Mona turned back to look at Elliot then, and whatever she saw made her howl. She nearly doubled over with laughter, like she had a cramp in her side from the hilarity of his expression. Blood rose to his cheeks, and then Mona righted herself and stepped forward and said, “Hey, I’m Mona, this is my dumb twin brother, Elliot.”
And Birdie squinted and sized him up, screwing up her lips like she was really assessing him.
“You guys are twins? You don’t look anything alike.”
Elliot had cringed. Even at twelve, he got attention for his looks. He’d been stopped in Macy’s with his mom and Mona and asked if he wanted to do commercials; he had girls who left himnotes (hadleft him notes, back in San Francisco) in his locker all year; he got invited to things when he really didn’t even know the kid who was hosting. Mona, their mom assured them, was beautiful, ethereal, but she was pale, where he was naturally tan; she lacked any semblance of muscle tone, where he was a born athlete.
That day, on their new street, Mona didn’t bristle.
“Oh yeah, fraternal twins.” She shrugged. “Too bad for him I’m the smarter one.”
Birdie giggled at that, at the casualness of the insult, and said, “Well, hi. I’m Birdie. If you’re into kick the can after dark, I’ll rope in my little sister too. She’s annoying but, well, you need at least four people to make it good.”
“What are you reading?” Mona asked because Elliot still couldn’t speak.
“Oh.” Birdie held up the cover. “Lord of the Rings.It’s not on the summer reading list but everything on there is stupid or boring, so I’m reading this instead because my stepmom is paying me twenty bucks to read a book this summer, so whatever. Have you read it?”
Elliot had, of course, readThe Lord of the Rings. He’d snuck a flashlight into his room and pulled an all-nighter finishing it. None of the rest of his friends in San Francisco were nearly as excited about it as he was.
Elliot sensed something in his stomach that felt like butterflies taking flight, and he had to remind himself not to stare.
About a month later, he almost screwed up the nerve to tell her that he sometimes fell asleep thinking of her. Then again at fourteen. Then again at sixteen when they were alone in his car, with Mona out with pseudo-mono. Then again that night in New York. He had meant to that night. Until he remembered prom. And Mona’s request. Not request, demand, how she’d yankedhim out of the faculty lounge and said, “Elliot, you have everything you ever want. Yougeteverything you ever want. So maybe don’t screw up Birdie for me. Maybe just leave my best friend out of it.” Elliot remembered, even now, how she shook her head and said, “No, definitely leave her out of it. Leave her alone.” And then Nelson Pratt called her name down the hall, and she gave Elliot one last glare and went back into the auditorium.
And he had, he had left her alone! For years! She’d just looked so insanely delectable at that premiere party, and it wasn’t just that she was delicious enough to eat, it was that she wasBirdie, and he couldn’t stop himself. She was all he’d wanted for what felt like as long as he’d existed, even as he slept with dozens of women who were beautiful and enjoyable and smart as hell. None of them were Birdie. And that night in New York was perfect, and it was heaven, and it was exactly like—no, better—it was better than he’d ever imagined. And he’d imagined ita lot. How he would touch her, how she would touch him, how her skin would feel under his fingertips, how she’d sigh when he’d kiss that delicate spot on her collarbone that he sometimes stared at for no reason other than he couldn’t not stare.
And then he walked away before explaining himself. But in his defense, Birdie basically pushed him out the door and honestly seemed relieved when it was all over, when he walked out her door and he heard the bolt click behind him. Maybe theirs was an itch and, once scratched, the need would be alleviated. Except that now, sitting beside her in his sister’s RV, he knew that the itch was just getting started.
“Tell me about Ian,” he said, aiming for objective, as promised to Francesca. He and Birdie hadn’t even gotten into any of the nitty-gritty, and he already was losing his reserve.
“You’re using your television voice,” Birdie replied.
“I don’t have a television voice.”
“This is your television voice,” she said, dropping her tone lower, enunciating cleanly. She really was an excellent mimic. “And since you’re using your television voice, I assume that you have decided to write about me. About this.”
“Oh,” he said, “I mean, only if you want me to. It’s totally up to you. I’m happy to pitch my editor, though.” He wondered if she could hear the lie as soon as it was out of his mouth.
“Can you make me look good? No, let me rephrase that:Willyou make me look good? Because I am not here for any sort of dissection piece that I’ve seen you do about others.”
“Understood.” He nodded, too caught up in the hint that she read his byline to focus on the ethical squishiness he’d just agreed to. One hour in, and he was already making promises that no proper journalist would or should make to his subjects.
“I know that you’re, like, a Pulitzer Prize winner, but I need to take the lead here. This ismylife, my narrative. I never should have let Imani and Sydney force me into that stupid apology.”
Elliot didn’t correct her, that he’d only been nominated. He liked that she thought he’d won. The corners of his mouth shifted upward, and he repressed a grin: Birdie had tracked his career as much as he’d tracked hers. He didn’t tell her that he’d always made a point to see her movies by himself in the theater in the middle of the afternoon, that her dubbed voice had kept him company late at night on televisions in at least a dozen countries. Birdie Robinson speaking French. Turkish. Chinese. She was perfection in any language. So it pleased him that she followed him too, and already, his imagination was taking flight with possibilities of what he could do to her if they swerved off the road into arest stop and they found themselves in the twin bunk beds in the back.
“I’m merely here at your disposal,” he offered in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
She turned toward him and raised an eyebrow from behind her enormous insect-like sunglasses, and his cheeks blazed. So, less neutral than he’d aimed for. He suddenly remembered that night of the premiere, how he’d straddled her in her king-sized bed, her on her stomach, her face against a pillow that was likely custom-made with Turkish linens and more expensive than a week of his salary. She wasn’t quite A-list yet, but she was ascending, the sort of fame where you’re still excited for the recognition, where you don’t mind the paparazzi, the autograph seekers, the way eyes lingered on you at a restaurant, where you’re nearly at the top of the mountain but the climb is still a thrill.
She was already naked by then, when he straddled her in her king-sized bed, complaining about how the heels at the premiere pinched her feet, then cramped her legs, which twisted into an ache in her back. So he dug his thumbs into a sore spot on her left side by her shoulder as she groaned. Then he used an elbow in the small of her back and over toward her hip bones as she held her breath, and then he ran his fingers up and down her spine until she flipped over and pulled his lips toward hers. It wasn’t often for Elliot that the foreplay was as good as the act itself, but with Birdie, every moment of his skin against hers, his breath in time with her own, was a revelation.
“I’ll let you take the lead on this, of course,” he said now, hoping she didn’t notice the flush of his cheeks, the way that his reporter voice had tilted to a higher octave.
“Then we agree. We make me look as wonderful as possible,we rehabilitate my image, and if I happen to find true love with an anonymous ex, that’s just the cherry on top.”
Elliot swallowed. Birdie reached for the radio and turned it up louder.
“Okay,” he said above the noise, even though he didn’t really want to hear the details. “Well then, tell me about Ian.”
