I barely get to my class on time, say nothing to anyone, and plop into my seat near the back of the room. During the next fifty minutes, I scribble down every choice I’d made from the time I’d left school to sitting at my desk. Then I write, “What do I do now?”
I can’t tell Mom. Not again. But not telling her has its own consequences. Doing nothing is still doing something.
Truthfully, I want Khannan to leave. I’ve always thought there was something phony about him, and now I have proof. Supposedly, he’s a software engineer who works at home as often as his office. Maybe he has his dominatrix (or slave) visit him every time he works at home—or just looks at porn all day. Isn’t that what guys do?
My mother needs someone besides Khannan, but she claims she loves him. She’s told me how lonely she was until she met him. He makes her feel special—remember foot rubs and dinner. And his son, Eddie, my age, is usually pleasant and polite—even cute—but mostly invisible now since he hides in his room with his Xbox. At first, he asked me to help him with math, but stopped after I finally got tired of him telling me how hot I am. Just another horny boy.
When Dad lived with us, we had fun—fishing, camping, hiking. We took trips to national parks. He laughed loud and gave frequent hugs. And he was spontaneous, which got the better of him when Gibbs showed up at our July Fourth picnic at Falls Park—cut-off top and short shorts, long legs and golden hair. Stand Gibbs next to Mom, and no one, absolutely no one would choose Mom. Except for another physicist, maybe.
Or Khannan, who is her best friend, she says. An illusion he perpetuates while he cheats. Or maybe because he cheats.
Who knows what goes on inside men’s minds? Do they know? Do they make real choices or just follow their dicks everywhere?
I glance two rows up and see Terry thumbing his phone in his lap while he pretends to be taking notes, his long hair hiding his eyes. What’s he looking at? He was one of the guys Marissa and Kaitlyn FaceTimed in their underwear on Friday before I left.
“Hey, Laney,” Garrett whispers from behind. He’s the only person I allow to call me that, the same name my father used. “Reach back.”
I move my hand behind my seat. He pushes a paper into my palm and drags his fingertips along my wrist while I push my tips against his. Long, strong fingers—he plays keyboard—with extra soft skin. Sometimes I’ll hold my hand back during class, and he’ll stroke it, so softly. I get breathless and tingly everywhere. I clutch the paper then open it on my desk.
Sneak out tonight at 2? We can see the Leonid Meteor Showers together.
My heart races. I’d love to. We could hold hands and count the streaks of light.
I write back. Not sure I can. There may be a blowout at my house tonight. Talk later.
I hold the paper out for him, wanting to feel his fingers again, but the bell rings, and everyone stands.
“What’ve you been writing?” He bends toward my notebook still open on my desk. “I watched you filling up that page the whole period.”
I pick up my notebook before he can see any of the words. “Which is why you’re making a C in this class.” I smile and push some hair behind my ear. It hangs below my shoulders now.
“True. But then I couldn’t ask you to tutor me.”
I look into his dark brown eyes, dancing above the freckles on his cheeks. Tall, lean, a little awkward sometimes, but always cute. I wonder how he would react if he knew I wrote stories about him. I wet my lips. “If we didn’t spend so much time studying, maybe we could do something else.”
He grins. “Like what?” His eyes flash to my breasts.
“Watch the meteor shower, silly.” I raise my brows. “What else would we do?” We walk toward the exit. “But I don’t think I can go tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t decided whether to tell or not tell.” He stops in the hall, looking confused. I smile and snicker softly. “You’ve got that look down pat. It’s too cute.” I kiss his cheek quickly. He almost drops his books. “Talk to you later.”
I turn my back and walk toward the Pre-cal room, sporting a big smile, knowing his eyes are glued to me. That’s a moment he won’t forget. And a choice I won’t regret.
A few hours later, I park in my driveway, staring at the front door. What will I see inside? The chair and ropes? A satiated Khannan? What will I say to him?
I can’t sit out here forever, so I grab my pack from the seat next to me and notice the newspaper underneath. Toward the bottom is the headline DNA Evidence Suggests Skeletons Were Twin Sisters.
3
I read that story at least ten times last night. I’ve always wanted a sister and never understood why I am an only child. I remember playing in front of a mirror, imagining the other girl was my twin, like I was looking through a glass into another world. She couldn’t sit next to me, but she was just on the other side of the barrier. I never told anyone, but my sister sometimes moved and spoke differently than I.
Why would someone murder twins?
Why anything? I mean, so often explanations make sense only after the fact, as if reasons are concocted to get to a specific result—which already happened and surprised everyone.
Of course, one can always call the unexplainable an illusion or a mental aberration. Some might claim I had a wild imagination as a child, or maybe I was a little crazy. Neither of which explains anything, especially the fact that my twin and I touched sometimes. When Mom told me the girl inside the house couldn’t see the girl looking into the house, I had to bite my lip. I knew they could sometimes because I had seen her.
I shove the newspaper into my pack and start to exit the car, still unsure what I’ll say to Khannan.
I stop.
I should think this through and consider all the options first. Why wait until I make a choice—probably in anger or frustration—and then spend so much time and energy writing about what I should have done? Think of all the possibilities now and make a better choice.
I close the car door and let my imagination go, hanging on as it enters the house.
* * *
The foyer smells like Febreze, way too much of it. One of the sofa cushions is turned around with the zipper in front. Smiling to myself, I know I have him. No way a cushion in my mother’s house would be backwards. Tip-toeing around the corner, I peek into the kitchen. Empty. The granite counters reflect the skylight above, and the terra cotta tile clicks under my shoes as I approach the kitchen table slowly.
And then I see it. A chair with a crack in the back near the seat. And an ooze of wood glue. Made by someone pushing back and straining against the stimulation. I pull the back slightly and open the break just as Khannan walks in, reading the newspaper.
He stops in his tracks, glances at the chair, licks his lips. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Which time? Now? Or earlier?” I allow a slight smile to stretch my lips and raise my brows.
He narrows his eyes, looking more puzzled and afraid. “Now.”
“At lunch I came by the house just as a cute young girl was leaving.”
He swallows and widens his eyes. “I’m not sure who . . .”
I fold my arms and lean against the counter. “Kind of young for you, don’t you think?”