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Authors: Emily Franklin
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can’t.
“Whatever you say.” Russ stretches, bringing one arm in front of him and pulling on it with the other. Then he runs his hand through his hair. He’s looking more like Dad every day. I don’t know how I feel about sharing the hallways with him at County High School this fall. “Jenny?”
“Yeah?”
“Bro’s a good guy.”
“Who?”
“Tate, genius.” Russ stretches the other arm. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
Even though Russ only guessed at half of what’s bothering me, I’ve never felt more like his full sister than I do now.
The Fitzgerald family sits down at the dining room table while Mom brings out the main course. She puts a plate filled with lamb chops and mashed potatoes in front of me while patting my hair. I brush her hand off my head and then feel bad that I did it, but when I reach up to put her hand back, she’s already moved on.
“Did you hear the good news?” Dad asks. He’s fresh from a jog, with ruddy cheeks and drips of perspiration running from his thinning hairline. He loves to run through the wooded trails near the house all year long, even in the snow.
“That you’re going to shower soon?” Russ jokes.
Dad smirks. “No. Although, I’m sure that’d be exciting news for everyone.”
Mom takes over. “The twins qualified for the Dance Project!”
I nod, overly emphatic in order to seem superpsyched. “I know.”
“It’ll be a family event,” Dad says. “We’ll all go and see the show and then celebrate in town.”
“I’ll make reservations,” Mom agrees.
“Awesome,” Russ says with his mouth full. He locks eyes with me as he chews.
I think he’s trying to tell me something, but since we don’t have that twin-connection thing, whatever is on his mind remains a mystery to me.
“I actually have to run,” I say, my appetite gone.
“More painting?” my mom asks. Dad waits for my answer, probably hoping that I’ll say I have converted from the religion of art to sports fanaticism.
“Not tonight,” I say. “I have other things to work on.”
After dinner I dash upstairs to my room and dial Tate’s number, which I have already managed to memorize. As I stare at the numbers, I find myself fixating on the one, then the four, then the two: 142. The donor number.
My
donor number. I should find out if it’s anyone else’s. The thing is, I feel as if it’s not a decision anymore. It’s a necessity.
Tate’s voice echoes in my ear. “Jenny?”
I grin when I hear him say my name. “How’d you guess?”
“I know I should say something cool like I had a feeling it’d be you, but of course, I have to thank caller ID.”
“Too bad. I thought we were psychically connected.” Then I worry I said too much.
“Nope, not at present. But we could work on that.”
I hope he means we
will
work on that. Oh my God, I
have
to stop overanalyzing. “So…”
“So…,” he says. “Did you do it?”
Even though it’s juvenile, whenever I hear
do it
I think about sex and how I haven’t done much and how I wonder if that’s obvious to everyone who looks at me.
“You know, do you have a brother somewhere? Aside from Russ, I mean. Man, can you imagine if you did, and he was as fast as Russ? We’d have to import him for County.” Tate stops himself, either afraid of sounding too jocky or, more likely, not wanting to assume that I found anyone at all.
“Ah, the Registry.” I shake my head as if he can see the gesture and then slap my forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I didn’t even log on.”
“Well, that’s okay. I really wanted you to call me, no matter what happened.”
Cue heart racing. I stare at the watercolor painting I made of our house and imagine what his house looks like and if I’ll ever get to see it.
Someone taps at the door. “Jenny, it’s your turn to do dishes.” Ugh. Dad.
“Hold on a sec,” I say to Tate and then cover
“Whatever you say.” Russ stretches, bringing one arm in front of him and pulling on it with the other. Then he runs his hand through his hair. He’s looking more like Dad every day. I don’t know how I feel about sharing the hallways with him at County High School this fall. “Jenny?”
“Yeah?”
“Bro’s a good guy.”
“Who?”
“Tate, genius.” Russ stretches the other arm. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
Even though Russ only guessed at half of what’s bothering me, I’ve never felt more like his full sister than I do now.
The Fitzgerald family sits down at the dining room table while Mom brings out the main course. She puts a plate filled with lamb chops and mashed potatoes in front of me while patting my hair. I brush her hand off my head and then feel bad that I did it, but when I reach up to put her hand back, she’s already moved on.
“Did you hear the good news?” Dad asks. He’s fresh from a jog, with ruddy cheeks and drips of perspiration running from his thinning hairline. He loves to run through the wooded trails near the house all year long, even in the snow.
“That you’re going to shower soon?” Russ jokes.
Dad smirks. “No. Although, I’m sure that’d be exciting news for everyone.”
Mom takes over. “The twins qualified for the Dance Project!”
I nod, overly emphatic in order to seem superpsyched. “I know.”
“It’ll be a family event,” Dad says. “We’ll all go and see the show and then celebrate in town.”
“I’ll make reservations,” Mom agrees.
“Awesome,” Russ says with his mouth full. He locks eyes with me as he chews.
I think he’s trying to tell me something, but since we don’t have that twin-connection thing, whatever is on his mind remains a mystery to me.
“I actually have to run,” I say, my appetite gone.
“More painting?” my mom asks. Dad waits for my answer, probably hoping that I’ll say I have converted from the religion of art to sports fanaticism.
“Not tonight,” I say. “I have other things to work on.”
After dinner I dash upstairs to my room and dial Tate’s number, which I have already managed to memorize. As I stare at the numbers, I find myself fixating on the one, then the four, then the two: 142. The donor number.
My
donor number. I should find out if it’s anyone else’s. The thing is, I feel as if it’s not a decision anymore. It’s a necessity.
Tate’s voice echoes in my ear. “Jenny?”
I grin when I hear him say my name. “How’d you guess?”
“I know I should say something cool like I had a feeling it’d be you, but of course, I have to thank caller ID.”
“Too bad. I thought we were psychically connected.” Then I worry I said too much.
“Nope, not at present. But we could work on that.”
I hope he means we
will
work on that. Oh my God, I
have
to stop overanalyzing. “So…”
“So…,” he says. “Did you do it?”
Even though it’s juvenile, whenever I hear
do it
I think about sex and how I haven’t done much and how I wonder if that’s obvious to everyone who looks at me.
“You know, do you have a brother somewhere? Aside from Russ, I mean. Man, can you imagine if you did, and he was as fast as Russ? We’d have to import him for County.” Tate stops himself, either afraid of sounding too jocky or, more likely, not wanting to assume that I found anyone at all.
“Ah, the Registry.” I shake my head as if he can see the gesture and then slap my forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I didn’t even log on.”
“Well, that’s okay. I really wanted you to call me, no matter what happened.”
Cue heart racing. I stare at the watercolor painting I made of our house and imagine what his house looks like and if I’ll ever get to see it.
Someone taps at the door. “Jenny, it’s your turn to do dishes.” Ugh. Dad.
“Hold on a sec,” I say to Tate and then cover
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