“W
atch your step,” Olivia warned Miles as they stood at the front door to her house. Her key was wedged in the lock and she was trying not to touch any of the fresh red paint, drying in streaks on the frame. Her dad had decided to keep all of the original primary colors and was in the process of touching them up. Olivia thought it gave the house a circus-tent feel, but she had to admit that the outside entrance was getting a little less disgusting every day.
Inside
was a different story.
Miles followed her into the hall, carefully sidestepping the legs of a broken ladder on the floor. He had a bulky black camera bag slung over one shoulder and was clutching it to his side, the way a supermodel might protect her teacup Chihuahua.
“Wow,” he said, craning his head up toward the spiderweb cracks in the ceiling.
Olivia dropped her bag to the floor and plopped her keys into the dish on the front table. She was already regretting
her decision to suggest her yard as a place to film part of their scene for Whitley’s class. But as soon as Miles had said they needed to find a spot for the garden scene, somewhere lush and overgrown, Mrs. Havisham style, she’d known her neglected backyard would be the perfect place.
Still, if she hadn’t run into him waiting for the bus after school, she probably would have forgotten that today was the day they had arranged to shoot it. She’d spent most of the day imagining a secret afternoon rendezvous with Soren, maybe at an out-of-the-way coffee shop, or another hidden hike. But she’d hardly even seen him in the halls all day. She was starting to wonder if maybe she’d read too much into the time they’d spent together. He hadn’t even asked for her number or anything. Maybe he just wanted somebody to talk to.
Olivia sighed, seeing the demolition zone that was her home as if for the first time, through Miles’s untrained eyes. “Sorry. I should’ve told you to bring a hard hat or something.”
Miles laughed and rested his hand on the inside of the open door frame leading to the downstairs den. “No,” he said, “this place is amazing. Look at the detail. It must be all the original molding, right?”
Olivia shrugged, kneeling down to rifle through her bag. Molding? Wasn’t that a bad thing? The house was old and nothing worked. “I think I left the script in my desk upstairs,” Olivia muttered and turned toward the rickety spiral steps.
Miles leaned over to examine the fireplace, also nonworking and currently doubling as Mac’s toolbox.
“The backyard is through the kitchen,” Olivia said, pointing over his shoulder to the big picture window on the far wall. “I’ll be right down.”
She skipped up to the third floor and into her room. She half expected to find Violet waiting for her, but quickly remembered that her sister had taken the afternoon off, deciding that homework, much like gym class, was not suitable for ghostly entertainment. There was an Andy Warhol exhibit at the de Young and she’d been talking about sneaking into it ever since they’d seen the poster on the side of a city bus.
Olivia opened the rollback top of her antique desk—the one piece of furniture she’d been allowed to pick out for herself—and flipped through loose papers and photographs. This was where she’d stuffed everything that she didn’t have a place for yet—old journals, half-finished homework, pictures she hadn’t yet framed.
She had finally located her yellow English composition notebook when her gaze shifted, landing on the curling edge of a photograph, sticking out from underneath an unopened package of Post-its. She pulled the picture out and held it in one hand, pressing back the bent corner with her thumb.
It had been taken two summers ago on the Vineyard, on one of the first sticky-hot days of the season. They’d all decided to go out on Mac’s motorboat, a cranky old whaler he’d had since before the girls were born, and were puttering around in the bay. Violet had figured out how to set the timer on Bridget’s digital camera and wedged it up and over the steering wheel, catching the four of them squinting into the sunlight, tanned and carefree.
It was the one photograph Olivia had of her whole family where everyone was smiling.
“That looks like fun.”
Olivia jumped and turned to find Miles standing at the foot of her bed. “You scared me.”
He reached for the photograph and sat down on the edge of her comforter. Olivia felt her fingers trembling and her cheeks getting hot. She’d couldn’t tell if it was because there was a boy in her room on her bed, or because that boy on her bed was Miles, or because that boy on her bed was Miles
and
he was looking at a picture of her family with Violet…but whatever it was, it was wrong. All wrong.
“Man.” He shook his head as Olivia tried not to hyperventilate. “You and your sister. Wow. I mean, usually there are little differences with twins, but you guys are, like, totally identical.”
Olivia glanced out the window. He was right. Even to people who had known them for years, it was a challenge to tell the twins apart on film. They’d always worn their long, red-blond curls to the exact same wispy, midback length. Their blue-gray eyes caught the same shimmering light in the same hidden corners, and neither had any defining facial markings—though Violet had experimented with a nose ring for a few weeks (until Bridget had threatened to relieve her of that portion of her face completely).
“And your parents look really cool,” Miles said. “It must be nice to be so close.”
Olivia looked sharply at Miles and exhaled through her nose.
Close?
“We’re not,” she said. It came out harsher than she’d intended, so she tried to soften it up. “I mean, not anymore. My mom’s never home, and my dad’s always busy with the house.”
Miles nodded, handing the photo back to Olivia. “Oh,” he
said. “I just assumed, I mean, the other night when you left, you said you guys always had dinner together.”
Olivia tossed the photograph back on her desk and hurried toward the hall. “We should probably start filming while the light is still good,” she said, waiting for Miles at the door. She’d been caught in her stupid, pointless lie, and all she wanted to do was run away, even if it was only as far as outside.
“Hey,” Miles said gently. He was still sitting on the corner of her bed and gave no sign of standing up. “After you told me about, you know, about your sister…I didn’t really know what to say. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it again, but I don’t know how. I mean, I don’t want to make you think about something you’d rather forget, you know?”
Olivia looked down at the little bows on the tops of her quilted flats. It seemed weird to have her shoes on in her room, but she’d forgotten to take them off downstairs. She was kind of glad to still be wearing them, as if they were armor she’d feel naked without.
“Not that you want to forget her. Your sister, I mean. But I guess I just wanted to say that I’m here, you know?” Miles looked up at her and smiled, in a way that looked like it hurt. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean what he was saying; it just looked like such an
ordeal.
As if smiling was stretching the muscles in his face in a way they weren’t used to moving. “I mean,” he went on, tightly gripping the engraved bedpost with one hand, as if for support, “if you ever want to talk, or anything…” He trailed off. His eyes hopped round from the floor to the window to the door, like he was stuck in a maze and couldn’t find a way out.
Olivia realized he was just as uncomfortable as she was,
and something in her softened. “Thanks, Miles,” she said, and meant it.
Miles nodded deliberately, like an executive checking off an item on a to-do list at a meeting. He rose to his feet, squeezing past her through the doorway and starting down the stairs.
It was nice of him to try.
“How’s my favorite movie star?”
Olivia was sitting up in bed, her marine biology homework open in her lap, when Violet finally returned from her afternoon of culture.
“Was it an Oscar-worthy performance?” Violet joked from the open window, one long leg dangling out onto the balcony, the other swinging against the inside wall. “What was your motivation?”
Olivia smiled and shook her head. Since Miles had gone home, she’d been trying to focus on homework, but hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Soren. Tortoises and beluga whales were not exactly the most engaging of distractions, and she was glad to have Violet back.
“We were just doing a scene of Lily painting,” Olivia explained, resting her pen in the open crease of her textbook. “She wants to be an artist but she’s really self-conscious. She’s working on this one painting for, like, the whole book, and she can’t bring herself to put on the finishing touches. It’s like she’s afraid to finish and move on.”
Violet nodded, hopping down from the window ledge and picking up the family photo Olivia had left behind on the desk. “What’s this?” Violet asked.
Olivia looked up and felt her heart sink. She had meant to put the photograph back at the bottom of the pile before Violet saw it. She still felt guilty about being so curt in her room with Miles, but she didn’t exactly want to bring this subject up with Violet. There was something about talking about not talking about your dead sister, with your dead sister—it was a little too meta. “Oh,” Olivia said quietly. “I found that today.”
Violet nodded and sat down at the desk, carefully examining the photograph, running her hands over its glossy surface. “Wow.” She sighed. “I can’t believe how happy we all look here.”
“I know,” Olivia said. Violet’s shoulders slumped forward, and Olivia knew her sister was upset, but she had no idea what else to say. It seemed unfair to try to comfort her, when they both knew it was true. They
had
been happy. They
had
been a family. Until…
The high-pitched jingle of the house phone rang out from the silver cordless on Olivia’s bedside table.
“Get it!” Violet urged as the phone rang again.
Olivia checked the caller ID and gulped loudly. “It’s Soren,” she managed.
“Answer it!” Violet yelled again.
Olivia hesitated as the phone kept ringing.
“Olivia Riley Larsen, if you don’t answer that phone this instant…” Violet seethed.
Olivia smiled and reached for the phone, taking it in her lap.
Olivia
: Hello?
Soren
: Hey. It’s Soren.
(Pause. Long period of mouth-breathing.)
Soren
: Oh, uh, sorry. Is Olivia there?
Olivia
: This is Olivia.
(Attempted casual breeziness.)
Soren
: Cool. Hey. It’s Soren.
(Pause.)
Sorry, I guess I said that already.
Olivia
: That’s okay. What’s up?
Soren
: Not much. I was just watching this movie on TV, this documentary thing about bass fishing. And it reminded me to call you.
Olivia
: Bass fishing?
Violet
: Easy with the sweet talk, buddy.
Soren
: Yeah, or maybe tuna. I don’t really know. Anyway, it reminded me because it’s a documentary, and there’s this other documentary playing at the Little Roxie on Saturday. I thought maybe we could go.
Olivia
: (
Heart exploding, but BREEZY. CASUAL.)
Oh. This Saturday? (
Pause. On purpose.)
Sure, that sounds fun.
Soren
: Yeah? Cool. All right. Well, cool. I said cool already, too, huh?
Olivia
: Yup.
Soren
: Okay. Well. See you in school tomorrow?
Olivia
: See ya.
Soren
: Okay. I’m hanging up now.
Olivia
: Me, too.
Soren
: Cool.
Olivia
: Cool.
Soren
: Bye.
Olivia slowly moved the phone down from her ear and held it carefully in her lap, as if it were a rare blue egg that she was trying to keep intact.
Violet hopped back up on the windowsill.
“Well,” she said slowly, crossing her arms and leaning back against the glass. “Aside from the train wreck at the end there, I thought that was pretty okay.”
Violet winked at Olivia, and Olivia tucked the phone back into its cradle. She turned back to her open textbook and picked up her pen, as if nothing odd or unusual had occurred. As if Soren called and asked her out every day.
Who knew, she even allowed herself to think, her eyes blurring over the shiny sidebar image of a snapping turtle. Maybe someday he would.
A
fter almost a week of accidental elbow-brushes in the hallway, heavy-lidded looks waiting for coffee at the Depot, and hidden smiles across the courtyard, Olivia was starting to wonder if maybe Saturday was purposely taking forever to arrive, just to piss her off. What was Saturday’s problem? Didn’t Saturday realize that it needed to hustle up and get here already so she could hang out with Soren again alone?
But, as she walked the few blocks from her house to the theater, where they’d arranged to meet at noon, Olivia found herself delivering silent pep talks to her feet, just to keep them moving in the right direction. How could it possibly be Saturday already? She hadn’t had nearly enough time to prepare.
Violet, who had been horrified by the early hour of the date—“Who goes to a movie at noon?”—had dressed Olivia in a pretty embroidered peasant blouse, tight jeans, and her quilted ballet flats, and then decided to stay home to give her sister some privacy.
Olivia had actually been relieved when Soren said he had band rehearsal Saturday night and suggested they catch a matinee. It felt less scary meeting him while the sun was still up, like it could almost pass for something she didn’t have to get totally worked up about.
Which was not to say that her stomach wasn’t still jumping around like a hopscotching acrobat as she turned off of Guerrero, the enormous neon letters of the Roxie marquee looming like a spaceship overhead.
Soren was the only person standing outside, leaning against a poster for a French film, which appeared to star a midget and his pet iguana. He had tiny white headphones plugged into his iPhone and was nodding to a silent beat when Olivia shuffled up beside him.
“Hey,” she said timidly, and when he didn’t turn, she laid her hand lightly on the shoulder of his coat. It was a warm day, sunny and dry, but in the shade Olivia felt a chill and was already kicking herself for leaving her own jacket at home.
Soren jumped and unstrung the ear buds from around his neck.
“Hey!” He smiled. His coat was open and underneath he was wearing a snap-button, red and white checked shirt, and dark jeans that fell perfectly somewhere between hipster-skinny and slacker-slouch. His hair was still wet from the shower and when he turned toward her she could smell his shampoo—earthy but sweet.
“I already got us tickets,” Soren said, holding up two paper rectangles and gesturing for her to follow him inside.
The lobby was empty and Olivia glanced around at vintage posters and schedules for upcoming festivals. Standing in
line for popcorn and a bottle of Clementine Izze natural soda, Soren explained that the Little Roxie was a smaller screening room built adjacent to the original full-size theater, for smaller-run independent movies and obscure documentaries.
The screening room was tiny and felt a little bit like somebody’s half-finished basement, with ratty furniture and what looked like a really big projection TV. Aside from a pair of elderly ladies in the front row, it was completely empty, but Soren looked around dramatically, making a show out of finding the perfect seat. Olivia smiled as he led her over to a small, denim-covered couch in the back corner, which looked like it would smell like cologne and old cigars. Thankfully, it didn’t.
“I’ve been trying to see this one for a while,” Soren said eagerly, shooting his eyes toward the dark screen. He pulled at the fabric of his jeans, settling back against the lumpy sofa. Olivia sat carefully beside him, holding her breath as the side of her hip bumped up against his leg.
“What is it?” Olivia asked, realizing with a wave of embarrassment that she hadn’t even bothered to ask what they were seeing.
“It’s about these…” Soren started but quickly censored himself when one of the old ladies in the front row spun around to face them. “Shhh…” the woman hushed, a beaded loop attached to the ends of her eyeglasses catching at the top of her frizzy gray bun. Soren glanced pointedly around at the still brightly lit theater and rows of empty seats between them, before turning to Olivia with one eyebrow perched high, the other angled down toward his nose. Olivia tried not to laugh.
“I haven’t been to the movies in forever,” she whispered, their heads huddling closer together. She was suddenly
unspeakably grateful that she had heeded Violet’s advice to chew a piece of gum on her walk over, discreetly dropping it in a trash can outside.
“Really?” Soren whispered back. “I go all the time. Sometimes I hide in the back and stay all day.”
“Violet and I used to do that all the time,” Olivia said, too loudly for the ladies up front, who swiveled around again to shoot them a second warning glare. Olivia bit her lip, realizing what she’d said.
“Violet?” Soren asked, smiling. “Was she a friend back home?”
Olivia’s stomach tightened into a hard little knot. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, or feel comfortable saying the words. But there was something about the picture she had of herself when she was with him. It was like she was totally free and clean, untouched by any of the things she was always trying to forget. And she wasn’t ready to taint that picture. Not yet.
“Yeah,” Olivia said quietly. “She was.”
Soren nodded, pushing his hair out of his eyes and tapping his knees with the flat part of his hands. “I can’t imagine moving,” he said, the flickering images of a preview for an animated feature reflecting in his clear green eyes. “I’d miss it here so much. That must’ve been hard.”
Olivia shrugged. She still wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that she sometimes missed home, or the fact that most of the time she didn’t.
“Mostly I just miss the stars,” she said, and as soon as the words left her mouth she realized how true they were. Nothing she’d found in San Francisco had come close to capturing the feeling she’d had at home in Willis, or on the Vineyard,
lying on the roof with Violet. It was grounding, a feeling of forever…the idea that no matter what happened, they’d always have each other, and they’d always have the stars.
“Yeah, it’s tough here, with the fog and all of the lights,” Soren admitted. “But sometimes I think it’s better this way. It’s like, when you finally do get to see them, you appreciate how special they are. You know?”
Their eyes met and Olivia smiled as darkness fell and the screen lit up before them. Hyperaware now of how close their bodies were pushed together, she felt her heart pounding in her chest. These weren’t traditional movie seats, and there was no bulky armrest to keep them apart. There was a dip in the cushions that guided their shoulders in toward each other, and their knees knocked awkwardly as they slouched deeper into the musty fabric.
The film, which turned out to be about the Iditarod, a competition for sled-pulling huskies in Alaska, had barely gotten under way when Soren wedged his hand under Olivia’s, their fingers carefully intertwining one by one.
Olivia remembered back to the only other time she’d held a boy’s hand in the dark. It had been at a Halloween party the year before, when a bunch of Violet’s friends had gotten together to watch scary movies in Jackie Ryerson’s home theater. Shep had convinced one of his football buddies, Jay, to sit next to Olivia, mostly so he could have Violet to himself in the back. About halfway through the opening credits Jay had sloppily reached for her hand. His palm was fleshy and moist and his thick knuckles gripped the sides of her fingers like a vise. She’d sat quietly for as long as she could, eventually excusing herself to the bathroom during a particularly
gory killing spree, nervous that Jay might lose himself in the moment and actually crush all of the bones in her hands, like so many empty cans of Natty Ice.
This wasn’t anything like that. As soon as Soren wrapped her hand in his own, his long thumb overlapping hers, the creases of bone and skin interlocking like soft pieces of a puzzle, Olivia could tell. It was a perfect fit.
“This place has the best burritos in all of Northern California,” Soren said as they waited to cross the street. Their eyes had still been adjusting to the stark white glare of the afternoon sun when Soren mentioned he had some time to kill before rehearsal. “It looks like a hole-in-the-wall,” he continued, gesturing down the block to where a short line had formed on the sidewalk. “But it’s always packed. And worth the wait.”
They stopped at the end of the line in front of an art gallery next door, the warm smell of baked tortillas and fresh-squeezed lime juice wafting onto the street. Olivia peered through the window and saw that Soren was right. It didn’t look like much; just a cramped little takeout joint with tile floors and a linoleum countertop, behind which a handful of men in white aprons and dark mustaches scurried around, piling ingredients high on soft tacos in their hands.
Olivia rubbed the sides of her arms to keep warm. The air conditioner in the theater had been on full blast, which had given her an extra excuse to cuddle close to Soren. But now that they were outside, it was taking her a while to thaw out. “Are you cold?” Soren asked, already peeling his arms free from the sleeves of his worn leather coat. Before she had a
chance to respond, he was draping it gallantly over her shoulders, just like he would have done in the parallel movie version of her life. Could it be possible that this was one scene she wouldn’t have to rewrite?
As happy, burrito-toting customers left the cozy café, Soren and Olivia shuffled slowly forward, edging nearer and nearer to the door. Olivia was admiring the red skirt of a short girl with dark, choppy hair, edging her way outside and reaching back to grab the hand of her lanky, orange-haired companion…What was that on her skirt? A hedgehog?
Eve and Graham!
Olivia swung around to gauge Soren’s reaction, but he was busy admiring the neighboring gallery’s window display.
“Check out these sculptures,” he said, oblivious to the impending confrontation. Thinking fast, Olivia slid out from under the weight of his coat and tossed it quickly in a heap at his feet. There was a stocky row of newspaper boxes at the corner, and she had just enough time to duck behind them before she was spotted at Soren’s side. “They’re like birds with human heads or—What the?”
Olivia watched with her face half-hidden as Soren bent down to pick up his coat from the ground, catching her eye on his way back up. She quieted his questioning glare with a single finger to her lips, and gestured up to where Graham and Eve were now standing, directly overhead.
“Hey there, butterfingers.” Graham laughed. Olivia could hear the sounds of hands slapping five and Soren clearing his throat.
“Hey,” he said, a slight tremble in his voice that Olivia prayed only she had noticed. “What are you guys doing here?”
Olivia cringed.
“Uh, eating?” Graham laughed.
Eve, pointedly, did not.
“Hi, Eve,” Soren said, regaining his composure and leaning over to inspect Eve’s folded burrito. “What did you go for?”
Olivia watched Soren’s feet shuffle around uncomfortably against the pavement, and imagined the cold stare that Eve was most likely leveling in his direction. After all, he
had
just dumped her best friend.
“Soyrizo,” she said flatly. “Like always.”
“It’s the bomb,” Graham agreed. “I swear, if this place wasn’t here, I’d probably never make it to rehearsal. It’s the perfect pre-jam snack.”
Soren and Graham laughed and Olivia held her breath, waiting as they said their good-byes and watching Eve’s red skirt disappear around the corner. When she was certain the coast was clear, Olivia stood to her feet, the backs of her knees numb from crouching so long.
“That was interesting,” Soren said when she reappeared at his side. He was wearing his coat again, his hands shoved deep in the pockets.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I panicked.”
Soren shrugged as they inched forward in line. He wouldn’t look at her, his light hair falling over his eyes as he studied a narrow strip of grass where the brick wall met the sidewalk.
“I just figured, you know, with Calla and everything,” Olivia stuttered, tugging at the elastic waistband of her peasant shirt. “It’s such a small school, and I’m still just the new girl—”
“I know,” Soren said softly. “I just hate sneaking around.”
Olivia nodded and hugged her arms to her chest. “Me, too,” she said. “And I don’t want to do it forever. But I kind of got roped into cochairing this fashion show thing with Calla now. I guess I was just hoping we could, you know, keep things quiet until that was done?”
Soren nodded and kicked at the grass with the top of his sneaker. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess you’re right.”
He didn’t look mad, and she knew he understood, but there was an uneasiness in his voice that made her heart quiver. She should have been happy that he wanted people to know about them hanging out, but it just reminded her of how sticky and complicated the whole situation was.
They inched forward and finally made it through the open door.
“Do you know what you want?” Soren asked.
The lump in Olivia’s throat made it difficult for her to imagine eating anything, but she glanced up at the chalkboard menu, reading through the various options. Soyrizo had been helpfully defined as a type of spicy vegan sausage. Also available: tempeh scramble, grilled tofu, and bean-lover’s delight.
What ever happened to good old chicken burritos?
Suddenly feeling hot and claustrophobic, Olivia tapped her foot nervously against the tiled floor. “Um,” she stumbled. “I’m not really sure.”
Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe she’d never fit in. She couldn’t even make sense of a takeout menu at a Mexican restaurant. Would she ever feel like she really belonged?
Soren looked at her out of the corner of his eye and stepped up to the counter, where an older man with leathery skin was impatiently tapping the counter with his pen.
“Hey, can I get two burritos with everything, please?” Soren asked, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. “One chicken, one beef.”
After handing over some bills, Soren spun quickly on his heels and took Olivia’s elbow in is palm. His eyes were sharp with concern.
“Wait a minute,” he said, in one quick breath. “You’re not veggie, are you?”