The Originals

by Cat Patrick

Whatever this is, it is not romantic.

  “Thanks,” I say to Grayson. “Guess he likes grand gestures.” I nod toward Dave.

  “Guess so,” she says with a little laugh. Since the whole look-alike-cousin thing, there’s been an invisible wedge between us, and it’s not like we knew each other that well before.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” she asks, pointing to a pink ball, then shifting to catch a yellow one that’s trying to jump out of her arms.

  “Oh, right,” I say. One of the balls with a message written on it is right next to my left foot; I pick it up.

  DAVE? is scrawled in black Sharpie across the fuzzy surface. Confused, I look through legs and feet for the other two. I see familiar shoes stop right next to me; Sean speaks.

  “Looking for this?” he asks, holding out a pink tennis ball, the word DANCE written on it. Sean’s face is neutral for the sake of the crowd, but his eyes are seething. And I get it: We just battled over my mom and now he’s watching me get asked to a dance by another guy in front of the entire school.

  I take the ball and glance at Dave, whose chest is puffed up like a rooster’s. Sean follows my line of sight and shakes his head ever so slightly, then keeps moving down the hall toward his class. I want to chase after him, but I’m frozen. Thankfully, the warning bell rings, so the crowd thins. Grayson’s locker mate, Lily, reappears with a massive garbage bag, and the three of us spend the remaining time gathering tennis balls.

  “Thanks for your help, you guys,” I say as I lean over to grab the last one.

  “It’s no big deal,” Lily says, nodding to the bag. “Where do you want to put that?”

  “I’ll drop it off in the gym. I’m sure they can use them.”

  “Probably not this one,” Grayson says, handing me the pink tennis ball that says WITH.

  DANCE WITH DAVE?

  As the final bell rings, I look over to where he was standing: He’s gone. He made me, Grayson, and Lily late to class, but he didn’t even stick around long enough to get my answer. God forbid he’d be late, too.

  It was a gesture for the crowd that watched, not for Elizabeth Best.

  Not for Ella.

  Not for Betsey.

  Not for me.

  “I think we should break up with Dave,” I say flatly during a commercial break that night. I haven’t talked to Sean since our fight and I’m in a surly mood. We’re eating ice cream in the rec room and Ella keeps looking over her shoulder, probably because we’ve been talking about Petra and Mom and Sean and other secrets, but it’s bugging me. Everything’s bugging me.

  “Say what now?” Ella asks, even though she heard me. Her loaded spoon hangs in midair.

  “I’m cool with whatever,” Betsey says, leaning over and eating the ice cream from Ella’s spoon.

  “Sick,” Ella says, scrunching her face in disgust.

  “It was going to drip,” Betsey says with a little laugh. “And besides, we probably have matching germs.”

  “I still don’t want your spit on my spoon.”

  I roll my eyes at the two of them and the show comes back on; the matter is dropped. Or at least I think it is. A particularly tense scene starts and all of a sudden, Ella grabs the remote and presses Pause.

  “Hey!” Betsey and I say in unison.

  “We’re not breaking up with Dave,” she says to me, frowning. “I’m going to a high school dance!

  “And you,” she says, looking at Betsey. “Stop saying things like we have the same germs. We’re not the same person!” Betsey laughs, which makes Ella frown deeper.

  “I’m serious,” Ella says quietly, which makes Betsey serious, too. “We may have matching DNA, but we don’t like the same things. We don’t make the same choices. We don’t have the same dreams. We’re our own people. I’m me. You’re you. And Lizzie’s…”

  “From another planet,” Betsey interrupts, making all of us laugh. Afterward, Bet grabs Ella’s hand. “I know you’re you. And I love you for you.”

  “I love you for you, too,” Ella says. They hug, and I take the opportunity to eat the last bite of ice cream out of the container. The lump in my throat only makes it stick a little bit on the way down.

  Later, I call Sean on the spy phone.

  “Hey. I’m glad you called,” he says when he picks up after the first ring. He sounds tired… and sad.

  “Did I wake you up?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I was…” His words trail off and I feel like whatever he was doing when I called isn’t important. It’s this moment that matters. Sean sighs heavily. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry. I feel like crap about what I said. I can’t believe I did that. It’s none of my business.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say forcefully. “I made it your business by telling you. I think that I… I just don’t know how to act sometimes now that you know. I mean, I know you’re right.”

  “I just want you to have what you deserve: a real life,” Sean says, and it makes tears pop into my eyes. “But it’s selfishly motivated, too. I mean, I say those things for me. I want you to myself. I want to see you all the time, not just during the afternoons.” He pauses. “When you’re not around, I’m sad. It feels like something’s missing. Like I want something I can’t have.”

  “I feel that way, too,” I say quietly.

  There’s a long pause, and I’m sure Sean’s as confused as I am: He blows out his breath hard. So much needs to change before we can act like a normal couple: It feels like an impossible situation.

  “I want to be the one to humiliate you in the main hall at school,” he says.

  “Funny.” I bite my lip. “Hey, I’m really sorry about that.”

  “Not your fault,” he says, but it sounds a little forced.

  “Even so, I’m sorry you had to see it.”

  “Me, too.” His voice is flat. “But I feel worse about our fight. It was a sucky day all around.”

  “Not all of it.”

  “No?”

  “I can think of at least one redeeming moment.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asks, his tone softer. “What’s that?”

  I want to talk things through with him; I want to figure things out together. But there’s been so much weighing on me—on us—that I take the chance to lighten the mood.

  “Have you forgotten about the kiss in the drive-thru line?” I ask, remembering spontaneously leaning across the gearshift and planting one on him. Remembering the way he sucked in his breath in surprise when my lips first touched his—it gave me shivers.

  “Mmm,” he says in a tone that does it again. He sighs contentedly this time. “Yeah, you’re right. That kiss in the drive-thru line saved the day.”

  eighteen

  “She joked about us being related,” Betsey whispers at breakfast.

  “Why are you whispering?” Ella asks. “Mom’s vacuuming. Can’t you hear it?” I listen to the rhythmic roar of the vacuum going back and forth over the carpet in one of the bedrooms upstairs. My guess is that it’s Ella’s.

  “Oh, right,” Betsey says. “Anyway, I joked back that we were separated at birth, and I asked where she was born. I’m hoping all this joking will lead to some serious info.”

  I swallow a bite of melon. Then, with Sean’s words in my head, I say, “I think we need to figure this out, and if it turns out that she’s the Original, we confront Mom once and for all.”

  “And if she freaks out?” Bet asks.

  “Then she freaks out,” I say. “It’s not like I’m saying we should go to the police and get her in trouble. But we deserve to know what’s going on.”

  “Why not just ask her now?” Betsey asks.

  “Well, if Petra’s really Beth, I’d rather know going into the conversation,” I say. “Wouldn’t you guys?” I wait for two heads to nod in agreement before continuing. “Anyway, Bet, I’m sure you can figure it out relatively soon. We can wait another couple of weeks.”

  “And then we demand answers,” Bet says. I nod, and we both look at Ell
a.

  “Are you in?” I ask, thinking she’ll say no. Instead, she surprises me.

  “Yeah, I’m in.”

  At the switch, Ella’s late and she tells me there’s no gas in the car. I can feel a mood radiating from her; something must have happened at school.

  “Why didn’t you stop?” I ask.

  “I did it last time,” she says, with a little too much sass. I roll my eyes.

  “What’s with you?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. “Just… Dave was weird today. Sorry. I’ll fill it up next time.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, giving her a quick hug before jogging to the car. I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late to Spanish.

  I cruise down the hill, music blaring, to the closest gas station. Luckily, there’s no one else filling up. I pull in so the pump’s on the right and hop out with purpose. Then I remember that the gas tank is on the left. Sighing, I climb behind the wheel again and back out, then pull around to the other side so the pump’s on the left. An older red BMW pulls into my former spot.

  I want to check my phone, but I’ve read the Internet warnings about being set on fire while tweeting, so I just lean against the sedan, watch the numbers creep up, and breathe in the smell of gasoline. I seem to have gotten one of those pumps that don’t have a “high” setting, and I’m growing more stressed about being late by the penny.

  “Nice day, huh?” a voice says. I look over and see that the driver of the BMW is smiling at me. She’s got blond hair, is about my mom’s age, and looks a little familiar. She’s wearing a gray business suit and trendy big sunglasses and I wonder if I’ve seen her on a real estate sign or something. Her look screams salesperson.

  “Sure,” I say, glancing at the blue sky and thinking that it should be illegal to comment on the weather in San Diego. I look at the slow-moving numbers on the pump and wonder if I should stop it, then start again to see if it’ll go faster.

  “Do you go to Woodbury?” the woman asks, gesturing toward school.

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m on lunch break.”

  The woman nods, then tips her head to the side. “You look familiar,” she says. “Do you live in Mira Mesa?”

  “No, up in the hills,” I say, waving in the general direction of my house. After a lifetime of being taught to fear strangers, I don’t get too specific.

  “I’m Mary,” she says. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh…” I say, looking down and toward my car. I don’t want to tell her my real name, but right now I can’t think of a single other name in the world. Then, finally, I say, “Natasha.”

  “Nice to meet you, Natasha,” the woman says, smiling in a funny way. I have no good reason to think this, but I don’t believe that her name’s Mary. Then again, I just told her I’m Natasha, of all people.

  The pump keeps crawling and the lady keeps gabbing. I try the stop-and-restart thing; it doesn’t work.

  “So, are you from here?” she asks.

  “We moved here when I was nine,” I say, seriously considering just going to school and letting Betsey deal with gas later.

  “Where did you move from?” Mary—or whoever she is—asks. Just as I’m formulating another lie in my brain, the gas tank goes clink. Relieved, I reach over and pull out the nozzle, and replace it in its holder. The screen asks me if I want a receipt; I punch the No button.

  “Sorry,” I say to Nosy Mary, “I’m late for school.”

  “Have a good day… Natasha,” she says.

  I get into the car and buckle up, then drive around past the woman’s side of the island to leave the gas station. I’m not sure what makes me look over but I do: The little computer on her side is stuck on the welcome screen. I think back to when she arrived: Did I hear the beeps when she punched in her selections, or did I just assume she was getting gas because she put the nozzle in her car?

  More important than what I remember, though, is this: If she wasn’t actually getting gas, then what was she doing?

  nineteen

  I look over my shoulder for a couple of days, but when I don’t see Nosy Mary again, I call the enounter random and move on. By the night of the Halloween Dance, I’ve all but forgotten about my awkward conversation with the strange lady at the gas station.

  Betsey and I help Ella get ready for the dance. With two dryers to make it go faster, we each take half of her head and diffuse dry her curls. Then Bet and I each hold one side of the yellowing strapless dress we got on eBay while Ella steps in. I feel like a forest animal helping Cinderella, but Cinderella’s ball gown was a lot cleaner.

  With a black ribbon that hits the smallest part of Ella’s waist, her dress was probably pretty once. But then it sat in someone’s closet for a few years, and once in our hands, it was tossed in the dirt and intentionally slashed to serve as the perfect outfit for a Zombie Prom Queen.

  “You look so creepy,” I say, smiling.

  “She doesn’t even have on her makeup yet,” Betsey says devilishly. “Wait until she’s got exposed brains on her forehead.”

  “Just don’t make it too gross,” Ella says. “I don’t want to turn off Dave.”

  “Not possible,” Bet says. “That dress may be old, but it was made for you. He’s going to drool, exposed brains or not.”

  At eight o’clock, Bet and I are reading in the rec room when my spy phone rings. I glance at Betsey and she smiles, but doesn’t take her eyes off the page.

  “Hello?” I say quietly.

  “Hi there, Lizzie B.,” Sean says in a tone so low I can barely hear him.

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask, sitting up on the couch, because I think my voice sounds weird when I’m lying down.

  “I’m just… I don’t want anyone to hear me.”

  “Where are you?” I ask curiously.

  “On your front porch.”

  Panicked and overjoyed at the same time, I throw down the phone and jump off the couch.

  “What’s happening?” Betsey says, looking at me funny.

  “Sean’s here,” I say as I run out of the room. I race down the stairs, skidding around the landing in the middle, and rush to the front door. When I fling it open, there’s no one on the porch.

  “Hey!” I whisper into the darkness. “Sean?”

  “Hi,” he whispers from somewhere to my left. “Is your mom here?”

  “Now you ask me that?” I say, stepping out onto the porch and looking in the direction of his voice. I see him standing in the bushes, smiling. His hair’s not stuck up in its usual style tonight; instead it looks like he put his chin down and shook his head hard and his hair stayed that way. There are shiny pieces crisscrossing each other on his forehead, threatening to conceal his eyes. But thankfully, they don’t. He’s so gorgeous in the moonlight.

  “Surprise,” he says.

  “You’re insane,” I say, rolling my eyes at him despite feeling overjoyed to see him. “Get in here.” He gently climbs out of the bushes and carefully wipes his feet on the doormat, then steps inside. He kicks off his shoes without me asking. He’s wearing holiday-appropriate orange-and-black-striped socks that I find adorable on him. He stands there, holding his shoes in one hand and his bag in the other, just looking at me.

  “Hey,” he says seriously. There aren’t any lights on in the entryway; we’re shadows.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “I’m really sorry for being a jerk this week,” he whispers. “I mostly came over to tell you that.”

  “You weren’t a jerk,” I say. “You were just… upset. I can see how you would be. I know it can’t be easy to have Dave—”

  Sean steps so close to me that our noses could touch.

  “I was a jerk,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

  A wave of emotion rolls through me; I just nod once so I don’t cry or anything embarrassing like that. I turn toward the steps.

  “Let’s go up.” I wave for him to follow me. His sweet apology still floating in the air like bubbles, I walk softly up
the edge of the stairs for fear that my footfalls will ruin it. Maybe feeling the same way, Sean’s quiet behind me. But when we get to the top of the stairs, Betsey shouts a loud hello.

  Pop.

  We head into the rec room.

  “Look what I found in the bushes,” I say, smiling. Bet laughs.

  “Did you take some ballsy pills tonight, Sean?” she asks.

  He laughs as he sits down on the couch opposite Betsey. He sets his bag next to him; I want to ask what’s in it, but I decide to wait until we’re alone.

  “I figured that if I couldn’t take Lizzie to the dance, I’d bring it to her.”

  “That’s barfingly cute,” Betsey says. “Later, lovebirds.” She stands and leaves. I blush a little at the “lovebirds” comment, but Sean doesn’t seem to mind.

  I sit on the couch next to him, and just as I open my mouth to ask about the bag, he speaks first.

  “Is your mom going to be home soon?” he asks.

  “No. At least I don’t think so.” Automatically, I glance at the doorway.

  “Should we go to your room?”

  “What?” I ask, blushing full-out this time, which makes Sean look away, embarrassed.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I was just trying to think of a place we could talk where your mom wouldn’t immediately see us if she came home.”

  “There’s only one room in the house she’d never barge in,” I say.

  “Which one?”

  “The bathroom.”

  I make Sean sit on my bed while I toss makeup, eyebrow wax, and tampons into the basket under the sink. When I’ve hidden all my junk, I grab two pillows from the bed and prop them against the wall under the towel rack, between the vanity and the glass shower stall. I’m actually thankful for my mom’s obsessive cleanliness: The floor in here is spotless. I light the vanilla candle on the toilet tank and flip off the light, then let Sean in. Once he’s settled, I make sure my bedroom door is shut, then I shut and lock the bathroom door, too. I sit next to Sean closest to the shower.

  “This might be the weirdest date I’ve ever had,” he says, shifting a little to get comfortable on the tile floor.