Clem leans in through the passenger window and I have so much to say to her that if I make eye contact with her, it will all come spilling out.
“Waylon?” she asks. “What’s the deal? Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m good.”
“Is it Kyle? I know he can rub you the wrong way sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I tell her as I start the car, and wave an arm out the window to Hannah for her to get in. “He just annoys me sometimes. I don’t get why you like him.”
She opens the door. “I don’t get why you don’t like him.”
“You know why I don’t like him.”
She gets into the truck and in her gentlest voice, she says, “I don’t think it’s really fair to dislike someone because they lost some weight a few years ago.”
Clem’s always been the thin one between us. Growing up, we heard every joke.Are you sure he didn’t eat the third one in the womb?And for a long time, it drove a wedge between us, especially when we were younger and we’d be in the pediatrician’s office. Clem was always this shining example of perfect health, meanwhile I was routinely questioned about my eating habits and our mom was handed countless pamphlets about childhood obesity. I remember hating Clem for being skinny, but time and age helped me see that the only people confused by our differences werepeople who didn’t matter. But there are still some things, like why Kyle makes me uncomfortable, that are hard for her to fathom.
I purse my lips together and call out the window to Hannah. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” I tell my sister. I don’t feel like having my emotions about something that felt very big to me dismissed. Because my problems with Kyle are so much more than that. For as much as I love my sister and as much as we have in common, maybe we don’t know each other as well as I thought.
Seven
When all else fails, call Grammy. This has been my mantra since the first time I faked sick at school in first grade and both Mom and Dad called BS on me when I phoned them. When the secretary wasn’t paying attention, I made one last-ditch effort to get out of school and called Grammy. I don’t know what it was about that particular day. Maybe a bad day in gym class or maybe my teacher had caught me daydreaming, but I would have done anything to get out of school.
I gave Grammy my best performance, and afterward, she said, “I don’t buy this sick act, but if you’re calling me, it must be for a reason. Tell the secretary I’m on my way. I’ll deal with your mother.”
And that was only one of many instances where Grammy swooped in and saved the day, so not even Clem is surprised when I drop her off at school the next morning and announce that I will be taking a self-care day.
“Going to Grammy’s?” she asks, fully aware that I’ve not been myself, especially since yesterday’s lunch.
“I’ll pick you up after school,” I promise her.
“Mr. Brewer,” calls Mr. Higgins from the carport where he’s on morning parking lot duty.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“How chivalrous of you to drop your twin sister off up front. I suspect you’re going to find a parking spot and that I’ll see you in first period?”
I nod mutely.
“Stupendous!”
Clem shrugs. “Sorry,” she says quietly.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I tell her.
“Stupendous,” she says in her worst Mr. Higgins voice. “I’ll wait for you inside.”
I circle back around and take a spot at the back of the lot. After hopping out and walking halfway across the parking lot, I double back because I forgot my backpack, and I can already feel my annoyance at merely existing today start to ramp up. Maybe if I can make it through first period, I can skip for the rest of the day.
As I’m walking into the building, Clementine comes barreling down the hallway. “We have to go to Grammy’s!” she says breathlessly.
“What?” Panic spikes in my chest. “Is she okay? What’s wrong?”
“There she is,” Patrick Thomas sings as he steps in front of her, cackling in my face. “Miss America!”
“Are you high?” I ask him.
