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Authors: Emily Franklin

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BOOK: The Other Half of Me
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NINE

An hour later I’m on my bed, rereading Tate’s note for the fifth time.

Yes or no? To circle or not to circle? I can’t help but fantasize about whether there’s some hidden meaning in this question, like he’s asking me if I’d like to be his girlfriend. But this piece of info is still another unknown entity, waiting to jump out at me from around an invisible corner.

My door opens without a knock. Sage is there in pounce mode. “Time for dinner.” She rolls her eyes when she sees what I’m reading. “Omigod, Jenny, could you be any lamer?”

“Could you be any more of a pain in my ass?” I jab at her. “Try knocking sometime. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Like you even need privacy,” she laughs.

Sierra suddenly appears. Sage must have summoned her telepathically. “Maybe we should leave Jenny alone so she can check out certain Web sites…”

I reach behind me, grab a pillow, and throw it at them. “I can’t believe you read my letter.”

Sage and Sierra just snicker and are on their merry way.

I drag myself off my bed and into the hall. The twins are trotting ahead of me. As we come down the stairs, I can hear my parents discussing the pros and cons of setting up some sort of an obstacle course in our backyard, complete with swinging ropes and tires on the ground. That’s just what I need—another reminder of how uncoordinated I am in the family realm.

Sierra and Sage go into the kitchen to help Mom. I turn the corner to the living room, and suddenly Russ leaps out and shouts, “Jenny!”

I gasp and clutch at my heart.

Russ laughs. “Wow. That never gets old.”

“You suck, you know that?”

“Yes, I know,” he says, grinning. “So, Sierra and Sage told me there’s some Web site you want me to see.”

I resolve to berate the twins after dinner.

“Just ignore them, Russ,” I groan.

He squints at me. “What’s wrong?”

I shrug and frown. “Nothing.” A part of me wishes I could confide in him. But I can’t.

“Whatever you say.” Russ stretches, bringing one arm in front of him and pulling on it with the other. Then he runs his hand through his hair. He’s looking more like Dad every day. I don’t know how I feel about sharing the hallways with him at County High School this fall. “Jenny?”

“Yeah?”

“Bro’s a good guy.”

“Who?”

“Tate, genius.” Russ stretches the other arm. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

Even though Russ only guessed at half of what’s bothering me, I’ve never felt more like his full sister than I do now.

         

The Fitzgerald family sits down at the dining room table while Mom brings out the main course. She puts a plate filled with lamb chops and mashed potatoes in front of me while patting my hair. I brush her hand off my head and then feel bad that I did it, but when I reach up to put her hand back, she’s already moved on.

“Did you hear the good news?” Dad asks. He’s fresh from a jog, with ruddy cheeks and drips of perspiration running from his thinning hairline. He loves to run through the wooded trails near the house all year long, even in the snow.

“That you’re going to shower soon?” Russ jokes.

Dad smirks. “No. Although, I’m sure that’d be exciting news for everyone.”

Mom takes over. “The twins qualified for the Dance Project!”

I nod, overly emphatic in order to seem superpsyched. “I know.”

“It’ll be a family event,” Dad says. “We’ll all go and see the show and then celebrate in town.”

“I’ll make reservations,” Mom agrees.

“Awesome,” Russ says with his mouth full. He locks eyes with me as he chews.

I think he’s trying to tell me something, but since we don’t have that twin-connection thing, whatever is on his mind remains a mystery to me.

“I actually have to run,” I say, my appetite gone.

“More painting?” my mom asks. Dad waits for my answer, probably hoping that I’ll say I have converted from the religion of art to sports fanaticism.

“Not tonight,” I say. “I have other things to work on.”

         

After dinner I dash upstairs to my room and dial Tate’s number, which I have already managed to memorize. As I stare at the numbers, I find myself fixating on the one, then the four, then the two: 142. The donor number.
My
donor number. I should find out if it’s anyone else’s. The thing is, I feel as if it’s not a decision anymore. It’s a necessity.

Tate’s voice echoes in my ear. “Jenny?”

I grin when I hear him say my name. “How’d you guess?”

“I know I should say something cool like I had a feeling it’d be you, but of course, I have to thank caller ID.”

“Too bad. I thought we were psychically connected.” Then I worry I said too much.

“Nope, not at present. But we could work on that.”

I hope he means we
will
work on that. Oh my God, I
have
to stop overanalyzing. “So…”

“So…,” he says. “Did you do it?”

Even though it’s juvenile, whenever I hear
do it
I think about sex and how I haven’t done much and how I wonder if that’s obvious to everyone who looks at me.

“You know, do you have a brother somewhere? Aside from Russ, I mean. Man, can you imagine if you did, and he was as fast as Russ? We’d have to import him for County.” Tate stops himself, either afraid of sounding too jocky or, more likely, not wanting to assume that I found anyone at all.

“Ah, the Registry.” I shake my head as if he can see the gesture and then slap my forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I didn’t even log on.”

“Well, that’s okay. I really wanted you to call me, no matter what happened.”

Cue heart racing. I stare at the watercolor painting I made of our house and imagine what his house looks like and if I’ll ever get to see it.

Someone taps at the door. “Jenny, it’s your turn to do dishes.” Ugh. Dad.

“Hold on a sec,” I say to Tate and then cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I don’t know why I’m about to do this, because I know what’s going to happen. “Can you ask Russ to do them? I’m busy.”

“Now, Jenny.”

End of discussion.

“I have to go,” I tell Tate. I worry that it sounds lame, as if I don’t want to keep talking, which of course I do. Quite honestly, I’d be happy just hearing him breathe into the phone.

“You had to go pretty quickly last night, too,” Tate replies. “I get it. No problem.”

His tone has changed and slipped into that guy-friend voice. I know the phrase
see you around
is next in line if I don’t say something. “Wait, I want to keep talking. I do. But I can’t.”

“Can’t now or can’t ever?”

Tate’s questions challenge me. I really like that about him. “I just have dishes to wash.”

An awkward silence is followed by, “So…?”

“So…?” I counter.

“Want to come over later?” he asks.

For once the loud thud I hear isn’t a ball hitting the side of the house; it’s my heart caving in. I try to sound easygoing and mellow, but my words still come out overtly happy. He has said what I have wanted to hear for so long. “Sure! That’d be great! I’ll see you in an hour or so?”

I start to hang up the phone, but Tate is still talking. “Don’t you need my address?”

“Oh, right,” I say, even though I know it. I forget how I may have gotten that information, which leads me to believe that I’ve always known it.

“One-forty-one Wellesley Street, off Marchese,” he says. “See you in a while. Yes?”

“Yes.”

It only occurs to me when I pull up in front of his house that 141 is one number shy of 142. Maybe Tate will help me make up the difference.

TEN

One of the things I like best about art is that the line between reality and fantasy always blurs. Even with paintings such as Paul Cézanne’s
Still Life with a Ginger Jar and Eggplants
, the viewer can’t determine whether the painter was just copying the objects or making them better—the eggplants darker, fuller; the jar cleaner, glinting with life.

This is how I feel when I get to Tate’s house, with
BRODEUR
and 141 displayed on tiles set into the stone wall surrounding the front walkway. My fantasy for the past two years has been that he’d ask me over, that I’d go, and that I’d somehow look ravishing even in my plain old dark green T-shirt that only has one small dot of paint at the waist hem. Tate would open the door and look at me, and without having to say anything, he’d take me in his arms and kiss me. My reality isn’t quite the same, but who’s to say which is better?

“Hey, Fitz,” he says as soon as he opens the door. No one ever calls me Fitz, probably because I don’t play sports. I’m not sure how to take it, but it doesn’t bug me like it might have coming from my parents or Russ. He looks amazing, greeting me with a grin and a hand that motions for me to follow him inside.

“Great house,” I say. Then, just in case I sound superficial (because isn’t it a total cliché to go to someone’s house for the first time and compliment it right when you come in?), I add, “The light is perfect for painting.”

Tate shrugs, not in a disinterested way, but in a
never thought of that
way. “Well, anytime you feel like it, just show up with a canvas and a brush.”

“I just might take you up on that offer. I could set up right here.” I stomp my feet right in the center of the airy entryway and pretend to dip a paintbrush into a pot of paint.

“I have a better idea.”

Tate leads me up the stairs to the hallway that I assume leads to the bedrooms. My pulse races and I take a breath. “Where’re we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says.

“Isn’t that what the killer says in horror movies, right before he does something terrible?” I ask, forcing a smile. What if he stops on the stairs and kisses me? What if he leads me to his bedroom and wants to give me a tour of his, um, bed? What if nothing happens at all?

“Close your eyes,” Tate commands. I obey and then don’t. “Close them!” he says again.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Why?”

“It’s a surprise,” he explains.

“I don’t like surprises,” I fire back. There’s a cynical expression on his face—he doesn’t buy it. “Really. My sweet sixteen birthday party was a disaster. My whole family and all my friends jumped out from behind the furniture and I practically died from shock. I had to be rushed to the hospital. I was there for
days
!”

Tate laughs. “Okay, okay. I got it. No surprises.” He moves toward me so we’re maybe a foot away from each other in the hallway outside a closed door. The lighting is calm, like near paintings in a museum. His eyes focus on mine, then move to my lips. Faye read in an article that if a guy looks at your lips when he’s talking to you, it means he’s thinking about kissing you. My, oh my.

“Good. I’m glad we got that settled.” I don’t move, so I can keep trying to read his eyes. “No surprises.”

Tate moves toward me even more. He’s going to put his arms around my waist. He’s going to pull me close to him. He’s going to…open the door. Oh. “Go on in,” he says, and swings the door open, revealing a set of narrow stairs.

I climb the steps two at a time, holding the polished wooden railing for balance. When I reach the last step, I take a deep breath. Not because I’m out of shape and out of breath, but because it’s so cool.

“This is awesome!” I say. “In the real sense, not the, like, overly used
awesome
in a cheerleader sense.” Then I blush. He’s actually friends with that crowd.

“I like that distinction.” Tate’s smile completely floors me.

We are standing in a small room shaped in a hexagon. All the walls are windows, or the windows are walls, whichever. “I feel like I’m outside, even though I’m not.” I go over to one of the window/walls and peer out into the dusky sky. It’s just like Tate to challenge my perspective like this. I’m a little dizzy, probably because Tate is standing mere inches away.

“I love this place,” he says. “My parents never come up here. Then again, they’re never home to begin with.”

There’s silence. Outside, the wind shifts through the trees, and feeling Tate’s eyes on me makes my legs want to give way. I try to ground myself by looking at the red splotch of paint at the hem of my shirt. “It’s definitely a cool room,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” Tate agrees.

I’m so busy picking at the paint drip, staring at the odd shape of it so I can avoid staring at this guy, this person whom I’ve wanted for so long, that I don’t realize quite how close to me he’s standing until he taps me on the shoulder and I look up. We’re less than a paintbrush length apart. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to kiss me. But I’m wrong, because all he does is look at me, raise his eyebrows, and ask, “Ready to go downstairs?”

Tate bounds down the steps first, and I watch his easy stride, taking note of the way his waffle shirt is half tucked into his jeans. Painted images of gray waves come to mind and then stop. Tate halts himself and suddenly, in one fluid motion, turns around on the stairs, moves both arms so one hand is around my waist and the other palms the back of my head, and pulls me close. I am one step above him. Tate has made up the difference all right—the difference between our heights—so we’re eye to eye now. My heart is having convulsions. It’s like when Russ tries to surprise-scare me—it’s as if I couldn’t have expected this, and yet should have all along.

Tate puts his mouth on mine and we kiss slowly. His lips are just the right amount moist without being slobbery, and he tastes even better than red licorice. When I pull back, Tate’s eyes are still closed, and when he opens them, a wide grin forms on his face. I’m smiling at him so hard, I think I might have pulled a muscle in my cheek.

“How do you feel about surprises now?” he asks coyly.

I feel chills spreading from my neck, where Tate’s fingers are tucked into my hair, down to my thighs. “Maybe I should reconsider them.” Then I kiss him again. It’s even better than the last one because
I
went in for the kiss and he’s kissing me back, reciprocating. I want to tell him how long I’ve waited for this, but I don’t.

Instead, Tate takes my hand and leads me down the stairs and back to the kitchen. “Can I tell you that I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, without sounding like a stalker?”

“Define ‘long time.’” I hoist myself up on the counter next to a bowl of fruit. I could paint a still life of the piled pears, the bright oranges, and it would never compare to the reality of right now.

Tate sighs and gets us both a glass of fancy Italian soda from a bottle with a built-in cork. “Let’s just say long enough.” He smiles and then thinks of something. “Last night at the mall only confirmed my suspicions.”

I sip the drink, and Tate steps in between my knees so his face is level with mine. It’s a kissing position big with the cheerleaders and their jock boyfriends at school. I guess it’s because the girls can sit on the bleachers and their sporty guys can hustle over in between sprints. But I’m not in that crowd and never will be. Nerves kick in momentarily. Two weeks left of summer and then what? Will we fall back into our separate worlds? But I’m getting way ahead of myself. “What suspicions were those?”

Tate shrugs. “That you were funny. Different, in a good way. Unique.”

I smile. “Oh.” It’s hard to know what else to say when someone rattles off a list of qualities you can only hope to have. Now’s the time I could express exactly what I feel. Only, what is it? Finding the right words to express how you feel about someone is so easy at night, alone in your bed with only the slim blue light from the summer sky as witness. How many times have I thought about what I’d say to Tate Brodeur if given the chance? And here, now, when the moment’s in front of me, I come up with “Oh.” Luckily, Tate’s not at a loss for words.

“Smart, which I knew from being in class with you. And…” He looks me up and down. “Absolutely stunning.”

No one has ever called me this before. Not even close. It makes my head spin, but then Tate goes on. “Which is why when I saw that article last night…” He walks away for a second, making me miss him already, and then comes back with the magazine. “Here’s the thing. You’re everything I said before, right?”

“That’s a trick question. If I say yes, then I’m conceited, and if I say no, then I lack self-confidence.”

Tate’s grin goes wide. “Classic. Anyway, I just keep thinking, if you’re so cool, what if there’s someone else out there like you? That’s got to be a good thing.”

As soon as he says it, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, hovering in the air like monarch butterflies with their vibrant orange-and-black wings, I know he’s right. I have to know. Just like I knew I had to kiss Tate. To confirm the feeling, I say it aloud. “I have to know.”

Tate claps his hands like we’re about to
hut, hut, hike
or something. “Good. I’m so glad you’re doing this. The suspense was really getting to me.”

I raise my eyebrows as he wanders over to the small office next to the kitchen, sits down at a desk, and fires up a laptop. “Oh,
you
were anxious?” I say. “Please.” I hop off the counter, follow him into the room, and take a seat next to him so we’re side by side.

“Sorry, you’re right. If I feel stressed about this, you must feel…”

“Bombarded with crazy,” I say. Slowly, deliberately, I type in the Web address for the Donor Sibling Registry. “It’s like it shouldn’t be so colossal, but it is. I mean, maybe there’s no one. But maybe there’s…” I stop talking when the site appears in front of me.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Tate says, putting his hand on my knee.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and hold the mouse. “I’m ready.”

BOOK: The Other Half of Me
11.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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