Read Online The Myth of You and Me by Leah Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leah Stewart
Ads: Link
five,’ I laugh and say, ‘What’s wrong with me today?’ and hand them another bill. I know it’s George Washington on the one, but sometimes I still get confused.”
“No one knows about this?”
She shook her head. “My parents. The people who tested me in Albuquerque when I was little. You.”
“Why don’t you just tell people?”
She looked at me like I’d suggested she run naked down the hall. “Would you tell people if you were brain-damaged?”
“But you’re not.”
“No,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. “I’m lazy. I should work harder.”
“That’s what your mother says,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
She sighed. “I bet you don’t realize,” she said. “Numbers are everywhere.”
I sat beside her on the bed. She didn’t look at me, but stared at her hands, which she twisted in her lap. Her hair fell forward across her face. The bed was so tall her feet dangled off the edge. She looked like the child she’d been when her father decorated this room. I touched her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. It was sleek as seal fur and soft—almost unbearably soft. “I think you have to be really smart to hide it so well,” I said. “It’s impressive.”
She glanced at me shyly. “Really?”
“Show no weakness,” I said. “That’s my motto.”
“I like that.” She looked away and then back again. “Show no weakness,” she said.
Later, Sonia would say that I was her negative and she mine, and by that she meant that our qualities were reversed, that she seemed less guarded than she was, and I seemed more. She used to say I did a fine job of seeming to care about nothing in order to hide the fact that I cared about everything. I used to say her best defense was a good offense; she used to say mine was a wall. She said I was hiding a big, bleeding heart, an assertion I always disputed, though she meant it as a compliment—she admired my ability to hide it.
I think I knew, even when we were fourteen, what a relief it was to Sonia that I had witnessed that scene in the gym, that she never had a chance to put up her guard with me. Because my own strangeness was physical, there was little I could do to conceal it, though I tried—avoiding heels, slouching, wearing baggy shirts to hide my substantial breasts. The best I could do was to pretend invulnerability, roll my eyes at my father’s jokes about my height, at the guy at my old school who referred to me as Melons. I understood the impulse to disguise, and I understood, too, the longing for one person to know the truth, the weakness of spies and superheroes everywhere.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Okay.”
“Why did your mother look so surprised when you said you wanted to bring me home?”
“Because you’re the first friend I’ve had over since fifth grade.”
“But you’re so popular,” I said. “You’re a cheerleader, for God’s sake.”
She shrugged. “I want those people to think my life is normal, that I’m normal,” she said. “I want you to know what I’m really like.” The darkness in her mood suddenly lifted. She smiled, looking pleased with herself. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased by the thought that finally she’d have someone who knew her or by the thought of how successful she’d been at making sure no one else did. She said, in a stage whisper, “My eyes aren’t really blue.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I wear tinted contacts.”
“What color are your eyes?”
“They’re brown,” she said. She raised a hand, her fingers hovering near my face. “Same as yours.”
7
O ne morning, about a month before Oliver died, I woke at seven, as usual, and went to the kitchen only to find it empty. There was no sign of Oliver, no coffee in the pot. In the three years I’d been living with Oliver, I hadn’t once reached the kitchen first. I put my hand against the coffeepot and when I felt its cold glass surface I was certain Oliver was dead. I
“No one knows about this?”
She shook her head. “My parents. The people who tested me in Albuquerque when I was little. You.”
“Why don’t you just tell people?”
She looked at me like I’d suggested she run naked down the hall. “Would you tell people if you were brain-damaged?”
“But you’re not.”
“No,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. “I’m lazy. I should work harder.”
“That’s what your mother says,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
She sighed. “I bet you don’t realize,” she said. “Numbers are everywhere.”
I sat beside her on the bed. She didn’t look at me, but stared at her hands, which she twisted in her lap. Her hair fell forward across her face. The bed was so tall her feet dangled off the edge. She looked like the child she’d been when her father decorated this room. I touched her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. It was sleek as seal fur and soft—almost unbearably soft. “I think you have to be really smart to hide it so well,” I said. “It’s impressive.”
She glanced at me shyly. “Really?”
“Show no weakness,” I said. “That’s my motto.”
“I like that.” She looked away and then back again. “Show no weakness,” she said.
Later, Sonia would say that I was her negative and she mine, and by that she meant that our qualities were reversed, that she seemed less guarded than she was, and I seemed more. She used to say I did a fine job of seeming to care about nothing in order to hide the fact that I cared about everything. I used to say her best defense was a good offense; she used to say mine was a wall. She said I was hiding a big, bleeding heart, an assertion I always disputed, though she meant it as a compliment—she admired my ability to hide it.
I think I knew, even when we were fourteen, what a relief it was to Sonia that I had witnessed that scene in the gym, that she never had a chance to put up her guard with me. Because my own strangeness was physical, there was little I could do to conceal it, though I tried—avoiding heels, slouching, wearing baggy shirts to hide my substantial breasts. The best I could do was to pretend invulnerability, roll my eyes at my father’s jokes about my height, at the guy at my old school who referred to me as Melons. I understood the impulse to disguise, and I understood, too, the longing for one person to know the truth, the weakness of spies and superheroes everywhere.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Okay.”
“Why did your mother look so surprised when you said you wanted to bring me home?”
“Because you’re the first friend I’ve had over since fifth grade.”
“But you’re so popular,” I said. “You’re a cheerleader, for God’s sake.”
She shrugged. “I want those people to think my life is normal, that I’m normal,” she said. “I want you to know what I’m really like.” The darkness in her mood suddenly lifted. She smiled, looking pleased with herself. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased by the thought that finally she’d have someone who knew her or by the thought of how successful she’d been at making sure no one else did. She said, in a stage whisper, “My eyes aren’t really blue.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I wear tinted contacts.”
“What color are your eyes?”
“They’re brown,” she said. She raised a hand, her fingers hovering near my face. “Same as yours.”
7
O ne morning, about a month before Oliver died, I woke at seven, as usual, and went to the kitchen only to find it empty. There was no sign of Oliver, no coffee in the pot. In the three years I’d been living with Oliver, I hadn’t once reached the kitchen first. I put my hand against the coffeepot and when I felt its cold glass surface I was certain Oliver was dead. I
Similar Books
