by Tatiana Vila
“Maybe there are reading seasons over here,” she guessed when we reached the foot of the long staircase. “Every place has its own weird thing, right?”
“Reading seasons?”
“Like sharp cravings or something.”
I turned to look at her with skeptical eyes. “Cravings to stick your nose in a book? What do you think they are…teens with pregnancy syndrome?” I stopped before my Mini Cooper, polished and smooth as the black keys of a Steinway grand piano. “My theory was a lot better, not credible, but better.”
“It could be, you know.” She shrugged.
“Have you forgotten that I’ve lived here for almost two years now? Don’t you think I would’ve noticed if there was weird reading seasons around here? If I’m telling you this it’s because all of that.” I waved my hand to the sci-fi bookworm still diving into the pages “It’s completely and entirely not normal.”
“I so agree with you,” a girl’s voice said next to me. “There’s definitely something not normal about you.”
Even though I wanted to refuse to look at Jessica, even if my guts twisted at the high-pitched, corrosive sound of her voice, I turned and faced her sneering visage. “Yikes! This must be my super duper lucky day.” I raised my shoulders in mock surprise. “The double J’s talking to me! To what do I owe this honor?”
Jennifer stuck out his bottom lip and snorted. “Didn’t you say she was in a less…bitchy mood today?”
“Jessica started it this time,” Buffy told her with an accusing look. “And she is in a good mood today. Right, Dafne?” She looked at me with her pink glossy lips pressed together, as if making sure the truce between us was still valid.
“Well, now that your Lucy Liu wannabe here tainted my ears with her lovely words,” I said, locking my eyes on Jessica’s, “I might be back on a full-gear subzero mode—a gift only for her.” I wrinkled my nose.
Her narrowed dark eyes tightened even more. “I'm not a wannabe,” she said slowly, menacingly.
I whistled. “Man, I can barely see your eyes now. Glowers don’t look good on you, Jess.”
“What, are you a racist now?” Jennifer snapped in Jessica’s defense.
“Oh, no, I love Japanese people. They invented sushi after all,” I told her with a serious look, and suddenly craved a lip-smacking California roll. “But you have to accept that her eyes do look like two black slits.”
Though Jessica was cute-looking—straight dark hair, heart-shaped face, small flat nose, plump lips—when the anger inside of her boiled, she looked like a wild karate chopper about to kick the crap out of people.
“What do you think you are? You might be an eighties bad joke for all I know.” She pointed her slit-eyes to my clothes.
“Should I be flattered by the compliment you can’t seem to do openly?” I gave her a knowing smile.
Linda snapped her hand to her mouth to hide a chuckle, and Jennifer snorted once more, twisting a strand of ginger hair around her finger.
“You know that she pulls off really well the whole retro urban chic style,” Buffy moved her eyes to me. And my breath stopped, because I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken nicely of me in front of her friends.
Jessica answered with silence and pushed away her glare from me. I swallowed back a laugh. “Just so you know,” she said a few moments later, as if wanting to counterweight her muted approval, “Lucy Liu is Chinese descendant, not Japanese.”
“Whatever,” I shrugged. “You still look a lot like her.”
“Doesn’t every girl in China or Japan? I mean, they all look kind of the same,” Linda added thoughtful.
I knew she hadn’t meant hurt with that comment, but Jessica was already on a full karate chopper mode a second later without sparing her a chance to explain herself. “We are not the same you ignorant fo—”
“Oh, don’t you even go there,” Jennifer cut her off and pulled her by the arm. “We’ll wait for you in the car,” she told Buffy and dragged along a fuming Jessica with her.
“What did I say?” Linda asked confused, throwing her hands in the air.
I shook my head as if telling her to let it go and looked at Buffy, who was still watching the double J’s with a smile. “Things never change, huh?” she said, and turned to look at me with a full grin across her face.
“I don’t know how you can stand your friends,” I said with a face. “They’re worthy of a reality show.”
“It’s all about the power of three,” she teased.
“No, it’s more like a Charlie’s Angels thing.”
She frowned.
Linda started laughing.
At least, I thought, someone gets me.
“Come on, you totally look like Charlie’s girls—the new version, I mean. The blonde, the redhead, the Chinese brunette… it’s all the same. Except for the really tight clothing and kickass abilities.”
“Jesus, how many nicknames do you give people?”
“Not so many. But you and your homies are a grand source of inspiration.”
When I thought she was about to retort something like ‘there you go again with your subzero bullcrap, and that I’d already ruined whatever good thing was going on between us,’ she surprised me by laughing, shocking me as if I’d been suddenly electrocuted by some unseen charge. For the glimpse of a second, I remained still, waiting for something to change her mind, but then, even more surprisingly, I realized I didn’t want her to do so. I liked the way she was enjoying herself so openly in front of me, how her chocolate eyes crinkled in amusement, like when she’d plastered our eleventh birthday cake into my face years ago, and that I’d been the one to cause it, not to erase it . But mostly, I liked having my sister back, my twin, even if it was only for a moment. Because it could only last a moment. The brick wall between our connections weakened whenever we stood too close of each other. And I needed that wall as a plant needed water and sunlight for its sustenance.
“So…are you going somewhere?” I dropped my head down and looked at the tiny pebbles that were merged into the pavement, suddenly uncomfortable to be around her.
She didn’t notice, though. “We’re going to Grounded to have some white mochas— and to meet with some guys from campus. I would ask you to come with us but…”
“But I would answer I’d rather have my skin rubbed with sandpaper and then have it soaked in lemon juice than going to a coffee shop with Jess and Jen.”
“Yeah, I was about to say that.” She arched her eyebrows in mockery.
“Besides, I promised Linda to go to her house. I’ll see you later, I guess.”
“Sure,” she said. “And we’ll watch a movie.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Buffy’s words flew in, cutting mine immediately. “It’s part of the truce, remember?”
I sighed. “Fine, whatever. Pick the movie.” At least it would lessen the closeness and awkwardness with her focus on the story behind the screen.
CHAPTER 3
After spending some quality time at the yard with an orange Frisbee in my hands and Espresso and Peanut—a black Labrador retriever and a small brown Yorkie that Linda had adopted at the Humane Society of Northwest Iowa—we took off to Linda’s bedroom to look at some pictures on the Internet. She’d insisted on looking for the girl with the giddy voice on Brad’s Facebook page. A masochist necessity, perhaps. Or just a way to convince herself she’d done the right thing to let him go. I could see already doubt fluttering rowdily inside her head. It was part of her good nature: forgiving people even if their actions said otherwise.
When she found some pictures he’d posted yesterday with a blonde girl and him holding beers and kissing though, that doubt evaporated. It seemed he’d been holding back the images for a long time. His hair in the pictures had been shorter than it was now. And Linda noticed it. The stench of betrayal hanging in the air became thicker and she wrinkled her nose in acknowledgement. A tear escaped her rose-colored eyelid, reaching the corner of her mouth, and slid past the edge of he
r jaw. There were more pictures, and Linda couldn’t stop clicking on the arrow, waiting to be punched in the chest by the careless and treacherous expressions that filled them. I placed my hand over hers and the blue luminous mouse and pulled it out from her loose grasp. She broke into a quiet sob and lowered her head, refusing to look at the aching shapes of betrayal. I kneeled beside her chair and, for only a few short seconds, allowed myself to pull her into my arms and give her a soft hug.
I stayed with her for an hour or so, distracting her from the pain in her heart. Espresso and Peanut joined me in the process, cuddling against her and giving her soppy kisses, and from time to time biting one or two pillows and driving her crazy enough to forget about Brad and remember our Human Society weekly trip.
A lot of dogs needed to be taken out once in a while from their enclosed spaces, to breathe a bit of fresh air, to feel the earth beneath their paws, to live for a moment what every normal animal needed to experience, like Peanut and Espresso. And we helped with that. We played with them and took them out on a stroll. There was nothing better than looking at those tails wagging happily and eyes shining brightly. I hadn’t adopted one because of Buffy’s allergy, but I’d decided to take at least two under my wings when I finally had an apartment on my own.
When I left Linda’s house, the sushi craving I felt before came back with a mouth-watering explosion in my taste buds. I did not only need one California Roll and Gari, but two California Rolls and tons of Gari. Maybe some stir-fried tofu in hot sauce, too. And since we were going to watch a movie—and God knows what type of movie because Buffy had a deep weakness for chick flicks—sushi would definitely keep my eyes open and belly fully entertained.
Oh yeah, bring on the chopsticks and soy sauce.
The moment I pulled into the driveway of our Victorian house and looked through the rearview mirror, a black Range Rover came into view. By the way it was shining, almost like a black diamond under the stream of light of a luxurious jewelry shop, the four-wheeled machine was brand new. Maybe the Holland’s, our neighbors, had finally decided to replace their family van for a more adventurous and pricey piece of machine, though it wouldn’t be parked out there on its own where other cars could scratch its fancy painting. That meant it was from a visitor. And it could’ve been anyone’s visitor for that matter.
I slipped out from the car with the bag full of disposable boxes in my right hand and the keys in the other, and snapped the door shut with my hip. I loved the sight of the Lady (a.k.a Gran’s house) under the mild afternoon sun. The trees cast long, narrow shadows over the stone driveway, making them look like unearthly guardians from a fantasy world, shielding the three story conical tower standing on one corner of the house; the high half-round windows on the top perfect for stargaze. The hipped roof and shingle wrapping the house with fish-scale pattern created a façade worthy of a fairytale, like the ones you could’ve found in Hansel and Gretel. And the dark wooden wraparound front porch with carved swags on top, surrounded by a concerto of flowers at the bottom—whites, yellows, pinks and purples—enhanced the old-fashioned beauty of the house.
There were other Ladies around the neighborhood, all of them enclosing a rich past, but none of them were as cherished and beautiful as Gran’s Lady. She definitely caught some gazes on the street.
I stepped in front of the door and opened it with the multicolored key I’d painted last summer on an artsy outburst I’d had. My hangers, desk and dresser had been victims as well. Good victims, though. My bedroom had a lot of character now. I shut the door behind me, hanged my keys on the kitten-shaped key hanger, and walked to the kitchen. Gran was there, washing some of her garden tools in the sink.
“The flowers look beautiful, Gran,” I told her as I placed the bag on the counter beside her. She eyed the bag with curiosity. “It’s just some sushi I bought at Om. It’s my version of popcorn for a movie.”
“Sushi?” she asked as if I’d mentioned some disgusting bug. “I rather have some homemade potatoes, sweet baby carrots and fried apples.”
“Whoa, what a granny thing to say.”
She turned and dried her hands on the bottom of her stone-colored garden vest, stained with dirt on the edges. “Well, I am a grandmother, and a very good gardener at that.” She smiled and tilted her head forward, bringing down her brown suede hat.
“Yeah,” I said with a chuckle and pulled out a plate. “You should go for bananas and apple trees next time. That way you can cut them down from the shopping list.” I opened the disposable boxes and took out the bits of perfectly rolled rice. “Oh, and you could make more often those German apple kutchens and banana breads. It’s perfect.”
“Dafne,” she said with that critical voice she used when she thought I was prattling nonsense.
“Just think about the possibilities, Gran—and I’ve heard apple trees are pretty ornamental when they bloom, so no worries on spoiling that flowery landscape you’re creating.” I ended with the plate stuffing. Sixteen pieces of yummy sushi to be exact. My stomach groaned. I searched the cupboard looking for a small bowl for the soy sauce.
“It’s not there,” she said, stopping my frantic search. “Leave the sauce here and I’ll bring it to you. You have more important things now than discussing agricultural prospects.”
“Like…”
“Being in the living room with your sister watching a movie.”
“Is watching a stupid girl falling in love with a stupid guy more important than talking about the high-minded practice of cultivating the land? You’ve fallen pretty low, Gran.”
“Dafne,” she repeated again with that voice.
“Fine, fine.” I sighed and headed to the living room. I couldn’t wait to start eating, anyway. And since my stomach was growing grumpier with each step I made, I decided to slip inside my mouth a small piece to quench the anticipation. I closed my eyes and moaned inwardly in delight, savoring the soft texture of the rice and the crab, the crunchiness of the cucumber, and the sooth, rich contrast of the avocado. My taste buds clapped happily at the exotic culinary explosion.
When my feet made contact with the bluish Persian rug in the living room, I opened my eyes and had to swallow back a deep gasp of surprise. My widened eyes, however, couldn’t hide it. Luckily enough the sudden irritation whirling inside my stomach shot up like a rocket to my head and overpowered the weakness of my shock.
Ian said nothing at first. He just stared at me, studying my face with intensity, as if I was some intriguing Auguste Rodin’s sculpture—and he was surely planning one of those corrosive lines he used to deliver every time he saw me. At last, he went for sarcasm and a wicked half smile. “Nice to see you, too,” he said with his emerald eyes still on me, his arm stretched across the back of the velvet couch in that lousy style only guys could pull off.
I was about to retort something when Buffy’s voice cut my impulse. “About time you got here.” She said while looking for a DVD on the small shelf next to the huge plasma screen—which looked so out of place in this old-fashioned living room. It was such a Jane-Austen-meets-the-Jetsons image.
“For a second I thought you ran away,” she added, crouched on the floor, wearing yellow sweatpants and a tight white hoodie.
“I just went to Om to grab some—” I stopped and shook my head, remembering my previous train of thought. “What is he doing here? I thought it was a sister bonding thing.” I ended with a hiss.
“What, I can't be part of the sweet bonding?” Ian emphasized his last words with softness in his voice. “I couldn’t miss this grand event of frivolity between twins.” He tilted his head aside, mockingly, his brown tousled hair brushing his forehead. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”
Sometimes I wondered how everyone found this guy so attractive, and sights like these often muted my speculation. The way his plaid shirt covered his upper body—the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, the first buttons hanging open showing a a gray shirt underneath, the careless wrinkles at the hem—exuded a ma
nly quality so strong it could’ve reeled one’s senses.
Thank God I had a sharp eye and could see beyond superficial layers. I was immune to his facade. “Aw, you were so excited you forgot to shower,” I pointed out, looking at the speck of blue paint that covered one side of his forearm, contrasting the warm honey shade of his skin. “Isn’t that super cute?” I added, settling down on the recliner a few feet away from him.
He ran his hand through his hair, with one of those girl-melting smiles playing on his lips, and looked at me. “It’s part of being a passionate art slave. Paint runs through my veins.”
“Take it easy on the theatrics,” I scoffed, laying down the chopsticks on the plate. “I'm passionate about Art, too, and I don’t need to sport a freaking splotch on my skin twenty-four-seven like some neon sign.” Maybe it wasn’t seven days a week, but it was enough to set it as one of his trademarks.
“Well, I like it. I think it’s cute,” Buffy said as she straightened holding several DVDs in her hands, then glanced at him and winked.
I rolled my eyes.
Ian laughed, that low and careless sound flying into the air. “Hmm, I think your sister may like it, too, and she doesn’t know how to handle it,” he told Buffy and turned to look at me. “Am I right?”
“You wish.” I arched my eyebrows and looked down at the sushi resting on my lap, my Japanese craving suddenly shrinking. I so disliked him. “Gran!” I called, the fury boiling in my stomach pitching my voice to a louder note. “I need the…”
“It’s here. It’s here,” Gran repeated as she stepped inside the living room—which had turned into a living hell—with a small bowl in her slightly wrinkled hands. She handed it to me and walked to the solid oak wood cabinet. Several pictures crowded the cabinet’s surface, some dating the times of her youth in dull, faded colors, and some displaying flamboyantly the outcome of her past—us.
Mom and Dad’s pictures were hiding in her bedroom. She’d decided to veil them from our sight for our own good. Every time we saw them smiling at us through the glossy paper, the air in the house became a cold pressure, weighing our heads and chests with a terrible pain. Whenever the need to watch those happy glimpses of time clutched our hearts, Gran’s door always welcomed our hands. Though it’d been only once for me, I knew Buffy’s fingers had enclosed that brass handle a few times more.
