The Other Half of Me (11 page)

TWENTY

After a long afternoon of hanging out in my room and trading stories, I take Alexa with me to pick up the twins from camp. I put art supplies in and slam the trunk of the car shut, and Alexa slides into the passenger seat. She puts one hand on the roof as she gets in, just like I do.

I tell myself I’m not going to do a constant running tab of what’s the same and what’s not, but it’s hard not to. Alexa lifts her hair off her back and ties it in a knot that stays put without an elastic. My hair could never do this in a million years.

“Jenny,” she says when I start the car. “I am so psyched to be here.”

I have my hands on the steering wheel and my eyes on the rearview mirror as I back out of the driveway, but I nod to her. “Me too.”

“It’s like, I have a whole other family here that I’m getting to know. And you have one waiting for you in New York.”

If only it were that simple. There is a string of complications that Alexa somehow doesn’t seem to see.

“The truth is,” I say to her when I put on my turn signal, “dealing with Team Fitz isn’t going to be easy.” I look at her before pulling onto the road. “Don’t expect a giant welcome dinner, is all I’m saying.” Alexa nods, taking in the info but not looking damaged by it. If I were in her position, I’d want to back down, hop on the next train home, and start all over.

“Plus, there’s my painting. I have so little time.” I say this while Alexa fiddles with her tank top, smoothing out the straps on her tanned shoulders. I’m in the middle of stressing about getting the artwork done, and imagining the massive tension that will invade my house once Dad comes home, when I hear a car horn sound behind me. I’m driving all of ten miles per hour. Yikes.

“You think too much, Jenny.” Alexa leans forward and fiddles with the radio. “We have the same fingers, by the way. Do you see?” she asks, holding out her hands.

I nod. “Yeah. Your middle finger is almost the same exact length of your ring finger, like mine.”

“And our thumbs are exactly alike.” Alexa smiles with satisfaction as she looks out the window. We drive through the camp gates, and she peers out the open window, her hair flying in the breeze.

“Our thumbs.” It’s a small thing, just a tiny overlap, but it feels good.

A few minutes later Sierra and Sage leap into the car with a flurry of tights and legs, costumes and flailing hands that demonstrate just how revved up they are about the dance performance. They don’t say hello to either of us and immediately begin to gush.

“They said we’re good!” Sage exclaims. “We’re in the front for at least half of the show.”

“Well, I can’t wait to see it!” This is the first thing Alexa says to them when she turns around on her knees to make eye contact. When I twist my head and look into the back of the car, I see that the twins have their solidarity pose on—their arms are crossed in front of their chests defensively. But Alexa doesn’t see this complication and doesn’t back off. She just serves up compliments instead. “I’m sure you both have great form. It’s obvious you’re built for dancing. Anyone can see that.”

They don’t budge, and keep silent. I shrug and Alexa gives me a knowing glance. With the twins in the back and me and Alexa up front, it’s the first time I feel well-matched, ready to take on whatever my family flings my way.

“You guys don’t look alike,” Sage says, looking from me to Alexa and back as though we’re a tennis match. The tone in her voice suggests that she wants to chip away at me.

“It’s not like we’re twins.” I stare at their faces in the rearview mirror, wishing for a second that Alexa and I did have identical genes; that she’d shown up wearing exactly what I’ve got on, with some dried paint on her thigh or a consummate knowledge of visual art. Something that would prove how connected we are.

“Jenny and I have the same eyes. I’ll show you when we get home,” Alexa says.

I can’t help but notice Alexa has referred to our house as
home.
However, what I notice even more is that the twins don’t speak at all for the rest of the ride.

“Just so you know,” I whisper to Alexa as I pull into the driveway after a fifteen-minute trek through suburbia, “their dance performance is on the same night as the art show.”

When I park in front of the house, I wonder if Alexa cares as much as I do that the last days of summer are trickling away. Then again, she doesn’t have to worry about spending her afternoons trying to paint and avoid as many Fitz family outings as possible. She doesn’t have to think about the carnival and the art show and Tate.

“Ew, that sucks.” Alexa seems to take in every detail of the driveway, the exterior of the house, the lawn.

“Yeah. But you’ll come to the art show, right?” I make it a question even though I’m sure I know the answer. If the goal is to spend as much time together as possible before she goes back to her posh private school in the city, then Alexa will surely be there.

“I’ll have to see. I don’t actually know how long I’ll be staying.”

“Oh.” My heart completely deflates, and then my father’s appearance in the yard makes my heart stop. He looks every bit as angry and cold as before. The engine noise quiets, the twins sprint out of the car and rush inside, and Alexa and I leave the bubble of the car and head into the flush of family life, as sisters.

It’s make-your-own-rice-bowl night at the Fitzgerald house, and we’re in a line, à la all-you-can-eat buffet. Containers of rice, peas, roasted carrots cut on the diagonal, sautéed spinach, baked beans, strips of teriyaki chicken, and steamed broccoli are set on the counter. In a row, my family doesn’t seem too intimidating. Maybe it’s because like this, shuffling from one food station to the next, it’s like the school cafeteria. Sure, it can suck sometimes with dropped trays and with social circles ostracizing and enveloping you, but it’s over after a few minutes and you can retreat to the safety of your next class. Only here the safety would be in my room, alone with Alexa.

“Teams, by definition, imply a bond that’s unnatural,” Alexa says, continuing a conversation she and Russ started while setting the table. I know from experience that this comment of hers will raise my dad’s blood pressure. Teams are sacred to him. The church of baseball, the temple of tennis—a look of serenity and peace washes over him when he sees games played; when he’s a part of them; or even when the implements of bat, ball, or net are nearby. This is how I feel about tubes of paint, brushes, and palettes—the calm and thrill of walking into an art supply store. But somehow no one else in my family can see that.

“Teams are sacred,” Dad says, voicing his opinion firmly. I want to squeeze his hand and tell him I knew he’d say that, but he’s at one end of the line, hurling broccoli florets into his oversized green bowl. He tosses the vegetables in a little too forcefully, a sure sign that Alexa’s presence is getting to him.

Mom tries to make up for Dad’s semi-cold shoulder. “Maybe there’s another side to this, though.” She’s not overtly defending Alexa—God forbid—but trying to placate us. “Teams can make you feel—”

“Excluded.” The word slips out of my mouth and I can’t take it back. I imagine we are all shapes, jutting angles over each other, pointing and circling the connections. What are the teams here? The twins versus me and Russ, or me and Alexa versus the rest of my siblings? Parents against kids? Me and Alexa versus everyone else?

Alexa mixes beans into her bowl, clutches a pair of chopsticks, and heads to the table, where she wedges herself in next to Sage, where Sierra always sits. I wait for the fallout. Sierra comes to the table and stops in her tracks when she sees her chair occupied by Alexa. But before Sierra can protest, Alexa intervenes, waving to her enthusiastically.

“Come, sit!” Alexa pats the seat on her other side so she’s flanked by my sisters. I’m caught between feeling glad she stuck up for herself (even with a little thing like where to sit) and annoyed because it feels like one step away from me. Alexa keeps feeding the tense conversation. “It’s not that I don’t like teams. I do!”

Dad turns his icy gaze to Alexa. He can scare anyone with just a look. “Really? Do you play on any?”

It’s obvious he expects her to say she doesn’t. Then Dad will feel her argument is weak. It happened to me when I tried to dispute the camaraderie he claims is “natural” when you play sports. Not, in my opinion, if you can’t play them.

Alexa nods, her confidence steady while Dad cross-examines her. She chews her mouthful of rice and swallows, then explains. “I play on a couple of teams at the varsity level.” She sips her water. I notice my father’s eyebrows peak as he absorbs this information. My own brows are raised, too. I assumed that Alexa would be—if not dressed completely in black and an art maven—missing the athletic gene, too. Another step away from Team Jen and Alexa and toward the other side. I shouldn’t see it like that, but I do. “I also do modern dance with Marissa Lillian,” she adds.

An audible gasp from Sierra and Sage. They lean forward so they can look at each other over Alexa, their mouths agape. “Marissa Lillian?” Sage says in disbelief. “She’s, like—”

“The most famous dancer ever.” Sierra continues the sentence, making me wonder if Alexa and I will ever complete one another’s thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m into a lot of activities,” Alexa dots her mouth with her napkin. She doesn’t seem boastful, just self-assured, as if studying with this world-renowned dancer’s troupe is normal.

“That’s the coolest thing ever,” Sage says, her eyes wide with awe. A pang of jealousy flits into my body, stinging my skin. I rub my arms and push my plate away.

My mother watches me during the whole dinner, and though she joins in the conversation, I can tell that part of her is somewhere else. Maybe she wishes she hadn’t told me about my conception, or maybe she hopes all this will blow over, Alexa will leave, and this shift in family dynamics will end as suddenly as it began. But family—genetic or otherwise—isn’t like that.

Dad bumps into me when he clears his plate, his body tense and unwavering.

I decide to appeal to him. “Dad, I didn’t ask her to come, you know.” I bring my dish up to the sink.

He scrubs the rice pot hard and doesn’t look at me. “Oh, so she just appeared here as if by magic?”

“Dad,” I plead, trying to catch his gaze. Alexa watches me from the table. I don’t want her to think I’m turning against her, but I have to explain. “I was going to cancel, really, but I put it off and she just—”

“I know what
she just.
” Dad sighs and turns the water off. “But what’s done is done.”

This is one of his mediation-speak lines that doesn’t mean much, except that it’s time to drop the subject, which he does—when he leaves the room.

“So, what’re you girls doing with the rest of your night?” my mom asks. She has her I’m-just-one-of-the-girls tone on. Part of me is relieved because I know my mother well enough to understand she wants things to work out, but the other part of me feels denied somehow. Like instead of me and Alexa against the world, Alexa’s slowly being absorbed into my house. “How about a game?” She looks at me and switches gears. “Or maybe we could paint the basement?” It’s half suggestion, half question, and I know she means for it to be a nice offering, but it’s like wanting a real race car for Christmas and getting a Matchbox.

“Painting the basement isn’t the same as painting a canvas,” I say. The dishes are soaking in hot soapy water. Twenty-four hours ago, I was telling my family about Alexa. Now she’s here and it doesn’t feel as different as I thought. Change always seems huge, like your world will morph beyond recognition, the stairs will be where the doors were, the ground lifted to sky level. But it’s not like that at all. Instead, there are small shifts—maybe just seats rearranged at the dinner table, glances, and currents of connections.

“We’re going out,” I say.

“Can I come?” Russ asks. I should have known he would be the first to break. He’s a softie, plus Alexa’s got the kind of looks that make guys do double takes.

“Sure,” Alexa says before I can tell him no. Then I think back to something she said on the phone about how all the guys at her school in Manhattan were pompous, stuck-up jerks. Russ is anything but that. Alexa wouldn’t go after him, would she? I shake my head at my paranoia and step in.

“Not tonight, Russ,” I say, and note that Alexa seems disappointed. Maybe my paranoia isn’t without merit.

My father continues to ignore me and Alexa and our plans, and points toward the ceiling. “The attic. You said you’d get to it tonight, son. You can’t put it off much longer. We’re running out of space as it is.” The attic is an entire floor dedicated to sporting equipment castoffs: cleats, sneakers with the heels worn half down, football helmets that don’t fit, baseball pants with permanently spoiled knees, pads, skates, sticks—enough to outfit a village. My dad probably wants to get it organized and donate stuff to the town auction. My mom disappears into the kitchen for a minute.

“You guys could help?” Russ puts on his nice-guy face, his mouth turned up, his eyes like a basset hound.

Alexa looks tempted. “No way,” I laugh. “None of that stuff’s mine. And you know I’m not exaggerating.”