If it were up to me, I would stay in my room forever. Time seems to stand still here, and I can still be the girl who believes in miracles, who waits for her mom to return,until everything is fine.
I even have her framed birthday card hanging on my wall. The first and last.
All the best, Kansas. Buy yourself something nice. I think of you often.
As if it were contaminated, Arizona picked up her card, grabbed the cash, and tossed the card into the trash, while James made some kind of puzzle out of his. I think he even painted a skull on it.
“Kansas, for heaven’s sake, you lump of cement! Come on already! I know you can hear me! Nine more minutes!” Now, James sounds angry. Or, to put it in his language, pissed off.
Damn!I’m still in my sleep shirt—a hand-me-down, long-sleeved blue shirt from my brother that reaches my knees. Sometimes, I think it’s my last connection to him, something I can feel on my skin like a hug.
For a moment, I stare at the girl in the mirror. She’s so foreign to me. Stranger than Arizona. Stranger than my brother Jamesville. Stranger than Dad.
The girl could be someone else, someone I met by chance and now recall fleetingly—maybe that would be a good thing.
She looks like a “before” photo in a magazine—nothing on the oval face is too big or too small. A common face, with straight, light brown hair that falls far over her shoulders and green eyes that are too far apart and always appear a little intimidated.Fairy eyes, Dad used to say a lot, but that was before Mom left. Lately, I look like I’m not truly here, almost translucent. Just like Marty McFly when he faded from the photo inBack to the Future. Sometimes, I wonder how twins can be as different as Arizona and me.
Arizona would always be the “after" photo with her baby-blue googly eyes and blonde curls, not to mention a kilo of makeup, fishnet stockings, and high heels. She always makes sure she’s not overlooked.
I grimace, turn from my reflection, and pull James’ shirt over my head. I don’t think he even knows it ended up in my closet, but then there’s a lot he doesn’t remember. I quickly slip into light-colored jeans, a dark blue long-sleeved shirt, and flip-flops. At least my footwear corresponds with the predicted mid-eighties temps in Minnesota.
“Kansas!” James shouts. “If you don’t come down now, you’ll have no time for breakfast! You know I have to be on time, or Wilcox & Sons will fire me.”
And I even know who he has to thank for having to toil there!
I pull my sleeves well over my palms, and even as I do, the bruises on my arms and shoulders hurt. I can hardly eat anything anyway.
My cell phone beeps. I fish it from my bedside table, glancing at the only photo of Mom that exists in this house. She smiles at me.
Downstairs, James is yelling my name again. I glance at the message. It’s from Mr. Spock, my only friend.
Mr. Spock to Arielle:Stardate: 7.30, Earth: What did you do over the weekend? Are you going to school today? Just don’t let yourself be assimilated!
If I weren’t so afraid of the day, I would smile right now. I text back:
Arielle:Stardate: Way too early and Monday again! The usual. Homework, household chores that no one else here does, and reading.
Mr. Spock:Oh, not only are you the silent mermaid, you’re also Cinderella? Live long and prosper! Good luck today!
Vaj vIneH SoH je, I text. That’s Klingon and means, “I wish you the same.”
I met Mr. Spock in an online forum. We’re comrades in suffering, and I don’t know much more about him other than that he’s passionate about Star Trek. But what kid isn’t a Trekkie? James even used to keep a scrapbook, which is why I have some basic knowledge. Supposedly, Mr. Spock is like me—someone who doesn’t fit in—and his name is Milford Holloway. He lives in Oklahoma City, but that could easily be a lie. He could even go to my school, although I’ve ruled that out. Nobody at Kensington would write anything nice because they’re all afraid of Chester Davenport.
My phone beeps again. Before I look at the message, I quickly put Mom’s picture in my school bag so that no one discovers it, because that would be a disaster.
Mr. Spock:Only two more weeks!
He doesn’t have to write more, since I know what he means. His school and mine have similar late vacation times. It’s almost mid-June.
Only two more weeks,I repeat to myself, then nine weeks of vacation. Nine weeks where I can hole up at home without having to go out into the world.
When I enter the kitchen, Dad and James are sitting at the table, while Arizona is standing at the marble countertop with huge Mickey Mouse headphones on, energetically chopping a cucumber. She doesn’t notice me because of her headphones, but the Demons ’N Saints album cover scrolls across her propped-up phone. She taps her foot in time to the music and occasionally sings an accusatory line from “All Your Fault.” She looks beautiful doing it, so I take advantage of the moment and watch as she drops the cucumber pieces into the blender with a theatrical gesture. Even when she’s making a simple smoothie, she looks like she’s an actress following a secret stage direction.
I envy her as much as I love and miss her. I envy her because she can walk around in a bright tank top and shorts in this heat, although she’ll swap her shorts for a pair of risqué hot pants and fishnets later in the car—something Dad would never allow. I also envy her because she does what she likes. Everyone wants to be her friend, even though she’s neither a star student nor the cheer captain. She has this innate star quality that makes everyone want to revolve around her; no party or event starts until she arrives.
Without looking, she picks up the next load of cucumber pieces but purposefully turns her back to me when she spots me.
My already cramped stomach hardens even more. I miss her so much. But ever since Chester kissed me, she’s been punishing me with silence. She’s basically mocking me since silence is something associated with Kansas Montgomery. And the kiss from Chester? Let’s just say I didn’t ask for it.
