad you suggested that I come back and see it.”

Russ looks at me across the long plank of wood. “Yeah, I figured you’d want to know. Kind of weird, right? Not like you were so fired up about doing it, but still.” He readjusts his grip. “Now, angle it up and back.”

Right then I am filled with love for him because he understands. “God, this is incredibly heavy.”

“One more heave,” Russ says. “By the way, I tried to check out your paintings, but some English dude kicked me out.”

“What? Oh, that was probably Sid Sleethly. He’s a pompous ass on the outside, and seriously mean on the inside.” I make an evil face. “Thanks for trying to see them. It means a lot, Russ. Really.”

“No problem.” Russ suddenly lets his end go, and the plank bangs down onto the carpet. His face turns red. “Okay, you can put it down.”

But I hold on, hoping he’ll let me help him with his project. “Oh, I’m fine. This thing isn’t even heavy.” Then, in case he doesn’t get what I’m implying, I ask, “Do you want any help up there in the attic?”

Russ pulls hard on my end and lays the wood down flat on the floor. He seems testy all of a sudden, and I haven’t the slightest idea why. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got it under control.”

I look at his face, seeing a constellation of freckles on his nose. “Hey, I have that same thing.” I touch his face, and he flinches, but then touches mine.

“I never noticed before,” Russ says.

We stand there for one more second, looking at one another and our similar marks, and I see us on canvas—distant at first, and then pulled together, slowly, attached like the stars are, hinged by unseen lines. “You sure I can’t bring this to the attic for you?” I raise my eyebrows and try to forget that behind my bedroom door Alexa could be talking to Tate, although that’s not humanly possible.

“No, that’s okay,” Russ says, the stressed-out tone returning to his voice. “I’m sure you and Alexa have other things to do.”

“Right,” I mumble as I watch Russ carry the plank of wood up to the attic easily without me.

On the patio, Sage and Sierra have two large pieces of cardboard between them and a tray of watercolors. From inside, I can tell they’re arguing. Sierra’s brow is furrowed, and Sage’s mouth is twisted so small it looks like a prune as she tugs on Sierra’s paintbrush. I’m about to keep within my boundaries and leave them to their own devices. But then I think about how things went with Russ in the hallway. I asked to get involved in this one small part of his life, and he said no—I felt bad, but not as bad as I thought I might. In fact, it was kind of liberating to just put myself out there and see what would happen instead of assuming things. I may as well try my luck with the twins.

I slide the door open and hear my sisters whining.

“You can’t do it that way.”

“Shut up! Just give me the brush. It was my idea.”

“What’s up, guys?” I feel like a teacher interrupting an unsupervised study hall. The twins, surprised by my appearance, scramble to reassemble their work space.

“Oh, hi, Jenny.” Sierra lets go of the brush and Sage reels backward. “We’re just—”

“Making a sign,” Sage says, her voice a little too forceful.

“For what?” The watercolors they’re using are drugstore ones. They’ll never show up dark enough to be readable.

They exchange a glance and Sierra stutters, “Um, uh…”

“For the dance show,” Sage says, and looks down.

“Wouldn’t the camp handle that?” I ask, and then feel as though they’ll take any further questioning as criticism.

“Right, sure,” Sierra says. “These are just…extra. You don’t have to bother with it.”

Something feels funny about the twins and the way they’re hedging their words. Usually they jump right in and hit me over the head with their projects, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Plus, maybe Alexa was being perceptive when she said the twins are intimidated by me. “Do you want any help?” I ask.

Sierra stands up right away. “No. No. NO.”

This second rejection stings much more than I’d like it to. But I know I need to continue to put myself out there to get a response, and not be put off by one
no
—or three. “Okay, maybe some other time, then.”

Sage stands up next to Sierra. I can tell that they’re taller now than they were at the beginning of the summer, because the shorts they have on were longer on them in June. Sierra’s bangs have grown out, and I notice Sage has kept her hair shorter. They don’t look as identical. Or maybe that’s just my view right now.

“Yeah, some other time,” Sierra says, smiling.

The yard seems different to me, too, like the way colors sometimes seem one shade before you paint with them, but change entirely once they dry on the canvas. It’s about perspective, I guess. In the upstairs window I see Alexa’s face, her palm pressed to the glass, watching all of us. Although I’m still reeling about her and Tate, I remind myself that our conversation helped me see things about my life a bit more clearly. I look away and back at the twins. “You guys seem different to me. Before, you were so…”

“Matching?” Sage finishes off my sentence. I wish I had a video camera to record the moment for posterity. Who knows if it will happen again? “Yeah, it’s weird how we just changed, huh?”

“Not really. Change happens when you least expect it.”

Sierra takes a tentative step toward me and I think we’re about to have a made-for-TV miniseries moment, all huggy with stringed instruments playing in the background. Instead, Sierra points to my shirt. “Nice, by the way.”

I look down and see a stripe of bright red from the painting I started last week but never finished. When I think about the ragged-edged ones, the paintings I feel are worthy of being viewed, I see the red stripe as a reminder of what came before, all that unknowing, that fear of what might be or might not be. Red like Tate’s lips, a kiss that may or may not happen. “It’s called poppy.”

“Please don’t
ever
borrow my shirts,” Sage says. Her laugh is familiar, throaty, and makes me smile.

“You’re so shallow.” I shake my head.

“And you’re so messy,” she says.

Then I go for broke. I open my tiny little microcosm of my world up to them. “Listen, if you guys want, feel free to use some of my oil paints. Not the new ones, but any of the tubes in the shoebox.” I see the generous comment affect them physically. Sage’s eyes grow wide and Sierra’s shoulders rise up. “They’ll work better than the cheapo drugstore paints.”

“Thanks, Niffer!” Sage says excitedly.

My heart almost floats away when she says that. Before she could say Jen, she used to call me Niffer, back when I was the one she looked up to and being a twin hadn’t completely dominated.

I feel so much better. Not perfect, but better, like everything that isn’t irrevocably broken has the potential to be more than what it is. I can only hope that Alexa and I will be able to pick up the pieces and find out what we are now and what we can be in the future.

But before that can happen, there’s something I’ve got to do first: ask Sid Sleethly a question or two.

As I’m on my way to Downtown Studios, my message alert goes off on my phone. I call in to voice mail, wondering why my phone didn’t ring, but then realizing it probably did while I was outside with Sierra and Sage. I listen to a message from Tate. He tells me he’s finally done with mandatory team organization, that he walked by the carnival area and it looks great, and that he’s psyched to see me soon.

I call him back and ask him to meet me at Downtown—if Sid tells me he didn’t pick any of my pieces for the show, it will be good to have someone there to soften the blow. He agrees, and this makes me perk up. Maybe Alexa is right. Maybe I’m just insecure when it comes to him. I know now that I have to ask him what’s going on with us if I’m ever going to feel on sturdy ground.

Tate is in front of the studios when I pull up. I park and walk briskly toward him, desperate to talk with him about us.

“Hi, Jen,” he says, his voice sounding detached and weird.

I wait for him to kiss me hello, but he doesn’t. All my resolve quickly vanishes—I’m too worried that he’s thinking about Alexa. We wind up inside the front door, standing awkwardly together, watching Sid ranting and raving while stomping around.

“It will never be finished at this rate!” he yells, and points to various assistants, all clad head to toe in black. “The printing is behind, the whole left wall needs to be staged, and…”

“Excuse me,” I say meekly, making Sid aware of my presence. If I wait until things settle down to talk with him, I know I’ll lose my nerve.

Sid ignores me and barks more orders.

“Is everything okay?” Tate whispers in my ear.

I’m about to reply when Tate’s phone rings. He checks the number, silences the phone, and puts it back in his pocket. I just shake him off and focus on getting Sid’s attention. “Sid, I was wondering if I could talk with you about my paintings.”

Sid’s voice booms out to me. “Can’t you see that I’m insanely busy? Of course not. If you don’t have artistic vision, why would you have common sense?”

I open my mouth to confront Sid, and Tate’s phone rings again. This time he takes the call, furtively talking into his phone from the corner of the room while I deal with Sid.

“I just wanted to know if you decided to put any of my work in the show. A simple yes or no answer will do. And then I’ll be on my way.”

“Well, it’s hard to decide something like that when you didn’t submit anything.” He sighs heavily and snaps at another assistant while I absorb what he’s just said.

“But I did. I submitted a few pieces, actually. I left them out for you. They were the ones with unfinished edges.” My voice is high and squeaky from nerves.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, please, go off and make out with your boy toy so I can work,” he snaps.

Panic surges through my body. I start up the stairs to the floor where I usually paint, and leave Tate behind as he talks on the phone. On the wooden easels where I last left them, there are dry-mounted posters announcing various “real” artists for the show. And in the little room where I usually paint, there are only stacks of shrink-wrapped, sealed postcards—artists have them printed with a key work of art on the front and their galley representation on the back. I don’t see my three paintings with the unfinished edges anywhere. Now true fear rises in me.

I run back down to where Sid is slicing open cardboard boxes with an X-Acto knife. “Excuse me?”

“What now?” he asks.

“I think someone lost my paintings,” I warble. I’m about to cry, and the last thing I need is for Sid to see me break down. “I can’t find them anywhere.”

Sid listens patiently while I stutter along, and then says slowly, “I don’t have time for this.”

This instantly angers me. How could he be so heartless? I’m about to unleash mayhem on Sid, but I’m cut off by my own cell phone. Sid glares at me again. Just then I realize Tate has left the building. Sid points to the ringing phone as if it were vermin and then to the door.

I dash outside, squinting in the sudden brightness. “Hello?”

“Hey!” my long-lost friend Faye says. “I won a bake-off challenge and the prize was phone privileges!”

“Thank God you called.”

Then I explain it all to her from the beginning.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Talking with Faye for about fifteen minutes has given me temporary relief. All these worries about my missing artwork, my pseudo relationship, and my half sister’s motives make my whole body feel electric, as if it’s being powered by confusion.

Even though I want all the bad feelings to disperse, when I pull into the semicircle of the driveway, the last part of my crazy week comes crashing down. There, way too close for comfort on the front steps, are Alexa and Tate. She kisses his cheek. There’s no Russ to diffuse their intimacy, no twins to make it just a friendly peck—just the two of them, peering at one another and then at some love note they’re both holding. As soon as they see me watching them, Alexa waves as if nothing’s out of order and Tate shoves the piece of paper in his pocket.

The car ignition switches off, and my anger switches on. Every step I take on the pavement brings with it a piercing feeling of anxiety—my art is missing, my sister’s hooking up with the guy I’ve liked for so long, and even if I never speak to Alexa again, she—or at least her gardening handiwork—is embedded in my backyard forever.

Alexa flops her arms onto my shoulders in an attempt to hug me, but I don’t respond. Tate reaches out for my hand and I brush him off. I’m done being trampled on. “You guys are amazing, really.” I point an accusatory finger at Tate. “You come out of nowhere and make me feel all these things, like that morning, in the back garden.” I now point at Alexa. “The garden that
you
took over.” I turn back to Tate. “I thought you were this great guy, but it turns out you’re just a fake and a cheater.”

Tate looks like I slapped him. “I’m not.” Tate tries for my hand again, but I move away.

“You’re wrong,” Alexa says. “Whatever you think this is, it isn’t.”

Tate looks at Alexa, and I’m so tortured by their exchange of glances that I push past them and go inside. Alexa follows. “Jenny, wait. Let me explain.”

I pivot and look at her. Tate remains on the front stoop, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. I’m sure he wishes he were on a field somewhere rather than here. “Fine. Then let me see the note Tate has.”

Alexa’s mouth is a perfect O of surprise, and yet she says, “What note?”

And just like that, all my suspicions are confirmed.

In the middle of all the tension, my mother comes in and begins sorting through the mail. “You kids all set for the carnival tomorrow?” she asks, oblivious to the fact that moments before I was ready to scream.

“I’m not sure I’m going,” I say to her, and ignore Alexa.

“Oh, Jen. It’s so fun! And Russ is going to be in the dunking booth. You know, youngest team member and everything.”

The last thing I want right now is to be traipsing around the fairgrounds with sticky cotton candy hands and a gloomy heart, pretending to have a rocking old time while inside I feel betrayed. I imagine watching Tate with his sports buddies and feel sick.

“It’s make your own pizza night!” Mom announces as if we should all clap our hands. “Who wants to help me make the dough right now?”

I shake my head. “No thanks.” On the other side of the open door, Tate stands there, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to come out to him.

“I’ll do it,” Alexa says to my mother. “Let me just go and wash my hands.”

I follow her into the half bathroom, invading her space like she’s invaded mine. “So, is there anything else you want to say?”

Water runs from the faucet into the basin, and Alexa rubs the soap in her hands, looking at me in the mirror rather than face to face. “Like you said this morning, Jenny, there’s nothing else to say. I can’t explain anything to you right now. You’ve already decided that I’m guilty of something I didn’t do.”

“You know what?” I start to back out of the room. “You’re right.” I gaze at her mirrored self. She looks just like I did hours ago when I was crying. “You and I are done.”

Chills and shakes rack my body as I leave her in the bathroom with the water still running and go back out to the entryway. Tate is gone.

Looks like he and I are done, too.