He nods.
“Are you identical?”
“Some of us,” he says. “But I’m the handsome one.”
When Mae laughs at this, he feels a rush of pleasure. Behind them, a bald man with a handlebar mustache turns around in his seat. “Did you say you’re a sextuplet?”
Hugo nods, realizing how many people are staring at him. The booths are small and pressed close together, a whole dining room shoved into a train car.
“My cousin has triplets,” the man says, “and I thoughtthatwas a lot of work.”
A woman a couple of tables over cranes her neck to look at Hugo. “I’m a twin,” she says in a low voice, sounding shy about it.
Hugo realizes that half the people on the train are staring at him now. He’s used to this sort of thing back home, where the six of them are fairly well known—though even there, it’s rare for someone to recognize him when he’s not with his siblings. Once when he was in London with Margaret, a group of young girls stopped to ask if he was one of the Surrey Six. They fell into giggles when he said he was, and asked him to autograph two receipts, a phone case, and even someone’s forearm. But usually it takes the whole gaggle of them to elicit any sort of attention.
Here in America, it’s different. The books aren’t published on this side of the ocean, and there aren’t many readers of the blog in this country either. Americans have their own sets of famous multiples. So he’s chalked up most of the stares he’s gotten to the color of his skin or the fact that he’s traveling with a white girl. Or maybe, if he’s being generous, to his height.
But now, once again, he’s no longer just Hugo. He’s one-sixth of something bigger.
And even amid the general merriment of this train car—the curious questions and eager faces—this feels like a kind of loss.
Their waiter arrives, shaking his head as he sets down their plates. “Man, I’ve got five brothers and sisters, too, but I can’t imagine dealing with all of us at the same time. Your mom is a damn hero.”
“How many sextuplets are there in the world?” asks Karen as she begins to slice up her chicken. “There can’t be that many.”
“I’m not really sure,” Hugo says around a forkful of lettuce. “I haven’t met any others.”
“Are you famous, then?”
He shrugs, not wanting to get into it. “Mostly just in our town.”
“Is it hard to remember all their names?” Trish wants to know.
“I’ve got them pretty well down at this stage.”
“Do you all get along?” asks the man behind them. “Did you guys fight a lot?”
“Never,” Hugo says, and around him, there’s a ripple of laughter. “Not once.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“Do your parents have a favorite?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“Are you all going off to college together?” asks Trish, and Hugo feels the air around him deflate again. He blinks, trying to come up with an answer, then takes a bite of his steak and chews it slowly.
Mae watches him for a second, then puts a hand on his knee, which he didn’t even realize was bobbing underneath the table. “I think it’s still to be decided,” she says, and Hugo looks over at her in surprise. It’s like she’s managed to look straight into his head, and he wonders if maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not so decided after all.
Across the table, Trish takes a swig of wine, and Karen’s attention moves to the window, and the man behind them turns around again. Slowly the dining car returns to its usual noises as the world outside slips into darkness.
Trish tilts her head at Mae. “So if you live here,” she says, her eyes tracking over to Hugo, “and he lives there, how does this work?”
Hugo doesn’t even have a chance to revel in the fact that she assumes he and Mae are a couple. The question hits him square in the chest, knocking the breath right out of him.
“Yeah,” Karen says, “what happens when you two get off the train?”
