Twins

by Marcy Dermansky

  Mr. Markman and I watched the sixth game of a championship series from three years ago. We had watched this one before. It was Mr. Markman’s favorite: the final game of the championship series. The Knicks were down by twelve points and Mr. Markman had the flu. He had a 102-degree fever and his doctors had told him that he shouldn’t play. During the time-outs, he draped a towel over his head, his head sunk down to his knees.

  “What were you thinking then?” I said, watching as his coach and the players hovered anxiously around him.

  “Not a thing,” Mr. Markman said. “I just closed my eyes, and waited for the buzzer to ring so that I could get back on the court.”

  I kept looking back and forth from the tall, gentle man sitting on the couch to the awesome basketball player on the court, dripping sweat, moving the ball. The fans were going crazy. The noise seemed deafening, even in Mr. Markman’s living room, coming from the enormous television with its state-of-the-art surround sound system. At the end of the game, with only eight seconds left on the clock, I felt myself getting nervous and excited, even though I already knew how the game would end. The other team had the ball; another player took the shot and missed. Mr. Markman got the rebound. He threw the ball to a teammate halfway down the court, and he kept on running, full speed to the basket, his dark black skin shiny with sweat. Mr. Markman leapt in the air to catch the pass, got fouled, and dunked the ball through the hoop. Then he took his place at the free throw line. The camera panned around the stadium, showing the court from Mr. Markman’s point of view. Behind the basket were thousands of fans waving colored foam rods, booing wildly, trying to distract him. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like, to stand so quiet in the center of a crowd like that, and shoot a ball into a small hoop from so great a distance. Mr. Markman didn’t blink. He just stared at the basket. His eyes did not wander. He did not look at the other players on the court or let his eyes drift to the hysterical crowd. He looked at the basket, and then he lifted his arms to take the shot. The ball rose in a high arc and came down into the basket, making that beautiful swishing sound. The crowd went wild.

  “Swish,” Mr. Markman said.

  The TV commentators called Mr. Markman a champion. They called him a legend in the game. They praised his stamina, his courage, his inspiration to other players. I felt proud to sit in the same room with him. I looked down at the empty plate on my lap. I had eaten all six chicken sausages.

  “How about that?” Mr. Markman said.

  I stood at the free throw line with the basketball in my hand.

  “What do I do?” I said.

  “Look at the basket.”

  “And then what do I do?” The basket seemed farther away in Mr. Markman’s basketball court than it did on the television. My oxford shoes squeaked on the shiny floor. I had made a mistake agreeing to this lesson.

  “I don’t think I can,” I said.

  Mr. Markman nodded at me. “You can do anything you want,” he said. “Take a moment to reflect. You have been graced with good health and intelligence and inner beauty.”

  I looked away from the basket at Mr. Markman. It was so far away. I was afraid I would miss.

  “Just look at the basket,” he said. “Don’t look at me. Visualize the ball going into the basket. Raise your arms high, to eye level, and when you shoot, let the ball roll off your fingertips. The ball is connected to your fingers. You decide where the ball will go.”

  I stared at the basket. I removed one hand from the ball and smoothed back my hair.

  “You don’t need to make the shot, sweetheart,” he said. “This is only your first lesson.”

  I nodded. I had both hands on the ball and I was looking at the basket. I was learning something new. I felt comfortable being a student. I raised my arms, like Mr. Markman instructed, and concentrating on the basket, I let the ball roll off my fingers. We watched as the basketball rose and fell through the net.

  “You are a natural,” Mr. Markman said, nodding his head.

  It was strange to me how calm I always felt in Mr. Markman’s presence. He palmed the ball in his hand and started dribbling.

  “Ready?” he said.

  Mr. Markman passed me the ball, and I instinctively stepped forward to catch it. I liked the solid feeling of the ball in my hands.

  “Passing,” Mr. Markman said. “Another vital part of the game.”

  I passed the ball back to Mr. Markman. He caught it, and then passed it back, so that it bounced on the court, and I caught it as the ball rose.

  “A bounce pass,” he said. “Now back to me.”

  I passed him back the ball, bouncing it the same way.

  We practiced passing for several minutes without saying a word, and then Mr. Markman introduced dribbling in between passes. I imitated Mr. Markman, trying to mimic his moves. Soon we were dribbling down the court, making forward movement as we passed.

  “Most young players only care about shooting,” Mr. Markman said, “but it’s important to get a feeling for the ball. To feel the basketball in your hands and to learn how to control it.”

  I nodded. I bounced the ball from my right hand and, when it came back up, bounced it again with my left, and then my right.

  “Relax,” Mr. Markman said. “That ball is following your lead. You can trust it. Try closing your eyes.”

  I closed my eyes, and like Mr. Markman said, the ball went where I wanted it to, up and down, from my left hand to my right. It was quiet in his gym; the only noise was the steady sound of the ball hitting the floor, the squeak of our shoes on the floor.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Mr. Markman said.

  “I am,” I said.

  We had made it from one end of the court to the basket, passing and dribbling. I had not made a single mistake.

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Markman said. “Take your shot.”

  I looked at the basket, aimed, and shot. The ball went in. It was what Mr. Markman would have called a swish shot. I found myself grinning.

  “This gives me great pleasure, Chloe,” he said, moving forward to grab the ball.

  “It does?”

  “Try taking the shot again,” Mr. Markman said. “But this time, try to sink it using the backboard.”

  He passed the ball back to me. I shot, aiming for the backboard, and the ball went in again.

  “How tall are you, Chloe?” he said. “Five nine, five ten?”

  “Five ten.”

  “Are you still growing?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Do you want to learn the game?” Mr. Markman said. “I can teach you.”

  I didn’t see how the same man I had watched on television would have the time or the patience to spend the day with me in his own private basketball court. I could hear the words of the broadcaster in my head, screaming with excitement when Mr. Markman made the winning basket, calling him a living legend.

  “I would love to teach you the game,” Mr. Markman said. “Basketball is a beautiful combination of mind and spirit. Grace in motion.”

  I looked at my black oxfords.

  “I will need to get sneakers,” I said.

  Sue looked at me suspiciously.

  “I didn’t see you in school today,” she said.

  “I didn’t go.”

  “You always go to school.”

  “Today,” I said, “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t miss anything.”

  “You always say that.”

  “It always sucks.”

  “Oh, Sue,” I said.

  “Oh, Chloe,” Sue said, mocking me.

  Sue felt less and less like a person I knew. I used to be able to read Sue’s mind, to finish her sentences, anticipate her thoughts, but now I had no idea how to talk to her. I heard her at night talking on the phone to Yumiko.

  “So what did you do?” Sue said. “When you didn’t go to school?”

  I looked at my hands, remembering how it felt holding a basketball. I wondered if Sue would
believe me if I told her. I had never considered doing anything athletic before. I had always hated gym class. The idea of sweating, especially while I was at school, used to disturb me. I had broken a sweat on the basketball court today as Mr. Markman and I went up and down the court, but I felt good, concentrating on learning the tasks he set before me.

  “What did you do?” Sue repeated.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Liar,” Sue said.

  My mother appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Don’t fight,” she said.

  Sue and I jumped. We were not used to seeing her home during the day. She was wearing her bathrobe, which I knew was a bad sign.

  “What are you doing home?” Sue said.

  “I didn’t feel comfortable at the office.”

  “That figures,” Sue said. “I don’t know why you’d pick a career that defends the law. It puts you on the side of the cops and the government. Your career makes you one of them. A dressed up pig.”

  My mother smiled at Sue. She did not deserve a smile for being rude, but she was often rewarded for her bad behavior. A good daughter would have been concerned that her mother was so uncomfortable in her workplace that she came home to sleep in the middle of the day. My mother had never missed a day at the office.

  “Not necessarily, Sue,” she said. “Someone needs to stand up to the powers that be. What if the police arrested you without cause? You’d want a good lawyer to stand up for your rights.”

  “I was the one shoplifting,” Sue said. “My rights weren’t violated.”

  “Okay,” my mother said. “But what if you were wrongfully accused? Wouldn’t you want someone to defend you? Even now, even if you are guilty as charged, don’t you think it’s good to have a lawyer at your side to protect your interests? Everybody has the right to self-defense. Lawyers do a lot of good in the world.”

  Sue said nothing.

  I was glad my mother stood up to her.

  “I believe in what you do,” I said.

  My mother smiled. “Thank you, Chloe.”

  I knew, though, that it did not matter whether I offered support to my mother. It was always Sue and her rude behavior that got my parents’ attention. My father had never spent time with me the way Mr. Markman had today.

  I looked at my mother, standing there on the steps. My conversation with Sue seemed to have died. I was relieved that I would not need to explain to her what I had done that day, because I wanted to keep my basketball lesson with Mr. Markman secret. It was mine, and it was precious.

  “I hope I am not intruding on your privacy,” my mother said. “It must be strange to find me at home.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” Sue said.

  “She doesn’t mean that,” I said. “We’re both worried about you.”

  My mother looked at Sue. “I hate it that you are so angry,” she said.

  Sue pointed to me. “Blame Chloe for that.”

  I was sick of Sue blaming me for everything. Everything was always my fault. I was surprised she didn’t blame me when she got arrested for shoplifting.

  “Come upstairs,” my mother said. “I’m watching television in my room. Come keep me company.”

  We went to my mother’s room and took positions on opposite sides of the king-size bed. Daisy also jumped on the bed, curling up on the bottom, beneath my mother’s feet. My mother was watching Sesame Street. “There are so many new characters,” she said, “since the last time I watched. This big elephant, for instance. Who is he?”

  “Big Bird’s imaginary friend,” Sue said. “Snuffleupagus.”

  I could hardly believe it when Sue curled up next to my mother, laying her head on her chest. She hated our parents, used to cringe when they tried to hug her or kiss her good night. I felt neglected, somehow, on the other side of the bed, watching my mother idly rub Sue’s head. I wondered how she could bear to touch Sue’s dirty hair. I wondered what I had missed in school that day and if I could fall behind after one day’s absence. My mother was supposed to be a role model, a powerful woman lawyer, but as I looked at her, it seemed clear that she was unable to take care of herself, let alone the house, or Sue.

  My cell phone rang from my backpack. I didn’t want to answer. The Count was suffering from insomnia and was counting sheep. That would not help me with my grade point average, but the sheep floating outside his window were cute, and I was enjoying the show. This was something we never did: watch TV with my mother. It wasn’t a basketball lesson, but it was nice in its own way. The phone rang again.

  “We can’t hear the show,” Sue said.

  “Why don’t you answer that?” my mother said.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Sue said.

  I looked at the phone. The caller ID displayed Lisa Markman’s number. Her father must have told her I had been to the house. She would be angry with me.

  I shrugged. “I’m watching Sesame Street.”

  Sue lifted her head from my mother’s stomach, looking at me curiously. It was the first time that Lisa Markman, my only friend, had tried to call me that I had not answered, and Sue knew it.

  “This is wonderful,” my mother said. “Me with my girls. Come closer, Chloe. Let’s all snuggle together.”

  I put the cell phone back in my backpack. My mother patted the space next to her pillow.

  “Come here,” she said.

  Maybe, I thought, this is what life could be like. Maybe it would be nice to have our mother home for a change. If she stayed home for a day or a week or a month, maybe she would realize that we were more important than the work she did for other people, and simply by being home, she would be able to restore some balance in the house. She would help make everything all right again between me and Sue. She would take care of the dog.

  “Don’t you have to study and shit?” Sue said, just as I started to scoot over closer to my mother. “Can’t you feel your GPA dropping by the second?”

  “Sue,” my mother said. “Don’t say ‘and shit.’ That sounds so horrible.”

  I had missed a day at school. In just one day, I had already fallen behind.

  “I do have to study,” I said.

  I got up from the bed and left quickly, before my mother could protest, before I even stopped to question why. When I got back to my room and closed my door, I was shaking with anger. No matter how hard I tried, I still let Sue bully me, push me around. If I fought back, I’d be reduced to her level. I didn’t want to be anything like Sue, but I also didn’t want to study. I wanted to lie on my mother’s bed while she stroked my hair. My clean, soft, pretty hair. I was the better daughter, easier to love. I thought of them, my mother and Sue, Daisy sleeping, Big Bird talking to children from all over the world. I opened my French book. The letters swirled around the page. I took four extra-strength aspirin and shut my French book. When I closed my eyes, I could picture a basketball rolling off my fingers and into the hoop.

  “You are a natural,” Mr. Markman had said.

  Sue

  School was a fucking waste of time. It had always been a disaster for me. I was in preschool the first time I got in trouble, for trying to color orange spots on the class hamster with a Magic Marker. But Chloe had always liked it. She had always been a Goody Two-shoes, climbing onto our kindergarten teacher’s lap during story time. I hated school more than I hated Chloe. Kids called me queer because I liked to wear men’s extra-large shirts. The kids sucked, the teachers sucked, the homework sucked.

  In the weeks before Christmas, I had stopped going to school. I’d sneak back into the house every morning and spend the day at home. I’d go through my parents’ drawers, see what I could find. Then I’d search through all of Chloe’s stuff. I’d move her sweaters from her top drawer to the bottom one, just to piss her off. I’d ride my unicycle in the living room, or try to juggle tennis balls while taking a bath. If I felt lazy, I’d hang out on my parents’ king-size bed, sleep and watch TV.

  Daisy was my o
nly problem. She followed me everywhere. She’d bring me her tennis balls, put her head in my lap, beg for food, and if I yelled at her, she’d pee. She barked when I locked her in the basement. Other times, Daisy would lie on my mother’s bed next to me and I’d rub her belly. I always got back to school on time to meet Chloe at the end of the day. Chloe would see me and wave, before going off with that bitch Lisa Markman. Then they went to Hawaii.

  I wished Chloe had died in Hawaii. I’d be better off. Chloe had become a stuck-up, superior bitch who didn’t love me at all. She went halfway around the world to get away from me. I would never forgive her.

  “Pus and guts,” Yumiko had said.

  Dead would be the best thing.

  So when I watched Chloe getting out of that ridiculous stretch limo, her pretty blond hair, her nervous smile, I acted like I didn’t give a fuck. I knew that Chloe wasn’t even perfect. She was dull, she was bland, she was boring, she studied all the time, even though I told her repeatedly that school was bullshit. She had pimples on her nose. Plus I had Yumiko. There was no one like Yumiko, and she was interested in everything I had to say. Sometimes when I called her, if I said something really good, she would make me repeat it so she could write it down in her notebook. Yumiko was writing a paper all about me for her psych class. Me, not Chloe. I sent her whatever she asked for, baby pictures, elementary school class photos, a snapshot of my tattoo that I took with a self-timer.

  I could be famous without Chloe. Special without Chloe.

  I had been arrested. I could break Lisa Markman’s kneecaps if I wanted. I bought a pair of black leather boots with thick rubber soles. I found a baseball bat in the basement and put it under my bed. I was getting better and better on my unicycle. I could jump curbs, do 360-degree spins, I could walk Daisy two entire blocks before she pulled me off my perch.

  After my mother fell apart, I had no choice but to go back to school. I couldn’t stay home. Some days, she would leave the house for work, but she never lasted. She’d come home around noon, and I’d have to spend the afternoon hiding in the closet.