style="font-size:15px;"> Armed with booze, Coke, glasses, ice, and a butter knife to mix their drinks, the girls bounce out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Just in time, too. At that moment, Rollins pulls up in his old Nissan Stanza.
I watch him climb out of the car and amble up the front walk, carrying something under his arm. He runs his fingers through his hair before ringing the doorbell. When I open the door, he holds his hands behind his back.
“Choose,” he says.
“Choose what?”
“Choose a hand. Right or left.”
I point at his right hand, and he brings it forward. I’ve chosen The Exorcist.
“Wise choice.” He nods.
“Mos def,” I say. “What’s in the other hand?”
He slowly reveals his other hand. He’s clutching a bundle of blue cloth. He shakes it out, and I see that it’s a T-shirt. I suck in my breath. The cover of The Smashing Pumpkins’ album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, with an angel bursting out of a star, is on the front. Mellon Collie is one of my favorite albums. I’ve been trolling eBay for this shirt for ages.
“It came in with a shipment of vintage T-shirts,” Rollins says. “Is it the right one?”
“Ohmygod!” I cry, jumping up and down. “I’ve been looking for this forever.”
Rollins laughs at my excitement. “Are you sure? I can take it back if you don’t like it. . .” He playfully tugs it away from me, and I slap his hand.
Rollins follows me into the living room and flops onto our plaid couch, in his regular spot. I lay the T-shirt carefully over the top of the couch, a cheesy smile plastered on my face, and pop the DVD into the player before throwing myself into the recliner.
“So who’s your dad operating on today?”
“Ah, I forgot to tell you. Conjoined twins.”
Rollins’s eyebrows jump with interest. “Really? Conjoined twins? Awesome.”
I knew he’d be excited at the prospect of real, live conjoined twins. There was one time last year when we were so bored that we went to Goodwill and bought a size XXXL shirt we could both fit into. We went to the mall, and everyone stared at us while we fed each other sticky buns and went up and down the escalator. Rollins even accompanied me into the girls’ bathroom and looked away while I went pee. I know it wouldn’t be fun to really be a conjoined twin, but we love the concept of it.
I fill him in on the details of the operation. In a weird way, I envy the soon-to-be-separated twins—assuming everything goes well. Soon they will be nestled in their cots, able to lead normal, uncomplicated lives. I wish there was an operation my dad could do to fix whatever is wrong with me.
“That’s intense. It’s so cool that your dad is able to have that kind of impact,” Rollins says, pulling a loose string off his T-shirt.
“Jared Bell saves the day again,” I say.
I’m unable to stop the dark feeling that passes through me. Yeah, my dad has a positive effect on so many lives— just not mine. Maybe if I saw him more than a few minutes a day, if that. I immediately feel terrible for the thought. Selfish. Sick babies are way more important than me getting to hang out with my dad. He’s a hero for being able to put right what nature made wrong.
I aim the remote control toward the DVD player to start the movie. The sky outside is just darkening in preparation for night. Rollins interrupts the movie every few minutes with a snarky comment. I pull a quilt tight around me, wrapping myself in the moment, the familiarity. This is the way our friendship used to be, before we started drifting apart. I miss it.
Linda Blair’s head is just about to start spinning like a top full of vomit when Mattie bursts into the living room, followed by Amber. Mattie bumps into the coffee table and giggles. Someone’s been hitting the rum a little too hard.
“Oh, hello, lovely sister. So sorry to bother you. But Samantha’s coming to pick us up, and we’re going to a movie.” She slurs her words slightly and laughs again.
Amber eyes Rollins hungrily. She plops down next to him on the couch and gives him a sly smile. The tiniest worm of envy works its way through the apple of my heart. I don’t know where it comes from, but it annoys me and I squash it by glaring at my sister.
“Mattie,” I growl. “You said you were going to stay here tonight.” My eyes gravitate toward Amber and Rollins on the couch. She’s batting her eyes at him, and it looks like he’s trying to inch away from her.
“Come on, Vee. All the Poms are going to be there. Do you want me to miss out?” She yanks up the volume on her “poor me” shtick, the one I always fall for.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amber moving closer to Rollins and hitching up her skirt. She lifts a single finger and reaches out to touch Rollins’s pierced lip. “I like your piercing. I bet it feels great—”
I interrupt Amber. “Fine, Mattie. Go to the movie. But you’d better be back here by midnight. I’m not covering for you if Dad gets home early.”
A blaring comes from outside, probably Samantha leaning on her horn.
Mattie pops a hip. “Don’t do me any favors. Come on, Amber, let’s go.” She pries Amber away from Rollins, and the two of them skip out the door.
The older sister part of me winces at the thought of letting Mattie go out, as drunk as she is, but the rest of me feels suddenly lightened. At least they’re gone. They’re Samantha’s problem now. And why do I always have to be the teenybopper police, anyway? I’m not the parent. I deserve a night to just enjoy myself, don’t I?
Rollins looks relieved, too. “Should we rewind? We missed the best part.” It takes me a moment to realize Rollins is talking about the movie.
“Oh, yeah.” I find the remote control under a pillow on the floor. I find the part we were watching before we were so rudely interrupted and push Play.
I settle back into the chair and pull the blanket up to my chin. After a while, my eyelids start to droop. I shake my head, trying to wake myself up.
“Vee? Are you okay?”
I hold up a finger and take deep breaths, but it does no good. I feel that I’m about to go. Quickly, I take inventory of what I’m touching. Chair, blanket, clothes. So I could slide into anyone who’s sat in this chair recently—my dad or Mattie. Shit.
I jump out of the chair, not wanting to slide into my father in the middle of some gross medical procedure, but it’s too late. I feel myself falling to the floor. Rollins cries out.
Wherever I am, it’s not the hospital. I’m not at the movie theater, either. I’m in a bedroom—a girl’s bedroom, it looks like.
The girl I’ve become cries as though someone ripped her heart in half. She sobs, clutching a lacy blanket, wiping her snot on it. Someone rubs her back. The pressure against her skin moves in circles, this way and that. It feels so good. It feels like everything I should have but don’t.
The
