sound of it. Her laugh can best be described as a cross between a sneeze and a giggle. “Well, start thinking hard, Jenny. You only have another week.”
I can’t stop grinning. It’s actually
nice
to have someone care enough about my painting to be on my back about it. My parents have known me all my life and they’ve never shown as much interest as Alexa is now. “I still have a few more days before Sid makes his final decisions, and I promise to work hard. What about you? When do you leave for the beach?”
I hear street noise in the background: bus brakes squealing, people honking. “I’m checking on my project,” Alexa says. “It’s really loud here, but it’ll get better once the trees grow.”
For some reason I thought Alexa would be an artist, too, but she’s not. (Maybe I’ve seen too many Disney movies about twins separated at birth.) In fact, she single-handedly coordinated a coalition at school to raise funding to turn a local run-down former tire factory into a children’s center with a huge outdoor park. It was an impulse of hers after reading about the plight of the urban child in the
New York Times.
“Hold on, I have to move something,” Alexa says. She grunts into the phone and then comes back. “Sorry. There are still a lot of finishing touches to make. Paint the fence, plant the last of the shrubs. But it’s going to be great!”
“I wish I could see it,” I say.
“You
can
see it. All you have to do is get your butt on a train!” The excitement in her voice ripples through the phone wires.
I bite my lip. My instinct tells me that I need more time to prepare and think about how a visit might go. But when I stop and really check my feelings, I know it’s not an instinct—it’s fear. Fear that if I go there, it might be too hard to leave her behind.
“Jenny, just come in for the weekend. It’ll be fun!” I don’t want to push her away again, but that’s what I end up doing. “I can’t,” I say. “Like you said, I have to focus on my painting.”
I feel so bad for turning her words against her. Why am I doing this?
“I did say that, you’re right.”
Her voice is thin and shallow, not upbeat and enthusiastic as before. I look up at the clear blue sky, noticing the darkest leaves on the trees and thinking about how soon they will morph into reds and oranges. I have to level with her. “The thing is, and please don’t take this the wrong way…” Beads of sweat form on my upper lip.
Silence from Alexa. All I can hear is more street noise. And then she speaks. “You haven’t told your family yet, have you?”
I look down at my feet in shame. “No.”
“My moms were in this right from the beginning,” she says. “Your parents will be so supportive.”
I shake my head. “You don’t even know them. They’re not like that.”
“Maybe you need to give them a chance.” She waits for me to say something, but I can’t. All I can picture is how awkward it would be to face them. Won’t they assume that I went to find Alexa because something was wrong with our family dynamic? It’s kind of true, but it’s one thing for them to suspect it, and another thing for them to know it for sure.
Alexa clears her throat. “Jenny? You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, if you can’t come to see me because you have to work, I could come visit you.”
In the middle of the busy summer street, where Popsicles drip down kids’ arms, where parents chase their toddlers, where people on their lunch breaks sit on the benches eating sandwiches, I feel everything stop. Alexa Mason-Cohen could come here and meet my world. And then the biggest fear of all hits me.
What if she doesn’t like me?
My heart is racing so fast I can barely answer her. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, guess what?” she says confidently. “I am sure enough for the both of us. Take that!”
All of a sudden I’m laughing so hard I grip my side.
“Okay, okay, you’ve worn me down.” I must
I can’t stop grinning. It’s actually
nice
to have someone care enough about my painting to be on my back about it. My parents have known me all my life and they’ve never shown as much interest as Alexa is now. “I still have a few more days before Sid makes his final decisions, and I promise to work hard. What about you? When do you leave for the beach?”
I hear street noise in the background: bus brakes squealing, people honking. “I’m checking on my project,” Alexa says. “It’s really loud here, but it’ll get better once the trees grow.”
For some reason I thought Alexa would be an artist, too, but she’s not. (Maybe I’ve seen too many Disney movies about twins separated at birth.) In fact, she single-handedly coordinated a coalition at school to raise funding to turn a local run-down former tire factory into a children’s center with a huge outdoor park. It was an impulse of hers after reading about the plight of the urban child in the
New York Times.
“Hold on, I have to move something,” Alexa says. She grunts into the phone and then comes back. “Sorry. There are still a lot of finishing touches to make. Paint the fence, plant the last of the shrubs. But it’s going to be great!”
“I wish I could see it,” I say.
“You
can
see it. All you have to do is get your butt on a train!” The excitement in her voice ripples through the phone wires.
I bite my lip. My instinct tells me that I need more time to prepare and think about how a visit might go. But when I stop and really check my feelings, I know it’s not an instinct—it’s fear. Fear that if I go there, it might be too hard to leave her behind.
“Jenny, just come in for the weekend. It’ll be fun!” I don’t want to push her away again, but that’s what I end up doing. “I can’t,” I say. “Like you said, I have to focus on my painting.”
I feel so bad for turning her words against her. Why am I doing this?
“I did say that, you’re right.”
Her voice is thin and shallow, not upbeat and enthusiastic as before. I look up at the clear blue sky, noticing the darkest leaves on the trees and thinking about how soon they will morph into reds and oranges. I have to level with her. “The thing is, and please don’t take this the wrong way…” Beads of sweat form on my upper lip.
Silence from Alexa. All I can hear is more street noise. And then she speaks. “You haven’t told your family yet, have you?”
I look down at my feet in shame. “No.”
“My moms were in this right from the beginning,” she says. “Your parents will be so supportive.”
I shake my head. “You don’t even know them. They’re not like that.”
“Maybe you need to give them a chance.” She waits for me to say something, but I can’t. All I can picture is how awkward it would be to face them. Won’t they assume that I went to find Alexa because something was wrong with our family dynamic? It’s kind of true, but it’s one thing for them to suspect it, and another thing for them to know it for sure.
Alexa clears her throat. “Jenny? You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, if you can’t come to see me because you have to work, I could come visit you.”
In the middle of the busy summer street, where Popsicles drip down kids’ arms, where parents chase their toddlers, where people on their lunch breaks sit on the benches eating sandwiches, I feel everything stop. Alexa Mason-Cohen could come here and meet my world. And then the biggest fear of all hits me.
What if she doesn’t like me?
My heart is racing so fast I can barely answer her. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, guess what?” she says confidently. “I am sure enough for the both of us. Take that!”
All of a sudden I’m laughing so hard I grip my side.
“Okay, okay, you’ve worn me down.” I must
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