One

I’d be at that shithole school across the street

  and never get out of this place.

  Cal said he’ll stick around until I go to college.

  Then he’s moving to Colorado.

  He likes snow.’

  Yasmeen lies back on Jon’s bed and hums,

  Tippi checks out his tower of DVDs,

  and I watch Jon digging

  under a mountain of creased up laundry,

  wishing I had the courage to tell him

  that his mother should have stayed,

  he didn’t deserve to be abandoned,

  and

  that

  leaving him

  was the stupidest thing

  she ever did.

  Well, It Can’t Hurt Me

  For my tenth birthday

  Mom bought me a silver

  rabbit’s foot pendant.

  Since then, I’ve not taken it off,

  never let a day go by

  that I didn’t have luck

  lying against my skin.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jon asks,

  turning the pendant

  over in his fingers,

  his hand smelling of soap.

  ‘It’s for luck,’ I tell him.

  He narrows his eyes,

  moves closer to me on the bed.

  Tippi and Yasmeen aren’t listening.

  They are looking at a takeout menu

  and choosing pizza toppings.

  ‘You really believe in that stuff?’

  Jon asks.

  I lower my gaze

  feeling suddenly very young.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘But it can’t hurt, can it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says,

  letting go of the rabbit’s foot,

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  Jealousy

  Jon gives us a ride home

  in Cal’s car

  and I have to work really hard

  not to be mad at Tippi

  for being the twin on the left

  and sitting

  so close to Jon

  for a full fifteen minutes.

  Waiting Up

  Dad is lying on the sofa,

  alone in the dark.

  ‘You’re very late,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tippi and I reply together.

  We step towards him.

  ‘I was worried,’ he tells us.

  The darkness eases.

  ‘Well, you’re home now,’ he says.

  ‘Good night.’

  And without another word,

  he slinks off to bed.

  Anything But

  Tippi fidgets in the bed next to me then

  gets out her phone,

  its light

  bright on her face.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ I ask,

  waiting for it,

  whatever it

  is.

  She rolls her head

  to the side

  and looks at me with a sad expression

  that is mine.

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ she says.

  She blinks with my eyes

  and bites my lips.

  We look so much

  the same person

  that sometimes I am repulsed

  by her,

  sick of staring into

  a mirror

  every day of my life.

  ‘We can go to school,’ she says,

  ‘and get jobs

  and drive and swim and hike.

  You know I’ll follow

  you anywhere, Gracie.

  Anything you want,

  tell me,

  and we can do it.

  We can do anything,

  OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘But we can never

  ever

  fall in love.

  Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

  ‘I understand.’

  But her warning comes

  too late.

  The Bunker Boys

  The original Siamese twins,

  Chang and Eng,

  Left and Right,

  The Bunker Boys

  as I like to call them,

  were born with a band of cartilage

  connecting them

  chest to chest.

  They were the poster children

  for people like us—freaks, of course,

  but successful ones

  once they dodged King Rama’s

  death sentence

  as babies.

  And despite what Tippi says about love,

  Chang and Eng Bunker

  had two wives and twenty-one children

  between them.

  They lived, loved, fought,

  and died together,

  which gives me hope

  and makes me wonder

  what’s stopping us

  from being

  a little Siamese

  ourselves.

  Word Association

  ‘You seem distracted,’ Dr Murphy says.

  Tippi is listening to some new album.

  Her foot taps out the beat.

  I wish I were with her in the music

  instead of here

  with Dr Murphy who is doing nothing useful—

  just trying to make

  me

  feel.

  ‘I’m good,’ I say.

  ‘I love the new school.’

  Dr Murphy’s eyebrows seesaw.

  She puts down her clipboard and pencil.

  ‘Let’s play word association,’ she says.

  We’ve played this game before.

  We’ve played this game and I’ve always

  lied

  because what could

  any

  one

  word

  tell her?

  How could

  one

  word

  show her who I am?

  ‘Marriage,’ she says.

  Marriage:

  Mom, dad,

  bad, sad,

  snapped, broken,

  empty,

  alone.

  ‘Cake,’ I say, and clap lightly like I think this is a

  game and not a way for her to root around my mind.

  Dr Murphy says,

  ‘Sister.’

  Sister:

  here, now,

  joined, blood,

  bones, break,

  faint, fall,

  die,

  alone.

  ‘Dragon,’ I reply.

  Dr Murphy sniffs and I can’t tell whether

  that means I’ve passed her test or not.

  It doesn’t matter, though.

  Our time is up

  so no more

  probing.

  Not

  until next time.

  The Waterfront

  Tippi and I walk uptown then

  east

  to the waterfront

  to meet Mom getting off the commuter

  ferry from the city.

  The Shipyard isn’t like it was

  years ago,

  a home for metal workers and longshoremen,

  a practical place of industry.

  Nowadays it’s overrun with

  juice bars and

  yoga studios,

  pushchairs more expensive than cars.

  The ferry docks.

  I put my hand on the back of a bench,

  shut my eyes,

  pant like I’ve just run a marathon,

  my

  heart racing,

  begging me to slow down.

  ‘Grace?’ Tippi says.

  I open my eyes as

  Mom appears on the

  wide gangplank

  and waves.

  The boat spews black smoke into the Hudson River.

  I wave back and so does Tippi.

  ‘All good,’

/>   I say,

  and we go together

  ready to meet our mother

  with a smile.

  A Bit of Breathlessness

  ‘Something isn’t right,’ Tippi says

  on the train to school next morning.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Rhode Island

  any more than you do.

  But something’s wrong.’

  I hold her hand.

  ‘It’s just a bit of breathlessness,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ Tippi says.

  ‘So you won’t mind me mentioning it

  to Dr Derrick at the next check-up.’

  Saint Catherine

  In philosophy we are

  examining the mind–body argument

  through the ages so we can

  prepare for a debate.

  And I am all about

  Saint Catherine of Siena, born in 1347.

  She survived the black death

  as a baby,

  though

  died anyway at thirty-three because

  she would not eat.

  Tippi says it was undiagnosed anorexia

  but Saint Catherine said she didn’t believe

  her soul needed that sort of nourishment

  and focused,

  instead,

  on God and prayer,

  on giving up on matter

  and climbing a ladder to the divine.

  Sometimes I wish I could be like that:

  committed

  to my soul

  instead of worrying

  about this body all the time.

  A Surprise

  Instead of wearing her green school skirt,

  Yasmeen is in a denim mini

  and a pair of leopard print pantyhose.

  She’s sprayed her

  pink hair

  up high

  into a cresting wave

  and the teachers don’t make her change because

  today is her seventeenth birthday and everyone knows

  birthdays

  for the sick

  are sort of sacred.

  ‘I might have sex to celebrate,’ she says,

  and whoops so loudly

  everyone in the art room

  suspends their paintbrushes

  above their watery

  self-portraits

  to look at her.

  Instead of a party

  Yasmeen is having a sleepover.

  That’s what we tell Mom.

  We don’t tell her we’ll be

  squatting at The Church on Saturday

  under bare branches

  and blinking stars,

  creeping around the school grounds

  when it’s locked up for the night.

  Once Jon’s gone to mix more paint,

  Yasmeen passes us a card,

  a glittery heart with the word

  LOVE in swirly capitals

  like a monogram

  on the front.

  ‘It’s from Jon,’ she says.

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t.

  I’ve told him how I feel.’

  My heart

  rams my ribs

  like I’ve been

  hammered from

  behind on the dodgems.

  I hand back the card without reading it.

  Yasmeen’s self-portrait is black,

  the eyes tiny pebbles in a too-round face.

  ‘Bad, isn’t it?’ she says.

  I don’t know whether she means

  the portrait or the

  Problem of Jon.

  All I know is that

  I can think of harder knocks

  than being liked by him,

  than opening a card

  covered in his kisses.

  ‘You’re probably making too much of it,’

  Tippi tells Yasmeen.

  She opens her mouth

  to add something

  but changes her mind

  and strokes my side instead.

  ‘You all right?’ Tippi asks later.

  I nod.

  I’m fine.

  And then I say,

  ‘I’m getting drunk at The Church.’

  I Watch Him

  I watch how he is with Yasmeen

  but I can’t see his love for her anywhere

  and I wonder whether

  she could be wrong,

  whether the card

  really means

  what she suspects.

  Either she is wrong,

  or I am blind,

  because from where I’m standing

  I can’t see that he treats us

  any differently.

  Eating for Two

  I’m not hungry.

  Even the sight of the peppered chicken

  on a bed of yellow rice

  makes my stomach turn.

  I have to look away.

  ‘You don’t want that?’

  Tippi asks.

  I push

  my small plate toward her,

  my half of the serving.

  ‘You have it,’ I say,

  and quickly she gobbles up

  enough for the both of us.

  More Important

  Bruised clouds gather in the distance.

  ‘I hope

  it doesn’t rain tonight

  and stop us from going out for

  Yasmeen’s birthday,’ I say.

  Tippi tows me away from the window.

  ‘Worrying won’t help,’ she says.

  ‘Worrying won’t help what?’ Mom asks,

  coming into our room,

  peering over the tower of clean clothes

  she is carrying.

  ‘Grace doesn’t want it to rain,’ Tippi says.

  Mom puts down the clothes and picks up

  two dirty plates

  covered in crumbs.

  ‘If I were you,

  I’d worry about

  something more important,’ she says,

  and without saying what that should be,

  leaves the room

  and carefully

  closes the door behind her.

  Palmistry

  The Church is alive with the yipping and ticking

  of night bugs.

  The moon is hidden

  behind thick clouds.

  A chill inches its way

  beneath my sweater and

  into my bones.

  I thought the beers I downed would quell

  my feelings for Jon,

  chase them into a quiet place

  and leave room for me to think of other things—

  things

  that would be

  possible.

  But it’s the opposite.

  My head is fogged up with words I want to whisper

  to him here in the darkness.

  His face is more beautiful now than ever

  and his laugh makes my muscles tighten with longing.

  Tippi feels it, flinches,

  then sips at an almost empty

  bottle of red wine and nibbles on a hash brownie.

  Yasmeen strums out some Dolly Parton

  songs on a guitar and sings, too.

  Jon is sitting next to me on the damp

  log.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ I demand,

  and take it,

  turning

  it palm up

  to face the black sky.

  ‘Tell me my future,’ he says.

  I draw my thumb

  diagonally

  across his palm

  and stare at him in the moonshine,

  absorb him

  and our closeness.

  ‘Your head line shows you’re curious and creative,’ I say.

  ‘And the heart line is strong.’

  ‘I see,’ he says,

  widening his fingers

  and offering me his whole hand.

  The beer is trying to bully me r />
  into saying something I shouldn’t.

  I clamp my tongue between my teeth

  until I taste blood.

  Tippi shivers and pulls a blanket around her shoulders.

  I jump and stare at her.

  ‘What?’ she asks,

  ‘Did you forget I was here?’

  She laughs

  and I look away

  because

  yes,

  actually,

  for a moment

  I had forgotten

  her.

  The Gift Our Mothers Gave Us

  We finish fortune-telling,

  singing, drinking,

  smoking, celebrating,

  and are quiet.

  Yasmeen breaks the

  silence and says,

  ‘My mom gave me HIV.

  She didn’t know. She just gave birth then

  breastfed, and I didn’t stand a chance.

  I sucked that nasty stuff right out of her.’

  No one replies

  but I don’t think Yasmeen needs us to.

  A shooting star glitters across the slate-coloured sky

  and I hold my breath and wish upon it—

  sending all its good energy

  Yasmeen’s way.

  Tippi takes my hand and nestles closer

  because we know how Yasmeen feels,

  how it is to be burdened at birth

  by a curse your mother

  never knew she was under.

  Maternal Impressions

  If we’d been born in another century

  fingers would have been pointed and

  questions raised about

  what was going through Mom’s

  mind while we were growing inside her.

  Back then they would have said

  she’d been looking at

  pictures of devils or reading satanic stories