The Twinning Project

by Robert Lipsyte

  As usual, there were dirty dishes and glasses on the kitchen table and in the sink. What a pig. He had eaten most of the chicken Mom had left for both of us. What was left had his teeth marks on it.

  I had a peanut butter and mustard sandwich on an English muffin and a glass of milk.

  I went out into the yard.

  I waited a long time for the double-blink.

  Where’ve you been, Eddie?

  At Heartbreak Hotel.

  That was an Elvis Presley song. Eddie loved Elvis.

  I’m suspended. Going to be expelled again.

  What for?

  I blew up Bratzky with a stink bomb.

  That was dumb. What did you get out of that?

  You kidding? You should have seen the look on his face.

  But you’re gone and he’s still there. Who’s going to protect your girlfriend now?

  So what do you hear from your head?

  How’d you know I got dinged in the game?

  I felt it. Maybe you have a concussion.

  Nah, happens all the time. I had to talk to the school psychologist. He wanted to know if I heard voices.

  What did you say?

  I told him about you. Everything’s okay. He said it happens a lot to football players. He should know. Dr. Traum’s also the coach.

  Wait a minute-what’s his name?

  Gotta pack for Scout camp. Later, alligator.

  The star blinked off.

  Eddie, come back. I need to talk to you.

  I stood in the dark feeling stupid. It’s really pathetic when you can’t even have a conversation with your imaginary twin brother. The reason you make up somebody is so he’s there when you need him.

  Dr. Traum?

  Maybe I really am insane.

  SIXTEEN

  NEARMONT, N.J.

  1957

  AFTER the new psychologist sent for him, Ronnie thought about ditching school. Couldn’t be good. What did the headshrinker want? The last one had been on his case forever about where he was living. No one ever answered the telephone at the foster home listed in his records because no one was ever there. The phone was at a summer house on the lake that was shut down for the season. The people who lived there were in the city. Ronnie had thought he wouldn’t have to worry until next summer. He thought he had them all faked out. Unless this new shrink got nosy.

  Why can’t they leave me alone? I don’t need anybody to take care of me. I’m doing just fine living on my own.

  Ronnie decided he’d better go see the guy. Eddie had said Dr. Traum seemed okay. But Eddie was too trusting. Teachers and psychologists act like they’re your friends, and then they call the social workers or the police. I don’t want to spend another weekend at the Union County Hospital for the Criminally Insane just because they don’t have any other place to put me. I was lucky they didn’t give me a physical exam there. Or make me shower while someone watched.

  “Ronnie Roman.” Dr. Traum waved him into his office and pointed to a hard wooden chair. He had a folder in his hand. He was a little strange looking. Bright green eyes, shiny skin. He wore a pale green zoot suit with huge lapels. Strange for someone in school.

  Stay sharp, Ronnie told himself.

  Dr. Traum opened the folder. “You’ve been in foster care for eight years. Must be difficult.” He was trying to sound sympathetic. What a phony.

  “It’s okay.”

  “My predecessor in this position”—Dr. Traum waved the folder—“suggested a full-scale investigation into your situation.”

  Ronnie felt like taking it on the lam. Bust out of the office. Jump on a freight train, head west.

  “You don’t have to run away, Ronnie. I have a different plan. I know you and Eddie Tudor are good friends, and I’m worried about Eddie.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ronnie felt a hand squeezing his heart. Eddie was the best.

  “He took a hard hit in the last game. You know Eddie—too loyal to the team to admit he could be hurt. I need someone to keep an eye on him, let me know if something seems amiss.”

  “Like what?” Ronnie wondered if he could trust this guy. Probably not. But he could pretend.

  “Dizziness, a change in how he acts. He might hear voices in his head. I’d especially want to know about that.”

  “What would you do?”

  Dr. Traum smiled. “I can tell you are a good friend, and that makes me comfortable entrusting you with this. In cases like this, a person might think he’s hearing from a loved one who died.”

  “His father?”

  “Exactly. If that happens, I’d want to talk to Eddie some more, make sure he doesn’t get hit again, which could be very dangerous.” Dr. Traum stood up. “You do this for Eddie and I’ll make sure nobody delves too deeply into your situation. Understand? Is that a deal?”

  “You better believe it.” Ronnie slipped off the chair. He shook Dr. Traum’s outstretched hand, which was fishy cold.

  Ronnie wasn’t sure it was a deal, but the creep had him by the throat. Nobody delves too deeply into your situation. Did Dr. Traum know? Ronnie wondered if he should tell Eddie the truth. Captain Eddie could take it, maybe even have some good ideas. But Eddie-O had enough on his mind.

  What if something’s wrong with Eddie? The hand on his heart tightened. Eddie was the reason he was still in school. Eddie took care of him. Maybe he could help take care of Eddie.

  SEVENTEEN

  NEARMONT, N.J./NEW YORK CITY

  2011

  THE Lump was supposed to drive me to my violin lesson that evening. I waited by his car with my violin backpack until it was too late to go. I should have banged on his basement door, but I couldn’t make myself ask him for anything. So I texted my violin teacher that I was sick. I felt so sorry for myself at missing the lesson and angry at the Lump for making me feel sorry that I just started walking down our street to the county road. I didn’t know what I was going to do until I saw the bus to the city and climbed aboard.

  No matter what time of day or night it is, when bus drivers and cops see my padded violin backpack, they figure I’m going to or coming from a lesson. They never hassle me, never check to see if I’m a runaway.

  It took about an hour to get to midtown Manhattan. The cell phone in my sock kept vibrating, but I didn’t pull it out. It was Mom calling and texting from Chicago or Dallas or wherever her company had sent her this week to take doctors out to dinner so they would prescribe the new pill that cures people of feeling shy at parties.

  By now, the Lump had told her what happened at school. She’d be upset.

  Hey, Mom, that’s what you get for not being around.

  I rode the subway down to Union Square and watched the skaters for a while. Most of them weren’t too good—they were posers—but I liked their rebel cool. At least they weren’t zombies.

  From there, I walked down to Washington Square Park in the Village. I felt a little crabby, so I blew off steam by mime-walking, which I think I invented. You get behind somebody and imitate the way they walk. You waddle or lurch or skip. My favorite is to get behind some musclehead and swagger like I’m king of the sidewalk. People always laugh at that one. You have to be ready to run in case the musclehead turns around. I also do junkies and fat ladies, which some people don’t think is funny.

  Eddie thinks mime-walking is cruel. He doesn’t believe in making fun of people, even if they deserve it. I imagine that people like him but aren’t afraid of him. That’s why he’s my opposite. I’d much rather people were afraid of me than like me.

  Because of mime-walking and thinking about Eddie, I let my guard down. I was in the Village before I sensed that I was being followed. It was just a feeling at first, but then the hairs on the back of my head got itchy. I stopped in front of store windows to catch the reflections behind me. I made four left turns in a row. I made sudden stops, pretending to tie my shoe or check my phone. I had learned all that when I hacked into a police academy website. Nothing. But the feeling got stronge
r.

  It was a nice night and the park was crowded with college students, who are mostly zombies. The hustlers, dope dealers, and muggers who prey on them are werewolves and vampires. That’s what Dad called them. Sometime I’ll talk to Alessa about that. She would understand. Dad was into that stuff way before all those dumb books and movies and games.

  Dad told me that most people are zombies, sleepwalking through life, pushed along by the crowd, doing what they’re told. Werewolves are stupid, he said, but dangerous because they’re strong and can rip people apart. Thugs and most jocks are werewolves. A lot of people want to be vampires because they think vampires are sexy and have power, but they are mostly showoffs who fool other people, like actors and politicians and everybody on TV.

  Dad said to remember that zombies, werewolves, and vampires don’t exist but that knowing about them was a good way of figuring out how real people were going to act.

  Dad said the most important thing was to hold on to being human. He never got to tell me what he meant.

  I felt eyes scraping at me in the park. I imagined werewolves thinking, Who is this skinny kid with the violin backpack? Does he have something we want?

  I thought, You feel lucky, punk? Try and get it. I patted the Tech9 Screamer in its shoulder holster and the cell phone bombs in my pockets. I’m ready. Are you?

  EIGHTEEN

  NEW YORK CITY

  2011

  I GOT bumped from behind on my right side. I’d trained myself after hacking into an army commando site to respond to unexpected attacks. I spun left, crouched, got my hands out.

  A girl’s familiar voice said, “I’m a Russian Commie—don’t kill me.” She was laughing at me. She had a sweet, silvery laugh. She was pulling a rolling suitcase. She was around my age. Long dark hair covered most of her face.

  It was the girl from Mrs. Rupp’s class.

  “Merlyn?”

  She pointed at my violin backpack. “Are you here to play?”

  I hadn’t thought of it. “Maybe,” I said.

  “You want to work together? We can split what we make.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Magic,” she said.

  We sat down on the rounded edge of the fountain. She opened her suitcase and took out a folding table, a collapsible top hat, and four red balls. Then she laid the opened suitcase in front of the table.

  I took out my violin, tuned it, and warmed up with my side of the dueling violins from Riverdance, which made Merlyn smile. Then I played “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” one of Dad’s favorites. We used to play it for Mom. She loved the Beatles. She stopped listening to her Beatles discs when the Lump moved in. He hates the Beatles. Once I heard Metallica coming through his safe-room door. Dad hated heavy metal, so I do, too. We were getting into rap when he disappeared.

  A crowd was forming in front of us. I looked it over. Mostly college kids, tourists, and hustlers. Two big guys stood out, both of them dressed in white uniforms, like paramedics. Muscleheads. They had crewcuts. They seemed to be staring at me and edging closer.

  Merlyn whispered, “Keep playing.” In a loud voice, she said, “Welcome, folks, to the Tom and Merlyn Show. He does magic with his violin, and I fiddle with your minds.”

  She pulled a red scarf out of the top hat and pretended to push it into one of my ears. I kept playing. Then she reached around my head and pretended to pull a red scarf out of my other ear. A good trick.

  “Just as I thought,” she said. “Tom’s head is empty.”

  The crowd laughed—well, everybody was laughing except the two muscleheads. I could feel their stares.

  Merlyn pulled a white toy bird out of the hat and put it on top of my head. I kept playing. I went right into “A Hard Day’s Night.” Some people started singing. Then they started laughing again as something began trickling down my face. Was the bird pooping on my head? It was confetti. Merlyn scooped it up and threw it into the crowd.

  People liked us. They threw coins and dollar bills into Merlyn’s open suitcase.

  I played “All Together Now” and “Strawberry Fields Forever” while she did card tricks and had people come up so she could pull coins and Ping-Pong balls out of their ears. I kept peeking at her out of the corner of my eye. She was really good. She could be a professional.

  Suddenly, she said, “I gotta go, Tom.” She was throwing everything into her suitcase, and then she was gone. What was her hurry?

  I was enjoying myself, but it was getting late. I put my violin into its backpack and slipped the straps over my shoulders. At school tomorrow I’d ask Merlyn why she split so fast. And collect my share of the money.

  I was almost out of the park when I felt shoulders pressing on each side of me, steering me along. It was the two guys in white squeezing me between them.

  “Just keep walking natural, and you won’t get hurt,” one of them said.

  “Okay,” I said. I made my voice small and squeaky. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “I won’t,” he said, laughing. “But Earl might.”

  The other one just grunted.

  They relaxed. They thought they had the skinny dork. As soon as I felt the pressure from their shoulders let up, I dropped into a squat and pulled the Tech9 Screamer out of its shoulder holster. I tapped the button. The Screamer was set for the max on Siren2, which sounds like a cop car coming straight at you.

  When they looked around, I jumped free and headed out of the park.

  But not fast enough. The one called Earl caught up to me. He grabbed my shoulder. I couldn’t break free, but I wriggled loose enough to pull out a cell phone bomb. I pretended to take his picture.

  He panicked and lunged at me. “Gimme that.”

  Last thing werewolves want is for you to have their picture.

  I tossed him the cell phone and ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast enough because I kept looking around. I wanted to see his expression when the pepper-spray packet in the phone exploded in his face. I hadn’t used one in combat before. But I missed it because I ran right into a blue wall. A cop.

  NINETEEN

  NEW YORK CITY/NEARMONT, N.J.

  2011

  WHEN the sergeant behind the desk in the precinct house said, “Your ride’s here, kid,” my stomach twisted. I knew who was here.

  The Lump walked in with a cop who had gold braid on his cap. “I appreciate this, chief. Owe you one.”

  “We’re on the same team.” The chief shook the Lump’s hand.

  The Lump grabbed my arm and steered me out of the precinct and into his car. Once we were on a highway heading out of the city, he said, “The cops said you were running away from something. What was it?”

  “So what’s this ‘We’re on the same team’ stuff?”

  “Classified,” he said. “What happened in the park?”

  “Classified,” I said.

  We didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

  It was way after midnight when we got home. Mom was waiting outside the house, pacing in the driveway. Her suitcase was on the steps. She pulled me out of the car and hugged me.

  When the Lump got out, Mom hugged him and said, “Thanks, Keith.”

  I said, “Don’t thank him. If he had taken me to my lesson, none of this would have happened.”

  Lump shrugged. “Noted.”

  Like he cared.

  “What did happen?” said Mom.

  “I got picked up by the cops for WWU.”

  “For what?”

  “Walking while underage.”

  She nodded. “That’s what Keith texted me.”

  “So then you know it has to be true,” I said as sarcastically as possible.

  “I guess so,” said Mom.

  Keith just gave me his yellow-fang smile.

  TWENTY

  NEARMONT, N.J.

  2011

  AS much as I hated to eat with the Lump, I stuck around while his big mouth vacuumed up most of the Chinese food Mom had ordered in. I wanted to
hear what he had to say.

  Rice dribbled out as he talked. “We need to finish our conversation, Denise.”

  It sounded like he wanted me to leave, so I grabbed a couple of dumplings, leaned back in my chair, and ate them very, very slowly.

  “What conversation?” said Mom.

  “You know,” he said.

  “I guess I don’t.” Mom sounded annoyed. I liked that.

  The Lump said, “Tom, would you excuse us?”

  “I might excuse Mom, not you.”

  I liked when his face got red as his whiskers.

  “Denise, could you get me a beer?”

  I hated it when that lumpy Lump ordered Mom around. I jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

  I opened the refrigerator door and angled it so they couldn’t see me shake the beer bottle a couple of times. Hard.

  “Here.” I banged it down in front of the Lump. If I acted too nice, he’d get suspicious.

  He didn’t even say thanks as he twisted open the top.

  FSSSST! an explosion of foam, all over him.

  While he was yelling and jumping around, I stuck a TPT FloatingEar wireless remote mike to the underside of the table.

  I grabbed a couple more dumplings and excused myself.

  I got up to my room and pulled on the headset in time to hear him say, “You’ll be sorry if he hurts somebody. Or himself.”

  Mom was sniffling. “He’s going through a phase, Keith.”

  “He needs a major workup.”

  “A what?”

  “Brain scans, chemical analysis, neural tracking.”

  “He’s twelve years old, Keith. If I don’t know him by now . . .”

  “But you don’t really know him—that’s my point. You don’t really know that much about his dad, and you know nothing about his biological mother.”

  Biological mother? I jumped up. I had to put a hand over my mouth.