The Opposite of Me

by Sarah Pekkanen

Most supers were Queens through and through, with the requisite gold chains and generously unbuttoned shirts. Mine was a struggling poet who weighed less than I did and had squealed like a Catholic schoolgirl when a resident discovered a baby mouse in the laundry room.

  “I’m coming in, is that okay?”

  I closed my eyes again. Maybe when he saw that I was sleeping, he’d go away.

  “Lindsey?”

  This time it was a different voice. Matt’s.

  I should get up and offer them some tea, I thought vaguely. But my arms and legs were too leaden to move. Maybe they’d go ahead and make it for themselves.

  “God, if she did something to herself—” Matt was saying.

  “Hand me that frying pan,” the super said.

  “Why?” Matt asked.

  “If it’s foul play, the perp may still be here,” the super said knowingly.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Matt said. “Move out of the way.”

  My bedroom door squeaked open. I should ask the super to fix that squeak; how convenient that he was here. It was like fate, or kismet. Was there a difference between fate and kismet? I wondered vaguely. If so, it was a question for greater minds than mine.

  “Miss Rose?” the super yelled into my face. “Can you hear me?”

  I dragged my eyes open.

  “Lindsey?” Matt shoved the super, nearly knocking him down, and appeared at my bedside.

  “Hey,” he said softly, peering down at me. He put my purse on the bed. “I brought you this.”

  I lifted a hand and gave a little wave. A wave was so pretty, I thought, watching my hand gently flap back and forth. If you did it slowly enough and spread your fingers, it looked like a fan. People should really wave more.

  “Do you feel all right?” Matt asked. He was wearing a suit. He must’ve come right from— No. My mind recoiled, like a hand jerking back from a hot stove. I wasn’t going to think about that.

  “Good,” I tried to say, but my voice was a croak. I cleared my throat and tried again.

  “Good,” I said. “Sleepy.”

  I closed my eyes again and started to drift off.

  “She might’ve overdosed,” the super said. “We should probably put her under a cold shower.”

  I opened an eye and tried to muster up a glare.

  “Linds?” Matt said. He leaned closer to me. He had a red spot on his tie. It looked like spaghetti sauce.

  “Remember the gnocchi?” I asked him.

  “The what?” he asked, a furrow forming between his brows.

  “I think she said Nokia,” the super stage-whispered to Matt. “She wants her cell phone. She might want to say her good-byes. Call her friends and whatnot.”

  The super leaned closer to me. He was trying, with minimal success, to grow a goatee, I noticed. “Who—do—you—want—to—call?” he said, exaggerating the pronunciation of every word like an English as a second language teacher speaking to a particularly dim-witted student.

  “Lindsey, did you take anything?” Matt asked.

  “Hmmm?” I said.

  Matt yanked open my nightstand drawer and rifled through it, then he dropped to the floor in a push-up position and peeked under my bed.

  “You didn’t take any pills, did you?” Matt called from my bathroom. I hoped he wouldn’t notice I hadn’t wiped down the tub after my bath. There wasn’t anything worse than a bathtub ring.

  “Check her pupils,” the super advised, pulling a minuscule flashlight out of his pocket—he was the only super in town who refused to wear a work belt—and shining it into my face.

  God, that little man was annoying. I put the pillow over my head again, hoping they’d take the hint and leave.

  “Lindsey,” Matt said. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

  I took off the pillow and made an effort to smile reassuringly at him.

  “Look,” I said, speaking as politely as I could. “Thank you both for coming by. But I really must rest now.”

  That should do it. I closed my eyes again.

  I heard the two of them muttering in the corner. It was kind of comforting, actually, as though someone had turned the television on low to a soap opera.

  “. . . just sleeping pills, but only one was missing . . .”

  “. . . check for alcohol?”

  My refrigerator door opened and shut, then I heard someone rummaging through my cabinets. Maybe they were fixing something to eat. I should be hungry, but I wasn’t, which was lovely, because it meant I’d never have to get up again.

  “. . . breakdown. My aunt had one . . . same symptoms . . .”

  “. . . hospital?”

  “. . . call someone?”

  I snuggled deeper under my comforter, curling up my body so I was as small and cozy as possible, like a little squirrel snug in its nest. I’d nearly fallen asleep again when one sentence sliced through the thick fog in my mind, as clear and frightening as an air-raid siren.

  “I found her address book,” Matt said. “I’m going to call her parents and sister.”

  I sat up in bed and threw back the covers and shrieked at the top of my lungs, “Nooooo!”

  Two hours later, I was sitting on my couch, wrapped in a warm bathrobe, a half-empty bowl of chicken noodle soup on my lap. Matt had found a can in my pantry—it was just about the only thing in my pantry—and heated it up, then watched me eat every spoonful. Even though the smell made me feel ill, I’d managed to choke down enough to satisfy him. He’d also made me take a shower, and he’d opened the blinds. It had snowed while I was sleeping; the streets were clear, but the treetops still wore little white lacy caps. The cold, bright sunlight told me it was midday. It had taken me a while to figure out which day. Tuesday.

  “I’m okay,” I said for the hundredth time. “I was just tired.”

  And I was still exhausted, but I knew I couldn’t go back to bed. I had to start dealing with my life, or what remained of it. My answering machine was blinking with sixteen new messages. Most of those were from Matt, but my parents had probably called, too. They might be getting worried; I was the responsible daughter, the one who always called back on the same day.

  “I thought you’d done something stupid,” Matt said. “I would’ve killed you if you had.”

  “Your timing has always been a bit off,” I said.

  Matt stared at me for a second, then he smiled. I’d always loved his smile, which was the tiniest bit too big for his face. Suddenly a bone-deep sadness settled inside me. I was only twenty-nine, but I felt so much older. My skin felt as tight and dry as a husk, and my eyes ached, like I’d been reading for far too long in a dim light. I felt worn-out, like I’d used up my life and now it was ending. And in a way, it was; at least life as I knew it was ending.

  “So what are you going to do?” Matt asked. I put my bowl of soup on my coffee table and leaned back with a sigh.

  “I can’t stay here,” I said. “I can’t afford it.”

  “Don’t you have some savings?” Matt said.

  “It’s going co-op,” I said. “I was going to buy it, but . . .”

  My voice trailed off as I looked around my apartment. I loved every single thing about it. My couch and oversize chair were a winter white chenille, and my coffee table was made from the knobby door of an old barn in upstate New York. My bedroom held nothing but my queen-size bed with its snow-white sheets and comforter and a simple wooden nightstand and a leafy green plant in one corner. It was as uncluttered and peaceful as a monk’s room. In my closet, my clothes were arranged from darkest to lightest hues, with the wooden hangers all pointing in the same direction. Everything shone with cleanliness.

  Everything was neat and organized and perfect.

  I took a deep breath and started again.

  “I need to look for another job,” I said. “But not in New York.”

  I’d come to this realization in the shower, and I’d turned my face into the spray of water so Matt wouldn’t hear me cry. I’d thought the s
obs would tear themselves out of my chest with awful wrenching sounds, but only a single tear made its way down my cheek and mingled with the water swirling into the drain. I was too numb to cry.

  “But you said Dunne was going to give you a reference,” Matt protested. “You don’t have to leave. You could get a job anywhere.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m going to move home.”

  “To Maryland?” Matt asked incredulously.

  “Look, I know Cheryl already told everyone what happened between me and Doug,” I said. I’d shielded myself for three days; now I needed to step up like a big girl and take my hits. “Didn’t she?”

  Matt’s eyes ducked away from mine. “Screw Cheryl,” he said. “Everyone knows she’s a bitch.”

  “And everyone knows I got fired. Which means every other agency in town is going to know it, too. You know how fast gossip spreads. People aren’t just going to call Dunne for a reference; they’re going to check in with everyone they know at our agency. Someone’s going to talk. They’re going to find out what I did.”

  Matt sighed. “So what? You made one mistake. One mistake in seven freaking years.”

  “A mistake,” I said. I choked out a strangled little laugh that sounded more like a cough. “I destroyed my career, and there’s no way to fix it. I can’t fix this, Matt. So I’ve got to start over. There are some good agencies in D.C. I can stay at my parents’ house for a while and commute into the city until I get everything sorted out.”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think you should stay and fight. This is going to blow over in a month. Take a vacation, then come back and look for a job. You don’t have to move.”

  I looked down at my lap and thought about it. Could Matt be right? I imagined going to work at a new agency, settling into a different office, greeting my colleagues and seeing them hold back smirks and whisper to each other— No. I couldn’t bear it.

  Suddenly I was transported back to the ninth grade, to my first month of high school. I’d been delivering a note from my honors chemistry teacher to the principal, and I was taking a shortcut through a hallway where all the seniors had lockers. I still remember the metallic clang of those locker doors shutting, the scuffed orange-brown linoleum under my feet, the yeasty smell of old socks that permeated the air. I marched through the hallway wearing new Levi’s with creases down the front and a pink flowered shirt and the training bra I wouldn’t need for another six months, feeling proud my teacher had chosen me out of all the students in the class.

  “Hey, who’s this?”

  A guy spun away from his cluster of buddies and blocked my path. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and he looked kind of like James Dean, only with a meaner face.

  I stared at him, my eyes begging him to let me pass.

  “She can’t talk,” his friend said.

  “Dumb, isn’t that what they call them?” the first guy said, leaning closer to me and snapping his fingers in my face. “Hey, dummy.”

  “I can talk,” I said. “Please let me pass.”

  “Please let me pass,” he mocked. “See, dummy, I can’t do that. This is the seniors’ hall. And you’re not a senior. You’re trespassing.”

  “Citizen’s arrest!” one of his friends hooted.

  “If you’ll just put your arms behind you, no one will get hurt, dummy,” he said.

  “Use my belt as handcuffs,” another guys said, pulling it through the loops of his jeans, while his friends laughed and crowded closer to us.

  My heart started to pound as my eyes darted around, searching for an escape. I felt like a trapped animal. Even though they were laughing, these guys weren’t just joking; the ringleader had a real cruelty in his narrowed eyes. By now a dozen people were encircling us, watching but not saying anything. Where were all the teachers? Why wasn’t someone helping me?

  My lower lip started to tremble. God, don’t let me cry, I silently prayed. Somehow I knew that would only make things worse. Much worse.

  “Arms behind you, please,” the James Dean guy said. “This is your last warning.”

  “I’ve got a holding cell,” his friend said, opening his locker.

  I’ve always been a little bit claustrophobic. I looked into that dark, coffinlike space and imagined myself crammed in there, yelling and screaming and crying. The bell was about to ring for the next class; the teachers would have their doors shut. No one would hear me. I’d be trapped. I wouldn’t be able to see or breathe or move.

  “Please don’t,” I said, desperation making my voice soft.

  The James Dean guy looked at me.

  “She seems sorry,” he said to his friends. “Do you promise never to do it again?”

  I nodded vigorously. My nose was running, and I wiped it with the back of my hand.

  He looked at me and shook his head. “Nope, not good enough. Into the holding cell.”

  His friends laughed as he reached out and grabbed me, and suddenly I was fighting as hard as I could, flailing my arms and kicking out with my legs. But he was so much stronger than I was that he easily pinned my arms behind me and lifted me up and carried me toward the locker.

  Then a voice cut through the crowd.

  “What the hell are you doing, Ralph?”

  Ralph turned around, turning me with him, and I saw Alex. She was wearing her cheerleader’s outfit with some guy’s letterman jacket draped over it. People were moving aside to give her room, and staring at her, the way they always did. Even at age fourteen, Alex had that kind of power.

  “Hey, babe,” Ralph said, then he announced: “Now that’s the only freshman who’s allowed up here.”

  “Amen,” another guy said reverently.

  “Let go of her,” Alex ordered, and suddenly I was released. I collapsed on the floor and scrabbled away from Ralph like a crab.

  I could feel the energy of the crowd shift. The guys were focused on Alex now. Their alpha dog had been replaced.

  “Just having a little fun,” Ralph said, crossing his arms and putting his fists under his biceps so they looked bigger. “Why do you even care?”

  But the bluster was gone from his voice. He wanted Alex’s approval. He wanted her to like him.

  “She’s my twin sister,” Alex said. “C’mon, Lindsey.”

  I got up and hurried over to her, and as we walked away, I could hear the mutters:

  “Twin sister?”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Are they sure it’s really a sister and not the family dog?” one of the guys said, and the sounds of slapping hands and laughter reverberated in the hallway.

  Alex tensed up beside me and stopped walking. I could see her wrestling with the instinct to tell the guys to fuck off. To defend me.

  I stood beside her, still shaking with fear and rage, my insides churning, hoping she’d do it. I wanted them to feel a little of my pain, to know what it was like to be humiliated in front of a crowd. Alex was good at quick comebacks; it would be so easy for her to lash out and make them wish they’d never messed with me. Then Ralph would be the one everyone would laugh at.

  But Alex kept walking. She kept walking.

  In that awful moment, I knew she’d done the math and decided risking her own popularity wasn’t worth sticking up for me. The cost was too high. She’d defend me to a certain point, but that was as far as she’d go.

  I hated her for not defending me.

  But not as much as I despised myself for needing her to.

  “Are you okay?” Alex asked when we were out of earshot.

  “Fine,” I said angrily, wrapping my arms tightly around my body.

  “Those guys can be jerks,” she said. “Especially Ralph.”

  How did she know their names? How did they all know her? I was still getting lost in our school’s endless hallways, while Alex had half the senior class wrapped around her pinkie. The male half. High school was going to be just like junior high, and elementary school, and summers
at the swimming pool, and every camp and dentist appointment and birthday party we’d ever attended: Alex was the star, and I wasn’t even in her orbit. How could I have been stupid enough to think it would be any different? How could I have hoped that at a school this big I’d find my own niche, my own friends, my own place to shine?

  This was Alex’s fault; everything was Alex’s fault. It was only by comparison to her that I looked ugly. I knew in my heart that I wasn’t what anyone would call beautiful, but I wasn’t homely, either. I was just . . . unremarkable. Maybe I could lose ten pounds, but even so, I was closer to pretty than ugly. But next to Alex, I was nothing but a huge disappointment. A terrible surprise. A genetic punch line.

  “I’m fine,” I said, swiping my nose again. “Leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone?” Alex said. “I just saved your ass.”

  “Thanks for all the help,” I said sarcastically and stormed away, leaving her staring after me.

  It was fifteen years ago, and I still remember the way Ralph’s upper lip curled into a sneer just before he grabbed me, the way one chubby guy watched us with a mixture of disgust and excitement, and the sound of the crowd’s laughter when someone called me the family dog.

  I hadn’t walked down that hallway again for the rest of the year.

  In some ways, the world of New York advertising was like high school. Sure, the gossip traveled via BlackBerry or over martinis at Velvet or Sugar instead of by folded-up notes, but the grapevine was alive and thriving. If I stayed, everyone in the business would know how spectacularly I’d screwed up. It would be a permanent footnote to my résumé: Lindsey Rose, the woman who holds one-on-one meetings with her male employees after hours. Clothing optional. I’d never get past it, never stop seeing the gleam of recognition in my colleagues’ eyes when they heard my name for the first time.

  Would my future bosses be watching me whenever I was around male subordinates? Would a simple touch or a glowing review spark the gossip all over again?

  I’d spent my entire life transforming myself into someone who was admired and respected. I couldn’t bear to lose that. So I couldn’t stay in New York.

  Matt was still sitting next to me on the couch, watching me.