by Karen Rivers
If Nan were here, she’d tell you. She always said that Mum was mad as a bag of ferrets when she had something on the go. She has something on the go all the time now, especially since Nan went. When she doesn’t, she’s either crying about Nan or pretending to be normal and asking me about boys and things and then not listening to my answers. (She thinks I fancy this awful boy, Angus, who works at the chip shop. And I let her think that, because it’s easier than explaining that I’m in love with a pop star — Nate, from STOP. It sounds silly when I say it out loud. Embarrassing, really. Even though I know that it’s real. But you don’t care about that right now, I know you don’t. I know your feelings are all jumbled up. Just like mine. Only mine are a bit different, because I feel like it was my fault that she did it. I just don’t know how. Or why.)
I’m sorry, Ruth. I wish Nan were here. You’d love her. And she’d know exactly the right thing to say. Right now, ‘sorry’ is pretty much all I’ve got. Again and again and times a million. Sorry.
Love,
Ruby
Mum, I’m at Fi’s now, just reminding you.
We really really really need to talk. Mum, it’s important. You said that I can always talk to you about important things. And I’ve never had anything. But now I do.
Darling! I’ve been thinking about it since your first message and I feel terrible! Why didn’t you tell me you were nervous about being home alone? I should never have left you! I’m a poor excuse for a mum, aren’t I? I’d have got you an alarm system or a guard dog or both if I’d known. Glad you’re tucked up at Fi’s. Pop round tomorrow and see the sculpture. I think it’s almost done.
And of course we can talk! Whenever you like! I’ve missed you, my girl. Let’s have a good long talk when I’m done with this thing and get our lives all straightened out and back to normal. I’m thinking that we should sort the house and bung out Nan’s old things. Nan would have wanted her useful bits and bobs going to charity. We’ll give it all away! Then we’ll feel better. About everything. About Nan, is what I mean. Then she’ll be gone.
Love,
Mummy xo
Mum, I didn’t mean you were a bad mum! But I really mean it, about needing to talk to you. It’s important this time.
Love,
Ruby
PS — I always call you Mum now, you know. I haven’t said ‘Mummy’ since I was six! I just mention it because it’s funny that you call yourself Mummy, isn’t it? When I just say Mum?
When a thing happens,
a bad thing,
Everyone is sorry.
Picture a tree, falling over.
Is it sorry?
Or is it just a thing that happens
sometimes
when there is a lot of rain and wind?
Blame the weather.
I do.
It takes what it wants
and either blows it skyward
or lets it fall
to the ground
to die
without anyone
ever really knowing
why it happened.
And no one ever
apologizes
to the tree.
Which is probably
just fine with the tree,
if you think about it.
What would Buddha do?
Be the tree,
be the ground the tree landed on,
be the wind that pushed it over,
or just be sorry?
Dear Nan,
I am at Fi’s. It’s lovely here and noisy and messy. You’d hate it but I love it.
This isn’t really a letter. Not a proper one. It’s more like a postcard, because I’m writing it on the back of a self-defence leaflet that Fi’s dad gave me. (He’s really determined!) Anyway, I feel like if I don’t write to you a lot, then you’ll be completely gone. And with Mum talking about getting rid of your things, I feel like you’re fading away. Just now, I was trying to picture you sitting at the kitchen table, giving Mum a lecture about proper budgeting, and I couldn’t picture your face! I couldn’t remember it! Then I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
And you haven’t even once moved any of the letters on the fridge, Nan. So maybe the thing with the art was just a coincidence after all. But even if it was, it’s true, so there.
Anyway, Fi just came in and crashed down on the bed with her arms flung over her face and said, ‘They’ve completely lost it, Ruby. They’ve hired a caravan and they say that they’re taking me on a holiday. I don’t want to go’! So I said, ‘It’ll be lovely, I never get to go anywhere that’s just for fun’. Then she stopped complaining because she felt sorry for me because she knows I’m right, Mum being so busy all the time. We only go on holiday if there’s some sort of lecture she’s making me go to with her.
Nan, can you see my laptop screen? Ruth e’d me a pic of her as a baby and you can see her scar. I can’t stop looking at it. It’s like a zipper all down her back, like she had wings once and they were just zipped off. Or maybe it’s a place where wings could be zipped on, if she needs them. If you believe in angels and that sort of thing, which I don’t. Not really.
I just want to sit down and have tea with you and tell you everything about Ruth, so I can sort out how I’m feeling. And I know this bit is silly, but I have to tell someone: Nate’s started dating Star Howell, the model-slash-actress-slash-girl-everyone-wants-to-be, and I feel really betrayed. She’s seriously beautiful. And now she has Nate too! It’s as though I made it happen by not reading his blog every day. Ruth’s distracted me, so it’s almost like it’s her fault. Am I going mad? Because I know that’s completely barmy, it’s just how I feel.
xo,
Ruby
RUBY,
STOP!
You can’t be sorry!
I mean, you can! Obviously! You can do whatever you want!
But it’s OK. You don’t have to say it.
I just want US to be normal. I don’t want it to be all you saying sorry and me saying it’s OK, and you saying sorry and me saying it’s OK, and you saying sorry and me saying it’s OK. It isn’t OK, but it isn’t for you to be sorry about. It’s not your fault. YOU WERE A BABY! It’s sort of your mom’s fault and I have to figure out, in my head, how to forgive her for that. But I’m not mad at you.
Please write me again, but about something else other than your sorry-ness, such as a list of seven things you did today or five worst foods or Things You Want To Do Before You Die or anything. Just not SORRY. Do not be sorry.
I was thinking, if we’d been kids together, you’d know all the weird stuff about me, like I sometimes tied my shoelaces to my desk so I couldn’t float away during class and/or it would make it harder for kidnappers to snatch me. And I’d know that you liked … something. Whatever you liked! We need to know these things! So maybe if we can’t answer the questions of WHY HOW WHAT and WHEN your mom did what she did, we can talk. Just talk. About random stuff. About everything. About anything.
I’m going to start.
How’s the weather? I don’t care about the weather so much, but maybe a little, because we are having a heat wave and my sweaty legs have glued me to this chair that I’m sitting on, and when I stand up, I’ll have that weird sticky-ripping feeling when I try to peel my skin from the plastic. Also, my mom might be losing her job. I just stuck that there at the end so I don’t have to talk about it. (She works super hard! It’s so unfair! But I am in the moment! Stuck to the chair! Sweaty! Typing!) Dad says the change in the weather is probably good because people will start to figure out that global warming sucks and they will stop buying such giant cars. Dad thinks SUVs are the worst thing ever invented by mankind and represent all that is wrong with the world. Well, SUVs and the Internet. He might be right! Except not about the Internet, which is basically my favorite thing in the world. And I sort of wonder about him thinking about the repercussions of stuff like big vehicles if he’s being Buddhist and staying in the moment. Because hey, life is totes suffer
ing, and maybe the suffering comes in the form of large ugly cars and global warming and having your skin stuck horribly to the chair you are sitting on.
But that’s not even what I want to talk about! I mostly want to know if we’re the same, like in all the stuff I read about twins online, where they are both fans of wasabi and enjoy handstands and the electric guitar. Or if we are opposites, which could happen, and would maybe be even MORE interesting!
We should be specific and tell each other specific things. For example, I will tell you specifically that yesterday Jedgar and I were flushing SHORCAs down his toilet — for filming, not just for fun, of course — and the toilet got clogged. Can you believe it? Anyway, it was hilarious, except for the flood, and I swear I didn’t know those were his mom’s good towels. I just thought they never used them, so they’d be a good choice for the cleanup. I had to do it all because they’d all been sent to their rooms, Jedgar and his brothers, while I hid in the bathtub and pretended to not be there. I thought it would be HEROIC of me to do the cleaning! Then his mom wouldn’t be mad! Well, my bad.
Anyway, Jedgar’s mom called Tink Aaron-Martin’s dad and he fixed it. He’s nice, and so is Tink! I probably haven’t mentioned her, but she’s part of my Project To Have More Girl Friends Who Aren’t Jedgar (Who Isn’t Even A Girl, Even Though It’s Hard To Think Of Him As A Real Boy Either). So now I have you and sort of Tink. I hope I didn’t get her in trouble, because I told her dad that she was getting pretty good at skateboarding, which I also happen to be amazing at, and he sort of laughed and said, “That’s funny, because she’s grounded and not allowed out of the house!” I feel terrible, but I can’t email her because she has no Internet now either.
Life is such a perfidious disaster sometimes! “Perfidious” is Jedgar’s new word for everything. He loves words. He’s crazy about words. If words were people, he would for sure marry one, only he wouldn’t be able to pick his favorite. It changes. Last week, it was “phlegmatic.” Maybe he’s working his way through the P section of the dictionary.
Can you tell me things? Just anything that comes into your head. It doesn’t have to be about being twins because that can just be there, thrumming along in the background, like a very quiet flute that is only a bit ominous. I especially want to know why the Mole is stuffing letters under your pillow!
Here, I will start with a list of the top five most embarrassing things that I ever did:
I was getting on the bus to go on a field trip to the aviation museum last year and I tripped and fell onto the bus driver’s lap. It was super awful because as soon as I got off his lap, he put the bus in gear and drove away. BUT my shoe had fallen off and out the door when I fell. And I didn’t want to mention it. AWKWARD. So I took off my other shoe and I went on the field trip barefoot. And no one even noticed. Which actually is totes tragic when you think about it. I could have died from exposure! Except it was only October and it was just coolish, not actually like I was strolling around barefoot on the frozen tundra.
Once, during science, I had to go up to the front of the class and work out a chemistry equation on the board. When I got there, I realized that everyone was laughing. Like seriously howling with laughter and dramatically clutching at their sides and shrieking. Someone (WES STROMSON-FUNK, who is the WORST BOY IN THE CLASS and possibly on the planet) had stuck a sign on my back that said “I LOVE REPTILES.” Why is that even funny? What if I did love reptiles? I do love dinosaurs. But anyway, I turned bright red and my eyes watered. The teacher, Mr. Wall, was terrified of crying students, so he whisked me off to the nurse’s office. She gave me an orange. (I do not like citrus fruit.) On the plus side, I never had to do the equation.
Our school went on an outing to cheer up old people at Christmas, because obviously a class of middle-school kids who are crazed from candy consumption can do nothing but make people happy and filled with the holiday spirit. We were each assigned an old person and we had to basically just be cheerful, which is easy for me because I am usually cheerful! But my old person just wanted to watch The Price Is Right. I sat beside her and told her some fun things about what I was going to buy for Mom and Dad for Christmas (and the prices, as she kept shouting out “A DOLLAR NINETY-NINE, YOU IMBECILE!”). While I was talking, I was gesturing dramatically with my hands, and I knocked a glass of water off her bedside table, which her teeth were in, and they totes FLEW out the open window and down four stories to the ground below. Actually that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, and now I have a balled-up feeling of being a bad person, nestled right there in my stomach like a boulder. Why didn’t I tell someone? Or go crawl around in the shrubbery to find the teeth? I hope she had another set of teeth. She probably never chewed again!
I can’t write a fourth thing because I’m now too upset about number 3. I am a seriously awful person, and your mum was maybe right, after all, to leave me behind and take you back to England to live happily ever after. If you ask old Mrs. Schwartz, she would almost certainly agree.
Ruth
I am not dead.
I have birds in my head,
flapping their ideas,
taut and feathery,
rushing by,
right now,
not tomorrow,
but this second, now this one
and this one too.
There is Ruby Starling
across the sea,
and me, here,
and us the same
but different
and her with our mom
and me with my own mom
and our whole lives of blocks and books
and boys
and Band-Aids
and I miss being read to.
Did her (our) mom
read to her?
I want to shout
ELEPHANT
ZOO
TUNA
RAIN.
Nothing makes sense.
My head is too full of everything
like a balloon
lifting me up off the ground
and soon I’ll float up and up
and be part of the sky and the clouds
until the balloon is popped
a bird dies
and I fall
down
again.
Ruth,
I’ve just read your Tumblr and I think I know what you mean, about your head and floating upwards, that bit. I feel like that too. This is just a lot to take in.
All around me, everyone is going on like things are normal. But things aren’t normal! I want to stand up on the table at Starbucks and shout that out loud! ‘STOP BEING NORMAL! I HAVE A TWIN IN AMERICA’! Chlophie and Fi are being really kind and everything, but they still want to spend all their time talking about clothes and boys and the tarot and the calories in a mocha, and I sort of just want to scream at them, ‘LOOK WHAT IS HAPPENING’!
But the thing is, nothing is happening.
But I am not the same!
You don’t need to feel badly about the teeth. Old people don’t usually eat food they have to chew anyway. My nan stopped wearing her teeth when she got sick, right before she died. Your Mrs Schwartz probably just kept them in a jar by her bed, just in case. That’s what Nan did. ‘Just in case the Queen pops in’, she’d say, and then she’d laugh. Nan loved the Queen. When you turn 100 in England, the Queen writes you a letter, but Nan was only 62 when she died. She’d had fake teeth since she was really young because her family was poor and they never had money for proper dentists and things. Nan hated those teeth. You probably did Mrs Schwartz a favour by tossing hers out the window!
I don’t like talking about Nan. When I do, it’s like something inside me starts trembling and won’t stop. I wish you’d met her. She was lovely. She was the best.
I love lists! I think we are the same, in that twin way. Here are my top ten secrets. DO NOT tell anyone. Not that you know anyone who knows me, but just in case.
I never tell anyone secrets, not Mum, not Nan, not even F
i. Because they are secrets! And I’m worried that people will laugh or think I’m mental or both. So that’s a secret itself, don’t you think? I pretend to tell secrets. Like I’ll tell Fi that I love Nate (which isn’t a secret, everyone knows it already), but I don’t tell her that I sometimes spend a long time hoping for things like terrible disasters that only Nate and I will survive, and then it’s like I write a whole novel about it in my head, where we end up holding hands by the sea somewhere, with the sun setting after the apocalypse. Really corny, I know. I feel mortified that I think about things like that, but I can’t seem to stop, and I can’t seem to like regular boys. They’re all wazzocks, every last one.
I sometimes get up at night when I can’t sleep. My room is so pale, it sometimes glows. It’s a bit like sleeping in a surgical suite. Then I go into my wardrobe and sleep there on the floor. I have blankets and things there, so it’s cosy.
I only feel good about myself when someone is telling me how amazing my clothes are. I know that’s vanity and Nan would say that it was meaningless tosh, but it means a lot to me. Mostly I buy all my things at the Thrift for 50p! I put my outfits together using ideas from fashion blogs and mags and somehow it just works.
Sometimes I have panic attacks, but I don’t know how to explain them to people (see: worried that people will think I’m mad), so I call them migraines. I do sometimes get migraines too, but not so many headaches as just overall buzzing feelings of doom, which isn’t exactly the same thing.
I’m really, really scared of dogs. Even though I’m sure yours is lovely, I still shiver when I read his name in your messages.
I keep all my fingernails after I clip them off because I read something somewhere how people can take pieces of old nails and things and make voodoo dolls of you and actually wreck your life. I know it isn’t true, it can’t be! But I still can’t throw them out.
I don’t have any friends my own age at all. The people in my class completely ignore me because I’ve always been friends with Fi and Chlophie and them, and they’re all fourteen. Don’t ever tell them, but sometimes I feel like I’m more of a sort of stylish pet for them than a person. Like one of those dogs that celebs carry round in their handbags! When I start feeling that way, I get stroppy with them. I try not to, because it’s not their fault they were born two and a bit years sooner than I was! But I can’t help it.
