AS KIDS, GRACE AND I SPENT A LOT OF TIME at the elementary school playground, on the wooden ship with the fake wheel. I’d steer us over oceans, away from pirates. I’d climb to the top of the jungle gym and she’d wait below me, face screwed up in fear, arms out to catch me if I fell, even though she wasn’t big enough. Even though she knew I’d bring her down with me.
“Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts.” November’s sitting on the swing next to me. School’s been out for an hour now. The sky’s cloudy, rain threatening. The wind scatters dead leaves underneath the jungle gym.
I’m the one to say it for once: “Are you okay?”
“I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.” She says it like she’s tearing off chunks of something inside her chest and throwing them into a fire. “The department’s put him on unpaid leave. He was already in trouble, the way he went around asking unauthorized questions about Adam dying. He punched a hole in the basement wall.”
“Are you okay, though?”
“That woman in the video sued my dad, back in NYC. But the security video from the street camera disappeared. That’s why the chief suggested he apply for jobs in upstate New York instead of straight-out firing him.” The swing chain’s pinching her fingers. “I just don’t understand who found it.”
I twist my swing and then I let go, spinning. The playground blurs. “Are people giving you shit at school?”
“Most of the time, people forget he’s my dad. We’re not exactly color matched,” she says sarcastically. “Besides, I am known for not caring and that means people tend to return the favor.”
“But you’re okay?”
“Whoever it was who did it, however they found the recording, I’m grateful to them. My dad’s a bad person.”
I’m quiet.
“Next month I’m eighteen, then I’ll be in full control of my inheritance from my mom. Gonna sublet an apartment, graduate at Stanwick. I applied to NYU. So did Cassius, I guess.”
“He moved out yesterday,” I say. “I watched the U-Haul pull down the end of our street. Will you miss him?”
“We were temporary friends. Sometimes you gotta be friends with somebody because they need someone, not because the two of you have anything in common.”
My head hurts. “I’m here if you ever need someone.”
“You don’t wanna hear my garbage. I want you to keep looking up to me.” She grins briefly.
There’s something special about being liked by someone who hates almost everyone else.
“It’s easier than you think, not looking up to someone anymore. All it takes is you seeing their cracks. I used to look up to my dad.” She pushes off the ground, swings high. Her voice whooshes past me. “My mom was smart, rich, pretty. I know my grandpa’s mind was blown when she picked him. All the people in the world, and she goes for a white cop? Jesus.”
“Jesus,” I echo, thinking about people we’re not supposed to like, thinking of Levi.
“Mom saw the best in everybody. She looked at people like they were better versions of themselves, and it made them want to be better. She was like you.” She smiles at me for a second. “Maybe he used to be different. You get trained to see other people as screwups, rule breakers, and you forget how to treat them like they’re human. Sometimes I’m glad my mom died before she could see what he turned into.”
I shut my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nov.”
“It’s one thing to say you hate your dad. Everyone’s dad is an asshole sometimes. But it’s different to realize you’re never going to wake up one morning and have a dad who isn’t an asshole, and that you’re going to be one of those people who never talks to their dad as an adult, and when he dies someday, you’ll only find out because the hospital digs up your name in some phone book. . . .”
I jump off my swing, hug her. She’s got bird bones. The feel of human skin on mine starts to bring back far-off fireworks of that night with Cassius. My nerve endings reroute straight to it now.
“I’m sorry,” November says. Her forehead’s on my collarbone. “I don’t want to be this way to you.”
“You’re not any bad thing to me,” I say, but she’s already gathering the calm back on her face like she’s tying up her hair.
“When you’re a kid, the people you’re stuck living with, it’s a lottery. If they’re assholes, too bad. There’s nothing you can do until you turn eighteen.”
“Parenthood is weird,” I agree. “It’s like, here, have this small person, do whatever you want to it until it’s a bigger person, we don’t care.”
“I think that’s why we end up being each other’s parents. We’re the only ones who know what it’s like.” She hops off the swing, lightly punches my shoulder. “That’s why it’s my job to look after you.”
I have to tell her about the blackmail. I can’t spend my life not telling people things because I’m afraid they’ll stop liking me.
But my phone buzzes first. It’s Levi.
there is an absolutely terrible zombie movie playing tonight. sounds like a great excuse to sit awkwardly next to each other for a couple hours and get blushy every time our arms touch. you in?
I completely forgot that we were going to see a movie.
But I can’t go when all of this is happening. That would be insane.
November grabs my phone.
“Hey!”
“I reserve the right to know who’s texting my friend and making her turn that shade of red.” She skims it. Her eyebrows fly up. “Levi? As in the new kid Levi? As in Adam Gordon’s half brother?”
“He’s tutoring me in American History. It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, I’m sure your American History homework was to go watch a shitty movie and ‘get blushy.’” Her knuckles tighten on the phone. “What’s he want with you?”
“He’s nothing like Adam. At all. He didn’t even know Adam.” I’m babbling. “He’s just new. We’re temporary friends, like you and Cassius. He’ll make better friends soon.”
“Better friends?” November repeats, and starts laughing so hard she doubles over.
“What?”
“You’re not good at much, you know that?” she splutters. “You’re shit at grades, you’re way too aggressive at sports—remember when you tried to join the soccer team and kicked the goalie in the face? You suck at art, your fashion sense blows. . . .”
“That’s what I meant.” I stick out my tongue at her. “He’ll find better friends.”
“That’s why I’m laughing.” She flicks my hair affectionately. “You are the best friend. That’s the one thing you’re good at. I’ve never met anybody who obsesses over doing right by her friends as much as you.”
I tense. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m actually a selfish bitch,” I say lightly.
She bursts out laughing again. “You’re cheering me up.”
I smile, but my heart is pounding. “Everything I do is selfish. I do nice things just to feel better about myself. I’d probably throw somebody in a shark tank so I could be the one to pull them out. Best friend ever.”
“I know you’re kidding. But there’s a good and a selfish reason for everything, and the fact that the selfish reason exists doesn’t cancel out the good reason.” She rolls her eyes. “Senior wisdom from November Roseby. So are you gonna go hang with the new kid at the movie theater or what?”
“You’d let me?”
“What do you mean let you? I’m not your babysitter.” She snorts. “If I am, I’m a cool babysitter with a radical taste in music.”
“I just meant . . . you didn’t like Adam.”
“I of all people understand that people aren’t clones of their family members. In fact, I think people tend to swing the complete opposite way. So by that logic, Levi’s a saint.”
“I won’t hang out with him if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“You’re ridiculous. I am not an asshole.” She hands my phone back. “Plus, you’ve been stressed, even if you won’t talk to me about it. It’s okay to take a break to do something that makes you happy.”
“I don’t want to go off and see a movie when you’re bummed.”
“I’ll get over it. You can be happy. It’s not cheating. Go to the movies or I’m going to be pissed at you.”
“But—”
“Go. Leave. I’m not saying another word to you.”
I open my mouth again, but she mimes zipping hers shut.
So I go. Just this once. Just so Levi has an excuse to get out of the house.
As I walk across the playground, I hear her mutter to herself, “Better friends.”
And she starts laughing all over again.
The movie’s long, boring, a chance for me to doze off, shut down, not think. It’s like being in the auditorium—a cool dark place with Levi next to me. It’s probably why people go to the movies so much, even though they’re expensive and you can watch them all online. It’s an excuse to sit in the dark next to somebody nice without worrying about messing it up with words.
When Levi and I walk out, it’s dark. He buys us two sodas and we sit by the fountain outside the shopping center.
“I don’t remember anything from that movie,” I confess.
“Guts everywhere and explosions. That’s what I remember about Adam when he was nine, how he loved that shit, how our dad loved that he loved it. Like he was doing manhood right. I cried through those movies.” He laughs. “This is how I make girls like me. I tell them about all the times I cried.”
“That’s the only time you told me about when you cried,” I point out.
“Are you asking about other times?”
I shrug, but I am.
“I’ll tell you, because I want to pretend you’re interested. Let’s see. The last Harry Potter book, obviously.”
“There’s got to be more than that.”
“You are interested.” He smirks. “I can’t think of any. I told you about the movie thing—now you think I’m a crier. But I don’t cry. I’m very manly.”
Talking to him is so easy. He doesn’t expect anything back.
“People never think Asian guys are manly,” he says. “Obviously gender stereotyping is bullshit, and so is the gender binary, et cetera. But I’m manly as fuck. I’ve gotten into so many manly fights.”
“You get along with everybody.” Except Ben.
“I don’t get along with people who say shit about my mom. And people at my old school liked to say shit about my mom.” He rubs his sneaker through a glob of melted ice cream. “Man. Now I brought that up, and you’re going to ask. But I don’t really want to talk about it. Perils of being somebody who never thinks before he speaks.”
I desperately want to know about his mom, why he hasn’t gone back to Indiana yet. “I won’t ask,” I say anyway.
“Cool. I’ll change the subject back to crying, then. You know I haven’t cried about Adam yet? I thought I was going to at the funeral. I was like, shit yeah, Levi, you’re almost there, but then this other girl started bawling and I went into Advice Levi mode.”
He digs a coin out of his pocket and flips it into the fountain.
“It’s so cliché, isn’t it? Me not crying shows how I haven’t processed my feelings about Adam. Eventually I’ll have a big cry fest and grow as a person, probably in the rain, et cetera.”
“It might rain. It’s cloudy.”
“It’s been like this all day. The sky and I are doing an excellent job of repressing our tears.” He grins.
I smile back, letting this happen. Don’t think about Grace, don’t think about the blackmailer, don’t think.
How long am I allowed to do this? November said it wasn’t cheating.
It feels like cheating.
“That police officer, did you hear if he got fired or not?” he asks. “Where’d you find that video again? Online?”
I stop smiling. “Can we not talk about that?”
“Sorry. Anything you don’t want to talk about, I am militantly against talking about.”
There’s a brief silence.
“There,” I say.
“There what?”
“An awkward silence. I was wondering if you’d let one happen.”
“Normally I never let one of the bastards slip by me,” he says. “People are like, learn to be comfortable with silence. But fuck that. Silence is awful. Silence was all I got from Adam for years.”
“Do you ever think maybe he’s not worth all this?”
“Worth has nothing to do with it. Maybe he was an asshole. But he was family, you know?”
I nod. I do know.
“I wanted to find out the stupid things. Like which of us would’ve been the smart one and the dumb one, or the cool one and the awkward one, or the talkative one and the quiet one. I think I would’ve been the talkative one, but maybe I’d’ve switched if he wanted to be. Like, who would I have been in the context of Adam?”
My throat’s dry. “I like who you are in the context of you.”
“I wonder who I am in the context of you,” he says.
“Let’s go back to talking about the weather.”
“That was too flirty,” he admits. “Tell me more about your sister. I like hearing you talk about your sister.”
“She’s awesome.” My chest aches. “She’s, like, a genius. She’s always on top of everything and nothing can touch her. She’s perfect.”
“All right, I lied. I’m not that interested in your sister. I just like seeing you smile.”
I look away. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“I like to leave open the possibility of it being a joke. That way I don’t have to take responsibility for it.”
The old Joy would have loved him. Would the old Grace have loved him?
“Joy’s Grace sounds pretty cool,” he says. “I hope I get to find out what Grace’s Grace is like sometime.”
He’ll never meet her. “Joy’s Grace?”
“You know. Grace in the context of Joy.”
“Grace is just Grace. There’s no secret version.”
“Maybe it’s different with twins.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’re too used to being in the context of each other,” he says. “Most people get the chance to try out lots of different versions of themselves, depending on who they’re with, then settle on the version they like best. That’s probably why people get married and shit. So they can go on being in the context of that person forever.”
“But then that’s a lie, isn’t it?” I say quietly. “Believing in the way somebody else sees you instead of the way you actually are.”
“I don’t think there’s one real version of a person and everything else is fake,” he says. “People have lots of parts.”
“I think I just met Philosophical Levi. He was unexpected.”
“Not as unexpected as Exposer of Evildoers Joy, let me tell you.”
I flinch.
“It’s okay. That police officer was a dick. People deserved to know.” He gently nudges my shoulder. “Sorry. Not talking about it.”
But it’s too late. The blackmailer’s back in my head. I’ve stolen too much time here. “I . . . told my sister I’d help her with her project tonight.”
“You’re gonna go have giggly sister talk about the date you had with this cute dude. Don’t try to hide it.”
I smile painfully.
“Do me a favor, would you? Just, like . . . enjoy hanging out with her tonight. It’s special, getting to have time with your family. I always thought I’d have time with Adam someday.” He shrugs so casually it hurts.
But he’s wrong. I’ll always be with Grace. It’s him I won’t have much time with. He’s going to go back to Indiana and forget about his temporary Stanwick friend, and I’ll never have to tell Grace that I spent any time with Adam’s half brother.
I figured out how to keep her secrets. Now I’m learning how to keep mine.
When I get home, Mom and Dad are in the living room, watching TV. I wait, but neither of them says anything about the fact that I’m home so late. Either they’ve forgotten to be suspicious of me or they’ve given up completely.
“Did any mail come for me today?” I ask.
“None.” Mom doesn’t look away from the TV. “Leftovers in the kitchen for you.”
I ignore the plastic-wrapped spaghetti on the counter and go straight to Grace’s door.
Come on, Grace. Open your door so I won’t have to. Sense me standing here. I reach for the knob, and an invisible monster folds each of my fingers back until the snapping is deafening. But I twist it with my mangled hand.
Grace would never lie in bed with her laptop like I do, marinating in crumbs. She’s sitting at her desk. She’s organized all her books by color since the last time I was in here. It’s hermetically clean, vacuum sealed.
“Are you busy?” I ask.
The profile of her face is lit up blue by the computer screen. “I have a lot of work to do.”
Does she even realize how much she sounds like Mom?
I sit on the edge of her quilt, the blue-and-green-patterned one she’s had forever. It’s the only thing in her room left from our childhood, since the lamp broke. She put everything else in boxes or threw them away.
“I don’t want to keep secrets from you,” I say.
She closes her laptop. “You’ve never kept a secret from me in your life. You can’t even stop yourself from telling me what you got me for Christmas.”
“Would you be mad if I was keeping one?”
“I would never be mad at you about anything.”
“You’re allowed to be mad at me, Grace.”
She bends her legs underneath her, balancing on top of her desk chair in a position that looks uncomfortable. “Where are you going with this?”
I have to tell her about the blackmail. She’s my sister and she deserves to know. She’s my sister and she would never stop loving me.
I don’t want to do this without her anymore.
“This is going to sound ridiculous,” I manage, and then I steel myself and let it all spill out. The notes, the photos of Principal Eastman, the security video of Officer Roseby . . .
It does sound ridiculous. It’s so ridiculous I’m not even afraid.
“And I should have told you sooner,” I finish. “I should have told you the second it started. I was scared you’d think . . .”
She’s so quiet.
“That the blackmailer is telling the truth,” I stammer. “That I really did . . . kill him, and I just don’t remember. Even if Preston says I left the party before then. What if I came back?”
“Do you think you did it?” she asks.
I have no idea what her thoughts are, behind that face that looks just like mine. “I’ve been trying not to ask myself that. If I’m capable of it, I don’t want to know. But what if I am, Grace? I wanted to.”
It burns a hole in my chest.
“How do you do something like that and live with yourself?” I whisper. “The worst possible thing.”
“Him dying was not the worst possible thing.”
“That wasn’t . . .” I flush.
“I’m sorry.” She pulls her hair over her face. “This is so crazy. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to make you worry.”
“You should have come to me.” She softens. “You should always come to me. There’s no way you killed him. Just because you said you wished he was dead. People say things they don’t mean. Okay?”
She smiles at me anxiously.
I breathe.
“You wouldn’t do that,” she repeats. “You’re not capable of that. I don’t care if you don’t know. I know. I know you better than anybody. I know you better than you do.”
The last piece of doubt lodged in my heart starts to dissolve. Maybe Levi’s right, and Grace’s version of Joy isn’t a complete imposter. Maybe I could be her again. It’d be so much easier than finding out who my own version of myself is, and not liking her.
“I can’t stand that you’ve been dealing with all this on your own.” She peers at me, eyebrows knotted. “Are you okay?”
“I told Preston.”
“You told Preston and not me?”
“Like I said, I was scared you’d be mad—”
“I’m never going to get mad at you, okay? You could stab me and I wouldn’t get mad at you. You’re my twin.” She sits back down. “Does Preston have any ideas about who the blackmailer might be?”
There’s a jealous tilt to the way she says Preston.
“He doesn’t think Adam’s death was an accident. He thinks the blackmailer is the real murderer. And he thinks it must be someone at our school, somebody who was at the birthday party and someone who knows what—”
I stop.
“What he did,” she finishes for me, eyes fixed on the carpet.
“Nobody knows about that, though.” It’s amazing, all the ways you can talk about something without naming it.
Then she says something weird.
“How much would you say you know about November?”
I blink. “A lot.”
“But how much do you know about her past?”
I don’t understand where this is going, but this is the most Grace has talked to me in ages. I run through a checklist of all the things I know about Nov. “Her mom died before she and her dad moved here from the city.”
“But what about after that? Do you know why she was out of school her sophomore year?”
“That was before I met her.” When she was Annabella.
Grace taps the side of her knee in a steady rhythm. “Did she go to Adam’s birthday party?”
“Well . . . yeah. But she didn’t stay.”
“She’s always hated Principal Eastman,” she murmurs. “And her dad.”
“Grace.” I hold up my hands. “Stop. I get that you’re trying to help. But Nov isn’t blackmailing me.”
A long silence.
“You idealize people, did you know that?” she says.
I don’t say anything.
“You put them on these pedestals, so high up you can’t see any of their flaws. But I can see them. November’s always given me a weird vibe.”
A snake rears its head in me and says you’re jealous. But I cut off its head before it slithers out of my mouth.
“The way November acts around you, that’s not who she really is,” she says. “She puts on this act around you—”
“Besides the other one billion reasons you’re wrong, Nov would never murder someone.”
“Do you really know what she’s capable of?” Her eyes are faraway. I always forget how analytical she is. “What the blackmailer is doing, it’s just like November. She likes to shame people. Put up signs, call people out, make a scene. Remember how she put up all those posters about Principal Eastman’s dress code being sexist?”
“That’s different,” I say desperately. “How would she have even found those photos of Eastman?”
“She’s the head of the school newspaper. She’s always digging around, looking for things to publish. Maybe she searched his desk. I don’t know.”
It does sound like something she would do. I shake my head, feeling sick. “The video of her dad, though. There’s no way.”
“You know how much she hates her dad. You really don’t think this is something she’d do to get revenge on him?” she says. “Like, how would anyone besides her even get ahold of that video?”
Today she told me she was grateful to the person who showed the video.
What if that was her way of thanking me?
All it takes is you seeing their cracks.
Before I got the first note I’d told her I couldn’t remember anything from Adam’s birthday party—
What the fuck am I thinking?
“November’s not the blackmailer,” I say, hard. “If she wanted help exposing the principal and her dad, she would have asked me, not threatened me.”
“Maybe you were the only person she trusted to help her, but she didn’t want you to know that it was her doing it.” Grace is lost in thought. “What if she tries to hide that she’s unstable by acting like nothing gets to her, but in reality, she’s losing it—”
“Shut up!”
She flinches.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I want to drown myself. “It’s just that this is screwed up. There’s nothing wrong with Nov.”
Her eyes are big and sad. “Joy, November was out of school her sophomore year because she was in a mental health facility.”
I shake my head. “She would have told me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“How do you know that and I don’t?”
“I’ve been keeping stuff from you, too.” A spot of blood appears at the edge of her thumb where she’s been picking it. “I wanted to put everything about this summer behind me. That’s why I never told you . . . that November knows about what happened to me. She’s known for ages. I told her.”
“You told her about Adam? Why?” I whisper. “You don’t even like her.”
“Because—” She hides her bloody thumb in her fist. “Adam raped her, too.”