Runaway Twin

by Peg Kehret

  “Then I’ll get you a plane ticket to come home next Thursday. Even if it turns out that you want to return and stay there longer, you’d still need to come back here first and go through the channels with the foster-care system.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Is this what you really want to do?” Rita asked. “You don’t sound sure.”

  “If I leave now, I’ll always think I should have stayed and tried to make it work.”

  “Call me if you want to come home sooner. Call any time, day or night,” Rita said. “It’s all right to call collect. I’ll accept the charges.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to know how worried I’ve been?” Rita asked. “I ate a whole package of Oreo cookies! I bought them to have on hand in case you came home, and then it was typical stress eating; they were gone before I knew I had opened the package.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said. I had never seen a cookie enter Rita’s mouth. She had never bought cookies for me before.

  “I’m trying to make you feel guilty, not flattered.”

  “Rita, there’s one more thing,” I said. “I have a dog now.”

  “A dog!”

  “He’s staying with a friend of mine and I need to make arrangements to pick him up.”

  “Where did you get a dog?”

  “It’s kind of a complicated story,” I said. “I found Snickers in a restaurant parking lot, and he was homeless, the same as me, so—”

  “You are not homeless,” Rita interrupted. “You have a home here with me. You will always have a home here.”

  “I adopted Snickers,” I said, “but the bus driver wouldn’t let me take him on the bus so we had to walk and we got caught in a tornado and—”

  Rita interrupted again. “A tornado! Were you outdoors in that awful tornado? I saw pictures of it on the news.”

  “Yes. I wasn’t hurt, but Snickers got hit on the head and was unconscious. We stayed overnight at a Red Cross shelter and then I met Charley, who’s a cab driver, and he drove me more than four hours, and then I asked him to keep Snickers until I could come for him. I need to go get Snickers as soon as I can.”

  “You are a girl of many surprises,” Rita said. “Let me speak to Mr. Anderson again, please. Maybe he can get Snickers and take him to Enumclaw and then I’ll make arrangements for Snickers to fly home on your flight.”

  I gave the phone to Mr. Anderson. He listened a minute and then said, “The dog can’t stay here. Starr is afraid of dogs.”

  “Snickers is as gentle as a kitten!” I said. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone and I’ll take care of him. He won’t be any trouble.”

  “If I go get the dog,” Mr. Anderson told me, “we’ll board him at a kennel until you leave. Where is this dog?”

  I got out Charley’s address and told him the name of the town. It turned out that Charley lived almost as close to Rita as he did to the Andersons, so in the end, Rita said she would go get Snickers herself. “It will give me something to do while I wait for you to come home,” she said, “and the dog will be waiting when you get here.”

  After we finished talking to Rita, I called Charley.

  “Hey!” he said. “Glad to hear from you. Did you find your sister?”

  “Yes. I’m at her house now.”

  I told him the plan and asked if it was okay for Snickers to stay with him for a few more days, until Rita could pick him up.

  “He can stay as long as he wants,” Charley said. “I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t come back for him so I could keep him.”

  “No chance,” I said. “Thanks, Charley.”

  When I’d completed my call, Mr. Anderson said, “You’re probably tired. Maybe you’d like to rest a bit before dinner.”

  As soon as he said it, I realized I was exhausted. Besides riding my bike for hours, this had been an emotional few days, especially this afternoon. My thoughts were still whirling like the tail of the tornado, and I longed to lie down and replay everything that had happened, to try to sort it out.

  Mrs. Anderson came in. “We’re going to give Sunny the den for now,” she said.

  “What about Starr’s room? She has twin beds,” Mr. Anderson said. “No pun intended.”

  “I think Sunny needs some privacy,” Mrs. Anderson said. What she probably meant was, Starr will throw a fit if we make her share her room, even with her twin sister.

  “The den will be great,” I said.

  “Do you have luggage?” Mr. Anderson asked.

  “Just my backpack. I left my bike out in front.”

  “Let’s put it in the garage, where it’s safe,” he said. I followed him to the garage and watched while he pushed a button that made one of the garage doors open. I got my bike and wheeled it in beside a new Prius.

  “You’re going to need more clothes,” Mrs. Anderson said as she led me to the den. “Tomorrow we’ll go shopping. Starr loves to shop. Do you?”

  “Yes,” I said, although the only time anyone had ever taken me shopping was when Rita bought me new clothes when I first went to live with her. We’d had a great time that day. She let me try on anything I wanted, and then I’d step out of the dressing room to show her how I looked and we’d decide if we liked the item or not.

  It wasn’t only the new clothes that made this a happy memory; it was the feeling I’d had that someone cared about me and wanted me to look good. I realized Rita had given me more than jeans and tops that day; she had given me love.

  Her words came back to me: You’ll always have a home here. I realized how foolish I’d been to assume that once I found Starr, I’d instantly have a permanent home. I’d had a simplistic dream for a complicated situation.

  Mrs. Anderson opened a hide-a-bed that was already made up with sheets and a blanket. “For now, you can sleep here,” she said. “There’s a bathroom across the hall. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Sunny,” she said. “Starr will be glad, too, once she gets used to the idea. She’s really a wonderful girl.”

  “I should have called first, instead of just showing up.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You rest now, and we’ll talk later.”

  I went across to the bathroom and took a long shower and shampooed my hair. According to the information that had come in the box of dye, it would take twenty-eight shampoos before my hair returned to its natural color. However, I had not left the dye on the full amount of time, so it was already beginning to fade, and I wanted to hurry that process along. I knew the resemblance to Starr would be greater if our hair was the same color.

  I lay on the bed, trying to put myself in Starr’s place. How would I feel if a stranger appeared with no warning and claimed to be my twin sister? I’d probably feel apprehensive, too, if I had no memory of a sister, but I didn’t think I’d be as negative as Starr was. I would be curious. Whether I liked the idea or not, I’d want to know who my sister was and what her life had been like since we were separated.

  Dinner that night was strained. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson tried to ignite the conversation, but I felt ill at ease. Starr gave only one-syllable answers to questions and appeared not to listen when I talked.

  “Starr is a poet,” Mr. Anderson told me. “She’s been writing poetry for years. Do you write poetry, Sunny?”

  “No,” I said. “I love to read it, though. I used to read only novels, but Rita likes poetry and she got me started on that.” I turned to Starr. “I’d like to read some of your poems.”

  When Starr didn’t respond, Mr. Anderson said, “You’ll be impressed. Starr has a lot of talent.”

  I took a bite of my baked potato.

  “Tell us about Rita,” Mrs. Anderson said.

  “She’s single,” I said. “She works at home most of the time, editing a business journal. One day a week she teaches yoga classes.”

  “How long have you been with her?”

  “Five months.” It seemed longer than tha
t. In some ways, I felt as if I’d known Rita for many years.

  “So you don’t have a long-term relationship,” Mr. Anderson said. “She probably wouldn’t fight to keep you.”

  I put down my fork and looked at him, surprised. Was he saying they wanted me to live with them permanently? Starr looked horrified, and I knew she was wondering the same thing.

  “Rita lets me make my own decisions,” I said.

  18

  While we ate brownies for dessert, Mrs. Anderson said, “What shall we do tomorrow? Do you girls want to pack a picnic and go up to see the wildflowers? They should be in full bloom at this time of year.”

  “I’m going swimming with Abby tomorrow,” Starr said.

  “Do you have a swimsuit with you, Sunny?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

  “No.”

  “We’ll buy you one, first thing tomorrow. We can see the wildflowers another day.”

  “Mother,” Starr said, “Abby invited me to go swimming at her club. I can’t just bring along an extra person.”

  “Of course you can. If you call Abby and tell her that your twin sister is here, I’m sure she’ll be eager to meet Sunny.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s okay. Starr, you go ahead with your plans. I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “Then the two of us will go shopping,” Mrs. Anderson declared.

  And that’s what we did. While Starr was off swimming with her friend, Mrs. Anderson took me to a dozen stores. It was almost like shopping with Rita. Almost. The differences were that Mrs. Anderson never looked at the price tags, and she didn’t make me feel special, the way Rita had. I got the feeling Mrs. Anderson wanted me to be well dressed so as not to reflect poorly on Starr.

  I felt ashamed for having such thoughts when Mrs. Anderson was being so nice to me. I pushed them aside and promised myself I’d make every effort to be friendly to Starr, no matter how much of a brat she was.

  By the end of the afternoon, I had two new pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts, three tops, a sweater, some socks and underwear, new sandals, and a pink duffel bag that was the right size to fit in the overhead luggage space on my flight home. She also took me to a bookstore and let me choose a couple of new novels.

  “Thank you,” I told Mrs. Anderson. “I love everything you got for me.”

  “I hope this is only the first of many shopping trips,” she replied. “Next time, Starr can come with us. Even though you and Starr are fraternal twins rather than identical twins, you have the same sweet personality.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.

  When we got home from shopping, there was a voicemail message from Starr saying she’d been invited to stay at Abby’s for dinner and would be home around eight. Mrs. Anderson looked angry when she listened to the message, but she didn’t call Starr and tell her she had to come home.

  Mr. Anderson arrived home from work shortly after we returned from shopping. “I thought I’d take my girls out to dinner, to celebrate being together,” he said.

  “Starr is eating at Abby’s house,” Mrs. Anderson said.

  His eyes narrowed briefly before he said, “Do you like Mexican food, Sunny?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  We had a delicious dinner at a Mexican restaurant and then they showed me the town’s public art. There was a huge loggers memorial sculpture that showed a pair of oxen pulling a downed tree while a logger urged them on. “Logging was an important industry here for many years,” Mr. Anderson explained.

  They showed me two other sculptures. My favorite was a bronze colt that stood on a street corner in the downtown area. I had seen it when I went to the visitor’s center, but I enjoyed seeing it again.

  After the tour, we went home and had ice cream. We had just finished when Starr arrived. “There’s still plenty of ice cream,” Mrs. Anderson said.

  “No, thanks. I had dessert at Abby’s house.”

  “Sunny and I had a good shopping trip,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Would you like to see what we bought?”

  “I’m really tired,” Starr said. “I’m going to bed early.”

  Mr. Anderson opened his mouth as if he wanted to object but then said nothing. I got the feeling Starr’s parents had decided not to push her to be nice to me but instead were hoping she’d come around by herself.

  After Starr went upstairs, I excused myself and went into the den. I heard the TV go on, and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson talking together in the living room. I went quietly up the stairs and tapped on Starr’s bedroom door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Sunny. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “Oh, I suppose so. Come on in.”

  I went in. Starr was sitting on the bed, propped up with pillows. I sat on a small upholstered chair.

  “I know you’re unhappy that I’m here,” I said, “and I’m sorry about that. I thought you would have the same memories that I have. I never dreamed that you wouldn’t remember me.”

  “You could at least have written first, or called. It’s a shock to find out I have a twin sister and nobody bothered to tell me about her.”

  “I know. I assumed you knew about me.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “You really don’t remember me at all?”

  “I vaguely remember playing with someone. I thought it was a friend.”

  “I’m not going to stay all summer, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said. “I’ll be here only until Thursday. When I get back to Rita’s, I plan to stay there.”

  “Mom is trying to bribe you,” she said. “Buying all those clothes for you is supposed to make you want to stay longer.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. Your mom was only being nice. She wanted me to have enough to wear during my visit.”

  “Think what you like,” Starr said, “but I know her better than you do.”

  “I just—I just want to say that I’d really like to get to know you better. I mean, how often do you get a chance to meet a twin sister? It’ll probably be years before we see each other again.”

  “If ever.”

  “If ever,” I agreed. “So let’s be friends for these few days.”

  Starr didn’t respond.

  “Are you afraid of me?” I asked.

  “Afraid? Why would I be afraid?”

  “I don’t know. You act as if you fear something bad will happen if you get to know me.”

  “You’re crazy. I’m just not thrilled to have my life disrupted by someone I don’t know who moves in and wants to instantly become best buddies.”

  “Okay,” I said as I stood. “I get the message.”

  I went back to the den and sat on the edge of the bed. Thursday seemed a long way off.

  The old song ran through my mind, but this time I changed one word: “Twinkie, Twinkie, little Starr. How I wonder who you are.” For ten years, I had wondered where my sister was. Now that I had found her, I realized I didn’t know who she was. I had searched for a girl who existed only in my mind.

  I picked up one of my new books, hoping it would be the kind of story where I’d forget about my regular life and become totally engrossed in the lives of the characters.

  I had just finished Chapter One when Starr screamed. The first scream was followed immediately by another, even more shrill. I dropped my book and rushed to the den door.

  Starr was at the top of the stairs, jumping up and down as if her shoes were on fire. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson came running from the living room and looked up at her.

  “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

  “What happened?” Mr. Anderson said.

  Starr was waving a sheet of paper over her head. “I won!” she shouted. “I won! I won! I won!”

  “Won what?” her dad asked.

  Starr stopped jumping and bolted down the stairs. “I won the district poetry contest!” she yelled. “I’
m going on to compete in the regionals!”

  “Oh, Starr!” Mrs. Anderson said. “That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you!”

  Starr handed the piece of paper to her dad. “They sent me an e-mail,” she said. She grabbed the paper back and read it aloud: “Dear Ms. Anderson: I am pleased to inform you that your poem, ‘Lilacs in Summer,’ has won first place in the District Poetry Competition. It will automatically advance to the regional contest. That judging will take place in two weeks, and the winner there will go on to the State Poetry Competition.

  “Congratulations on your winning entry. Attached is an affidavit for you to sign and return, stating that your poem is your own original work. This affidavit is required by the regional judges, so please return it as soon as possible.”

  Starr handed the paper to her dad again.

  “I knew you would win,” Mrs. Anderson said. “It’s a lovely poem.”

  “Congratulations, Starr,” I said.

  “I told you she had talent,” Mr. Anderson said. He was beaming with pride. “We need to call your grandparents.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in Chicago,” Mrs. Anderson said. “They’ll probably be in bed.”

  “For news like this, they won’t mind being awakened.”

  I listened as he told his parents of his daughter’s accomplishment. Then Starr got on the line and accepted congratulations. I kept waiting for them to mention me, but nobody did. Did the grandparents already know I was there or had my arrival not been newsworthy enough to merit a call?

  When the call ended, Mr. Anderson said, “Do you have extra copies of your poem?”

  “No, but I have it on my computer.”

  “Let’s print a few. Grandpa asked me to mail one to him.”

  The three of them went up to Starr’s room, talking about who else they needed to tell. “I’ll notify the Courier-Herald tomorrow,” Mrs. Anderson said. “They’ll want to send a reporter out, and a photographer.”

  I returned to the den and picked up my novel. I thought about how many times in my life a good book had offered me a way out of a problem situation. From the time I had learned to read, whenever I was placed in a new foster home I got myself a library card as soon as I could. I tried to always have at least two unread books so that if I needed to escape my real life, I had other, fictional lives waiting for me. Books had taught me new ideas and had shown me ways of life that I would not have known about otherwise, and they offered a refuge when, like now, real life seemed too hard.