treacherously declaring that I am alive. I clamp my mouth shut and my throat constricts.
I want to evaporate.
If Jena and I were just sisters, not twins, it wouldn’t matter that I couldn’t donate blood or stem cells or bone marrow to her. But I am her twin and I still can’t.
I pull my knees up, rest my head on them, and shut my eyes. I’m trying to empty my mind, trying to lull myself to sleep. It feels like it’s working for the first thirty seconds, until I hear some shuffling and snow crunching around me. Without lifting my head, I see a pair of ratty white sneakers, with a grass stain on the left one. Above them are a pair of skinny-boy legs hidden beneath skinny-boy black pants, which are a little short for my taste.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks. Since I last saw him, he’s put on a dark green coat. He’s staring down at me, looking uncomfortable. “After our … dispute, I saw you come outside. So as soon as math ended, I wanted to come and find you.”
He exhales and I’m mesmerized by his smoky breath.
“Oh.”
“I wanted to apologize,” Jack continues. “For before, I mean. I realize I overreacted.”
“I’d forgotten all about it,” I say, pulling myself up and wiping my palms on the back of my jeans.
“As long as you don’t hate me,” Jack says.
“I could never.” I poke my elbow into his side. For once I don’t have the energy to tease him, to be the Dani he knows. I heave my backpack onto my shoulder. “We better get back inside.”
* * *
The last person I expect to see when I come out of the school building at the end of the day is my father. He’s parked by the curb, behind a snail trail of school buses. Dad waves manically, while I try to think of some way I can get away with pretending not to know him. Amnesia, maybe?
“Dani!”
I take my time walking toward the car.
“I knocked off a few hours early, so I thought I’d spare you the bus ride.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat.
My heart sinks when he doesn’t immediately start the car.
“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, his hand placed on the steering wheel, TV-dad style, “you just … you haven’t seemed like yourself lately—which is understandable. I mean, we all feel different . But I know you’ve been taking all this pretty hard and I … what I mean is … Do you think you’re … Are you worried about getting … cancer?”
Even now, it’s still hard for him to say it. I don’t blame him. It’s an icky word. Why couldn’t whoever was in charge of naming things call cancer “sugar” and sugar “cancer”? People might not eat so much of the stuff then. And it’s so much more pleasant to die of sugar.
Before I can speak, he rushes on. “Because it makes sense why you might think that, with you and Jena being twins. But as Dr. Thames explained back in July, the likelihood of your getting sick is pretty low. You don’t need to worry about that.”
He pauses now, waiting for me to confirm that this is, in fact, what is wrong.
“I get it,” I say. “Whatever I die from probably won’t be cancer. Maybe I’ll get hit by a UFO. Ooh, or one of those freak rollercoaster-ride-gone-wrong deals.”
“Dani—”
“Dad, it’s freezing in here. Do you want me to die of frostbite?”
“No,” he says, “I don’t want you to die of anything.” I stare straight ahead, my throat lumpy, as I begin to think he really is just going to make us sit here and “talk.” But he starts the car and pulls out onto the road. “So, your mom and I were looking at some RVs in the paper the other day. To rent for August.”
I relax and melt into my seat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He launches into the story, lamenting prices and filling every seat in the car, except mine, with excitement over the trip he and Mom had been planning for last August. When it didn’t happen, my parents acted like it had nothing to do with Jena’s diagnosis, like the plans just
I want to evaporate.
If Jena and I were just sisters, not twins, it wouldn’t matter that I couldn’t donate blood or stem cells or bone marrow to her. But I am her twin and I still can’t.
I pull my knees up, rest my head on them, and shut my eyes. I’m trying to empty my mind, trying to lull myself to sleep. It feels like it’s working for the first thirty seconds, until I hear some shuffling and snow crunching around me. Without lifting my head, I see a pair of ratty white sneakers, with a grass stain on the left one. Above them are a pair of skinny-boy legs hidden beneath skinny-boy black pants, which are a little short for my taste.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks. Since I last saw him, he’s put on a dark green coat. He’s staring down at me, looking uncomfortable. “After our … dispute, I saw you come outside. So as soon as math ended, I wanted to come and find you.”
He exhales and I’m mesmerized by his smoky breath.
“Oh.”
“I wanted to apologize,” Jack continues. “For before, I mean. I realize I overreacted.”
“I’d forgotten all about it,” I say, pulling myself up and wiping my palms on the back of my jeans.
“As long as you don’t hate me,” Jack says.
“I could never.” I poke my elbow into his side. For once I don’t have the energy to tease him, to be the Dani he knows. I heave my backpack onto my shoulder. “We better get back inside.”
* * *
The last person I expect to see when I come out of the school building at the end of the day is my father. He’s parked by the curb, behind a snail trail of school buses. Dad waves manically, while I try to think of some way I can get away with pretending not to know him. Amnesia, maybe?
“Dani!”
I take my time walking toward the car.
“I knocked off a few hours early, so I thought I’d spare you the bus ride.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat.
My heart sinks when he doesn’t immediately start the car.
“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, his hand placed on the steering wheel, TV-dad style, “you just … you haven’t seemed like yourself lately—which is understandable. I mean, we all feel different . But I know you’ve been taking all this pretty hard and I … what I mean is … Do you think you’re … Are you worried about getting … cancer?”
Even now, it’s still hard for him to say it. I don’t blame him. It’s an icky word. Why couldn’t whoever was in charge of naming things call cancer “sugar” and sugar “cancer”? People might not eat so much of the stuff then. And it’s so much more pleasant to die of sugar.
Before I can speak, he rushes on. “Because it makes sense why you might think that, with you and Jena being twins. But as Dr. Thames explained back in July, the likelihood of your getting sick is pretty low. You don’t need to worry about that.”
He pauses now, waiting for me to confirm that this is, in fact, what is wrong.
“I get it,” I say. “Whatever I die from probably won’t be cancer. Maybe I’ll get hit by a UFO. Ooh, or one of those freak rollercoaster-ride-gone-wrong deals.”
“Dani—”
“Dad, it’s freezing in here. Do you want me to die of frostbite?”
“No,” he says, “I don’t want you to die of anything.” I stare straight ahead, my throat lumpy, as I begin to think he really is just going to make us sit here and “talk.” But he starts the car and pulls out onto the road. “So, your mom and I were looking at some RVs in the paper the other day. To rent for August.”
I relax and melt into my seat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He launches into the story, lamenting prices and filling every seat in the car, except mine, with excitement over the trip he and Mom had been planning for last August. When it didn’t happen, my parents acted like it had nothing to do with Jena’s diagnosis, like the plans just
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