“Yeah, sure.” I study her, her name pulling up a memory from my history of music class last year, but that girl had hair so curly it seemed almost alive. “You straightened your hair.”
“Oh, yeah.” She laughs nervously, pulling at her locks. “I flatiron it sometimes.” She keeps twisting her hair, her gaze flicking from Owen down to her book and back again. He nudges her with his arm and she grins wider.
“We’re studying for calc,” Owen says. “Pain in the ass. You want to join?”
I hear him talking, but my thoughts are already gone, rising above the house and through the trees to the lake, finding Hannah crying on her bed.
“Mar?”
I flinch, my name bringing me back to Owen’s room. There’s something almost manic in his eyes. A feverish glow, some sort of expectation, like he’s Mom hoping I’ll crumble, like he’s hoping last night fixed something between us. Answered some question. But I know it didn’t. I knew it then and I know it even more now. Still, I feel myself mirroring his movements, like I always have. It’s instinct. A twin thing I’ve always loved.
“No,” I say. “That’s okay, I’m good.”
His hopeful smile dips, but he nods and tilts his head toward his window. “Gemini later?” Next to him, Angie furrows her brow, clearly curious, but he doesn’t explain. Just watches me, his fingertips fiddling with the pages of the textbook.
“Um . . .”
“Come on, Mara. Our twins have been severely neglected lately.” A soft smile moves over his mouth. “Please?”
“I’m . . . I’m really tired. I just . . . soon. We’ll do it soon, okay?”
He slumps against the headboard but nods. “Yeah. Okay. Soon.”
“Good night, Angie,” I say softly. I feel myself shaking, soon a desperate hope thumping my heart against my ribs.
Chapter Fourteen
THE NEXT EVENING, the drive into Nashville with Charlie is full of lots of music and absolutely zero talking. School sucked, whispers trailing me in the halls like vicious ghosts. Every time I saw Owen’s laughing friends, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry in the bathroom for an hour or rip their heads off. I settled for neither, keeping my head down in the halls and my mouth shut in class. Owen’s name was everywhere, but I could never quite catch sight of him, which was a relief.
And also lonely as hell.
In between second and third periods, Angie waved at me in the hallway. And smiled. And said, “Hi, Mara.” Her smile slipped when I just stared at her, frozen by the soft look in her eyes. She looked away quickly, hugging her books to her chest. By the time I snapped out of it and realized what an asshole I was being, she was gone.
I ate lunch with Alex outside on the front steps, so I’m not sure if Charlie saw us. Not sure if she’d care anyway. Right now I have no idea what to say to her, a million questions about Tess on the edge of all my thoughts, but I have no right to those questions. I made out with a boy not even twenty-four hours ago.
And I don’t regret doing it. I wanted to kiss him. But there’s something else swirling around my chest that I can’t get a grip on. It’s not regret, but a feeling like something is . . . missing. It’s probably why neither Alex nor I mentioned the kiss during lunch. We didn’t touch. We didn’t hold hands or even hug hello or goodbye. We just talked about nothing and ate our overcooked cafeteria cheeseburgers and it was good.
Now, after school, Charlie fidgets next to me in her truck. She adjusts the temperature, the fan speed, the song playing, the volume, and her rearview mirror over and over again. It’s amazing how much a person can move while she’s driving.
“Nervous?” I ask after she listens to about ten seconds of every song on an entire Silversun Pickups album before giving up and picking Fleurie’s latest EP.
“No, of course not,” she deadpans. “I’m just about to perform on one of the best stages in Nash-freaking-ville. No big.”
“Sorry, dumb question.”
She exhales heavily. “It’s just . . . what if no one likes my stuff? What if I get booed off the stage? What if . . .”
“What if what? Everyone’s going to love you.”
Charlie runs her fingers over the hem of her lacy tank top underneath a slouchy T-shirt. “Do I . . . do I look like a boy?”
“You look like Charlie.” I say it automatically, not because I’m trying to placate her, but because it’s true. Charlie is beautiful and strong. She loves mascara and men’s ties and big combat boots and skinny jeans and gloomy girl music and peanut butter on her waffles and Harry Potter almost more than life itself. She’s Charlie, like I’m Mara and Hannah’s Hannah. “Who do you want to look like?”
She shrugs. “Today I feel a lot more . . . feminine, I guess, but do I even look like that? I just want to look like me. You know, express me.”
“You do look like you.”
“I don’t always feel like I do, you know?”
