﻿CLOVER TRIPS AS SHE MAKES HER WAY ACROSS THE CAFETERIA TO her normal table. I watch it all happen. First her feet tangle and her tray tilts toward the floor. Then her body goes down. Soggy tater tots and, unfortunately, chocolate pudding smear all over her pretty little cardigan. She's splayed out on her belly, the bottoms of her heeled oxfords pointing toward the fluorescent-lit ceiling.
For a split second, the whole room holds its breath. Then she rolls over and starts laughing, plunging the entire senior class of Stoney River High School into convivial hysterics. She stands up, tortoise-shell glasses askew, wiping at her eyes and giggling while her friends cluck around her and dab at her sweater. Then she does this little curtsy that would be ridiculous if she wasn't so damn cute. The crowd goes wild, clapping and showering her with napkins. This absurd scene goes on for at least five minutes until Ms. Clearwater, one of the orchestra teachers, breaks it up.
I turn away, shaking my head as I poke at my rubbery cheeseburger. If that had happened to me, I doubt anyone would notice. The few who did certainly wouldn't be laughing with me.
I take one last stale bite of my lunch and then get up, eager to leave my solitary spot and retreat to the library. Usually, I eat outside, but it's freezing, the New Hampshire winter clouds aching with snow, and I was too hungry to skip lunch altogether. I don't mind eating alone. But eating alone while surrounded by a hundred other people who are decidedly not eating alone is not my favorite activity.
"Mac!"
Ever since my twin sister, Imogen, left for Huntley-Egars Academy, this performing arts boarding school in California, I'm not exactly flush with friends, so usually, when I hear anything that sounds remotely like Mac, short for Mackenzie, I barely even notice. But this time, it's the voice that stops me more than anything. I turn to see Clover heading right toward me, auburn hair falling in perfect shiny waves around her shoulders, despite her tumble. Her clothes are a different story. I doubt that sky blue cardigan will live to see another day.
"Hey," she says, still breathless from her little performance.
"Um… hi." I want to ask if she's okay. She did fall, after all. I really want to pluck the piece of lettuce out of her hair, feel the familiar silk between my fingers, but I can't do any of that. I won't.
Clover and I don't interact in public. I'm not really sure why. There's this unspoken rule and I can't decide if I'm okay with it or not. Her friends know that her parents are paying me to give her drawing lessons to amp up her college applications, but that's where our connection ends. At least, as far as everyone at school knows. It's like she's two different people. Or maybe I'm two different people. Maybe we both are, and all those little moments stolen in the quiet of my house are just that—stolen from our real lives.
If there's such a thing as a queer queen bee, Clover Hillock is it. She's on the competition cheerleading squad. She's second in our class and, by the time June rolls around, will probably have edged out Mateo Mendoza for valedictorian. She dresses like Audrey Hepburn and wears these glasses that make her look like a sexy librarian. She is my opposite, in almost every way, and I feel a familiar mask glossing over my features as she smiles at me.
"Did you see my epic fall?" she asks, laughing.
"Yeah, I caught that."
"I'm such a klutz."
"If you say so."
She frowns at my tone and wipes a hand down her stained sweater. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth like she's nervous. But she can't possibly be nervous because I'm me and she's her.
"Well," she says, "I was just making sure we're still on for tonight. It's time to learn some shading, right?"
Her best friends, Sofía and Haley, hover behind her, running their eyes over my uniform of late—dark hair in a perpetually messy topknot, gray jeans, and a dark purple fleece hoodie, which technically belongs to Imogen. I was always stealing it from her, stuffing it in my backpack before she could grab it for herself or hiding it under my bed on laundry day. It became a game between us: who could get the hoodie first and who could steal it back the fastest. She even yanked it right off my waist in the hallway between classes one time, knowing I couldn't chase her down without getting detention for being late.
"I'll get a lighter one in California," she'd said back in June as I helped her pack. Her clothes were everywhere, veritable mountains of jeans and T-shirts on her bed and floor. She folded the hoodie and then tossed it into my lap. To anyone else, it would sound like she was rubbing her whole adventure in my face, but I know Imogen. She was just being my sister, trying to let me keep at least one thing that I loved.
I pull my hands inside the hoodie sleeves and stuff them into the pockets. "Yeah, of course we're still on," I tell Clover, making my voice softer. It perks her right up, which in turn, makes me frown. We're a see-saw of facial expressions.
"My self-portrait needs some serious help," she says.
"Can't deny that."
She smiles, revealing that little gap between her two front teeth that I love and hate the fact that I love it. "Hey, be nice."
"I'm being honest. When it comes to art, that's better than nice."
"So being honest means acting like a bitch?" Haley asks, folding her arms and glaring at me.
I lift a brow in her direction. "Sometimes."
"And you wonder why everyone misses Imogen and you have no friends."
"Haley, chill," Clover says.
"Who says I wonder?" I ask.
Sofía chokes a laugh and Haley rolls her eyes. Meanwhile, Clover just looks at me, that same kind of investigative glint in her eyes she gets whenever I show her my Frida Kahlo prints, like she's trying to dig under the layers of paint to get to the artist herself.
"Come on, Clo," Haley says, hooking her arm through Clover's.
"I guess I'll see you later," Clover finally says. She pauses, just enough for me to want her to pause a little longer, before she turns and disappears into her adoring throng.
"See you," I say to her back, almost wishing I'd told her I had other plans tonight.
Almost, but not quite.
I lean closer to my sister's face on the computer screen, tapping the volume key until it's at full blast. Imogen's smile is wide and bright, practically neon, but I can still barely hear what she's saying over all the noise in the background. There are at least five girls behind her. Some of them are eating chips, some of them are tearing open packages of Oreos, all of them are laughing and loud. I catch the glint of a bottle of some brown liquid passed from mouth to mouth.
"We can do this tomorrow," I say.
"What? No, it's fine," Imogen says, waving off the chaos behind her.
A bright orange Cheeto flies across the room and lands in her messy bun. "You guys, stop!" she snaps, but she's grinning. Then she plucks the Cheeto from her hair and pops it into her mouth. Her friends erupt into more laughter.
"Sorry," she says, rolling her eyes at me while she crunches. "They just showed up in my room with all this stuff."
"Dorm life," I say.
"Right?" she chirps. "God, it's wild."
"How's the musical?"
"Ugh, so stressful." An Oreo plunks into her lap to more giggling. She simply picks up the cookie and starts munching on it.
"You love it," I say. Imogen is playing Little Red Riding Hood in Into the Woods, which is perfect for her rich mezzo voice.
She sighs and tucks a stray lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. "I do. Mac, it's so amazing here. The teachers actually know stuff and have stage experience and I feel like I'm already so much better."
"That's awesome." Except that I say it like it's the worst thing in the world, something that Imogen doesn't miss.
She clears her throat and dusts Oreo crumbs from her fingers. "Is it snowing there yet?"
"We got a few inches last week. It's just cold now."
"I miss it. It feels like spring here." As if for emphasis, she snaps the strap of her tank top against her shoulder.
"You hated the cold."
"Yeah, but sixty degrees in January is weird."
I nod and pick at my cuticles. Are we really talking about the weather?
"Hey, what's going on with Clover Hillock?" she asks.
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Grant told me you're giving her art lessons or something? Why didn't you tell me?"
Freaking Grant Silver. I should've known my sister's ex-boyfriend—who, for the record, is still totally in love with her and she's still totally in love with him but neither one will admit it because long distance sucks or something stupid like that—would report my every move.
"Because it's no big deal. I teach her how to draw a line. Then a circle. Sometimes we add a leaf to a tree or a nose to a face. Then I show her how to pick up a colored pencil and fill it all in. End of story."
She narrows her eyes at me and I press my lips together.
"She came out last spring, right?"
I huff an annoyed sigh. "You know she did. I'm amazed the New York Times didn't pick it up." If you're Clover Hillock, you don't announce that you're as gay as a glitter-covered rainbow without a lot of people taking notice. And by a lot, I mean our entire town of five thousand and something residents.
Imogen points a finger at me. "And you're bi," she says, like I don't know. Unfortunately, she pretty much yelled it to be heard over her friends' caterwauling, meaning all five of them have now clamped their mouths shut and are staring at me while my face pinkens on Imogen's tiny silver computer screen.
"Oops," she says, wincing.
"Whatever." I wave a hand.
It's not like I'm in the closet. I'm out everywhere and have been for a year. But Imogen was the first person I ever told and she knows how hard it was to tell anyone else. Our divorced parents. Our group of friends. Everyone was cool about it, even my stodgy Catholic grandmother who said, to Imogen's and my utter shock and delight, "I kissed my roommate in college. I kind of liked it." Still, all the acceptance didn't make the process any less nerve-wracking.
Then there was my boyfriend at the time, Danny, who I had been dating for a year and a half. I guess I didn't have to tell him. I wasn't planning on the fact that I was attracted to girls, attracted to people, affecting our relationship. But once I figured out this part of myself, I felt like I was lying by keeping it from him. Plus, I wanted him to know me and I thought he wanted to know me too. And maybe he did, but first, he panicked.
"Does this mean you want to, like, have a threesome?" he asked. "Because I don't know, Mac. That sort of freaks me out."