Moonglow Page 9

  “Your brother was subarashi today.”

  How dare he speak Jess’s adopted language to me?!

  “Could’ve been a fluke,” I reply, not because I believe it, but because I don’t want to agree with him.

  Of course he doesn’t detect the goth-like sarcasm in my voice. “No way!” Nap stresses. “He was awesome. I really think he can go all-state if he keeps it up, probably get a scholarship, definitely be able to compete on the college level.”

  They may be twins, but Nadine and Napoleon are polar opposites. Suddenly, I get this weird image in my head that they’re like a bee and a butterfly. The bee flies under the radar, collects its pollen, and flies away. It has no desire to sting you unless you get in its way; otherwise you don’t know it’s there. That’s Nadine.

  Napoleon, on the other hand, is the butterfly. Fluttering and flitting and flying all around you, unsure of where to land, desperately trying to distract you with its presence. But if a butterfly doesn’t have colorful, ornate wings, it’s just a mutant fly. Napoleon’s wings are not pretty to look at. I know he’s doing his best to make a good impression with me by complimenting my brother and latching onto the one thing that we have in common, but he’s annoying me. Thankfully, before I yawn in his face or, worse, say something that I know I’m going to regret, Jess and Caleb approach us from either side.

  “Nap,” Jess says, grabbing his hand, “you’ve got to try this punch.”

  I turn to face Caleb to make it virtually impossible for Nap to protest, and it works. Free at last.

  “Doesn’t he realize you’re my girl?” Caleb asks. “Or do I have to remind him?”

  When I take Caleb’s hand in mine, he doesn’t flinch like Nap did when Jess grabbed his; instead he welcomes the touch and lets his fingers find their way in between mine. “I think Nap’s got ‘new kid on the block’ syndrome, just trying too hard,” I whisper. “He’s harmless.”

  Caleb presses my hand into the small of my back and swings me around, an impulsive move, and I feel like we’re on a dance floor. His other hand never spills the non-alcoholic beverage in the plastic cup that he’s holding. “Don’t you watch the movies I take you to?” he asks. “The harmless ones are always the guys you have to worry about.”

  I shake my head and scoff. “The dude couldn’t even beat my brother in a race!” I remind him. “There is absolutely nothing to be worried about.”

  Then I look over Caleb’s shoulder and see Napoleon staring at me intently while Jess is talking to him. I hold Caleb more tightly to my body as I realize the butterfly might not be so harmless after all.

  Chapter 6

  A half-moon is a perfect geometrical shape. Guess that’s why I’m filled with hate at the sight of it.

  The past few weeks have been awesome, totally subarashi. I’ve kept my feelings under control, no violent outbursts, no desire to hurt the people I love or to hurt anyone at all for that matter. The urge to insult and mock and wound—all gone—and I felt like my old self again. Like I was back inside my body and not next to it. But now I know the feeling isn’t going to be permanent. From my bedroom window I see mostly darkness; the stars are either in hiding or dead, and all that’s left is a semicircle of glowing white.

  Hanging alone in the blackness, the half-moon reminds me that good things don’t last; change always comes, and it usually comes unexpectedly and with long-lasting effects. A mother is taken away from her children and brought to a hospital where she falls asleep and never wakes up. A father makes a comment about his daughter that he can never take back and can never fully explain, even though the pain in his eyes makes it clear that he understands exactly what he’s said. Life, like the moon, never remains all white, never remains all good, never does it stay the same. Life changes, and rarely does it change for the better.

  My stomach makes a noise, a little gurgle, and an image fills my head: A spoon is scraping against the top of a jar and letting the last, uncaptured bit of honey slide back to the bottom. The honey slithers slowly down the side of the glass, an unrushed journey to a place that is familiar, a place where it can feel safe. When I see the honey land at the bottom of the jar, I let out a deep breath and clutch the windowsill to steady myself. I allow myself this moment of peace, but I’m far from calm, and I don’t feel safe. I look at my hands, and my fingers are grasping the sill so tightly they’re as white as the piece of the moon that’s burning me with its light. If half a moon can make me feel this uncomfortable and agitated, I think a full moon might push me over the edge. Make me want to replace my fingers with my feet, stand on the sill, look away from the moon and down at the ground as I let myself fall. Pray that the fall snaps my body in several places so it can’t be repaired. Pray that my brain stops working. Pray that I never see the moon in any of its many ugly shapes ever again.

  The moon is the enemy.

  It’s a crazy, insane thought, and yet I feel that I’ve uncovered a secret. Maybe I am right, because I get a mental picture that some more honey has spilled back into the jar, coating the glass walls, staining them gold, filling the emptiness. Before I can truly enjoy my newfound peace, I’m interrupted.

  “Your boyfriend’s here!”

  Barnaby’s voice smashes into my head and shatters the calm. My brother is always such a help.

  Before I put my jacket on, I take one last look in the mirror. The outside looks untouched by the turmoil underneath. The new conditioner has made my hair look even shinier, and the silver-blue eye shadow Jess made me buy does exactly what she said it would do: It makes my eyes look more beautiful than ever, like puffs of London fog.

  My legs look good in these dark blue jeans that accentuate the curves that seem to become more pronounced every day. They’re cropped so they fall a few inches above my ankle, allowing for maximum emphasis on my black pumps, the classic ones with the three-inch heel that were my mother’s. Might as well take advantage of the fact that there’s still no snow on the ground to wear heels instead of boots.

  I’m wearing the top Jess got me for Christmas last year. It’s a V-neck green thermal, like a boy’s undershirt, but lightweight and clingy, with just a little bit of lace above the v. It’s a look I call mascufeminine. Jess thought it was sexy without trying too hard, the perfect style for me. Caleb agrees.

  “You’re wearing my favorite shirt,” he says as I jump into the Sequinox.

  He likes it because he says with my red hair it turns me into a real live Christmas present. “Which is why I wore it,” I tell him. And then I kiss him on the lips.

  “Yum, cinnamonny,” Caleb says, licking his lips. “Another one of my favorites.”

  I’ve been trying to do things that I know Caleb likes to make up for freaking out and hitting him. He hasn’t brought it up again; I’m not sure if he really thinks about it or thinks that it was significant, but I do, so I guess I’m trying to compensate. Which is why I told Caleb we didn’t have to go to Nadine and Napoleon’s day-after Thanksgiving party if he didn’t want to. The party, however, is in honor of the last football game of the season (which Two W won, by the way), so Caleb thought it would be rude not to go. He’s also constantly hungry, and the latest rumor flying through school is that the twins’ mother cooks even better than Arla’s father, so I’m sure that helped sway his opinion.

  “Archie said Mrs. Jaffe makes this thing with lobster, crab, and artichokes, that makes Mr. Bergeron’s mac ’n’ cheese taste like dog food,” Caleb says on the way to the party.

  “What kind of thing?” I ask, touching up my makeup job in the drop-down mirror.

  “Who cares, Domgirl?” Caleb replies. “It’s got lobster in it!”

  When I taste the culinary concoction, it’s like the first time I ever tasted food.

  “It’s so good!” I gush with my mouth full. “You don’t even taste the artichokes!”

  “Nanite koto!” Jess exclaims.

  “Hey, geisha girl, can you translate?” Arla asks.

  “Oh my God!” Jes
s interprets. “ ’Cause this is what food tastes like . . . in heaven.”

  We’re hovering over the bowl of heavenly dip like malnourished pigs over an overflowing trough when Mrs. Jaffe comes downstairs with a refill. She looks strange. Nothing at all like her kids or vice versa, because kids should really look like their parents. Guess the twins take after their father, though I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen a picture of him. Melinda Jaffe does, however, look like my mother.

  When she stands next to me to replace the nearly empty bowl of her signature dip with a new one, I’m startled by their resemblance. If I look hard enough I can see my mother’s face in most any woman; some characteristic, some physical feature is always shared. With Mrs. Jaffe there’s more than just one.

  She’s around the same age as my mother, in her forties, and has the same short, blond hair cut in a shaggy bob. Both their faces are wrinkle-free with high-set cheekbones that either have a natural glow or she’s found the most natural-looking makeup on the market. All traits that millions of women share, but when I look closer, I see the reason why the twins’ mother reminds me of my own; they have the same nose. Weird, but true. Inches from my face, I zero in on Mrs. Jaffe’s nose as she leans over the table, and it looks as if my mother is hosting the party.

  Her nose is small, but wider at the tip so it looks a tad thicker than it actually is. Just like with my mother, it’s this slight imperfection that makes the rest of her face look even more beautiful. What makes their noses truly different, and truly similar, is the cleft, a little indentation that starts in the middle of the nose and runs down the center of the nostril. It’s hardly noticeable unless you’re looking at her face as closely as I am right now. Once you see it you can’t ignore it; it’s part of her. Them. And it makes me happy and sad at the same time. Happy, because a little piece of my mother is living in this woman and sad that the feature isn’t unique. But if my mom has to share it, why not with a woman who’s beautiful, looks rockin’ in a yoga pants and hoodie combo, and is an incredible cook. Could be linked to somebody a lot worse.

  “Mrs. Jaffe, this dip is amazing!” Archie says.

  “Heaven must be missing a recipe,” Jess adds, obviously still in a religious mode.

  “Is the recipe top secret?” Archie asks. “Not that it matters ’cuz I’m really good at cracking codes.”

  Using a large clear plastic spoon to transfer the last bit of the dip from the old bowl into the new so as not to waste a precious drop, Mrs. Jaffe laughs. “Just an East Coast specialty,” she says. “I’m glad all you kids like it.”

  “Like it? I love it!” Archie replies. “If this dip was a guy and we were in Connecticut I’d marry it.”

  I’m not sure if the twins told their mother that Archie was out and proud, but his comment doesn’t seem to surprise or offend her. In addition to all her other attributes, she’s also cool.

  “Well then, remind me never to let you taste my crème brûlée,” she whisper-jokes. “The two of you will up and run off together.”

  Make that very cool. Maybe it’s because I’m imagining how my mother would embrace Archie and how she would tease me because Caleb is so cute and how she would spend hours talking about fashion and makeup with Jess, but I’m startled when Mrs. Jaffe speaks to me. Or maybe it’s just because her comment is so creepy?

  “Isn’t the moon beautiful tonight?” she asks.

  Although she’s looking out the window and not at anyone in particular, I know she’s directing the question at me. How does she know I’ve been practically daydreaming about the moon lately? Swooning over it? She smiles and looks like my mother again, and I don’t want to think there’s anything dangerous about her or her question, but suddenly I have the feeling that this woman, like her son, is more than she appears.

  “I actually think it looks kind of ugly,” I reply.

  “Really?” Mrs. Jaffe says, her fingernails clicking against the bowl she’s holding. The sound reminds me of Nadine’s pen clicking at The Retreat. “It’s a perfect half-moon.”

  Jess is right by my side. Could she have sensed I need backup? Whatever the reason my best friend is here, and she’s overheard every word, but she doesn’t comprehend the truth about what’s been said. “And also a perfect semicircle,” Jess adds. “Dominy and geometry do not get along.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Mrs. Jaffe says. “You should learn to love the moon.” Instinctively, I know that’s never going to happen, but I’m also curious, so I remain quiet to see what other stupid thing she’ll say.

  Mrs. Jaffe’s fingernails have stopped clicking against the bowl; she’s cradling it in her arms, her index finger stroking the bowl lazily. No, she isn’t stroking the bowl; she’s writing a word on it with her finger. O, r, followed by some other letters I can’t figure out. Or? Why would she write the word or?

  “The moon holds so many mysteries,” Mrs. Jaffe states, her eyes dreamy. “So many unconquered mysteries that we here on earth will never be able to understand.”

  An extra hard squeeze of my hand and I know that Jess finally gets it. The twins’ mother might be beautiful and a great cook, but she could also be a patient in the psycho section of The Retreat. Maybe that’s why Nadine volunteers there? To get her mother a discount.

  “Oh my God, that is so interesting,” Jess says, adopting her best fake-interested look. “Like borderline profound.”

  We’ll never know what Mrs. Jaffe’s response would have been, because just at that moment a loud screech comes from the other side of the basement, ricocheting off the dark paneled walls. It’s Arla. My guess is that Archie said something hilarious as usual that Arla found hysterical. Her laugh is even higher-pitched than Caleb’s and so infectious that others always join in. But sometimes they join in too loudly.

  “Keep it down, gang,” Mrs. Jaffe says. “Grandma went to bed early; she isn’t feeling well.”

  Her mother’s footsteps can still be heard on the uncarpeted wooden stairs that lead into the main part of the house, but Nadine doesn’t care; she’s already griping. And sounding nothing like a nursing home candy striper. “Why the hell can’t my grandmother live in a senior citizens’ home like a normal old woman?!”

  For a moment I think I’m going to hear Nadine’s mother’s footsteps stop, turn around, and march back down the stairs to yell at her daughter, but I’m wrong. Amid the laughter Nadine’s uncharacteristic response elicits, I hear the basement door click shut. Once again it’s an adult-free zone where teenagers can speak their minds.

  Arla is the first one to do so. “Oh you can’t mean that; she’s your grandmother.”

  “So?” Nadine replies, her voice calmer now as she begins to tidy up the room, but just as irritated. “The woman is old and needs round-the-clock care.”

  “Do you have a nurse come in?” Archie asks.

  “She refuses,” Napoleon adds, eager to join in on the conversation.

  “Face it,” Nadine says, shoving some plastic plates into the overstuffed garbage can. “The reason everybody loves their grandparents is because they live elsewhere.”

  I’ve never known my grandparents, so I can’t agree or disagree. I would do anything to have my mother live with us again, but a grandmother, I’m honestly not so sure.

  “My nan, my mother’s mother, lived with us for a few years when I was much younger, before my mother, you know, ran off to be a lesbian,” Arla says, in her typical straightforward manner when talking about her mom. “All I remember is that she was sick all the time and in and out of hospitals.”

  “It’s because they’re selfish!” Nadine declares.

  “Lesbians?” Arla inquires.

  “No!” Nadine corrects. “Old people. They’ve lived their lives, but they refuse to move out of the way so you can live yours.”

  “She isn’t the selfish one,” Napoleon whispers almost under his breath. “You are.”

  The clock seems to tick louder as we wait in silence to see how Nadine will respond to
her brother’s comment. I want to stop staring at Nadine’s face; I want to look away, at the collection of ceramic owls on top of the bookshelf, at the side table filled with half-eaten pizzas and salad, even at the black velvet map of the solar system that hangs from a wall behind the bar, but I can’t. Something is compelling me to look right into Nadine’s eyes. They’re angry and guarded, and they remind me of myself. When Nadine snaps back, her nasty whisper reminds me of myself too.

  “No, Nap, I’m not selfish; I’m a realist,” she hisses. “Your problem is that you’re a dreamer.”

  It’s as if the rest of us aren’t there. If Nadine had lasers for eyes, her brother’s head would be burnt to a crisp and would fall off his shoulders in a spray of black ash. She starts to walk toward Nap, oblivious that there are people all around her.

  “You like to live in your little fantasy world, don’t you? You like to see the world as a happy little daydream. You think you see the best in everything and everyone.” She doesn’t stop talking until she’s about an inch from her brother’s face. “Wake up!”

  Peripherally I can see Archie and Jess on either side of me trying to get my attention, but the tension, the magnetic pull between the twins is drawing me in, and I’m transfixed. Even though they’re in the middle of a party, surrounded by people they hardly know, they’re acting as if they’re alone, having a private argument. It’s revolting, but must-see viewing at the same time.

  None of us really knows the twins that well, even Jess, and she’s dating one of them, but if a poll were taken to find out which one is the stronger of the two, Nadine would be the unanimous winner. Standing in front of her brother, her body is like stone, her face is unflinching, and her words are like daggers. Napoleon, in contrast, looks like a feather in front of a fan.

  “And then after you wake up, Napoleon, do us all a favor and grow up!” she screams. “I’m tired of being saddled with a baby for a twin.”