Two of a Kind Read online

  “Lavender,” Christina said. “I have all these sachets; they keep the linens smelling nice.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better be going,” he said. “That is, if I can find my clothes.”

  Christina knelt and retrieved the bundle from under the bed. As she disentangled his pants from her skirt, her sweater from his boxers, she began to giggle. What an inappropriate response; Jordan was so upset, and she was giggling? But when she looked up at Andy, in his self-styled toga, she couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing, and then he started laughing too. She laughed so hard that tears really did start to trickle from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks and she could not catch her breath. “Okay,” she said at last. “Okay. I’ve got to stop.” She handed him his clothes and he hurriedly started to dress.

  “I’ll call you,” he said, as he tucked his shirt into his pants. “Now go talk to your daughter. That look on her face when she saw me . . .” He shook his head. She saw him to the door and then went back upstairs, where she dressed, fixed her hair, and made sure there was not a trace of red left on her lips before knocking on Jordan’s door.

  “What?” Jordan said.

  “I’d like to speak to you,” Christina said. She would ignore the rude reply.

  “About what?” Again that sullen tone.

  “You know perfectly well about what.” She waited.

  “Come in.”

  The room, with its curly maple dresser, rag oval rug, walnut rocker, and framed Degas reproductions on the walls, was, as ever, immaculate. Jordan lay stretched out on her neatly made bed with her laptop open and the rabbit nestled beside her. Jordan was smitten with the creature; for all Christina knew, she slept with it.

  “I was going to tell you,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” Jordan’s eyes never left the laptop.

  “I know you don’t like him—”

  “No, you’re wrong about that; I hate him!” She looked at her mother then. “And I hate his pothead son too!” She snapped the laptop shut with a vengeance.

  “Pothead son? What are you talking about? How would you know something like that?”

  “I ran into him near Dance West over the summer. We walked through Central Park and he pulled out a joint. It was broad daylight with, like, a million people around. And it didn’t seem like the first time either.”

  “Oh,” Christina said. “Oh.” She remembered Stephen had said the same thing about Oliver; it seemed apparent to everyone but her. And Andy. She looked at the rabbit, which was positioned on Jordan’s stomach like a sphinx. There was something unsettling about its stillness, and its preternaturally bright, unblinking eye. “But what does that have to do with Andy?” Whatever she was going to say to Jordan had grown obscured now, misted over by this information about Oliver.

  “I don’t know!” Jordan said. “I just don’t like him, Mom. I don’t like him and I don’t want him in our lives. He’s like . . . a bulldozer, mowing people down.”

  “He’s forceful; that’s true.”

  “I can’t talk to you! It’s like you’ve gone crazy or something.”

  “No, sweetheart,” Christina said. “Not crazy.” Her face broke into a smile. “I think I’m just in love.” And to her amazement, she was.

  Jordan could not hide her disgust. “Whatever,” she said, and opened her laptop again.

  Christina waited and when it was clear the conversation was over, she went downstairs, where she began to gather the plates that were still on the dining room table. Her attraction to Andy really was unexpected; even though Jordan did not remember much about her father, he had been so very different. Will had had a gentle soul; everything with him had been in soft focus and pastels. This had not been a failing, though. No, it was a respite from the ever-simmering tension of her childhood, the tiptoeing around her father lest she set off one of his explosive, alcohol-fueled outbursts—sometimes the smallest thing, like an unwashed glass left on a table, could set him off. Aunt Barb tried to shield her from him as best she could. And her life at school, with her adored nuns, helped too. But she knew, even back then, that she wanted something else, and Will, soft-spoken and mild-mannered, had given it to her.

  Christina opened the back door and shook out the tablecloth; a host of sparrows instantly appeared. Will’s ideal Sunday would have been spent lazing over the paper, reading a book, and going out for a late-afternoon stroll; Andy’s would involve a run, a swim, and a game of tennis—all before lunch. In bed, the differences were even more marked. He made noise—lots of noise. He wanted the lights on—So I can see every inch of you, he had said. He was demanding, critical, quick to ignite. But unlike her father, he got over his huffs quickly. He was willing to say he was sorry. She thought of how he’d stripped off his shirt and handed it to her that day they were caught in the rain—he was a gentleman.

  Christina stood watching as the birds made short work of the crumbs and then flew off to their nests. She thought about what it might be like to be married to Andy.

  Life would be less serene than it had been with Will. But it would be vivid, intense, and possibly quite wonderful. And when she thought about what it felt like to be in bed with him, she knew it would. She believed she could accept most of Andy’s faults and forgive the ones she couldn’t.

  But even in her romantic reverie, Jordan was a sticking point. Because no matter how compelling Andy Stern might have been, Jordan’s antipathy was a deal breaker.

  Folding the cloth into a neat rectangle, Christina went back inside. Could Jordan be won over? Would Andy have the patience and tact to accomplish it? Because if he didn’t, there was no way it was going to work between them, no way at all.

  NINETEEN

  Jordan arrived at the Cromley-Blandon School before the morning bell rang and checked the schedule she had posted on the inside of the locker door. She saw several girls from her grade congregated at the end of the corridor. One of them was wearing a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps—the red soles were the giveaway—and had a Prada backpack casually hanging off her shoulder. The kids here had way more money than the kids back at Saint James, and they were not shy about letting everyone know it.

  Jordan had quickly figured out the pecking order. She knew who the queen bees were, and what she had to do to appease them. She also knew that she would no more feel at home here than she had at Saint James.

  First up today was physics. They were doing a lab that involved throwing an egg against a sheet. No matter how many times or how hard the egg was thrown, it did not break. Some kids could not contain themselves during this experiment. Eggs were dropped or pitched against walls, resulting in vivid, gooey splatters. There were giggles, and a few high-pitched shrieks. The teacher had to raise his voice a couple of times. “Some people think they’re still in kindergarten,” Jordan muttered to her lab partner, Ella Kim. Ella did not answer; an almost pathologically shy girl, she was routinely tormented by the cool girls—Monika Banks, Amalia Dart, Brittany Godwin. Ella was, however, a good partner, focused and reliable. “Do you want to work on the lab report together?” she asked. Again, there was no answer.

  But as they were cleaning up, Ella said, “Yeah, sure.” For a second Jordan did not know what she was talking about; then it clicked.

  “Okay, I’ll text you,” said Jordan. Not that she needed the help. Science, like math, had definite rules, an orderly progression you could depend on. But Cromley-Blandon was big on cooperative learning and collaborative efforts, so she would score points by teaming up with Ella.

  Next was World History, taught in a room plastered with brightly colored travel posters and maps; a globe the size of a beach ball stood in a corner. Hungry, Jordan felt her attention wandering. She tried to focus on the teacher, who was droning on about the conflict between the Catholics and the Protestants in sixteenth-century Germany. Or was it seventeenth-century England? She was just going to have to eat hal
f of the protein bar she had stowed in her bag. Though maybe she could get away with a third. When the teacher called on a girl over on the left side of the room, Jordan discreetly popped a bit of the bar into her mouth. She sucked on it quietly, so it would soften. Even that small bit of food made the difference; suddenly her brain bloomed. The girl on the left didn’t know the answer; Jordan’s hand shot up.

  “Yes, Jordan?” the teacher said. “Did you want to add something?”

  “Martin Luther was reacting to what he saw as the corruption of the Catholic Church,” she said. “He thought the bishops and popes and all those people had strayed too far from Christ’s message.”

  “Precisely!” beamed the teacher. Jordan looked down modestly. At Cromley-Blandon it was cool to be smart, but not cool to show that you cared.

  After history she had a free, and then there was lunch. The lunchroom was already crowded when she walked in. The hot meal today was pasta with tomato sauce. Fortunately, Jordan was not even tempted; in fact, the smell killed her appetite instantly. She loaded her plate at the salad bar: greens, carrots, beets, and cucumbers. Today she was sitting with the queenies because they had asked her to join them. That sauce really did smell gross; she began on her salad. “I like your T-shirt,” Monika said. “Where did you get it?”

  Jordan looked down at the image of a dancer, on point in an arabesque, stretched across the white fabric. “The gift shop at Lincoln Center. I could get you one.”

  “Could you? Sweet!” said Monika. She ran a piece of bread across her plate; the sauce-soaked bread turned a lurid, radioactive orange.

  “Sure,” said Jordan, popping a cucumber into her mouth. It was important that Monika like her; otherwise, she could make Jordan’s life hell.

  “Thanks, Bun-girl!” Monika said, patting Jordan playfully on the head. Jordan tensed; she did not like her hair to be touched by anyone and certainly not by Monika, who seemed to have no interests apart from new shoes, new clothes, and new boys.

  Bits of conversation bobbed and bounced around her: who’d been at which party, whose parents were going to be away next weekend, who was hooking up with whom. Jordan nodded and smiled but did not actively participate. Monika was a dope; she bragged that her parents could afford to endow any college she wanted to get into with “a new library or dorm or whatever” so that she didn’t have to worry about grades. Jordan herself was not interested in college, but only because she wanted to dance professionally instead.

  After finishing her salad, she brought her tray up to the front of the cafeteria. There was Ella Kim sitting by herself. That was not unusual; Ella always sat by herself. Monika posted all these incredibly hateful things on Facebook about her. Jordan thought Facebook was a colossal waste of time, but also knew reading stuff like that about yourself must hurt. So Monika was not just a dope; she was mean too.

  “Can I sit here?” Jordan stopped in front of her table.

  “Sure.” Ella stared at her plate and Jordan sat down anyway. She understood Ella’s reaction; she would have seen Jordan sitting with Monika and the others and probably thought Jordan had come to torment her. This thought made Jordan’s heart constrict unexpectedly with pity.

  “Let’s figure out a time to get together.”

  “Get together?” The expression on Ella’s face was one of pure panic.

  “To work on the lab report—remember?”

  “Oh—right.” Poor Ella; she couldn’t seem to trust the invitation. But at least she had looked up from her plate. She was part Asian, with pin-straight black hair, a round face, and slanted brown eyes; Jordan thought that if she didn’t look so nervous all the time, she would actually be pretty.

  “I don’t get home until pretty late on weekdays; Saturday would be better. In the afternoon.”

  “Saturday afternoon would be okay,” said Ella. “In the morning, I take a pottery class at the School of Visual Arts.”

  “Must be fun.” Jordan shuddered at the thought of handling wet clay, but whatever.

  “You take classes outside too, right? Dance classes?” asked Ella.

  “At the School of American Ballet,” she said.

  “I know. Everyone says you’re great.”

  Jordan smiled. “So Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come over?”

  “Sure,” Ella said. “I could do that.” The bell rang. Ella hurried upstairs to the gym at the rear of the building. Jordan followed slowly. Because of her dance classes, she was excused from gym. But she stood at the door, watching as Ella, now smiling, raced across the varnished floor.

  Jordan’s commute to SAB was so easy now; she walked the few blocks and was able to change and get ready in plenty of time. Today’s point class was hard, though; under the pink satin shoes, her toes oozed and bled. By the end of the class, she was dying to get the satin shoes off her feet and she headed straight to the dressing room. She did not notice that Ms. Bonner had been waiting for her until her teacher touched her arm.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” she said. Immediately, Jordan tensed. Maybe she’d been sloppy in class. But Ms. Bonner did not want to talk about her point work. “Normally, only girls on the C level are asked to participate in the Winter Ball. Still, I want to try you out in a small role this year, even though you’re still in B2.” Jordan stared at her, unable to reply. “This year’s theme is celebrating ballet’s Russian roots, and there’s a folk dance duet that I think you’d be perfect for; you’ve really got the exuberance the part demands. Do you think you can handle it?”

  “I know I can,” said Jordan, ecstatic, stunned, and terrified all at once. The Winter Ball was SAB’s most important annual benefit. It was held at Lincoln Center, on the same stage where the company performed, and five hundred people attended. Every year, the most advanced students from the school were asked to perform, and Ms. Bonner was asking her to be one of them. It didn’t feel real, but here she was, talking about rehearsal schedules and saying she’d need to get permission from her mom. It was real, all right.

  During the subway ride home to Brooklyn Jordan felt like she was in a trance. The magical words, Winter Ball, Winter Ball, kept running through her mind; the tenth time she thought them was no less exciting than the first. She couldn’t wait to tell her mom the news and was so excited that she called as soon as she got out of the subway. But Christina did not pick up and when she got to the house, it was dark. Weird. Her mom had not said anything about going out tonight.

  “Hello?” she called out as she let herself in. Silence. She flipped on the lights to reveal the clean, quiet kitchen. No pots, no pans, no evidence of cooking at all, just two tens on the table, placed neatly underneath the sugar bowl. She checked her phone again and saw that she had missed the text.

  I’ll be at Andy’s apartment tonight. Home around 10. Left you money for takeout. xoxoxo Mom

  Jordan scowled as she stared at the screen. That stupid Andy Stern again. It was like he had her mother under some kind of spell. What if she really got serious and even married him? Jordan did not think she could stand it. She had to figure out some way to get rid of him—she just had to.

  TWENTY

  Oliver stood in the middle of Riverside Park, waiting. He was supposed to be in English class, but Dread Guy—aka Keith—had called, and Oliver was not about to pass up a chance to score.

  It was a windy day in October, and Oliver stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his nylon jacket. He had bought the jacket in a vintage store on Avenue A and it sported a cool, retro logo from some long-ago bowling team. There were major holes in the lining; his fists went straight down, touching the jacket’s inner hem. He knew it pained his dad to see him wearing stuff like this; Andy was always trying to get him into Lacoste or Ralph Lauren, but Oliver wasn’t buying into all that statusy stuff his dad lived for.

  He looked around. Two old ladies inched by slowly, arms entwined, deep in some old-lady-type conversa
tion. A group of dogs romped in a grassy area, owners ringed around them. Where was Keith? Late as usual. Oliver was willing to wait, though. He had Oceanography next period, another class he liked. But if he had to, he’d cut that too. A few leaves blew past his head, spinning and turning in the wind. One caught in his hair, which he had not had cut in quite some time. He gently pulled it out to examine it. It was a maple leaf—his mom was into tree identification, an interest she passed on to him—and red as a lollipop. He put the leaf in the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Hey,” a voice called. Oliver turned and there was Keith. His trademark dreads bobbed in the breeze. “S’up?” he asked.

  “Same old shit.” Oliver scanned the park, looking for the best place to conduct the transaction. “How about there?” He indicated a cluster of shrubs they could step behind.

  Keith nodded and Oliver led the way. There, behind the bushes, he handed the crisp new hundred, only recently retrieved from the ATM, to Keith in exchange for three small bags stuffed with weed. He’d never bought this much at one time before, but he was tired of arranging these meetings and wanted to have enough to hold him for a while. “This is a new shipment,” Keith said. “The shit is, like, killer.”

  Oliver nodded, slipping the bags into the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll let you know.” He gave Keith a fist bump before he turned and left the park. He didn’t want to go back to school. Everything was worse this year. Like seeing Jake and Delphine together, especially that first time. Jake had slowed and dropped Delphine’s hand as he came toward Oliver. “Dude,” he said, but Oliver had just, like, sailed on by. As far as he was concerned, Jake was now officially invisible. He remembered the thrill of hoisting the laptop over the ledge of the balcony; he only wished he’d been able to hear the crash. When he went down to inspect the next day, there was nothing, not a fucking trace. He told his dad his laptop died—not a lie, for a change, though he omitted mentioning that he’d been the executioner—and was given permission to order another. His dad was only too happy to throw money his way; it was much easier than having an actual relationship.