The Twinning Project by Robert Lipsyte

Grandpa opened the trunk of the car and pulled a Boy Scout uniform out of a duffel bag. “Put this on. Hurry.”
    He had to help me with the yellow neckerchief. Then he rubbed some dirt on the uniform and tore one of the sleeves.
    â€œWhy did you do that?”
    â€œYou fell down a cliff, remember?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to remember. Amnesia. Don’t forget.”
    Grandpa opened the passenger door of his car, a red and white Chevy, the kind you see in old movies. I said, “Cool vintage ride.”
    â€œTwo years old,” said Grandpa proudly. “A Bel Air.”
    I remembered it was 1957 here.
    Grandpa drove down a street of identical houses. In the streetlights they looked like square white ghost boxes. How could you know which one was yours?
    We pulled up in front of one of them.
    â€œThis is it, Eddie.”
    â€œI’m Tom. What the hell is going on?”
    â€œWatch your mouth.” He was pulling me out of the car and across a little front lawn to the house. “We don’t like that kind of language here.”
    A dog raced toward us, barking.
    â€œThat’s your dog, Buddy.”
    I never had a dog.
    The dog stopped, growled at me. I guess I didn’t smell like Eddie. Or he could tell I don’t like dogs, especially floppy-eared cocker spaniels like him who think they’re so cute.
    â€œWork on him,” said Grandpa. “Give him treats.”
    We went inside the house, through a living room where the furniture was covered with see-through plastic. There was a painting over the fireplace: Eddie wearing a Cub Scout uniform, with Dad on one side and Grandpa on the other.
    â€œWould you like a sandwich?”
    My stomach reminded me how hungry I was. “Sure. Unless you have pizza.”
    Grandpa looked at his watch. “Kinda late. Sal’s is closed.”
    â€œDomino online is pretty quick.” I stopped when I saw him staring at me. “Frozen is okay.” Another stare.
    â€œThis is 1957.”
    â€œSorry. Since I hit my head . . .”
    â€œThat’s good,” said Grandpa. “You always were a quick study.”
    â€œHow about peanut butter and mustard?” I said.
    â€œYou, too?” Grandpa rolled his eyes but made me the sandwich, on white bread. The dog kept growling until I gave him a little piece. He managed to nip my finger.
    â€œBuddy was really worried about you, Eddie. He just sat at the door and cried the whole time you were gone.”
    â€œHe knows, doesn’t he?”
    â€œBut he can’t talk. You’d better get to bed. Slipping takes a lot out of you.”
    I followed him upstairs. Eddie’s room was smaller than mine, and neater. There were maps on the wall and posters of Mickey Mantle and two other guys—Paul Hornung and Bob Cousy. Mantle was the only one I’d heard of. The biggest map was of the United States. I noticed that Hawaii and Alaska weren’t on it.
    I went into the bathroom down the hall. It was so pink, I could only pee. And I was thinking about all the questions I had for Grandpa.
    When I came out, Grandpa was waiting in the hall. “I know you’ve got a ton of questions, but get a good night’s sleep first. You’ll need it.”
    â€œJust one question?”
    When he nodded, I said, “What was Dad like?”
    â€œHe was terrific. Smart like you and nice like your brother. And when you grow up, both of you are going to be like him. Now to bed.”
    I got into bed with my clothes on. I was exhausted. I tried to think about Hawaii and Alaska, but I fell right asleep.

THIRTY-SEVEN
    NEARMONT, N.J.
    1957
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    I WAS swarmed when I got on the school bus. Kids cheered and patted me, and gave me little shoulder punches. Girls hugged me. Even the bus driver gave me a thumbs-up. It made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to that kind of attention, and I’d never been touched so much by kids in