Both Can Be True

by Jules Machias

  Sorry it didn’t work out with the dog, she writes. I love you even when you’re a stubborn cuss. Tell Griff I said hi.

  Love you too, even when you stink like truck grease. I pocket my phone and head for the gas station. It’s not like I’m crushing on Daniel as hard as I crushed on Tyler. At least not yet. And Booper liked Daniel.

  Loved him, really. Like so recklessly it kinda embarrassed me.

  I gotta take this one step at a time, like Mom’s always saying. Don’t eat your lunch for breakfast is one of her favorite sayings. Be where you are. Life isn’t a problem to solve; it’s a reality to experience. She’s got a million of them from a meditation app she’s addicted to. Mostly it annoys me when she whips them out, but sometimes . . . they’re legit useful. Like now, when I’m not sure what I’m feeling. What I want. What I am.

  The gas station has one unisex bathroom, which solves that problem before it gets off the ground. I do my business, then text Griffey and ask him to cover for me if my mom texts him tonight. I tell him I’ll explain later. I refill my water bottle and head back to the tent.

  When I get there, I hear a soft little snore. I unzip the door as quietly as I can. Daniel is zonked out with Chewbarka on his chest, his hands resting on her back. She’s looking at me like she’s found her place in the world and if I wanna come in that’s cool, but I better not move her off this excellent boy who is definitely hers, thank you very much.

  I smile and pull my sleeping bag over the half of Daniel that isn’t being used as a dog bed. I lie down next to them. I’m not glad that stuff with Tyler turned into a way-too-public nightmare that chased me out of the school district. But at least it led me to this smelly tent in a patch of honeysuckle woods, watching a fascinating boy sleep with his mouth hanging open.

  His lips look so . . . I don’t know. So soft.

  I wonder what it would be like to kiss them.

  8

  The Shape of a Snore

  Daniel

  I wake up with a start, confused about where I am and what this warm pile of orange fluff on my chest is and why my cheek is wet—

  Oh god, I’m drooling.

  I sit up fast, wiping it off with my arm. Chewbarka tumbles onto Ashley’s Darth Vader sleeping bag with a grunt of surprise.

  Ash is holding a small sketchbook and grinning at me. “Did you know you snore?”

  “Umf. I guess I know now.” I pat my face to make sure I got all the spit. “You must think I’m the coolest kid at Oakmont. Darkroom hysterics, dog drama, drooling.”

  “So far, yes, I do.” She says it like she means it. “You snore like waves. It’s . . . delicate.”

  “What?” I pull Chewbarka into my arms. I can’t even snore in a manly way? Jeez.

  Ash hesitates, then turns her sketchbook and shows me a pattern of waves. “This is your exhale.” She traces the bottom of the first wave as it swoops up. “Then your inhale gets stuck on some flappy whatever valve in your throat, and it makes this choppier noise.” She points at the tops of the waves. “It happens a couple times, like a stone skipping on a pond. Then you exhale and it’s smooth again.” Her finger follows the downslope of the last wave, which has a little stick figure surfing on it. “Super-arty snores. Nice work.”

  A grin spreads across my face. “That is the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to me right when I woke up.”

  She flips the sketchbook closed and jams it back in her bag.

  “No, don’t be embarrassed. It’s cool. Actually . . . could I have it? The drawing?”

  She looks at me sideways like she’s trying to hide a smile. Then she tears the page out and hands it to me.

  I examine the stick figure surfing my snore. “Do you draw sounds a lot?”

  She nods. “I, um . . . I see sounds in my mind when I hear them. The drawings are like cartoon versions, ’cause the shapes are more involved than my art skills can handle.” She looks like she’s bracing to be called a freak. “It’s called synesthesia. There are different kinds.”

  “Like what?” And why is she so adorable when she’s blushing? And is it wrong that I want to keep saying stuff that makes her blush?

  “Well . . . so, for some people, every letter is a different color. Or like some people taste shapes. Or hear colors or smell sounds. Basically two senses get linked.” Her shoulders are up. “It’s not that weird. My mom said five percent of people have some form of it.”

  Now I feel guilty that I lied to her about why I have Chewbarka. She’s being honest with me, even though it’s making her uncomfortable. And she’s here. Helping me.

  I clear my throat and check my phone. It’s almost six already. There’s a text from Mom to me and Mitchell: I’m stopping at the grocery then picking up Thai food for us. So don’t go stuffing your hungry faces with whatever’s left in the fridge. Love you, see you soon.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Love you, I write back. She usually gets home around six, so if she’s making two stops, that’ll add at least half an hour. I check the weather. “Looks like you’ll be warm enough tonight with ol’ Darth here,” I tell Ash. The weekend forecast looks fine, but next week, it’s going to get cold at night, down into the thirties. “I have to go. My mom will blow up my phone with texts if I’m not there. Plus Mitch will start talking crap about me to her.”

  “Okay.” Ash looks disappointed I’m leaving. “Mitch is your brother?”

  “My twin.” I wait for her to ask the same dumb questions everyone asks: Can you read each other’s minds? If I poke you does he feel it? Which one of you is older? Are you the good twin or the evil twin?

  “Did you really beat him at Super Smash? Fiona didn’t seem convinced.”

  “Nope. Mitch kicks my butt at that game. But I clean up the track with him in Mario Kart.”

  Ash smiles. “Text me tomorrow before you come back. I’ll turn my volume up so it wakes me.”

  “Sure.” I kind of want to see her asleep. It’s only fair after she caught me drooling and snoring. “Um . . . do you need anything else?”

  “I’m good. I put a bagel and a flashlight and a book in my bag. I’m kinda looking forward to snuggling a dog and reading.”

  “Okay, good. Then, um, I guess . . . have a good night?”

  “You too.” She picks up Chewbarka and hugs her, then uses her hand to wave one of Chewbarka’s paws at me. “Thanks for taking care of me,” she says in a squeaky voice.

  I scratch Chewbarka under the chin. She licks my hand.

  “Yeah, I’m not licking your hand,” Ash laughs. “Go on. We’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Like times a million kabillion. You’re awesome.”

  The last thing I see is her lopsided grin before she pushes me out the door and zips it shut.

  I make it home at 6:28. Mom isn’t there yet, thank the lord. Mitchell asks where I was. “Kennel,” I lie.

  “Why’d you wait so long to go there? You usually bike over right after school.”

  I shrug. “I needed to digest my protein bar.”

  “You ate like one bite of it.”

  “You were all pushy and annoying and ruined my appetite.”

  “Why are you wearing an empty backpack on your front? I know you went somewhere.”

  “Oh my god, Mitch. Do you have nothing better to do on a Friday than track me?”

  He looks like he’s going to say something snide, but then his shoulders slump. “Zach ditched me to hang with Lily,” he mumbles.

  “Oh.” I think that’s been happening a lot lately. Which . . . I know that feel. Erin edged into my friendship with Cole in a similar way last year. “Sucks.” Especially since we both feel abandoned by Dad too. A double-suck whammy.

  Mitch makes a noncommittal sound. “Bet you five bucks Mom’ll subject us to Moana tonight.”

  “She watched Wreck-It Ralph last night. My money’s on Ralph Breaks the Internet.” Mom’s always been a Disney fiend, but since Dad left, she’s gotten obsessive. It’s a good thing Disney+ is unlim
ited. Otherwise she’d break the bank streaming movies nonstop.

  “I’ll take that bet,” Mitch says. “She watches chick flicks on Fridays. She watched Tangled and both Frozens the last three Fridays. Tonight will be Moana.” He pulls a few crumpled bills out of his pocket. “Wait, make it a three-dollar bet.”

  “I’m not betting money.” I only have two bucks anyway. Dad’s the one who gives us our allowance, and that hasn’t happened the last three weeks.

  “Then bet me something else. A chore.”

  I kick my shoes off. “I’m. Not. Betting.”

  “’Cause you know you’ll lose.”

  “Why do you have to turn everything into a contest?” It annoys me to no end.

  He grins. “Because you’re so easy to beat.”

  “Oh, right. I keep forgetting you got all the good genes. Despite us being identical.”

  “Nope, I just stole all the resources in the womb. It was easy. You were a sappy pushover before we were even born.”

  “Are you seriously arguing about Mom’s womb? You’re not right in the head, Mitch.”

  “We’re arguing about me being the dominant winner twin and you being the—”

  “Can it, boys,” Mom says as she opens the back door. “I could hear you arguing from outside.” She drops two takeout bags on the counter. “There’s groceries in the trunk. Hop to it.”

  Mitch and I go outside, jabbing each other in the ribs. He grabs a package of TP and some paper towels, leaving me the two heavy bags full of milk and frozen stuff. I sigh and haul them into the house. The extra weight makes it hurt like the dickens when I step on a rock with my bare heel.

  Mom plates our Thai food while Mitch and I put the groceries away. She sets up the TV trays in the living room and carries the food out there. “Get it while it’s hot,” she says. “The pantry stuff can wait.” She turns on Disney+.

  Mitch shoots me a look. Moana, he mouths.

  I shake my head and sit on the couch. “Thanks for the food, Mom. This looks great.” A twinge of guilt goes through me thinking of Ash in the tent with a bagel and a sweet but smelly dog.

  “Didn’t feel like cooking.” Mom navigates to the Because You Watched recommendations. Moana and Ralph Breaks the Internet are both listed. She chooses Moana.

  I don’t look at Mitch. I can feel his stupid smug grin trying to smack the side of my head. While I eat, I keep checking my phone, hoping next week’s forecast will change.

  “Daniel, why the sudden interest in the weather?” Mom asks the third time I refresh the page.

  “Birds,” I say without thinking. I miss when she used to call me Danny. “And squirrels and stuff. We should put out food for them. It’s gonna get really cold. They’re tiny and they lose body heat fast.”

  Mitch laughs like scissors snapping on empty air. “You’re worried about squirrels now? You seriously need to grow a thicker shell.”

  Mom smiles too, like she’s privately laughing in her head. I fake a laugh like I know they’re right, I’m being sensitive again, I should forget it. I should worry about normal stuff like grades and girls and school shootings and our family falling apart. Pretend Daniel doesn’t bother me even though it feels like she’s telling me to grow up every time she says it.

  I push the rest of my food around until the part where Moana’s grandma is on her deathbed. I’ve seen this dumb movie twice and cried both times when she died. I take my food to the kitchen and cover it with foil, pretending I don’t hear Moana’s grandma giving her the shell thingy. I put my food in the fridge and go back to my room.

  I spend twenty more minutes looking for Tina on social. It occurs to me that maybe she’s checked in at the vet, or posted a photo taken there, so I go to Dr. Snyder’s business page. But so many people have checked in there it’s useless.

  If I knew what part of town she lives in, it would be easier. But this whole city-suburb metropolitan area has like three million people. She could live anywhere.

  I keep searching until I’ve narrowed the list of Tina Martins to three. One has a flower profile photo, one has a cat, and one has a sunset. Then I create a Facebook account and message each of them: Hi, it’s Daniel. I hope everything is OK with your daughter. What should I do about the dog? I can’t keep her. Please answer quickly. Thanks.

  I don’t know how it’s possible to have insomnia when I’m this tired. I can’t stop looking at my cartoon snore and thinking about Ash in the tent by herself. I was there alone last night, but it was my choices that led to that. Now she’s roped into my drama.

  On the other side of my bedroom wall, I hear Mitchell watching debate videos on his laptop. Fiona, captain of the junior debate club they’re in, is arguing about climate change. I close my eyes and focus on the sound. She’s taking her usual tactic of mixing passion for her argument with facts and evidence.

  She’s so good at it. Mitch is good too, but he’s cold and calculating. Like a giant blorp of data comes out of his mouth. But Fiona can make you believe. Make you care.

  I need to be more like that. To use my emotions like a tool, a source of information, instead of having them spill out everywhere and take up all the air in a room, then leave me drowning in guilt for overreacting. I mean good lord, crying in the cafeteria? I can’t blame Mitch for giving me crap about that. Or Cole for sighing and turning away like he was sick to death of it. You always make everything about you, he’d said. It’s my birthday you forgot. I’m the one who’s mad. And now the subject is right back to you and how bad you feel.

  Maybe losing him would be easier if he was wrong.

  But he’s not.

  It’s still dark when I wake up, too early to text Ash. I check Facebook—no responses—then quietly slip into the kitchen and put some food in a plastic bag for her: an apple, a block of cheddar, a piece of the Italian bread Mom brought home last night.

  Mom comes in while I’m tying the bag shut. She’s wearing her pajamas that have Joy from Inside Out on the shirt. “Morning, honey,” she says. “You’re up early.” She sets her laptop on the table, then wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. She used to kiss the top where my cowlick is, but now I’m taller than her. Which I’m totally not used to yet. “You feeling better? You’ve seemed so tired this week.”

  “I’m okay. Thought I’d help out at the kennel. It’s always extra busy on Saturday mornings.” I’m not lying; I do want to go, after I check on Ash. A high school kid comes in to feed and walk the dogs, but he’s always glad when I show up to help because he can get through everything faster and leave early. Then I get the animals all to myself for a while.

  “You know you can talk to me, Daniel. About whatever. Dad. School. Girls.” She glances at her laptop.

  “I’m fine. Do you have to do work stuff?”

  “Unfortunately.” She’s a project manager at an ad agency and often has to finish the week’s tasks on Saturday morning. “That’s why I stopped at the grocery last night. I needed to look at something other than an Excel sheet. Now I’m fresh and ready again.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Sorry to hear it.” I know she’d rather curl up on the couch with a book and a mug of tea.

  “At least I don’t have to volunteer at a swim meet this weekend.” She glances guiltily at Mitchell’s closed door. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

  “I won’t.” Tempting, after how bad he always tries to make me feel for spending time with Dad without him. But I don’t need to play his game.

  Mom runs her hand over her black ponytail with its gray streaks, fills a glass with water, and glances wistfully at the coffeemaker. Dad’s the coffee drinker, not her, but she loves the smell of it. Now the kitchen smells only of the lemony bleach wipes she cleans with every day.

  Sadness leaks out of the silence. I wonder what shape it is. How Ash would draw it.

  I take the bag of food and leave.

  9

  Punk and Pricey Diapers

  Ash

  I wake
up like a shot with a dog tongue so deep in my ear it’s practically licking my eardrum. “What the cuss!”

  Chewbarka seems to translate this to Yay, it’s playtime! because she does that bark-and-turn-in-a-circle thing again. A little spray of pee shoots out around her.

  “All right, outside with you.” I shimmy out of my sleeping bag and discover the whole edge of it is damp. Looks like I’m doing laundry later.

  The cool morning air smells sweet and fresh when I open the tent. It makes me realize how bad it smells inside, even with all the windows open. I set Chewbarka on the ground. She waddles over to a tree, dripping pee all the way. I yawn and tie my hair back. I look like a dude this way, but there’s no one around and I want it out of my face.

  Chewbarka returns and sniffs at a plastic bag next to the tent door. I pick it up and find it’s full of food. I check my phone and find a text from Griffey asking what the heck I’m doing that needs a cover story, and one from Daniel from 8:41. It’s almost ten now. Brought you some breakfast, Daniel’s text says. I’m at the kennel. If you need to go home, go ahead. I’ll let Chewbarka out when I’m done. THANK YOU AGAIN, you’re the all-time greatest ♥

  I stare at the purple heart for way too long. Then I pocket my phone and dig into the food, trying to push away my dread about lunch with Dad today.

  Mom’s been on me about going to a PFLAG meeting with her tomorrow and I know she’ll bring it up the minute I get home. I leave my sleeping bag in a patch of sun to dry, then slip Chewbarka’s leash around her neck and head out to the road. It seems weird that she doesn’t have a collar or tags. I’m sure there’s a good reason, though. Maybe Tina took them off while Chewbarka was in the cage at the vet so they didn’t get stuck on the bars.

  There’s a PetSmart in the strip mall out on the main drag where we got Booper’s food the week we moved to Oakmont. I check my pocket and find six bucks, all that’s left of the twenty Mom gave me for lunch a week ago. I don’t know how much dog diapers cost. Probably more than six bucks.