One

  Mom delivers boiling

  drinks

  and tries to make us

  eat a little toast.

  But we are too sick

  to move.

  I Cannot Shake It Off

  I cannot get these shivers to go away

  and though Tippi seems way better

  she has to stay in bed, too.

  While I

  fight the flu.

  Worrying

  Mom calls Dr Derrick

  and gives him

  a list

  of our

  symptoms.

  He isn’t worried,

  for now.

  He tells her to keep us hydrated

  and in bed for a few more days.

  He tells her to watch us.

  But Mom can’t help watching.

  She can’t help worrying.

  And why wouldn’t she

  when so few of us manage to make it to adulthood.

  The older we get

  the more she frets.

  As time ticks by

  the chances of us

  suddenly

  ceasing

  to be

  get

  quite

  high.

  That’s just a fact

  that will

  never

  go

  away.

  I Get Up

  I don’t want to.

  My legs are wobbly.

  My throat is coated in sand.

  And my heart feels as though it’s beating

  extra hard

  just to

  get me from the bed

  to the bathroom.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to lie down?’

  Tippi asks.

  I shake my head.

  I can’t confine her to bed

  just because I can’t get my

  act together.

  I shake my head

  and suck it up.

  Almost

  The front door opens and closes

  and Dad’s voice calls out,

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

  We are so close to finishing the jigsaw puzzle

  we don’t shout back.

  We don’t even look up.

  All we want is to conquer this Picasso,

  these masses of colour.

  ‘I got you presents!’ Dad says,

  sweeping into the kitchen and

  throwing two bags right

  on top

  of the puzzle.

  We hold our breaths.

  Dad rummages.

  He pulls out two boxes and

  hands them to

  Tippi and me.

  I gasp.

  Phones—

  brand new,

  still wrapped in cellophane.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Dad smiles.

  ‘You’ll need them for school tomorrow.

  They’re state-of-the-art

  and they’re new.

  For my girls.’

  ‘I thought we had no money,’

  Tippi says.

  Dad ignores her and hands a larger box

  to Dragon.

  ‘And for you,’ he says.

  Dragon peers inside,

  blinks,

  and takes out a pink satin

  ballet slipper.

  She turns it over to look at the sole.

  ‘They’re nice,’ she says.

  ‘But they’re too small.’

  The fan in the corner of the kitchen whirs.

  Dad stares at her steadily.

  ‘They’re too small

  is all,’ Dragon tells him.

  Dad sighs.

  ‘I just can’t win, can I?’ he says.

  He grabs the shoebox from Dragon,

  pitches it back into the bag,

  and pulls the lot

  down from the table,

  taking every last piece of Picasso

  with it.

  Truth Is What Happens

  Tippi,

  half dipped in sleep,

  drains her coffee mug and

  stares into her scrambled eggs

  as though she can read her future in the

  yellow and white

  swirls.

  I never

  usually

  rush her,

  but we can’t be late,

  not on our first day of school,

  so I quietly clear my throat

  —ahem, ahem—

  hoping it will stir her from daydreaming long enough

  to get going on the marbled eggs.

  Instead it is like pouring

  icy water into a

  pan of hot fat.

  Tippi pushes away her plate.

  ‘You know I’m owed a

  goddamn gold medal

  for all the times you’ve kept me waiting

  over the years.’

  So I whisper,

  ‘I’m sorry, Tippi,’

  because I can’t lie and pretend the

  throat clearing

  meant nothing.

  Not with her.

  Truth:

  It’s what happens

  when you’re bound like we are

  by a body too stubborn

  to peel itself apart at conception.

  Uniform

  Unlike Dragon’s school

  where they can wear what they like,

  Hornbeacon expects all students to wear

  uniforms—

  bright white shirts, stripy green ties,

  a plaid skirt

  with pleats down the front.

  The idea

  is to make everyone look the same.

  I know that.

  But it doesn’t matter how we dress.

  We will always

  stand out,

  and trying to look like everyone else is stupid.

  ‘It isn’t too late to back out,’ Tippi says.

  ‘But we agreed to go,’ I reply,

  and Tippi clicks her tongue.

  ‘I was forced into saying yes.

  You think I want this?’ she asks.

  She tugs at the tie knotted around her neck,

  pulling it up

  and into a noose.

  I reach for the skirt and step in.

  Tippi doesn’t resist

  but pulls it into place.

  ‘I feel so ugly,’ Tippi says.

  She laces her fingers through my hair and

  separates it into three thick strands

  which she plaits and unplaits.

  ‘You’re not ugly.

  You look like me,’ I say, smirking,

  and squeeze her hand

  tight.

  What is Ugly?

  I’ve been in enough hospital wards to have seen horrors:

  a kid with his face melted down one side,

  a woman with her nose ripped off and ears hanging loose

  like strips of bacon.

  That’s what people call ugly.

  Not that I would.

  I’ve learned to be less cruel than that.

  But I know what Tippi means.

  People find us grotesque,

  especially from a distance,

  when they see us as a whole,

  the way our bodies are distinctly two

  then merge,

  suddenly,

  at the waist.

  But if you took a photograph of us, head and shoulders only,

  then showed it to everyone you met,

  the only thing people would notice is that we are

  twins,

  my hair to the shoulders,

  Tippi’s a little shorter,

  both of us with pixie noses

  and perfectly peaked eyebrows.

  It’s true to say we’re different.

  But ugly?

  Come on.

  Give us a break.

  Dragon?
??s Advice

  If I’m being completely honest,

  school’s probably the worst place you’ll ever go in your life.

  Seriously.

  Middle school is bad

  but I hear high school is hell.

  The kids are mean and the teachers are bitter.

  Really.

  Listen,

  whatever you do, don’t get stuck with the first kids who want to hang out

  with you

  because chances are no one else likes them.

  That’s social death.

  And in the cafeteria, sit as far away as you can from the jocks.

  I mean it.

  And I know this sounds weird, but if you need to poop,

  wait until you get home.

  Bathrooms are for cigarettes and make-up.

  That’s it.

  OK?

  I’m sure you’ll

  be fine.

  Mom

  ‘Time to go,’ Mom says.

  She jangles the car keys and

  steps into the hall.

  Her hair is wet.

  Damp spots bloom on the

  shoulders of her shirt.

  Mom does not dry her hair any more,

  nor straighten it.

  The only indulgence she allows herself

  is a smear of gloss on her lips

  sometimes.

  She never used to look so plain.

  She used to have time to do herself up,

  but that was before Dad’s college

  made cutbacks and let him go,

  before Mom took on extra hours at the bank.

  I can’t remember the last time I saw her

  flick through a magazine

  or sit to watch something on TV.

  I can’t remember Mom being still for more

  than a moment.

  Her life now is

  work,

  work,

  work.

  So despite my sweating hands and the sick feeling in my stomach,

  and regardless of whether or not

  Tippi and I want to go to school,

  we will go.

  We will go,

  and we will

  not complain.

  Hornbeacon High

  The building is white,

  ivy eating its way up the broken walls,

  windows small

  and scratched.

  Most students are

  pulling at one another and squealing,

  basking in their easy, friendly reunions.

  But I

  study those

  who are alone,

  at the edge of this noise,

  the kids holding their school bags close,

  keeping their eyes down,

  so I can

  impersonate their

  invisibility.

  Among Wolves

  ‘You will not be thrown to the wolves,’

  Mrs James, the principal, says,

  and presents Yasmeen—

  a student to be our guide,

  ‘and friend …

  for a while,’ Mrs James says.

  Mom and Dad look relieved,

  as though this girl with a conspicuous hot pink

  bob and

  skinny wrists

  could fend off more than a moth.

  ‘Holy cow!

  You guys are amazing!’ Yasmeen says,

  without looking sickened,

  which is, I think,

  a pretty good start to the day.

  And what she’s said

  is true.

  It is amazing we survived

  the womb.

  Amazing we didn’t die

  at birth.

  Amazing we’ve lived as long as

  sixteen years.

  But I don’t want to be amazing.

  Not here.

  I want to be as boring as everyone else

  though I don’t tell Yasmeen this.

  I smile and Tippi says, ‘Thanks,’

  and we follow our tiny

  pink-haired defender along the hallway

  to class.

  Eyes

  Tippi can’t stand clowns.

  Dragon is terrified of cockroaches

  and Mom of mice.

  Dad pretends to be fearless,

  though I’ve seen him flinch when the mail arrives,

  seen him hide

  hospital bills and parking tickets under

  stacks of junk mail and old newspapers

  in the hall.

  Me?

  It’s eyes I despise.

  Eyes,

  eyes,

  eyes

  everywhere,

  and the probability that I’m

  another person’s nightmare.

  So when Yasmeen opens the door to our homeroom

  and every head

  turns

  slowly,

  I grab Tippi’s right wrist

  like I always do when

  I’m afraid.

  ‘Welcome! Welcome to Hornbeacon!’ the teacher says,

  doing everything she can to sound natural.

  Yasmeen groans, leads us to some seats at the back.

  And the whole way there we are

  followed by a field of open mouths,

  thirty pairs of bugging-out eyes,

  and one hundred percent pure

  panic.

  In Homeroom

  Mrs Jones

  reads through the school rules,

  allocates lockers,

  and hands out personalised schedules.

  Yasmeen grabs ours

  before Tippi and I have

  a chance to look at it.

  She runs a finger

  down

  the

  columns,

  along the rows.

  ‘We’re together for most subjects.

  Awesome,’ she says,

  and claps me hard

  on the back

  like she’s known

  me for

  years.

  Maybe More Than That

  For all her silly hair

  and thin bones

  Yasmeen is not delicate or lace-winged.

  She swears at anyone who gives us

  a slanted look

  and threatens

  to break the fingers of a freshman

  who smirks when he sees us.

  Yasmeen doesn’t have an entourage

  like the prettiest girls,

  the blonde ones with bouncing breasts and

  invisible bottoms,

  but still,

  no one gets in her way.

  And she seems to have only one friend,

  or maybe he’s more than that,

  a boy called Jon

  who introduces himself in art,

  holding out his hand and

  looking at Tippi and me

  in turn

  like we truly are

  two people.

  Art Class

  ‘God I hate being back,’ Jon says,

  yawning and battering a clot of grey clay

  with a rolling pin until it is

  flat.

  His eyes are walnut brown and quiet.

  His hair is shaved so tightly to his head

  he could be in the army.

  His hands are speckled in tiny tattoos—

  stars that seem to twinkle as he moves

  his fingers

  through the clay.

  ‘At least you get to see me every day,’

  Yasmeen says huskily

  and nips and tucks at her own clay piece

  until it is a lopsided pot.

  ‘I’m Tippi. This is Grace,’ Tippi tells Jon,

  talking for both of us.

  But

  I want to speak

  for myself.

  I want Jon to hear my voice,

  though I sound identical to my sister.

  And I want
his eyes focused on me

  as they are focused on Tippi:

  still

  and without the tiniest

  hint of horror.

  In Our Free Period

  In the common room

  they crowd around

  like we are

  lunch

  and they are

  starved animals ready to feed.

  Necks long

  —stretched and taut—

  they strain to see.

  It isn’t as though we’re performing

  a butt-naked cancan routine.

  All we are doing is

  leaning on our crutches.

  Yet this is enough.

  Our very beings keep them mesmerised.

  The spectators are girls with

  smooth hair,

  boys with collars

  turned up,

  their nails clipped and clean,

  and as a pack they look like a scene

  from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue—

  everyone groomed and carefully ironed.

  No one speaks

  when

  Tippi tells them our names

  and where we’re from.

  They just look at us

  steadily

  as though checking

  we are real.

  Yasmeen eventually drives off the crowd.

  ‘Enough!’ she shouts

  and leads us to plastic seats by a fire exit.

  Jon says, ‘I guess the staring

  stops bothering you after a while.’

  ‘Would it stop bothering you?’ Tippi asks.

  I swallow.

  Yasmeen snorts.

  Jon thinks about this for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘It would piss me

  the hell off.’

  French