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“I know, right? But don’t feel bad because she has her own dork-twin, too. Who knows where she lives in the world. Maybe Paris.”

  “Ah,” Jules says. “This goes international.”

  “Apparently. My friend Kate? She was in Amsterdam once, and she saw her cousin Ralphie’s dork-twin, right outside Anne Frank’s house. He was Ralphie to a tee, except with stringier hair and a hunchback. And he was picking his nose.”

  “Huh,” Jules says.

  “You can cross genders, too. Ally has a cool-twin at Thorne. His name’s Peter, but to us he’s Mally, for Male Ally. He’s one of those longhair hotties. Ally says he’s even prettier than she is, but she’s not offended or anything. It’s just a fact. And then, there’s this guy in my Latin class? Travis? And I think he might be Johnny Depp’s dork-twin. Only he’s kind of cute. Not that I like him or anything, but…”

  I stop, realizing that Jules hasn’t said anything for a while. “Hey,” I say. “Are you still there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I know it sounds dumb, but once you start thinking about it, you become obsessed with it. I mean, everyone has a dork-twin, and everyone has a cool-twin. Think about it. It’s like this gigantic, unifying—”

  “Ev.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not that,” she says. “It’s just…I don’t know.”

  “What.”

  “I don’t know. It just sounds like you’re having a really good time. With your new friends and everything. I think I might be jealous.”

  “What? I’m not having a good time. I hate it here.”

  “Ev.”

  “I do. I hate it. I want to be back in Maine.”

  I let myself go on about Eleni and the baby and the sweater twins and my lack of chest and the It Girls, until Jules cuts me off.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she says.

  “No.”

  “Huh.”

  “What.”

  She’s quiet for a second. Then she says, “You don’t sound like you.”

  “What do you mean I don’t sound like me? This is me.”

  “No. Usually you’re so, I don’t know, glass is half full about everything. You’re always the one who can cheer me up, put things in perspective—”

  “What?” I say. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I am very negative.”

  Jules laughs. “Please.”

  I say, “No. I am. You should be inside my head. You should hear the things I think all day. It’s like…I don’t know. I just wish I could be different sometimes. I wish I could be better.”

  It feels weird saying this out loud, but it’s a good weird.

  “Who doesn’t want to be better?” Jules says. “Come on, Ev. Give yourself a break.”

  She goes on to remind me of some of the highlights of our friendship: the time her cat, Mr. Pickles, got trapped behind the fridge (I gave him mouth-to-mouth); the time Randy Garvin called her a slut (I kneed him in the nuts); the day Agnes left for college and Jules couldn’t stop crying (I made her a tear-bottle necklace).

  “I’m sorry,” Jules says. “About everything. You’re the best person I know.”

  “Well,” I say. “I’m no Jessie Kapler…”

  “Don’t even mention that bleeper’s name! I hate that bleeping bleep!”

  I think, Here we go again. But I realize there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than on the phone with my best friend, listening to her hailstorm of profanity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mother-Daughter Tea day.

  I wake up with dread in my stomach. Lying in bed, I wonder how I could get out of this. Fake period cramps? Hold a thermometer up to the light until it reaches 103 (a trick Jules swears by but I have never tried)? Break my own arm?

  “Where’s my Red Hot Mama nail polish? Did you take my Red Hot Mama nail polish?”

  Eight-fifteen on a Sunday morning, and the sweater twins are at it already.

  “I didn’t take your stupid nail polish,” the other one says. “I don’t even wear nail polish.”

  “Shut up, Clio. You do too. You wore it to the wedding.”

  “Yeah. That was for a special occasion. Anyway, it was pink. Pink is classy. Red is for—”

  “You’d better not be calling me a—”

  “Be quiet!” I yell.

  They both turn to me, dumbfounded.

  I am a little dumbfounded myself. I didn’t plan to do it; it just slipped out. I take a breath and say, “Will you please just stop? I took it, okay? I took your stupid nail polish, and I’m sorry. Here.” I reach over to the bedside table and grab the bottle. “Take it.”

  She does, without a word.

  Somehow I find the courage to keep going. “Why do you two fight all the time? I mean, if you hate each other so much, why don’t you just switch rooms with Thalia or something?”

  They look at me, surprised.

  “We don’t hate each other,” says the first one.

  And the other one says, “We’re sisters. Sisters fight.”

  “But we’re still best friends. We’d still give each other an organ if necessary. Or bone marrow. Right, Cass? You’d have spinal fluid drained for me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I shrug. “Whatever you say.”

  They go on to tell me how it’s not the same with brothers. The girls in this family don’t fight with Linus and Ajax like they do with each other. It’s a different bond entirely. More intimate, more intense.

  “Like with us and Mom, when she’s being a total wench. Right, Clio?”

  “Right. Mothers are like sisters to the ninth degree.”

  I say, “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

  The sweater twins look at me, curious, and then it kicks in.

  Here come the apologies.

  “It’s okay,” I tell them. “I’m used to it. Like today, this Mother-Daughter Tea thing. I’ll be the only one there without a mom. I mean, it’s nice of Eleni to come with me and everything, but it’s not…you know. It’s not the same.”

  They both look at me, quiet for once.

  One of them comes over and sits next to me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That must be really hard.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” says the other one. Then, “God. The Mother-Daughter Tea. Remember that dress you wore? That doily thing?”

  “Oh my God. With the lace shoes.”

  It’s amazing how quickly they go back to being themselves.

  “So, what are you wearing, Evyn?”

  “I have something you can wear.”

  “Not the doily.”

  “Shut up, Cassi. I wouldn’t do that to her. I have the perfect Mother-Daughter Tea outfit.”

  “Sure you do.”

  I listen to them go back and forth for a while, arguing about what would be my best look. Then I cut them off.

  “Stop!” I say.

  They stop.

  “You two are not dressing me! I mean, I appreciate the offer and everything, but I think it’s time I dressed myself.”

  Here is what I have on: my favorite corduroys, worn thin at the knees, and plain white sneakers with Ped socks. On top is the sweater Jules gave me for my eleventh birthday—frayed collar, holey elbows. When I get to the kitchen I look straight at Eleni and say, “This is what I’m wearing.”

  She has on a blue dress with a flower pattern, heels, little pearl studs. The ultimate tea-drinking outfit.

  I wait for her to tell me, No way, go change, that’s inappropriate.

  But she doesn’t. She nods and says, “You look comfortable.”

  Yes. That is exactly what I am. Comfortable. For the first time in a long time, I am dressed like me. Evyn Linney: Ace Slob.

  “Girl after my own heart,” Birdie says, an expression that has never made sense to anyone.

  He’s busy wrapping foil over a platter of baked goods—brownies, blondies, cookies, and some unidentifiable chocolate object on a stick.

 
“You know,” Eleni says, “I think I’ll wear slacks, too.”

  I don’t know what bothers me more—the word slacks or the fact that she’s going to change her clothes.

  As soon as she leaves the room, I say, “Great. Now we can be twins.”

  Birdie pretends not to hear.

  I try again. “Why do old people always say slacks instead of pants?”

  “Forty-something isn’t old,” he says. “Forty is—”

  “Please don’t say Forty is the new thirty. Everything is always ‘the new something.’ Big is the new small. Red is the new black. It’s annoying.”

  Birdie smiles, holds up a chocolate stick thing. “Fudge is the new fruit?”

  “Al is the new Birdie?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  At the March School, we follow the pink, scalloped MOTHER-DAUGHTER TEA signs to the cafeteria and look around for the dessert section. Eleni spots it, then goes to deliver her platter o’ chocolate.

  The room has been transformed. Instead of the usual beige, it is a vision in pink—pink tablecloths, pink napkins, pink teacups, pink chairs. Which I guess is better than yellow-andgreen plaid, but still. It looks like a Pepto-Bismol convention.

  All the tables have been named after flowers. We locate our little pink card. MISS EVYN LINNEY AND MRS. ELENI LINNEY: NASTURTIUM. I notice that Clara Bing and Joyce Bing are tulips. Bummer.

  On our way through the room, Eleni warms up her smalltalk muscles. Did I know nasturtium is edible?

  No, I did not.

  It’s true, by golly! Flower blossoms can be chopped up to flavor butter, sour cream, or vinegar, and whole flowers can be a colorful and delicious accent to salads or even a garnish!

  “You seem to really like cooking,” I say.

  She nods vigorously. Then she tells me she’d be happy to collaborate on a meal, anytime. Maybe a night this week. What’s my favorite food?

  I look at her. “Gum.”

  “Gum?” she says. “I know a great recipe.” She winks. “It dates back to my great—great-great-Greek-grandmother. Tastes like chicken.”

  This is the kind of joke Birdie would make—so corny it almost hurts.

  “There it is,” she says, pointing. “Nasturtium.”

  I look over. Three mothers in flower-print dresses and pearls, three daughters to match.

  Seeing them together, my stomach hurts. It’s the same feeling I get every year around Mother’s Day. While every other kid in class is busy writing the “I Love My Mom” poem and making the requisite clay pot in art, I get pulled aside by some nice teacher who asks if there’s another special person I’d like to make something for. An aunt? A neighbor?

  “Evyn?” Eleni is looking at me now. “You okay?”

  “Dandy,” I say.

  We sit. I focus on faces.

  Girl from my English class.

  Girl from my history class.

  Andrea.

  Crap. CRAP.

  We do the intros.

  Grace. Her mom, Katherine. Liza. Her mom, Judy.

  Eleni says, “Hi. We’re Eleni and Evyn,” which makes us sound like business partners. Hi, we’re Abercrombie & Fitch. But at least she sidesteps the stepmother thing.

  The woman next to me introduces herself as Diane. She has the same sun-streaked hair as Andrea, the same wide gray eyes. But when she dangles her long pink fingers in front of me, I grasp them and think, Cold fish.

  Andrea hasn’t looked at me yet. Her eyes are fixed on the sugar bowl, like she’s waiting for something to pop out. Diane hisses, “Stop slumping.”

  For a minute I think I must have imagined it. Andrea is upright. Diane is flashing her pretty teeth across the table. “Judy, I met your husband. Hugh, is it? At the club the other night. He told me about your trip to Japan…”

  The small talk revs up. International travel. Drapes. Predictions for another cold winter. Grace asks me about the history assignment. Eleni shares her recipe for lamb curry.

  But then I hear it again. “Get your hair out of your face. Right now. You look like a slob.”

  Diane turns to Eleni. “So. What does your husband do?”

  I watch out of the corner of my eye as Andrea takes off her headband. She smooths back her shiny blond hair again and again.

  The head of the school does her big welcome. Committee moms get up and thank other committee moms. There’s a lot of air kissing.

  Finally, it’s time to eat.

  I stand behind Andrea and her mother in the buffet line and try to tune out, but it’s impossible. “Put that back. Do you know how many fat grams are in a cruller?” Diane’s plate has half a grapefruit, three blueberries, and a wedge of lemon. Andrea reaches toward the fruit. “Not with your fingers. The tongs.” Andrea nods and picks up the tongs as though they’re made of glass. When she tries to transfer a blueberry to her plate, it rolls off the table onto the floor. Diane snorts. “You’re so graceful.” Then, “Hurry up. People are waiting. What, do you think you’re better than everyone?”

  I feel sick.

  I put a scone on my plate, but I know I’m not going to eat it. I just need to be holding something.

  Maybe this isn’t what it seems. Maybe Andrea’s mom is having one of those days; she’s on her period, or someone in the family is sick. No one’s getting enough sleep, everyone’s irritable.

  I imagine a scene with them in the car later, Diane’s hand on Andrea’s arm. “I’m sorry I snapped at you in there, honey. I don’t know what came over me. I love you.” A hug. Something. Anything. But deep inside, I can’t make myself believe it.

  In the parking lot, Eleni rests her head against the steering wheel. “That was awful.”

  I tell her I know. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

  “I should have said something. Should I have said something?”

  I shrug. “What are you supposed to say? She’s the mother.”

  “Exactly. She’s the mother. She’s the mother.”

  I watch as she puts on her seat belt. She tries to slide the keys into the ignition but can’t quite do it. Her hands are shaking. I hope this doesn’t mean we’re going to crash.

  I decide to change the subject. Fast.

  “Your desserts were a big hit. Especially those stick things. What were those?”

  “The chocolate bomba pops?”

  “Chocolate bomba pops. Yes. Those looked great.”

  She turns to me. “You didn’t get one?”

  “I wish,” I say. I tell her I sort of lost my appetite, what with all the barbs and the insults and fat grams flying around. “Now I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too,” she says. “Starving.” She asks if I want to go grab something to eat.

  I nod.

  “Good,” she says. “I’ll take you to my dirty little secret.”

  We’re in line at the Burger Basket—BEST BURGERS IN BEANTOWN. I’ve heard about this place. It’s one of the premier grease pits in the city, second only to Kelly’s Roast Beef.

  The air smells like lard. My stomach does a little jig of excitement.

  “I can’t believe you eat here,” I say.

  “I don’t.” Eleni squints at the menu. “The baby does.”

  Please, I think. Please don’t ruin this for me. I want french fries too badly.

  “With Linus and Ajax, it was ice cream. With the girls, it was always grease and salt.” She pats her stomach. “This one’s a girl. I know it.”

  I wonder how she feels about that—another daughter. Isn’t she sick of daughters?

  Our food comes. We take it to a booth in the corner. Grease streaks on the table, shriveled-up straw wrappers and dribbles of milk shake. Finally, my outfit matches my environment.

  I stuff four fries in my mouth at once, Mackey-style.

  Eleni takes a bite of burger. Then another. And another. Finally, she puts it down. “That poor girl.”

  “Who? Andrea?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says. “That poor,
poor girl.” How anyone, how any mother, could talk that way to her daughter is incomprehensible. She can’t imagine taking her children for granted like that. She can’t imagine doing anything but loving them, being grateful for every second.

  “Life is too short,” she tells me. “Remember that.”

  “I know,” I say.

  She reaches for more fries and realizes she’s out. She looks at my basket. “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I can’t seem to get enough grease.”

  “It’s okay. I’m done.”

  “My mother died,” she says, fiddling with the fries in front of her. “When I was twelve.”

  I think about Clam’s funeral, the poem she hadn’t read in almost thirty years. So—quick math—she’s almost forty-two. Forty-two and pregnant with Birdie’s baby. I wonder if she’ll love it as much as the first six. I wonder if she’ll love it more.

  “My mom died, too,” I blurt out. “When I was one.”

  “I know,” she says.

  Of course she does, because Birdie told her. He probably tells her everything.

  “Do you have any memories of her?” Eleni asks.

  I give her the look teenagers give stupid grown-ups. “I was one.”

  She nods. “I know. People say you can’t remember anything before age three, but…I don’t know. There’s something about that mother-daughter bond. Something primal. I think we internalize more than we know.”

  For a second, I have the crazy urge to tell her about Stella. But inviting Eleni into my head would be insanity. I don’t want to live in the same house with her, let alone make her think we’re bonded for life.

  “He still loves her, you know.” I focus on my milk shake as I say it. “He still loves my mom. He told me.”

  “I know.”

  I look up.

  She’s smiling. “He told me, too. The day we met. Then again on the day we were married.”

  She seems to be great with this—which boggles my mind. “Why would anyone want to marry a man who still loves his wife?” I say. “Why would anyone do that to themselves?” I’m making her sound like an idiot, and part of me feels bad—but another part really wants to know.

  She doesn’t respond at first. While she swirls a french fry around in ketchup, I think about everything I’ll say next. My mom was the most positive person Birdie ever knew. Her smile could light up a room. She didn’t just walk, she bounced.