As I’m sitting there, my gaze catches something sticking out from behind the refrigerator. I recognize the shape right away: it’s a canvas stretched across a square frame, the fabric pulled tightly over the corner and held in place with a small row of staples. I can tell immediately that it must be a painting. But what is it doing behind his fridge?
Weird. Mr. Morelli isn’t an artist, but anybody with half a brain should know that you can’t store art behind a fridge; the heat from the coils will warp the painting, eventually destroying it. It’s almost like storing it behind a radiator.
I listen for a moment, paying attention to the noise upstairs. I can hear water running. Maybe he’s taking a quick shower. For a brief instant, I imagine him like that—in the shower—and I feel embarrassed all over again. Get ahold of yourself, Alice. He’s just a guy.
I walk to the fridge and tug at the corner of the painting. As it falls out from its place against the wall, I stare at it, confused.
It’s one of mine, a painting I did over the summer. It’s sort of a throwaway piece, only half-finished. I barely remember working on it at all; I think it was part of a three-day exercise in my art class at the college. As I tug it free from the space, I recognize the brushstrokes as my own; I recognize the glint in the subject’s eyes, the curve of her jawline, the wave in her hair. I recognize her playful smile, those eyes looking at me from every angle, and the small gap between her front teeth.
The painting feels oddly heavy in my hands. It’s just a thin piece of canvas, plus a few staples and nails to keep everything in place, but I can barely hold it up for more than a few seconds. My arms begin to tingle; the feeling starts at my shoulders and moves all the way down to my fingertips. I shift my weight, trying to steady myself as I hold on to the painting, but the weight quickly becomes too much to bear; I have to put it down.
As I’m resting it on the kitchen table, my vision goes fuzzy. I grab the edge of the table with both hands, afraid I might pass out. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; when I open them, everything is in focus again.
Everything except the painting.
At first the girl is only a blur, the brushstrokes so muddled that I can’t even make out her face anymore. But then, right before my eyes, her image begins to multiply. It’s the same effect that happens when a person stands in front of a three-way mirror: a hundred blurred faces fading into infinity, pulling apart as I watch, astonished by what I’m seeing, until they stretch across the entire room. The farther outward they go, the fainter her face becomes; it’s like a little more color is lost with each copy. Then, just as rapidly as they expanded, they begin to collapse, folding in on themselves from either side until there are only two faces in front of me. They both look completely real, like I could reach out and feel the grooves in the paint.
But they aren’t identical, not anymore. The image on the left is the same one I’ve been seeing this whole time: it’s the gap-toothed girl, with her long golden hair and feather earrings, smiling up at me.
The face on the right belongs to my sister. Rachel holds the same pose as her blond counterpart. She wears the same expression. She has the same glint in her eyes. If it weren’t for her hair and teeth, the subtle difference in the shape of their mouths, they could almost be twins.
“Hey.”
I scream, yanking my outstretched hand away from the faces like I’ve touched something hot. I can smell Mr. Morelli before I turn around to look at him. He smells soapy, damp, freshly showered. But there’s something else: the smell of autumn, dirt, wet leaves. It’s an earthy smell.
“Rachel, calm down! What’s the matter?” He tugs at my arm, glancing down at the table. “Oh. I see you’ve found her.”
“What?” I stare, expecting to see both faces still gazing back at me. But my sister is gone; there is only the gap-toothed girl now, her expression still and unchanging.
“The painting,” Sean clarifies. “You found her. I mean, you found it.”
“Huh?” I press my palm to my forehead, which is cold and sweaty. “Oh, right. Yeah.”
“Are you okay?” His hand is still on my arm. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, blinking again and again as I look around the room. She was right there, I think to myself. I saw her.
But now she’s gone. What is the matter with me? Am I hallucinating? Regardless, I know I shouldn’t say anything to Sean about what happened; he’d probably insist on walking home with me to tell my aunt and uncle.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to seem calm. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I saw the corner sticking out, and I was just curious—”
“Rachel, relax.” He hands me a clean towel. Then he leans past me, bends over, and picks up the painting. We both look at it as I blot my hair dry.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he asks. He has changed into loose-fitting jeans and a red-and-white-plaid button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. There are small bursts of dark hair on each of his knuckles. He holds the painting with his right hand, and he places his left hand gently on my back. I get goose bumps from his touch.
“Alice painted that,” I say.
“She sure did,” he agrees. “I can’t believe she didn’t take it with her. I was walking past the art studio a few weeks ago, and there it was, perched on an easel.” He teaches English at the community college; I used to see him there all the time last summer.
He takes a step away from me, letting his hand linger on my back for just a second before he walks across the room and rests the painting on a windowsill. “I’ve been meaning to tell her it’s over here. I’m guessing she doesn’t want it, though.” He glances at me and flashes a smile. His teeth are so white that they almost seem to glow. “Do you think she’ll mind if I keep it? I’ve been thinking of hanging it somewhere.” He pauses. “What am I saying? I should offer to buy it. She does such great work; it’s hard to believe she’s only eighteen.”
“…”
“…”
“Hey, Rachel.” He peers at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.”
I force a smile. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s getting late, that’s all. I should go home.” The clock on his stove says that it’s seven thirty already. I have to come clean to my aunt and uncle about what happened at work tonight; it’s what Rachel would do.
Mr. Morelli nods. “All right. Why don’t you let me walk you, though? Here, take my umbrella. I’ll get another one. It’s still raining out there.”
“No,” I blurt. “I’m fine. I mean, I’ll take an umbrella, but you don’t have to walk with me.” I smile again. “I’m a big girl.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he scratches his head, like he’s puzzled about something, but he finally smiles back. “I know you are.”
Before I get the chance to say anything else, he starts toward the hallway. I can tell from his movements and his expression that he knows I’m uncomfortable, but his smile is unwavering. “All right,” he says, gesturing with his hand. “Go ahead. Get out of here.”
Chapter Twenty
My feet feel unsteady on the pavement as I hurry along, holding the umbrella at an angle against the rain, which stings my cheeks as a few stray drops hit my face. Farther down the street, TJ is climbing out of his car, holding a newspaper above his head to protect himself from the downpour. His headlights are still on, beams of light slicing through the darkness, and I consider crossing the street to avoid having to say hello to him.
As I’m passing the still-vacant house that Robin and I broke into so many months ago, I glance up at the third-floor dormer window. There’s a dim light shining from somewhere in the room.
For an instant, everything goes red. It’s like a translucent curtain has been draped across my eyes. I stop dead, staring, unable to believe what I’m seeing. Again.
It’s my sister. She stands in the window, staring down at me. Robin is beside her. The two of them are so close together,
they’re almost touching. I get a sick, lurching feeling in my stomach. As I let the umbrella fall to my side, indifferent to the fact that I’m getting soaked for the second time tonight, I see swirls of red and crimson. I feel so dizzy that I wonder who might find me if I pass out right here on the street in the pouring-down rain.
I look up at the window again. The light is still shining, dim yet steady, but my sister and Robin are gone. They must have ducked out of the way. The thought of them together seems impossible, but I know what I saw. Could they have met without my knowledge at some point? Could they have been seeing each other secretly? Is it possible—it can’t be—that everyone is right, and my sister did run off with Robin on Saturday? That she hasn’t been at my grandma’s house this whole time?
Without thinking much about what I’m doing, I drop the umbrella on the street and rush toward the vacant house, onto the porch. I try the heavy wooden front door, leaning on it with all my weight, not caring that anybody who might be looking out their window right now can see me. It’s locked. Deadbolted.
I run around to the side of the house, find another locked door. In the backyard, it’s the same thing. Kitchen door: locked. Basement door: locked. I return to the front porch, where I ring the bell over and over again. I pound on the door with both of my fists, crying, so angry and confused and hurt all at once. God, what is happening to me? And just behind that, there’s another thought, one that I’d much rather not consider, not now or anytime: is this how it feels to go crazy?
I saw them. Then I didn’t see them. It happened so fast, but I could have sworn they were looking right at me, like they wanted to make sure I caught a glimpse of them, even if only for a second. Why would they do this to me? They are the only two people in the world who really know me—why would they want to hurt me? I’m crying so hard that I can barely catch my breath.
“Shh. Shh. Stop it, Rachel. Rachel! Stop it!” There are arms around my shoulders, trying to pull my hands close to my body. I struggle with whoever is behind me, trying to break free. When I turn around to get a look at the person, I almost can’t believe who I’m seeing.
Staring back at me, his brown eyes warm and full of concern, is my neighbor, TJ. He is out of breath from our struggle. Beneath the dim light of the front porch, I can see that his forearms are red and scratched.
“Let me go,” I say, still trying to wriggle away from him. And he does, releasing me so quickly that I almost fall backward. As I steady myself, I sneer at him, demanding, “What the hell are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing? You can’t try to break into an empty house, Rachel. It still belongs to someone. Are you trying to get yourself arrested?” His tone is defensive and a little harsh, but he doesn’t sound angry; it’s more like he’s simply freaked out. But what does he care? He’s never exchanged more than a few words with Rachel. And now he’s watching her? Following her down the street?
TJ takes a step toward me; I take a big step away from him. He holds out his arms; I turn my head away, embarrassed that the former dork from across the street is seeing me cry.
“Go away,” I say, choking on the words. “Leave me the hell alone, would you?”
“Of course I won’t leave you alone. Where have you been the past two days? Have you been avoiding me?”
I almost laugh. “Avoiding you? TJ, what are you talking about?”
“Sunday morning,” he says, “we were supposed to meet at our place.”
“Our place?” I sputter. “What?”
“The house on Pennsylvania Avenue,” he says. “I waited for over an hour, but you never showed. What happened to you? And what were you doing down at Sean Morelli’s house just now? Why didn’t you get in touch with me?” His tone softens a bit. “And don’t call me TJ. You never call me TJ.”
I can feel my pulse quicken as a sick feeling washes over me. There are things going on here that I have no idea about, I realize. Things that Rachel never bothered to tell me. That’s what she was doing at the house all the times she slipped away last summer—she was meeting TJ. But she didn’t tell me. Why didn’t she want me to know?
I can’t think straight. I have to leave. As I step forward, preparing to shove past TJ and run home, he grabs me by the arm and holds on tight. He pulls me close to him and slides his hands around my waist. His breath smells of peppermint gum. His lips are smooth and wet as he kisses me, hard, backing me toward the outside wall of the house.
No. Nonononono. This cannot be happening. My sister would never let TJ kiss her.
But I have no idea what else to do besides go along with it. If I push him away again, he’ll know that I’m not Rachel. I let him press me lightly against the brick, his hands sliding from my waist down to my sides as he laces his fingers through mine. After a few more seconds, he pulls away and smiles at me.
“There,” he says. “That’s better.”
His gum is in my mouth now. Ew. I have to actively resist the urge to spit it back in his face.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Things are all messed up right now.”
He squints at me. “What’s wrong? Why were you trying to break into this place?”
What am I supposed to tell him? I guess the truth—sort of. “I thought I saw my sister in the window.” I remove his gum from my mouth with my fingers and toss it onto the lawn. “I made a mistake. It couldn’t have been her. All the doors are locked.”
“She ran away again,” he says, “didn’t she? Your aunt told my mom about it yesterday.”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Rachel,” he whispers, shaking his head and grinning, “don’t worry about her. You’re here. You’re fine. And just think—in less than a year, this will all be over. We’ll be alone together. You won’t have to worry about what kind of trouble Alice is getting into anymore.”
His words feel like a punch in the gut. Surely he’s mistaken. My sister would never do … whatever it is he thinks they’re doing together.
But she is. And she’s been doing everything she can to make sure I don’t know about any of it.
As much as I don’t want to cry, I can feel my eyes growing damp at the possibility that I have no idea what’s going on in my own home, with my own twin. Why would she keep something as big as a relationship from me? We make fun of TJ all the time, sure, but she could have told me if she’d gotten to know him, or even if she liked him. I would have listened. I would have understood.
“Think about it,” he continues, “next August we’ll pack up my car and drive down to Asheville together, just you and me. No more Aunt Sharon or Uncle Jeff. No more high school. No more waitressing at the Yellow Moon. No more sneaking around and lying to everyone …” His voice lowers to a whisper again. “And no more Alice.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. I want to throw up.
“Just you and me,” I echo.
TJ nods. “That’s right.” He leans in so close that our foreheads touch. “I love you, Rachel.”
He loves her. He loves my sister. Well, then, I suppose the feeling must be mutual.
“I love you,” I repeat, amazed that he doesn’t seem to notice the hollow sound of my voice.
“Come on,” he urges, leading me toward the street by tugging my arm, far more gently this time than just a few seconds ago. “We’re being stupid. Someone will see us if we aren’t careful.”
He steps onto the sidewalk before me, picks up the umbrella, and waits for me to join him beneath it. Once I’m beside him, we walk down the street together, our arms brushing against each other.
We stop a few feet from my house. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, right?” he asks. Of course, I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m good at pretending, though.
“Yes,” I agree, “tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He smiles again. He gives me another quick kiss on the lips. “Till tomorrow.” As he backs away from me, he presses his right hand to his chest. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”
&nb
sp; The security sensor on the front door beeps as I step quietly inside the house. I cringe, waiting for the inevitable talk with my aunt and uncle about why I’m home from work so early.
“Rachel,” my aunt calls from the kitchen, “is that you?”
I close my eyes and lean against the front door. This day has been too much. All I want to do right now is talk to my sister about everything that’s happened, to confront her about what she’s been hiding from me.
My uncle is in the living room, watching Jeopardy! He barely glances at me as I walk past; his gaze is fixated on the Daily Double. “Charlemagne,” he says under his breath. “Charlemagne. It was Charlemagne.”
“Who was King George?” the contestant ventures.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. The response we were looking for is ‘Who is Charlemagne?’” Alex Trebek says.
My uncle finally glances at me, a silly, satisfied grin on his face. “I’m pretty smart, huh?”
I can’t help myself; even though the gesture is definitely more Alice than Rachel, I give him a slow, patronizing nod. “Pure genius,” I tell him. “Consider my mind officially blown.”
He frowns at me. I shrug and continue past him, into the kitchen.
My aunt is seated at the table, drinking beer from a frosted mug and rifling through a stack of bills. “You’re back early,” she says, not looking up.
I take a deep breath. “I left. I guess I quit.”
She still doesn’t look at me. “I know. Charlie told me all about it when I picked him up. He’s worried.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I got into a fight with Mr. Hahn.”
She sighs, then takes a long sip of her beer. Leave it to my aunt to use a frosted mug in the privacy of her own home; I suppose drinking from the bottle would be far too common for her. “Are you feeling any better?”
I pause, confused by the question at first. Then I remember: I told her I came home sick from school this afternoon. All the lies get difficult to keep track of after a while. “I’m okay,” I say. “Better. Not great, though.”
Beautiful Lies Page 21
