“Boo ya!” I chant as I pick it up, jotting down a note to get my roots redone because the natural brown underneath this cobalt blue is trying to make an appearance.
Meaning I am looking more and more like Emerson by the day. My natural hair color was a dead ringer for his, our complexion similar, noses identical, but when it came to our eyes they were like our personalities.
Completely different.
While Em’s eyes were a dark green mine were void of color, they were grey, a dull steely grey.
I grab my toothbrush and squirt an ungodly amount of mint paste on it. I toss it in the sink as I pop the brush into my mouth. I scoop my messenger bag off the ground, hearing one of the many buttons fall off. I look down seeing it’s my AC/DC one.
“Shit,” I say knowing I don’t have time to glue it back on, but Emerson gave it to me so I can’t leave it there.
I pick it up off the floor, swiping my thumb across it. He stole this from a music store when we were ten.
Even then I was into rock music, and he was into trouble. But we did it together, always.
Unshed tears I refuse to cry irritate my eyes. This had been the longest we’d gone without talking. For nine months I shared a womb with that pushy dweeb. I ate all his broccoli and mine so mom wouldn’t get mad, and he beat up the guys on the soccer team who called me names. Now? We haven’t talked in almost two years.
I know it sounds cliché, naive almost, but there was a cord that attached to our souls. I couldn’t feel his pain or anything like that, but when something was wrong, I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. That feeling had become constant since the last time we talked.
Simply? I missed my twin.
But life wasn’t simple. Neither was Emerson or our life.
Guilt, pain, sadness, grief sinks into my stomach. Maybe I was being stubborn, but being around Emerson and my mother was worse than missing them right now. I couldn’t face either of them. Every time I looked into my mother’s eyes, I felt such sadness and all I could think about when I saw Em was anger.
I didn’t want to hate them.
So I missed them instead.
I shove the pin into the bag making a mental note to fix it later, and clutch my homework in my hands pushing it inside the bag as well, hoping it’s readable. I check to make sure my MacBook is inside there and thankful it is.
I brush my teeth through the kitchen, pausing to rinse my mouth in the sink. I pull the fridge open, noting the only thing inside is take out Chinese food.
Campus food it is then. I really need to go shopping. I toss my toothbrush on the counter, pulling my beanie over my ears, and shrugging the soft cardigan over my shoulders.
“Bag, homework, brushed teeth. I’m forgetting something. I know I’m forgetting something,” I mumble to myself.
I spot the black violin case in the corner of the room, covered in band stickers. I swiftly grab the handle, grab my keys off the coffee table covered in sheet music, and finally head out the door. How did I almost forget my child?
My violin, my baby, the reason for my existence in this cruel, cruel world. Okay, that was an over exaggeration but you get it.
As I am locking my apartment door, I happen to look down, spotting my feet with polka dotted orange and black socks on, and that's it, no shoes. I drop my head to the door with a loud thud.
“Charlotte Ophelia Green, I worry about you. Honestly I do,” I tell myself again.
I swing the door open, plucking my black rose embroidered Doc Martens off the floor. With my violin tucked underneath my arm, locking the door, I hop on one foot trying to get my shoes on down the hallway. Nearly tripping, Mr. Yarbury laughs at me from behind his desk as I wave at him.
As a third year graduate student working toward a Ph.D. in composition theory you’d think I’d have my shit together by now, but the truth of the matter is if I had to get up before 1 p.m. I was useless. Capital U, capital LESS.
My music teacher from Twentieth Century Music Analysis was going to slaughter me in class, but in my defense I had perfected Igor Stravinsky Tango on both the violin of course, and the piano. I detested the fact I even had to learn the piano. It was too slow for me, too calm. But, I would do anything to get into the Chicago Orchestra.
I don’t want to sound cocky, but undergraduate was a walk in the park. My brain was able to work at things I excelled at, and for that reason, I was able to juggle two jobs all through my bachelor’s degree. The only reason I’d stopped waitressing and started working full time at The Cave was because they gave me a slot as a performer.
The Cave was a local bar near campus where they played live music. It was a bar for older clientele who enjoyed classical music, a lounge-like aesthetic. It was like being thrown back to prohibition days.
I enjoyed it though. The entire bar was calm, no drunk college kids, plus I could play whatever music I wanted. Now that I was nearly finished with my graduate program, I could confidently say that it wasn’t much more difficult. The only thing I wasn’t a fan of was the fact people were still giving me absolute hell for being creative. I was bored of Bach, Paganini, and Vivaldi. I was learning composition theory, how to create my own music, and because my music was too ‘pop’ feeling it was deemed ‘inappropriate.’
The closer I got to finishing this degree the more I didn’t want to play for the Chicago Orchestra, but it still felt like the only possible way to make a living doing what I loved. So unless the Queen of England needed a private violinist, I was out of options.
When I first went for my job interview, I knew I’d accept the offer because it smelled like oak and leather.
Like him.
I’d been in this city since I was eighteen, and at twenty-three, I’d yet to see him once. I saw his art though. God did I see his art. He’d grown over the years, with his technique, with his message, and his pain. It was like a friend, it grew with him.
There were moments when I would drift off in thought and think about him. I’d wonder what he looked like now, if he had cut his hair, maybe he was married.
I walked down the sidewalk speed walking, hoping to make it to class as quickly as possible. Maybe I could slide in and the professor wouldn’t notice I was late. My odds were not high, but they weren’t impossible.
“Charlie!”
There was one person, only one who called me that.
I turned around, seeing his floppy brown hair bounce as he jogged toward me. I’d kill for the volume in his hair.
My heart tightened, because I could see the red in his eyes and the bags under them.
Drunk, hungover, or high.
“Emerson.”
I breathe out. Two years not so much as a phone call, and now he was standing in front of me. It’s not like he had to travel far, he has lived in this city since he was twenty, since he dropped out of college and went into the draft.
Prior to that, he was at college in Michigan. He got a scholarship, and I practically forced him to go. It was only a four hour drive so we met in the middle every Sunday. Everything was fine. We were both happy until everything fell apart.
“Missed you, Charlie. Mom misses you.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. I want to hug him, talk to him about how he’s been.
Sharp needle pains tickle my throat, burning starting in my eyes at the mention of our mother.
Helena Greene. Or Mrs. Greene to anyone in our hometown, a teacher for all of our lives, single mother since we were three. She was the greatest mother, until she forgot.