The Other Half of Me (5 page)

“Wait, listen to me for a sec.” Tate puts his hand over my mouth playfully to silence me. I can feel his palm on my chin and cheek. His skin is calloused from a summer of throwing passes, but I couldn’t care less. He feels amazing. “This isn’t about finding the donor.”

Part of me wants to see where Tate is going with this, and part of me feels uncomfortable with these questions. I glance at my watch in an attempt to stall and notice how late it is. “Crap, I have to meet the twins,” I say, and stand up. I can’t believe how fast the time has gone.

“The twins can wait,” Tate says, standing up so he can look me in the face. “Read this. I’m going to buy a copy.”

He shows me the magazine article. He’s close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek, and I am torn between wanting to enjoy this fraction of time with him and wanting to go. If I found it hard to have a crush on him before, after tonight I’m doomed to lust after him forever. “Fine, I’ll read it.”

“Be back in a second.” He walks off toward the cash registers with another copy of the magazine rolled up in his hand.

Alone with only the stacks of periodicals for company, I consider just shelving the magazine. I really don’t need the extra brain clutter of wondering about a guy I’ll never meet, even if he is the one who helped bring me into this world. I have enough on my mind. I have to leave Tate behind in less than ten minutes. What if I never see him again? Or, more likely, what if I see him again, but it’s like tonight never happened?

Tate doesn’t look at me from where he stands in line. He just flips through the pages of
Teen Vogue
, not caring who sees him with it. Then, when I think he’s forgotten about me, he looks up, smiles, and points to the article, mouthing the words
I said read.

I smile back and obey, unaware that in a few days this one moment will have changed everything.

SEVEN

Nothing prepares you for change. All of a sudden the unexpected can drop into your lap and wake you up from your napping life. On the drive back from the mall, this is how I feel: awake. Eyes wide, I watch the road, aware of Sierra and Sage in the backseat, chattering away about cleats and boys and cool clothes. But I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t say a word to them. They have each other, and don’t need me invading their world.

My world is brewing with possibilities. I think back to how Tate paid for the magazine and handed it to me as I finished skim-reading the article.

“So, what do you think?” he asked as we walked back into the mall’s atrium, the arched walkways dotted with large ferns and plants so green and shiny they looked fake.

“I think…I’m confused” was all I could get out.

“Will you look into it?” Tate pointed to the cover of the magazine, where the title of the article was written in a bold orange font. “And maybe call me when you decide what to do?”

“Maybe,” I said, sounding far calmer than I felt. I had waited for so long for Tate to give me his phone number, but I never thought it would be under these circumstances. I wanted to be excited, but I was so anxious, the happiness of this monumental achievement was almost lost to me.

“Do you have your cell with you? I can just add myself to your contacts list.”

Cell phone? I spilled paint thinner on it a couple of weeks ago, which rendered it completely useless. Dad refused to buy me a new one, but Mom has been arguing in my defense, probably because she wants to be able to contact me whenever the twins need their butts kissed.

“No, it’s kind of MIA,” I said.

He jotted his number down on a slip of paper and gave it to me.

Now I’m thinking about how I closely watched his hands and noticed that he’s a lefty. I read somewhere that the right hemisphere of the brain is more active in left-handed people, and therefore they are more visual and have more artistic skill. I can’t wait to find out on my own if this theory is true.

“Hel-
lo
? Ground control to Major Loser,” Sage says from the backseat, her voice bringing me to the present. “Why are you being such a space cadet tonight?”

“Shut up, Sage. I’m just focusing on the road.” My hands clench the steering wheel.

“Are you, like, going out with Tate Brodeur?” Sierra asks.

“Are you, like, able to mind your own business?” My tone is a lot meaner than I want it to be. I just don’t want to be the subject of the twins’ gossip—I’m too vulnerable right now.

“What
ever
.” I glance in the rearview mirror and see Sierra crossing her arms and sulking in the backseat. Sage pats her leg in reassurance.

“Jenny’s probably just pissed off because
she
likes him but
he
doesn’t feel the same way.”

I turn my attention back to the road and grit my teeth. This is one of my biggest fears. But even so, another fear was added to the list tonight.

Not until I’m at home, safe in my room with the door all the way shut, in my old boxers and a well-worn T-shirt streaked with myriad paint colors, do I even say it out loud.

I might not be alone.

I look at the
Teen Vogue
article again, studying the facts about the Donor Sibling Registry and how it matches up donor offspring with their sisters and brothers, if possible. I realize now how big the
if
actually is. Who knows if my biological father, donor 142, made other donations at the same clinic my mom used? And even
if
he did, what are the odds of someone else picking it out, using it to get pregnant, and then having a baby? They seem pretty high to me for some reason. But just the fact that I
could
have more half siblings somewhere makes my stomach flip. I take the article into my closet and sit surrounded by tubes of paint, unfurled canvases, and paintbrushes of all sizes, hoping that somehow, being in here will help inspire me and I’ll figure out what to do next.

I could just crawl into bed and go to sleep, but I already know it’s a lost cause. How could I sleep with thoughts like this fighting each other in my head? I could call Tate and talk to him about this, because I sure as hell can’t call anyone else. Faye is stuck in cooking school jail. Russ would listen, but he’d probably feel weirded out at the thought that he might not be my only brother. Sierra and Sage are too young and annoying to get it. And my parents? Well, maybe my mom would understand, but my dad would feel rejected, I think. He might see my looking up info on the Donor Sibling Registry as slighting the family I already have, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

If there’s someone else out there genetically linked to me, it would just mean there’s someone who exists, maybe even someone my age, with a strand of DNA that’s linked forever to mine. This someone could be next door, or in the next town, or on the West Coast, or in another country. Regardless, that someone could be found with a few clicks of the mouse.

The thought of this being a reality gives me a visual. I grab a half-used tube of green so light it reminds me of the first tiny buds in spring. On a leftover piece of canvas, I use the nonbrush end of the paintbrush to make a thin, ragged line from one side to the other. In the middle of this arched brow, I twist my wrist to make an empty circle floating near the line of green, then another one. Two empty circles, not touching each other, not touching the line. Just floating together, side by side.

A knock on my door makes me jump. I’m easily surprised, so I’ve been the target of Russ’s favorite practical joke since he was five, which is leaping out from behind a corner and screaming, “Jenny!” Faye says I need to accept spontaneity, but to me, whatever is lurking around the corner can be terrifying, even if it’s familiar and you know it’s coming.

Another knock on the door. I sigh as I put the paintbrush down and put Saran wrap around it so it won’t dry out. So much for getting anywhere with a painting for the art show.

“Jenny?” My dad’s voice filters through the door.

“Come in.” I swing the door open with my toe and then go flop onto my bed.

“You okay?” he asks from the doorway.

I sit up and gaze at him. Maybe he can tell just by looking at me that my mind is racing. Dads tend to know these things instinctually. “Why do you ask?”

Dad comes in and rubs his hands together. He checks out the walls of my bedroom, the splattered painting on one side, the bright geometric canvas on the other. There’s also a small watercolor of our house that I did a year ago. I cringe every time I see it, but honestly, I have no idea what to put in its place. “Thanks for taking the twins tonight.” He continues to study my face for any sign of trouble. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I’m trying not to sound as though my feelings are on a fast-spin cycle. “The mall wasn’t so bad.” I think of Tate’s gorgeous eyes and a smile creeps across my face, but then just as quickly I think of the donor sibling Web site and the smile vanishes.

“Deep down Sierra and Sage appreciate the extra time you spend with them.” He waits for me to agree. “They look up to you.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” I smirk and tuck my knees into my shirt, further stretching it out.

My dad sits next to me on the bed, and just when I think he’s going to say something reassuring, like that Sage and Sierra will grow into their relationship with me, or that things will be better with them when they’re older, he says, “What’s that?”

He reaches for the
Teen Vogue
before I can stop him.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just some light reading.”

Dad stares at the cover. I wonder if he’s glimpsed that bold orange headline, and if he has, what is going through his mind. “I didn’t think you read fashion magazines.”

“Sometimes I do.” I take it back from him and toss it onto the floor like it means nothing to me. Maybe he didn’t see it. Or maybe he did. I’m going to leave it to him to open the floor for discussion, just like always. I’m pretty sure he’ll do what I expect him to do.

He pats my head and gives me a hug. “Good night, Jenny,” he says. “Sleep well.”

I should feel comforted by his predictability, but I’m not this time.

“You too.”

Dad gets up and walks to the door. He pauses and turns around. I’m hoping he’s going to surprise me here and say something encouraging about the art show or call me out on the article. “Hey, Jen? How about we finish that backyard project this weekend? I’d love to get it done by the time school starts.”

My heart falls. “Maybe, Dad. I might be busy.”

“We can’t put it off forever.” He may as well be talking about our relationship. If he’s supposed to instinctually know what’s wrong, how come he keeps suggesting these things we can do together—running, sports, yard work—and not comprehend that it’s only pushing us farther apart?

When Dad shuffles off to bed, I take the few steps to my desk, turn on my computer, and wait. The familiar hum lulls me into my chair, and I type the address for the Donor Sibling Registry into the Web browser. My right hand rests on the mouse and I pull the cursor over to the login field. All I have to do is type in my info. I sit there, frozen with both panic and excitement. What if I find another branch of Donor 142’s genetic family tree? What if I don’t? Will I feel even more alone then?

I lift my hand from the mouse and, without debating further, shut down the computer. I bring my knees up to my chest and stare at the monitor’s black screen, knowing that what’s lurking around the corner will reveal itself eventually.

EIGHT

I spend the next day earning my studio time by fetching coffee for Sid Sleethly and the more accomplished artists at Downtown. I hope it’ll take my mind off other things, but being surrounded by all these talented people makes me anxious about the art show. I just don’t know if I have
it
in me, and if I do, I highly doubt that I will be able to discover it and create some sort of masterpiece in less than two weeks.

After his fifth cup of coffee, Sid would most likely agree with me.

“So you see, Jenny Fitzgerald,” he says as he gestures to a giant rectangular canvas that takes up the better part of one of the washed concrete walls, “this is an example of
true
inspiration. The artist was able to properly convey the interior complexities and turn them outward into the visual medium.”

I’m convinced he talks like this to make people think he’s smarter than he is, or at least that he’s not just a washed-up has-been. It’s all I can do not to respond with sarcasm, so instead, I offer up this question in the hope he’ll find it in his heart to help me. “In terms of the art show, though. Are you looking for something specific? I mean, is there a certain style you’d like to see, or am I just supposed to—”

He cuts me off with a hard glare from behind his dark-framed glasses. The look says it all—he dropped his heart somewhere back in New York City a decade ago. “‘Supposed to’? There’s no
supposed to
in art. Dear God! How do you expect to create anything when you’re out of touch with…” He mumbles to himself. He shakes his head and wanders off to bother someone far superior to me.

At this rate I’ll be lucky to get him to even consider any of my paintings for the show, let alone display them. He’s explained that slots are limited, and the goal of the show is to actually sell the work, not just exhibit it. I’d say my chances are like scoring a home run during a rain delay—impossible.

I tend to the next project at hand: cleaning up the mess that is the artists’ lounge. When I think about it, Sid may have a shruken, prune-sized heart, but he has allowed me to become Downtown’s prized indentured servant in lieu of charging me for studio time. But as I check out the number of empty coffee cans that are set to the side of the industrial sink and calculate how long it’s going to take me to wash and dry each can so they can be filled with turpentine and cleaning agents, I go back to my original assumption—Sid is the Devil.

Before I attempt that task, I walk around the lounge and pick up crumpled balls of paper, stray pencils, and half-started sketches littering the ground. I collect signs that read
THIS IS MY SANDWICH—DON’T TOUCH IT
and
IF THIS IS YOUR BRUSH, IT WON’T BE IF YOU KEEP LEAVING IT HERE
and stack them on one side of the long communal table, where the artists share lunches, have meetings, and read art history books. The tabletop is coated with years of dried paints and goop. Sometimes I like to sit here and look at the swirls and pray for inspiration to hit me.

A dollop of yellow calls to mind the end of summer sun outside, and a streak of blue dotted with yellow looks like my eyes. I wonder if Tate noticed my eyes last night, just as I noticed his. I wonder if there is someone else out there whose eyes duplicate mine. Maybe it’s because I envy Sierra and Sage, but in the hours I’ve thought about going to the Web site and seeing if I have a sibling match, I keep picturing finding a twin. Perhaps there’s a brother living in California who has mottled blue eyes and loves licorice as much as I do. Or a girl like me who can’t hit a ball to save her life but who has made money by sketching houses for holiday cards, as I once did.

“Are you going to sit and admire the scenery or actually earn your keep?” Sid oozes into the room with Jamaica Haas, a high-profile artist who has a studio in New York but uses Downtown when she’s at her country cottage on the Connecticut shore one town away from Cutler. Despite the articles written about her in
Art Scene
and
Modern Works
, she’s always been down-to-earth and nice to me.

“I was just taking a break.” I reach over to a nearby bucket of water, fish out a large sponge, and begin wiping down the table so it gleams.

“If you keep scrubbing like that, your arms will fall off and Sid will be forced to sell them in the art show.” Jamaica winks at me, and I smile. “You’re Jenny, right?”

I nod and ignore Sid, who clearly wants me to evaporate so he can get back to schmoozing. “Yes. Jenny Fitzgerald. We met once before.”

Jamaica fluffs out her dark funky bob. She looks like the human equivalent of a Scottish terrier—small and lively, with bright eyes and hair that sticks up. “You’re the one who paints lots of circles.”

“Yeah, I guess I just like them.” I never thought that I had an artistic identity, but I love knowing that Jamaica thinks so.

“I guess I just like them.” Sid Sleethly mimics me.

Obviously, he is not the Devil—he is the Devil’s five-year-old son.

Jamaica takes the sponge from my hand and goes to the concrete wall. With a giant swooping motion, she makes a huge circle, then roughs the edges. “Well, I think you’re onto something. Circles.” She tilts her head and gazes at me like she knows something I don’t. “I assume you’ll have work at the art show?”

I look at Sid for confirmation of this, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m hoping to.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing it. Circles. Connection. Good stuff.”

Blush tinges my cheeks as she and Sid head over to one of the couches. Her words stay with me minutes later when I sneak off to my own canvas and use a pencil to outline my ideas. But I stand there for hours, and when I leave to pick up the twins from Camp Cedar, the canvas is still bright white and stark.

“Ohmygodyouwillikeneverbelievethis.” Sierra talks so fast when she’s excited that I have to decipher each word. Sage, on the other hand, responds to excitement on slo-mo, so she stands by the car with her mouth hanging open.

Sierra clutches Sage’s arm. Their skin is the exact same tone; they are connected like paper dolls with seamless limbs.

“What’s going on?” I get out of the car and scan the parking lot for Tate. I have that big crush feeling where I’m half-wishing he’ll notice me again and half-hoping he won’t. In this case it doesn’t appear to matter what I wish, because everywhere I look, there is no Tate.

Sierra is bouncing up and down in her leotard while Sage stays grounded. “Checkitoutohmygodohmygod! We qualified!”

“Qualified for what?” Maybe she means for some eighth-grade team or some after-school program. “Are you taking an advanced class or something? Throw your bags in the back.”

Sierra and Sage stop clutching each other long enough to, for once, clutch my arm. “We both qualified for the Dance Project. It’s this amazing recital featuring—”

“I know,” I interrupt, not thinking for a second that maybe I should let them continue to share their news. “I read about it in the paper. An urban dance troupe that tours the United States. Very cool!” Really, I am psyched for them. It’s a big deal, especially for girls their age. So why do I feel like my congratulations are semi-hollow?

Sierra and Sage look at each other and drop their hold on my arm. They’ve picked up on it too. “You don’t seem that happy for us,” Sage says, and opens the car door. Sierra crawls into the backseat after her.

“Of course I’m happy for you!” I lean over and pop my head into the backseat before shutting the door. “Seriously, I’m so proud of you guys.”

They perk up a bit at hearing this, and it stings knowing that they never, ever say things like that to me. It’s strange—I keeping feeling as though I wish someone were here holding my hand, but I don’t know if that person is Tate or a half sibling. Either way, it’s as though I’m wishing for something that will only be a dream.

I get in the car and turn the key in the ignition. Sierra leans forward between the front seats so she can switch the radio to her and Sage’s favorite station. “You don’t mind, do you?”

It’s not worth arguing over. Two against one always wins.

“Hey, Jenny!” Sage rummages around in her bag for something. “I almost forgot.”

“Oh yeah, you need to give her the thing!” Sierra squeals.

“What is it?” I peer at them in the rearview mirror. “Another trophy? A medal? A gymnastics award?”

“No, there are too many of those to carry around,” Sage jokes.

A folded-up piece of paper flies out from the backseat and onto the dashboard.

I don’t have to open the folded piece of graph paper to recognize the handwriting. It’s a note from Tate Brodeur.

I think about reading it when I get to the safety of my room—that way the twins can’t try and sneak a peek at it—but I don’t have an ounce of patience.

I read each slanted letter with bated breath.

Hey JF
—

Can’t take the suspense, so end the torture already. Did you check the site? Circle Yes or No.

Inquisitively, TB

When I fold the note back up and put it in my left pocket, I remind myself that this definitely isn’t a dream.