Again was exactly how Nora felt after Simone kissed her. Nora couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, about the velvety feel of Simone’s almond-flavored tongue in her mouth, about the almost-imperceptible brush of Simone’s fingers at her waist—or about when it might happen again.
It didn’t take long. The following week they went into a store to try on clothes and Simone slipped into Nora’s dressing room. The minute the door was closed, Simone had Nora pressed against the wall and Nora did what she’d been thinking about doing all day and all night for a solid week—she kissed Simone back. Exploring Simone’s mouth with her tongue, biting her bright and full lower lip, grabbing fistfuls of Simone’s long braids and wrapping them around both hands and tugging lightly until Simone’s head tilted back, exposing her long, elegant throat and Nora fastened her mouth, the tip of her tongue, to the precise spot on Simone’s neck where her pulse fluttered. That day, they’d pressed against each other until a saleswoman had gently knocked on the door and said, “How’s it going in there? Anything working for you?”
“Absolutely,” Simone said, cupping Nora’s ass and smiling, “everything in here is working great.”
SOON, NORA AND SIMONE figured out that the Museum of Natural History was the easiest place to lose Louisa. Like so much of New York, the crowds lent them a privacy that Simone’s two-bedroom apartment couldn’t. Louisa would bring her sketch pad and set to work and Nora and Simone would say, “See you later,” and then sneak away into a multitude of dimly lit corridors, empty restrooms, darkened screening areas. They became experts at exploring various body parts, triggering certain sensations, without ever fully undressing. At first they were tentative, a quick finger here, a flick of the tongue there, but they quickly learned where they could be brave, how to deftly circumvent buttons and waistbands and bra hooks while still staying clothed. Simone made Nora come for the first time in a restroom off the Hall of Invertebrates, without even moving aside the slight bit of purple thong that Nora had bought on the sly and tucked into her backpack for this exact purpose. The first time Nora took Simone’s breast into her mouth, down a deserted corridor of offices that were closed on the weekend, they’d almost been discovered by a lost mother looking for a restroom with her two little kids. Simone had hurriedly pulled on her T-shirt when they heard the kids running down the hall, the mother behind them yelling, “Don’t touch the walls, guys. Hands to yourselves!”, which had reduced them to nearly hysterical laughter. While sitting in the deserted last row of the IMAX movie (later, neither of them would remember what the movie was about), Nora inched Simone’s tights down to her knees and slipped her fingers inside Simone’s underwear and then inside Simone, who was warm and wet.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” Nora whispered, dizzy and momentarily brave.
Simone held herself perfectly still and spoke softly into Nora’s ear, “Do me with your mouth.”
When they met up later, Louisa frowned at Nora and said, “What have you guys been doing?”
“What do you mean?” Nora’s hands went clammy, her ears rang a little. She had checked to make sure Louisa wasn’t in the theater.
“Your knees are filthy.” Louisa looked genuinely perplexed, peering at Nora who seemed addled, almost feverish. “Are you guys high?” She lowered her voice and took a step closer to look at their eyes.
“No!” Nora said. “We just got out of the IMAX.”
“I dropped an earring,” Simone said. “Nora got down on the floor with me to look for it. It was dark.” Simone did that thing with her voice, the tone of it, which made Louisa feel bad, like she’d said something wrong or stupid. “Oh,” Louisa said. “Did you find it?”
“Yup,” Simone pointed to her ear and the series of tiny silver hoops along the lobe.
Louisa didn’t understand how one of those tiny hoops could have fallen. Or how they could have found it in the dark. Or why they were lying to her.
NORA HAD NEVER LIED TO LOUISA, not in their entire lives. They were a few years past telling each other everything—every stray thought that flitted through their minds, their dreams, their dislikes, the explicit details of their crushes and desires—but they’d never lied to each other. Nora wanted to talk to Louisa, but she didn’t know how to start. She would stand in their shared bathroom some mornings when Louisa was already downstairs having breakfast and practice saying something, anything, in the mirror.
“Hi, I’m gay,” she’d rehearse. She couldn’t even say it with a straight face; it felt so melodramatic and dumb. “Hi,” she’d say to her reflection, “I like a girl.” That sounded dumb, too. I’m sleeping with a girl? Dumb. I’m fucking a girl? Wrong. I’m in love with a girl? Was she? She wasn’t even sure. Just be honest. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head. Telling the truth is never wrong and always easier.
“Hi,” she’d try. “I’m totally obsessed with a girl and I don’t know if I’m in love—or even if I’m gay—but I’m so horny I can’t see straight.” Well, that was the truth, anyway.
“Oh, lord,” Simone had said when Nora tried to talk to her about it one afternoon at the museum; they were both sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, in a relatively quiet spot, legs idly touching. “Are you all topsy-turvy inside? All staring in a mirror and thinking, What does this mean? Who am I? What is my essential self now that I’ve kissed a girl?”
Nora was embarrassed. She didn’t like being on the receiving end of Simone’s pointed tongue (well, except in certain ways). “Are you all, Now I have to listen to Melissa Etheridge all day and stop shaving my legs?” Nora slapped Simone’s arm lightly. “It’s going to be so sad when you have to get your lesbian regulation crew cut,” Simone continued, taking a healthy amount of Nora’s chestnut curls in her hand. “I’m really going to miss this hair. But rules are rules.”
“Forget it,” Nora said. Now she felt dumb and angry. “Forget I said anything.”
“I’m sorry I’m teasing you,” Simone said, still playing with Nora’s hair. “I can’t help it. I like watching you blush. It’s cute. You only turn pink right there.” She touched the middle of Nora’s cheeks with her fingertips. “It’s like a trick.”
Nora batted Simone’s hand away. “It’s just— I had a boyfriend last year!”
“So did I.”
“You did?”
“Sure. I don’t have him anymore. He was very beautiful. Supersexy but dumb as a rock. He kept talking about how he wanted to visit China because moo shu pork is the perfect food. God, he was dumb. But beautiful!” Simone flashed her brilliant smile. “Not as beautiful as you. I like you better, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“So what do you tell people?”
“What people?”
“I don’t know. Everyone. Your friends, your parents. I mean. Are you out?”
“First of all, I don’t tell them anything because it’s none of their business. I bring home boys. I bring home girls. It’s not a big deal.” Nora was staring at Simone, disbelieving. It couldn’t possibly be that easy. It couldn’t. “Am I hurting your feelings?” Simone said. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I’m just not into labels.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why? I mean, if I were a boy would you have to ‘come out’ about it? Would you go home and say, ‘Mom, there’s something you need to know. I kissed a boy and I liked it.’”
“It’s not the same thing. Or maybe my parents are just nothing like yours.”
Simone shrugged. “I’d say that’s a safe bet.” She rebuttoned her lime-green cardigan and stood up. “My parents are cool. My mom’s brother is gay and it wasn’t easy for him. My grandparents were super religious and, well, they were really hard on him. Always. But my mom and him—he’s Simon, I’m named after him—they’re really close. We’re his family now.”
“My mother has a gay brother, too.” Nora was still sitting, looking up at Simone.
“Really?” Simone said. “Does she not approve?”
>
“No, no,” Nora said, trying to think of an easy way to explain the Plumb family and their various alliances and grievances. “They’re not close, but it’s complicated. They’re all kind of weird.”
“Everybody’s kind of weird.” Simone put her hand out for Nora, helping her to her feet. “Your problem is you’re worried about being everyone’s mirror and that’s not your job.”
Nora braced herself; she could tell Simone was gearing up for one of her frequent—and sometimes baffling—extemporaneous lectures. Nora knew now just to listen and nod and say, Wow, I never thought of it that way, and then Simone would say, I live to elucidate, and then they could talk about something else. “Mirror?” Nora said, because Simone seemed to be waiting.
“Everyone’s always on the hunt for a mirror. It’s basic psychology. You want to see yourself reflected in others. Others—your sister, your parents—they want to look at you and see themselves. They want you to be a flattering reflection of them—and vice-versa. It’s normal. I suppose it’s really normal if you’re a twin. But being somebody else’s mirror? That is not your job.”
Nora slumped against the wall a little. What Simone said made sense, a lot of sense, but so did wanting to see yourself in the people you love. So did wanting to reflect the people you love. “How do you know all this stuff?” she asked Simone.
“Some people have to learn this stuff sooner than others.”
Nora didn’t have to ask what Simone meant. The previous week they’d been in the museum gift shop looking for candy when a couple had walked up to Simone and asked whether she knew where they could find a rock tumbling kit.
“No, I don’t,” she’d said, concentrating on the shelf of candy in front of her.
They’d persisted. “Well, can you find someone who will help us?”
Simone had turned to face them then and crossed her arms. “No, I can’t,” she’d said. “Because I am not employed here. Like you, I am a customer.” Even by Simone standards, her tone was blistering.
The couple, flustered, apologized. “We were just confused because you weren’t wearing an overcoat,” the woman said.
“Oh, I know exactly why you were confused,” Simone had said.
“Hello?” Simone tapped the top of Nora’s shoe with hers, reclaiming her attention. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Being somebody’s looking glass is not your job.”
“I understand. I get it. But it’s not just everyone else; it’s me, too. I like definitions. I like to be sure of what’s happening.”
Simone put a consoling arm around Nora. “You can be sure about me.”
Nora wished they were alone. She wished they could go somewhere and just be alone. If she told Louisa what was going on, maybe they could. Maybe they could stop these stupid afternoons at the museum, stop sneaking around.
“If somebody insists on a definition,” Simone said, “tell them you’re bicurious. That will shut them up, trust me.”
Nora was imagining telling her parents that she was bicurious. God. She knew exactly what Melody would say and she said it to Simone: “That doesn’t even sound like a real word.”
“Maybe. But how does it feel?” Simone asked, pressing Nora against the darkened back wall in a remote corner of the Hall of Biodiversity. “How does it feel?”
NORA AND LOUISA TALKED ABOUT BOYS all the time and it had never occurred to Louisa that Nora might actually want to be talking about girls. There were plenty of lesbians at their school, but they all seemed so dramatically lesbian with their short haircuts and black boots and tattoos and multiple piercings; they were so in-your-face lesbian, holding hands and making out in cars in the parking lot. Or there were the girls who play-acted at being lesbian, usually to flirt with boys, touching each other’s hair and tentatively kissing on the lips, sometimes with tongues and then laughing and pulling away, wiping their mouths with the back of their hands. But Louisa knew that what she’d seen between Nora and Simone wasn’t either of those things; it wasn’t statement and it wasn’t fashion. What she saw in the darkness of the museum was something else. It was lust.
If Nora was gay and they were twins, was she gay, too? She liked boys, but she had to admit that when she’d seen Simone kiss Nora, watched the rise and fall of Nora’s chest and Simone’s hand move over Nora, her entire consciousness had reduced to one lasting image: Simone’s thumb stroking Nora’s nipple. But what did she want? To be touched by another person? A boy? A girl? Either? Both? She’d always imagined herself with a boy, but seeing Nora with a girl had upended something, introduced a new possibility that was rooted in their twinness. This was the thing about having a twin, the enveloping, comforting, disconcerting thing: They were equal parts and seeing the other doing something was almost like doing it yourself.
You are each other’s pulse, Melody would tell them all the time, and Louisa believed it; she didn’t always like it, but she believed it. When their father had taught them how to ride a two-wheeler, Louisa was terrified. Every time he let go of her bike, she felt the loosening at the back wheel and stopped pedaling in sheer terror and her bike would slow and wobble and tip and she’d have to jump off and free herself from the spinning spokes and whirring pedals.
“Let’s let Nora have a go,” Walt finally said.
Then it was Nora’s turn, Nora who was always more fearless, more agile, and when Louisa watched her father run with Nora’s bike and then release the back tire and saw Nora lean into the pedals, pump her legs faster, give the bike the speed and ballast it needed to stay upright, it was almost as if she’d done it herself. She could feel it exactly. Watching Nora’s body do something gave her the concurrent muscle memory.
The next time Louisa tried the bike and her father let go, she flew.
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE
Woman. Runner. Literary agent. Single. Stephanie looked over her list, the four words she’d hastily written to describe herself to a room mostly full of strangers.
“Don’t think too hard,” Cheryl, the cheerful woman running the team-building session, had said. “Jot down the first four words that pop into your head. No editing your first impulse and no job titles.”
Stephanie crossed out literary agent and in its place wrote reader, which was more accurate anyway, describing what she was supposed to be doing all day but never actually had time to do until the evenings or weekends. She was a little stung that she’d written single, was surprised to see it emerge from the spongy ooze of her uncaffeinated subconscious. It had been four days since she surreptitiously switched the coffee beans to decaf (Leo hadn’t even noticed), and she still felt groggy, as if her brain stayed at half-mast for most of the morning. But single was not how she ever thought of herself. She considered her list again, thought about erasing single and replacing it with something else (New Yorker? Foodie? Gardener?), but that would be cheating and everyone else at the table seemed to be finished.
Stephanie very much wanted this day to end, the first of three infuriating, obligatory days of employee orientation. The corporation she’d sold her agency to, a behemoth of entertainment representation—film, television, music—headquartered in Los Angeles and wanting a literary presence for their New York office, insisted on the training. She knew this was just the first of many irritations she would have to endure after running her own office with the beloved, if quirky, group of employees she’d worked with for so long. She was trying to be patient, but this was bullshit—days of icebreakers, group dynamics, and sexual harassment seminars. What did any of this have to do with her or her employees? They already knew how to work together, and they worked together well because each and every one had been handpicked by Stephanie for their specific intellectual gifts, for their discerning taste and, most important, for their ability to work with her.
Cheryl (who’d introduced herself as a human capital consultant, getting the first snicker of the morning from Stephanie and her longtime assistant, Pilar) was leading them through the second icebreaker of the morning. Th
e first had not gone well. It was the old classic, Two Truths and a Lie. Stephanie’d endured it on several previous occasions, conferences and meetings, when everyone had to stand in front of the room and read three statements about themselves: two that were true, one a lie, and the rest of the group had to guess which was which. Stephanie always used the same three.
I was in an Academy Award–winning movie. (True. When she was seventeen, she’d worked for a caterer in Queens that provided craft services for the cast and crew of Goodfellas. She noticed Scorsese staring at her from beneath his Panama hat one day as she dumped an enormous bag of lettuce onto a white plastic platter. She smiled at him. He walked over, grabbed four oatmeal cookies from the table, and said, “Wanna be in a movie?” He sent her off to hair and makeup and used her as an extra for the Copacabana scene. Eight takes, all in one day. She stood for hours, tottering on high heels and wearing a tight gold lamé dress and black mink stole, her hair teased into a mile-high twist. It was her red hair that Scorsese liked; he put her front and center in the shot where Ray Liotta guides Lorraine Bracco down the stairs to their table.)
I can butcher a pig. (True. She spent one summer in high school at her uncle’s farm in Vermont. She’d had a summer fling with the son of a local butcher and had spent her afternoons sitting on a metal stool watching his shoulder blades glide beneath his white coat, transfixed by how he could deftly break down a glistening side of beef or pork. He showed her how to slice along the fat line, spatchcock a chicken, separate a pork shoulder into butt and shank. They’d drive around town at night in his truck and drink Wild Turkey from tiny flowered Dixie cups, park near the pond, and touch each other until they were dizzy. She’d bring his substantial hands to her face and inhale, smells she still associated with heady New England nights: Castile soap and pennies, the coppery scent of animal blood.)
I was born in Dublin, Ireland. (Lie. She was born in Bayside, Queens, but between her hair and brownish-greenish eyes she looked like she could have been.) Nobody ever guessed Ireland was the lie; they always went for the pig.
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