Two of a Kind (16 page)

J
ordan arrived at the Cromley-Blandon School before the morning bell rang and checked the schedule she had posted on the inside of the locker door. She saw several girls from her grade congregated at the end of the corridor. One of them was wearing a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps—the red soles were the giveaway—and had a Prada backpack casually hanging off her shoulder. The kids here had way more money than the kids back at Saint James, and they were not shy about letting everyone know it.

Jordan had quickly figured out the pecking order. She knew who the queen bees were, and what she had to do to appease them. She also knew that she would no more feel at home here than she had at Saint James.

First up today was physics. They were doing a lab that involved throwing an egg against a sheet. No matter how many times or how hard the egg was thrown, it did not break. Some kids could not contain themselves during this experiment. Eggs were dropped or pitched against walls, resulting in vivid, gooey splatters. There were giggles, and a few high-pitched shrieks. The teacher had to raise his voice a couple of times. “
Some
people think they're still in kindergarten,” Jordan muttered to her lab partner, Ella Kim. Ella did not answer; an almost pathologically shy girl, she was routinely tormented by the cool girls—Monika Banks, Amalia Dart, Brittany Godwin. Ella was, however, a good partner, focused and reliable. “Do you want to work on the lab report together?” she asked. Again, there was no answer.

But as they were cleaning up, Ella said, “Yeah, sure.” For a second Jordan did not know what she was talking about; then it clicked.

“Okay, I'll text you,” said Jordan. Not that she needed the help. Science, like math, had definite rules, an orderly progression you could depend on. But Cromley-Blandon was big on
cooperative learning
and
collaborative efforts
, so she would score points by teaming up with Ella.

Next was World History, taught in a room plastered with brightly colored travel posters and maps; a globe the size of a beach ball stood in a corner. Hungry, Jordan felt her attention wandering. She tried to focus on the teacher, who was droning on about the conflict between the Catholics and the Protestants in sixteenth-century Germany. Or was it seventeenth-century England? She was just going to have to eat half of the protein bar she had stowed in her bag. Though maybe she could get away with a third. When the teacher called on a girl over on the left side of the room, Jordan discreetly popped a bit of the bar into her mouth. She sucked on it quietly, so it would soften. Even that small bit of food made the difference; suddenly her brain bloomed. The girl on the left didn't know the answer; Jordan's hand shot up.

“Yes, Jordan?” the teacher said. “Did you want to add something?”

“Martin Luther was reacting to what he saw as the corruption of the Catholic Church,” she said. “He thought the bishops and popes and all those people had strayed too far from Christ's message.”

“Precisely!” beamed the teacher. Jordan looked down modestly. At Cromley-Blandon it was cool to be smart, but not cool to show that you cared.

After history she had a free, and then there was lunch. The lunchroom was already crowded when she walked in. The hot meal today was pasta with tomato sauce. Fortunately, Jordan was not even tempted; in fact, the smell killed her appetite instantly. She loaded her plate at the salad bar: greens, carrots, beets, and cucumbers. Today she was sitting with the queenies because they had asked her to join them. That sauce really did smell gross; she began on her salad. “I like your T-shirt,” Monika said. “Where did you get it?”

Jordan looked down at the image of a dancer, on point in an arabesque, stretched across the white fabric. “The gift shop at Lincoln Center. I could get you one.”

“Could you? Sweet!” said Monika. She ran a piece of bread across her plate; the sauce-soaked bread turned a lurid, radioactive orange.

“Sure,” said Jordan, popping a cucumber into her mouth. It was important that Monika like her; otherwise, she could make Jordan's life hell.

“Thanks, Bun-girl!” Monika said, patting Jordan playfully on the head. Jordan tensed; she did not like her hair to be touched by anyone and certainly not by Monika, who seemed to have no interests apart from new shoes, new clothes, and new boys.

Bits of conversation bobbed and bounced around her: who'd been at which party, whose parents were going to be away next weekend, who was hooking up with whom. Jordan nodded and smiled but did not actively participate. Monika was a dope; she bragged that her parents could afford to endow any college she wanted to get into with “a new library or dorm or whatever” so that she didn't have to worry about grades. Jordan herself was not interested in college, but only because she wanted to dance professionally instead.

After finishing her salad, she brought her tray up to the front of the cafeteria. There was Ella Kim sitting by herself. That was not unusual; Ella always sat by herself. Monika posted all these incredibly hateful things on Facebook about her. Jordan thought Facebook was a colossal waste of time, but also knew reading stuff like that about yourself must hurt. So Monika was not just a dope; she was mean too.

“Can I sit here?” Jordan stopped in front of her table.

“Sure.” Ella stared at her plate and Jordan sat down anyway. She understood Ella's reaction; she would have seen Jordan sitting with Monika and the others and probably thought Jordan had come to torment her. This thought made Jordan's heart constrict unexpectedly with pity.

“Let's figure out a time to get together.”

“Get together?” The expression on Ella's face was one of pure panic.

“To work on the lab report—remember?”

“Oh—right.” Poor Ella; she couldn't seem to trust the invitation. But at least she had looked up from her plate. She was part Asian, with pin-straight black hair, a round face, and slanted brown eyes; Jordan thought that if she didn't look so nervous all the time, she would actually be pretty.

“I don't get home until pretty late on weekdays; Saturday would be better. In the afternoon.”

“Saturday afternoon would be okay,” said Ella. “In the morning, I take a pottery class at the School of Visual Arts.”

“Must be fun.” Jordan shuddered at the thought of handling wet clay, but whatever.

“You take classes outside too, right? Dance classes?” asked Ella.

“At the School of American Ballet,” she said.

“I know. Everyone says you're great.”

Jordan smiled. “So Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come over?”

“Sure,” Ella said. “I could do that.” The bell rang. Ella hurried upstairs to the gym at the rear of the building. Jordan followed slowly. Because of her dance classes, she was excused from gym. But she stood at the door, watching as Ella, now smiling, raced across the varnished floor.

Jordan's commute to SAB was so easy now; she walked the few blocks and was able to change and get ready in plenty of time. Today's point class was hard, though; under the pink satin shoes, her toes oozed and bled. By the end of the class, she was dying to get the satin shoes off her feet and she headed straight to the dressing room. She did not notice that Ms. Bonner had been waiting for her until her teacher touched her arm.

“I'd like to talk to you,” she said. Immediately, Jordan tensed. Maybe she'd been sloppy in class. But Ms. Bonner did not want to talk about her point work. “Normally, only girls on the C level are asked to participate in the Winter Ball. Still, I want to try you out in a small role this year, even though you're still in B2.” Jordan stared at her, unable to reply. “This year's theme is celebrating ballet's Russian roots, and there's a folk dance duet that I think you'd be perfect for; you've really got the exuberance the part demands. Do you think you can handle it?”

“I know I can,” said Jordan, ecstatic, stunned, and terrified all at once. The Winter Ball was SAB's most important annual benefit. It was held at Lincoln Center, on the same stage where the company performed, and five hundred people attended. Every year, the most advanced students from the school were asked to perform, and Ms. Bonner was asking her to be one of them. It didn't feel real, but here she was, talking about rehearsal schedules and saying she'd need to get permission from her mom. It was real, all right.

During the subway ride home to Brooklyn Jordan felt like she was in a trance. The magical words,
Winter Ball
,
Winter Ball
, kept running through her mind; the tenth time she thought them was no less exciting than the first. She couldn't wait to tell her mom the news and was so excited that she called as soon as she got out of the subway. But Christina did not pick up and when she got to the house, it was dark. Weird. Her mom had not said anything about going out tonight.

“Hello?” she called out as she let herself in. Silence. She flipped on the lights to reveal the clean, quiet kitchen. No pots, no pans, no evidence of cooking at all, just two tens on the table, placed neatly underneath the sugar bowl. She checked her phone again and saw that she had missed the text.

I'll be at Andy's apartment tonight. Home around 10. Left you money for takeout. xoxoxo Mom

Jordan scowled as she stared at the screen. That stupid Andy Stern again. It was like he had her mother under some kind of
spell
. What if she really got serious and even married him? Jordan did not think she could stand it. She had to figure out some way to get rid of him—she just
had
to.

O
liver stood in the middle of Riverside Park, waiting. He was supposed to be in English class, but Dread Guy—aka Keith—had called, and Oliver was not about to pass up a chance to score.

It was a windy day in October, and Oliver stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his nylon jacket. He had bought the jacket in a vintage store on Avenue A and it sported a cool, retro logo from some long-ago bowling team. There were major holes in the lining; his fists went straight down, touching the jacket's inner hem. He knew it pained his dad to see him wearing stuff like this; Andy was always trying to get him into Lacoste or Ralph Lauren, but Oliver wasn't buying into all that statusy stuff his dad lived for.

He looked around. Two old ladies inched by slowly, arms entwined, deep in some old-lady-type conversation. A group of dogs romped in a grassy area, owners ringed around them. Where was Keith? Late as usual. Oliver was willing to wait, though. He had Oceanography next period, another class he liked. But if he had to, he'd cut that too. A few leaves blew past his head, spinning and turning in the wind. One caught in his hair, which he had not had cut in quite some time. He gently pulled it out to examine it. It was a maple leaf—his mom was into tree identification, an interest she passed on to him—and red as a lollipop. He put the leaf in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Hey,” a voice called. Oliver turned and there was Keith. His trademark dreads bobbed in the breeze. “S'up?” he asked.

“Same old shit.” Oliver scanned the park, looking for the best place to conduct the transaction. “How about there?” He indicated a cluster of shrubs they could step behind.

Keith nodded and Oliver led the way. There, behind the bushes, he handed the crisp new hundred, only recently retrieved from the ATM, to Keith in exchange for three small bags stuffed with weed. He'd never bought this much at one time before, but he was tired of arranging these meetings and wanted to have enough to hold him for a while. “This is a new shipment,” Keith said. “The shit is, like,
killer
.”

Oliver nodded, slipping the bags into the pocket of his jacket. “I'll let you know.” He gave Keith a fist bump before he turned and left the park. He didn't want to go back to school. Everything was worse this year. Like seeing Jake and Delphine together, especially that first time. Jake had slowed and dropped Delphine's hand as he came toward Oliver. “Dude,” he said, but Oliver had just, like, sailed on by. As far as he was concerned, Jake was now officially invisible. He remembered the thrill of hoisting the laptop over the ledge of the balcony; he only wished he'd been able to hear the crash. When he went down to inspect the next day, there was nothing, not a fucking trace. He told his dad his laptop died—not a lie, for a change, though he omitted mentioning that he'd been the executioner—and was given permission to order another. His dad was only too happy to throw money his way; it was much easier than having an actual relationship.

And it was senior year and everyone was getting all bent out of shape about college. Oliver wanted to go to college—sort of—but he couldn't seem to summon the energy to do anything about it. He considered cutting the rest of the day. He'd say he felt sick and go home. He'd sit out on the terrace and take long, soothing hits while he watched the sky get dark. But then he thought of Oceanography, where they were going to watch a documentary about all these really amazing creatures—the anglerfish, which was able to produce a bright light that glowed at the end of this weird appendage just above its mouth; the barreleye fish, with its transparent head; the wrinkled fangtooth; the lionfish; the blobfish, which was nothing but a mass of gray, quivering jelly. Class would have started a couple of minutes ago, but he could slip in quietly, take a seat in the back, and no one would really care.

He entered the building through a seldom-used basement door and went up the stairs. But just as he was reaching for the doorknob to the science room, he was stopped by the huge, meaty paw of the headmaster, Mr. Cunningham. “You're a little late today, aren't you, young man?” said Cunningham.

“Yeah, sorry. But if I go in now, I won't miss very much.”

“And I heard you were not in English either.” Cunningham had bushy eyebrows that sprouted from his forehead.

“No, I wasn't feeling well and—”

“But you didn't go to see the nurse, did you? I checked and she said she hadn't seen you all day.”

“I was in the student lounge.” Oliver was getting a little nervous. So he cut class. Why was Cunningham making a federal case out of it?

“The student lounge is being renovated and not open this month. Remember?” His eyebrows—thick pelts of gray and black—wiggled ominously.

“Oh yeah. I meant the—”

“Oliver,” said Cunningham. “Let's stop this little charade right now, shall we? I think we need to continue this talk in my office.”

Resigned, he followed the headmaster and, when they reached his office, took a seat across from Cunningham's big, battered desk.

“Now, when we spoke last June, I thought we had an understanding, Oliver. An understanding. I trusted you. I
believed
in you.” Cunningham folded his big hands together and let his massive head sink to his fists. “But you've let me down, Oliver. You let me down, you let your father down, you let Mr. Pollock down, and you let Ms. Warren down. But mostly you've let yourself down.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Oliver said. The
sir
had worked before; maybe it would work again.

“I'm afraid
sorry
isn't going to do. Sorry isn't sufficient.”

Oliver chafed miserably. This office was so
hot
; why did they keep the thermostat turned way up like that? It was, like, such an energy drain. He unzipped the bowling jacket and was about to put it on the chair, when suddenly one of the bags he'd just bought from Keith slid through the bottom of the jacket. The hem must have been ripped through and he didn't even know it. Oliver looked in horror at the bag of weed as
Cunningham rose from behind the desk and looked down on the floor.

“Oliver,” he intoned, as he stepped from behind the desk to pick up the bag. “Oliver, Oliver, Oliver . . .” He reached over and in that second, Oliver had the mad impulse to dash from the room and the school. But he remained in his seat as Cunningham patted the pockets of his jacket and pulled out the other two bags. “I am sincerely hoping that these bags do not contain what I think they contain,” he said. Oliver was mute as Cunningham laid two of the bags on his desk and opened the third. He thrust his nose into the bag, and inhaled deeply. Maybe he'd end up with a nice little contact high and he and Oliver could smoke a joint together before a very chill Cunningham sent him on his way with just a slap on the wrist. Then the deep, sonorous voice of the headmaster snapped him back to reality, like, in a hurry.

“I think you know what this means, Oliver,” he said. “I think you know as well as I do.”

“Please, Mr. Cunningham, sir. It's not what you think. I mean I—”

“And what is it that I think, young man? Can you read my mind?”

“You think I'm using that stuff. Selling it even.”

“I had not even
thought
about your being a pusher, Oliver,” Cunningham said. “Though now that you bring it up, I won't rule it out. And as for using—well, yes, that certainly seems to be the case.”

“It's just a little now and then, sir. Totally recreational, no worse than a beer. Really, it should be legal and in some states it already is—”

“Enough,” said Cunningham. “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come with me.” So Oliver followed him down the hall and to his locker, where Cunningham watched while he emptied its contents into a cardboard box. “You can take what you can carry now,” said Cunningham. “The rest will be in my office; you can arrange to have it picked up. I'll telephone your father.” Oliver said not one word while all this was going down; he just filled his backpack with what seemed most essential—which was, like, nothing—and waited. Then he walked behind Cunningham to the doors. “Oliver, I don't know if you will believe this, but I am truly, deeply sorry.” To which Oliver wanted to reply,
Fuck you and your hairy-ass eyebrows.
Was it cowardice or self-preservation that kept him from saying it? Anyway, it didn't matter anymore. He was out of there. He was gone.

An hour later, Oliver was on the number one train, headed to the Bronx to see his Grandma Ida. How she would react to his news, he didn't know. But he figured she'd find out soon enough anyway; he might as well be the one to tell her. Besides, since Cunningham expelled him, he really didn't know what the hell to do with himself. He'd taken the weed, of course—
We're not going to press charges, but
you do understand I'll have to confiscate this
—so now Oliver didn't even have that as a consolation prize. It didn't seem like a good idea to try to contact Keith about getting some more. The shit had already hit the fan; no need to turn it on full blast.

At the 231st Street station, he got out and boarded a bus that dropped him practically in front of the yellow brick apartment building where Ida lived. She might not even be home. No big deal. He'd just wait, that's all. But when the doorman buzzed, he heard her words clearly, even through the static. “Send him up right now, José!”

“Have you had lunch?” was the first thing she asked. He shook his head. “Come in and sit down, then. I'll make you a sandwich.”

Oliver sat at the Formica table in the kitchen. The television was on and Judge Judy was yelling at someone. She yelled at everyone. What would Judge Judy say to him if he ever appeared in front of her? Oliver watched, mesmerized, as the tiny woman—she was, like, no taller than a thirteen-year-old—made all these people look so meek and ashamed. Meanwhile, Grandma Ida was bustling around her kitchen, clearly happy to have this task to perform. He noticed she was all dressed up—black-and-white checked pants, black turtleneck sweater, gold bracelets, necklace of gold, black, and bright blue; the beads were as big as gumballs. In a few minutes, she presented him with a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, handful of chips, and glass of apple cider. When he bit into the sandwich, he could tell it was made with those slices of American cheese his dad wouldn't even permit in their home; it was delicious, all melted and gooey. “Thanks, Grandma.” He took another bite, and then another. “Thanks a lot.”

She turned off the television, pulled up a chair, and faced him. “So what's going on?” Her eyes, alert and focused, sought out his. “I don't usually get a surprise visit, and on a weekday no less.”

“I'm in trouble,” he said simply. “Big trouble.”

“Then you came to the right place.”

Oliver told her the whole story then, mentioning the head shop on St. Marks, Jojo and Keith (though he did leave out the bit about Raven; he thought it might scare her), the weeks of pot smoking, culminating in today's big-ass purchase in Riverside Park and the subsequent expulsion by Cunningham. She listened intently and did not say one word until he was done. Much better than Judge Judy, he thought.

“So that's it,” he said. He took a big gulp of the cider. “They kicked me out.”

“Does your father know?”

“Not yet.” In fact, it was kind of weird. Shouldn't his father have spoken to Cunningham by now? Maybe there was some crisis at the hospital, some woman delivering, like, quintuplets.

“Tell me something, Oliver. Do you want to go back to school?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, before anything else gets said or done, you need to figure that out first. Because if you don't want to go back, that's one path. And if you do, that's another. But only you can decide. And once you do, you can figure out what you need to do next.”

“Do I have to decide, like, now? This minute?”

“No, you don't. Think about it for a while. But don't take too long.” She eyed his empty plate and glass. “How about another sandwich?”

He nodded gratefully. “I'm so hungry,” he said.

“Like your father,” she said, rising from her seat and patting him affectionately on the head. Oliver leaned over to turn on the television again. Maybe Judge Judy would be done for the day. He hoped so. Clicking the remote, he found a nature program called
Mysteries of the Deep
. He wondered whether it was anything like the movie he had missed in Oceanography today.

His grandmother served him the second sandwich and another glass of cider. She did not ask any more questions about school and she did not rag on him about getting expelled either. They watched the documentary and then she brought out her ancient Scrabble set whose box had been repaired, like, a hundred times with pieces of now yellowing and brittle tape, and set up the board on the table. Grandma Ida had a perfectly fine living room, with a fat, burgundy velvet sofa and matching armchairs, a coffee table, and a forty-five-inch flat-screen TV. But she seemed to spend most of her time in the kitchen. With its yellow-and-white-checked curtains and souvenir plates from all the places she'd visited plastered all over the wall, it was a comforting place. They spent the rest of the afternoon playing Scrabble; first he beat her by making
zodiac
on a double word score and
oxen
on a triple. But in the second game, she trounced him with the seven-letter
advisor
. The sky outside the kitchen window grew dark.

“Well, I guess I should be going,” he said. Now it was, like, positively spooky that he had not heard from his dad and he began to dread the encounter more for its having been delayed. Andy was so into status markers; this would, like, kill him. And although Andy had gone to City College, Oliver knew that he was expected to go to a much more prestigious place.
Too bad about that one, Dad. Guess that plan's been effectively fucked.