One, Page 3

  I do not listen to Madame Bayard explaining how

  our grades will be calculated over the semester.

  I ignore her ice-breaking explanation

  for how to make one’s own chocolatine.

  And I don’t even bother copying down the homework

  because

  Jon is to my right

  where Tippi is

  not,

  and he is hurling questions at me

  like I’m on a late night talk show,

  sitting in one of those square chairs,

  and not on trial,

  which is how most people make me feel

  when they get inquisitive.

  ‘Do you both have passports?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him.

  ‘Not that we use them.’

  ‘And you never want to punch your sister’s lights out?’

  ‘Not usually.’

  ‘So why come to school now?

  Why here?’

  ‘No choice.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I get that, Grace.

  Totally.’

  He gnaws at the end of his pencil,

  thrums his fingertips

  against the desk.

  ‘No choice …

  I get that.

  If I wasn’t here

  I’d be on a very slow train

  to nowhere.’

  The Cafeteria

  As we enter the cafeteria,

  Yasmeen and Jon

  dance around us,

  one in front

  one behind

  so we are not

  quite

  seen.

  Mom, Dad, Dragon, and Grammie

  have been doing this for years,

  hiding

  us

  as best they can

  from ridicule

  and camera phones,

  because there’s nothing worse

  than a click-click-click

  and knowing that in seconds

  you’ll be famous via

  someone else’s social feed.

  We order chipboard pizza,

  a Sprite with two straws,

  and sit

  at a corner table

  with Yasmeen and Jon,

  talking over

  other voices and clinking cutlery,

  not about how we live

  —the logistics of conjoined pissing—

  (which is how I thought the whole day would be)

  but about movies

  and music

  and books

  and beer

  and the new school year

  and the islands of Greece

  and coral reefs

  and our favourite cereals

  and Satan.

  We have perfectly silly conversations

  and by the time the bell rings

  I am starting to wonder—

  have we

  found ourselves

  two friends?

  Where?

  We have cousins

  who tolerate us

  and a sister we hang out with sometimes.

  But friends?

  Where would we have found those?

  Touch

  Tippi and I are standing at the lockers

  switching out our books

  when a heavy-set girl from our homeroom

  stops by us,

  her eyes on the floor.

  ‘Are we in your way?’ Tippi asks.

  The girl pales.

  ‘No. My locker’s next to yours.

  But take your time,’ she whispers.

  ‘There’s plenty of room,’ Tippi says,

  shifting her weight my way.

  The girl shakes her head,

  steps back a couple of inches.

  Oh.

  She’s scared to come any closer.

  She’s scared that if she puts her hand

  into her locker for a textbook,

  she might accidently

  touch us.

  The Invitation

  ‘You guys planning on going to study hall?’

  Yasmeen asks.

  We shrug simultaneously.

  We don’t even know what study hall is.

  ‘Cool,’ Yasmeen continues.

  ‘Let’s skip it and go to church.’

  ‘Church?’ Tippi says.

  ‘I don’t think so.

  Not really our sort of thing.’

  Jon grins.

  ‘Well let’s give it a try.

  We might convert you.’

  Baptism

  When we were four months old

  Mom took us to the vicar

  who gulped when he saw us

  and said,

  ‘I’ll …

  eh …

  have to

  check with a higher authority about

  whether we can baptise them separately.’

  Mom never set foot

  in a church again.

  And neither did we.

  Until today.

  The Church is a Beautiful Ruin

  It is a collection of stones and rocks tossed around

  like children’s building blocks

  with a great abandoned bell lying

  beneath what was once

  its tower.

  To get here we creep behind

  the science labs,

  down broken paths and

  through a forest

  of flies and brambles.

  The Church sits next to

  a pond littered with lily pads

  and is the sort of place I imagine

  fairies lurk,

  or serial killers,

  though Yasmeen says,

  ‘Don’t worry,

  we won’t get murdered.

  We’ve been coming here for years

  and no one else knows about it.’

  ‘We’ll just have a smoke today

  and die that way,’ Jon says,

  and

  takes such a pleasurable drag

  from his cigarette you’d think he was

  sucking up gold.

  And soon they are both puffing away

  like old pros.

  Yasmeen blows a mouthful of smoke into the sky

  then passes me her cigarette.

  I shake my head but before I can object,

  Tippi has the smouldering cancer-stick

  between two fingers and is

  inhaling great gulps

  of tobacco and tar.

  She stops

  and coughs

  so hard I think she might throw up.

  Yasmeen laughs.

  Jon scratches his head.

  And I gently pat my sister

  on the back

  when what I really want to do is

  let her choke.

  Coffee and Cigarettes

  I am a peppermint tea sort of person.

  Tippi drinks coffee the colour of coal.

  She guzzles down around five mugs a day

  —not that I get a say—

  as the caffeine careens around her body

  and has her buzzing like a blender

  —and me, too

  these days.

  It started as a milky latte to help get her going

  in the mornings.

  Then it was one at lunch

  and another later

  and before she knew it,

  Tippi was a slave to the stuff.

  So although

  I know it’s

  just one

  cigarette,

  and

  one cigarette

  never killed a soul,

  I also know Tippi.

  Perhaps

  ‘How did your day go?’

  Mrs James wants to know

  during our

  debrief in her office.

  ‘Do you think you could be happy

  at Hornbeacon?’

  ‘Happy?’

  Tippi asks,


  her head

  tilted to the side

  as though

  she’s never heard the word before

  and is requesting a

  translation.

  ‘Happy,’

  Mrs James repeats,

  waving jazz hands at us.

  ‘Do you like it here?

  Will you be staying?’

  Tippi looks at me and

  I smile.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she says,

  and then again,

  ‘Perhaps.’

  We Wait

  Long after

  the other students

  have gone home,

  long after Yasmeen has waved goodbye

  and promised to meet

  us in the common room

  tomorrow morning,

  we wait.

  It’s past four o’clock by the time

  Dad’s car appears,

  mounting the curb and

  skidding to a stop.

  We creep out of our hiding spot between a clump of trees

  but Dad isn’t at the wheel.

  Thank God.

  He’s slumped in the passenger seat,

  his face as purple as a pickled beetroot.

  Grammie is driving.

  ‘He’s hammered, isn’t he?’ Tippi says

  as we slide into the backseat.

  ‘Blotto!’ Grammie says.

  She stabs Dad

  with her fake fingernails

  and turns on the windshield wipers

  though it isn’t raining.

  ‘He didn’t get the job

  he interviewed for

  yesterday,’ she says,

  like that’s an explanation,

  like Dad deserves our sympathy,

  like lately he’s needed an excuse

  to be drunk.

  Tippi and I are fidgety,

  desperate to tell someone

  about our first day,

  that it wasn’t perfect but

  no one called us devil’s spawn

  or asked how many vaginas we have.

  But we stay silent in the back seat

  because if Dad wakes up

  we’ll have to listen

  to his drivel

  instead.

  And no one,

  no one,

  wants

  that.

  Other Reasons

  Grammie puts Dad to bed,

  turns on the TV,

  and settles in for the night,

  a whole menu of prerecorded

  programs ahead of her.

  Dragon is in her room

  dressed in a leotard and ballet slippers

  staring at herself in a full-length mirror.

  She dips and dives,

  her body a fountain.

  ‘He’s always wasted,’ she says,

  stopping to sip

  at a glass of water.

  He is.

  It’s true.

  But what can we do

  except try to be perfect

  and hope it’ll keep him happy

  and sober—

  which it never does.

  ‘So …’ Dragon says,

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It was great,’ I say aloud,

  finally.

  Tippi and I

  flop down on to Dragon’s bed

  even though we should be

  getting started on the dinner.

  ‘We’re definitely staying,’ Tippi says

  and I nod.

  Jon creeps

  into my mind—

  his nut-coloured eyes and star-lined hands.

  I shake him away,

  this boy I just met,

  this boy I hardly know

  because

  he can’t be why I like Hornbeacon.

  I need other reasons.

  I need other reasons

  or I’ll go mad with

  longing.

  No One Mentions

  We eat baked potatoes for dinner,

  crunchy shells with fluffy innards

  that we smother in butter, grated cheese and tuna.

  Mom asks about school but she

  isn’t as interested as we’d expected—

  or hoped.

  She eats slowly and

  stares at the tiny bubbles tiptoeing their way

  to the top of her sparkling water

  while Dad lies in bed,

  stinking up their white sheets,

  sleeping off the whiskey.

  No one mentions the spare baked

  potato getting cold in the oven.

  No one mentions the stench of vomit

  wafting up the hall.

  We keep our voices low,

  our mouths full,

  and hope that tomorrow will be

  different.

  Selfish

  ‘We have to talk about The Church,’ I say

  as Tippi and I lie

  side by side

  in bed.

  ‘You’re upset about the cigarette.

  God, Grace.’

  She sighs

  and I feel

  for a moment

  so much

  younger than her.

  ‘I think we should have discussed it,’ I say,

  not needing to remind her

  that

  this shoddy body

  never split like it should

  and that if she dies,

  so do I.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  ‘So can I smoke?’

  I turn my head,

  curl away from her

  as best I can.

  It isn’t really a question:

  When Tippi wants something

  she takes it with

  two hands

  and

  with a body that belongs to

  us both.

  I know this should make me

  angry,

  but

  all I feel is envy

  because I so wish

  I

  could be more selfish

  sometimes

  too.

  Naked

  I shampoo my hair and

  leave conditioner on the dry ends

  for a few minutes

  while Tippi scrubs herself down with a sponge

  and wild lavender

  body wash.

  I lean away from the strong smell

  so she won’t get any suds on my arms or face

  then

  step under the water jet

  and use a fresh bar of almond soap

  to rub myself clean.

  ‘Isn’t it weird to see each other naked?’

  our twelve-year-old

  cousin Helen asked

  last year

  over Thanksgiving turkey,

  which made Grammie

  gag on a roast potato.

  Tippi and I shrugged,

  shook our heads

  while everyone waited for an answer,

  pretending they weren’t,

  and Tippi said,

  ‘When you share a life,

  seeing your sister’s boobs

  doesn’t really feel like a

  big deal.’

  The First Fall

  We are rushing to get ready,

  brushing our teeth,

  me with my right hand,

  Tippi with her left,

  our spare arms wrapped around each other’s waists

  like fishhooks.

  And suddenly the mirror

  disappears and

  so does Tippi.

  When I Wake Up

  I am on the bathroom floor listening to the sound of

  screeching,

  Tippi shaking me back into the world.

  She sighs

  when I blink

  and squeezes me.

  ‘I’m OK,’

  I manage

  as


  pounding feet beat against the hardwood floor

  in the hall.

  Dragon is at the door,

  a blusher brush in hand,

  which she is waving like a wand

  and shouting,

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I slipped,’ I whisper.

  ‘Really?’ Dragon asks,

  hands on hips,

  looking like Mom.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie, ‘I slipped,’

  and hanging on to the sink,

  drag myself and Tippi up from the cold,

  beige

  bathroom floor.

  Dragon is frowning.

  ‘She slipped,’ Tippi says.

  Looking for Dragon

  Dragon douses herself in candy-scented perfume

  and has started wearing lipstick.

  ‘You have a boyfriend, don’t you?’

  I say,

  teasing her,

  wondering,

  hoping.

  ‘Sort of,’ Dragon says.

  Tippi stops spreading cream cheese on a bagel

  and gives Dragon serious

  side-eye.

  ‘It’s cool if you don’t want him to meet us.’

  Dragon is wrapping a silky scarf tightly around her neck.

  She pauses.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  Tippi snorts.

  ‘It’s OK, really.

  We get it.

  We get what we are.’

  Every feature of Dragon’s face pinches together tightly.

  ‘Yeah, I know who you are, too.

  But who am I apart from your sister?

  Can you tell me that?’

  She ties the scarf in place

  and waits.

  We watch her.

  ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ she says,

  and storms out

  slamming every door

  behind her.