Page 18 of My Twin Sister

“Thanks,” he says.

“Sure.”

She sits, reaching out for the pretzel and big cup of what I know will be a blue slushy.

“Pretzel and slushy for me.”

Frank sits on the bleacher seat below us, closest to Wyatt. The game starts, and we all watch and cheer for each kid. Grace gets louder when it’s Carter’s turn to bat.

“Home run!” she shouts as he steps up to the plate.

He grins and waves at her. Jack tosses the ball to him, and he swings as hard as he can, missing the ball and spinning himself in a circle.

“That’s okay, Carter! Try again!” Grace shouts.

Jack helps him get back into his batter stance and tells him to keep his feet planted before heading back to his pitching spot. The kids get a few chances to try to hit a pitch before getting the tee. Carter is about fifty–fifty on hitting pitches.

This time, when Jack tosses the ball, Carter swings hard, but keeps his feet planted. The bat smacks the ball with a satisfying crack. It isn’t a home run, but it rolls to the fence, which is basically the same thing. We all cheer loudly as he runs the bases, looking as proud as he’s ever been.

As we settle back into our seats, a woman walks over and looks at Grace hesitantly.

“Hi,” she says, and Grace looks up at her.

The woman glances over at Frank and then back to Grace.

“My name’s Brooke. Do you have a second? Can I talk to you? In private?”

I’m about to interrupt and ask that she please leave us alone, but Grace stands up before I can.

“Sure,” she says.

They walk away, and I try not to squirm in my seat.

“Why does Brooke O’Neil want to talk to Grace?” Wyatt asks.

“Grace was friends with her sister a long time ago,” I say, staring straight ahead at the field.

“Oh yeah. Wow. I forgot all about that. Grace was a mess when Morgan died. Still don’t know why Brooke would want to talk to her now,” he says.

Neither do I.

Fourteen: Grace

It’s the woman from outside the funeral home. The one who set into Frank. I recognize her, but I still can’t place how I know her. I follow Brooke down the bleachers and a ways toward the parking lot. She stops and turns toward me once we’re away from everyone.

“I doubt you remember me,” she says. “Morgan was my sister. Morgan O’Neil.”

My heart hammers double time in my chest as her face clicks into place in my memory. “Oh wow. Yeah, I remember you. You were away at college when Morgan and I were friends.”

She nods. “Yeah. And when she died.”

There’s a sharp pang in my chest. Morgan died in the lake, just like I was supposed to have. We were sophomores in high school when she joined the cross-country team, and we got really close over the few months we hung out. She’d been hanging out with a bad crowd before and seemed to want to change directions.

And she did. For a while.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “I know those words feel hollow. But I am sorry. She was a good friend to me.”

She smiles sadly. “Thanks.”