The Other Me Part 25

"You'll be on litter duty for the next three weeks and will have detention this Friday."

"Okay." I can live with being the garbage lady during break, and detention doesn't bother me.

"Good. I a.s.sume this won't happen again."

"No, Mrs. Owen."

She nods and I think it's over, but she continues.

"Hannah and Jordan had their hearings this morning."

My jaw clenches with dread antic.i.p.ation of the verdict.

"Given Jordan's disciplinary history and the nature of her artwork, the board decided it best if Jordan found a different high school."

"You're expelling her?" The world tilts on its axis.

"We're strongly suggesting she move to another school."

Expulsion. That's it. My life is over. I won't survive without Jordan. I don't want to be here without her. Maybe I can convince Mom and Dad to let me move schools too.

"You can't expel her." My voice quavers. "This was all my fault. If anyone should be expelled, it's me."

Mrs. Owen sighs and rolls a pen between her fingers. "Treasa, your note certainly didn't help, but Jordan's been flouting our rules for years. This is just the tip of the iceberg, really."

"Please don't expel her."

"The board's decision is final."

"And Hannah?" There's still a ray of hope. Maybe Hannah got kicked out too.

"Considering that this is her first serious offense, the board has granted her the right to return to school on Monday." Mrs. Owen almost sounds apologetic.

"What? Why? She started this whole thing!" Hysteria threatens my composure.

"Treasa!" Mrs. Owen slaps the desk with her palm. "You can return to cla.s.s now."

Like an obedient dog, I leave the office and head back toward math, only I can't walk past that d.a.m.n statue without the blood simmering in my veins. My jaw clenches, and my hands ball into fists. I want to smash it, to destroy it as completely as my day, my year, my life has been crushed. That's guaranteed to get me expelled.

If I'd never written that b.l.o.o.d.y note, none of this would've happened, and Jordan would still be right here with me. Mary smirks at me. I grab the statue's shoulders and tug. The thing is immutable, it won't budge a millimeter. I kick and punch it instead, screaming about the injustice of life.

"Treasa." A teacher places a hand on my shoulder, and I collapse in a hiccuping heap. I'm beyond the point of tears. I just want to disappear. Moments blur together. If I were an alien, now would be a good time for my temporal abilities to show up. I concentrate on turning back the minutes, turning back the years so I was never even born. It wasn't like my biological mother ever wanted me, anyway. She gave me away-maybe because she knew I was broken, destined to be a f.u.c.k-up.

Teachers yell at students to return to cla.s.s, and Lethi and Sibo magically appear beside me, offering words of comfort and support. I need more than just words. They help me up and take me to the guidance counselor's office. They stay with me until Ms. Simmons appears with a cup of rooibos tea. Respect to Lethi and Sibo for not once asking me if I was okay. Maybe if I had a twin sister, I wouldn't need Jordan as much as I do.

"Her mom's on the way. Thank you, girls," Ms. Simmons says.

Sibo and Lethi each give me a hug before leaving me alone with the guidance counselor, who must've been a scarecrow in a previous life. I sip my tea, trying not to think about what'll happen when Mom gets here.

IT TAKES TAKES Mom half an hour to get to the school. Her face is as white as Christmas cake icing when she sees my shredded knuckles. I didn't even notice I'd hurt my hands, but that's what punching marble statues gets you. Ms. Simmons patched me up as best she could, dabbing Mercurochrome over the abrasions and plying me with more tea. Mom half an hour to get to the school. Her face is as white as Christmas cake icing when she sees my shredded knuckles. I didn't even notice I'd hurt my hands, but that's what punching marble statues gets you. Ms. Simmons patched me up as best she could, dabbing Mercurochrome over the abrasions and plying me with more tea.

"Treasa, what happened?" Mom fusses over my fingers.

"I'm fine." I pull my crimson-stained hands away.

"You're quite clearly not fine. Now I want to know what happened here." Mom stands with her hands on her hips, glancing from me to Ms. Simmons. "Has this got something to do with Jordan?" She's livid.

"If we could step outside a moment." Ms. Simmons opens the door for her, and grudgingly, Mom follows. Even with the door closed and their lowered voices, I catch the gist of their conversation.

Jordan expelled. Me having a conniption fit. Me being troubled in general. Mom doesn't sound impressed. Poor Mom. She got a b.u.m kid. She should've taken me back to the adoption agency before the warranty ran out.

There's a pair of scissors lying on Ms. Simmons desk. They're blunt-nosed kiddie scissors, but they'll do the trick. Surrept.i.tiously, I turn the lock on the door. Mom and Ms. Simmons are too busy discussing me to hear the bolt slide home. I pick up the scissors and look at my wrists. No, I don't want to die, and if I did, I wouldn't do it that way, leaving a b.l.o.o.d.y mess for someone else to clean up. I don't want to die; I just don't want to be me.

Ms. Simmons has psychology diplomas framed on the wall. The gla.s.s provides a mirrorlike reflection, and I angle myself to get the best view of my face. Someone tries to open the door as I comb out my braid with my fingers. They knock, then bang on the wood, and I get to work on my hair, hacking away at brown curls. Mom's shouting now, demanding I unlock the door. I ignore her and keep chopping at my hair. They'll break it down eventually, and by the time they do, I won't be Treasa anymore.

Gabriel

DIRK DROPS DROPS me off at my piano lesson five minutes early, promising to be back on time. I take a minute to air out my clothes so I don't smell like an ashtray walking into Ms. Hafford's home. She teaches from the comfort of her lounge, which is just fine because it means I get to play her baby grand each week. me off at my piano lesson five minutes early, promising to be back on time. I take a minute to air out my clothes so I don't smell like an ashtray walking into Ms. Hafford's home. She teaches from the comfort of her lounge, which is just fine because it means I get to play her baby grand each week.

"Mr. du Preez." She gives me a wide smile as she opens the door. The smell of talc.u.m powder and mothb.a.l.l.s wafts from her body. "Lesley McArthur dropped this off for you."

She hands me a letter of invitation before ambling into the lounge. It's an invitation to play at St. Bridget's autumn concert. At least this is an invitation I can accept.

"You've obviously made quite an impression there," Ms. Hafford says.

"The concert's in a week."

"Plenty of time to choose a piece." She settles her large posterior on the chair beside the piano. Ms. Hafford isn't fat exactly, more like the living definition of buxom.

"I could play Beethoven."

"Tsk." She's not impressed. "That's playing it safe. You should play Schumann. How's the memorization coming?"

"Slowly."

"What about the Liszt from last year? That's always a crowd-pleaser."

I shake my head. I'd really love to play a movement from my own sonata, even though that'll feel worse than getting up on stage naked. It would be baring my soul to the world for judgment, a soul that's more than a little tarnished.

The enormous grandfather clock chimes the hour behind her. Just one of the many relics left to her by her father when he died, apparently, cluttering her home that's otherwise oddly modern, replete with a koi pond in the atrium and bamboo growing in wavy gla.s.s vases.

"How's your sonata coming along?" Ms. Hafford folds her arms over her ballooning middle and leans back in her chair.

"I think it's done."

"Let me hear it."

"Right now?" I'm not ready. Not even at all.

She taps her foot in impatience. How such a large woman can have such tiny ankles is a mystery. I don't know how such small feet even hold up the rest of her.

"It's not perfect. Still a little rough."

"You've got a week to perfect it."

Reluctantly, I swivel around on the stool and leave the invitation on mieliepap-thick carpeting. This is the first time I've tried playing the whole sonata. The first movement is pretty polished, the third still needs some work on the triplets, but the second is a harmonic nightmare Ms. Hafford is going to hate. Whatever, this sonata isn't about her, and I don't need her approval.

I play the first movement and get a nod from Ms. Hafford.

"Could improve your fingering and ease up on the pedal, but not bad."

"You're not going to like the second movement."

"Try me, Gabriel."

So I play, indulging in every dissonant harmony while my right hand skitters up the register to play Treasa's melody. I don't wait this time before playing the third and final movement. Perhaps it would be more progressive, more modern to have a fourth or even fifth movement, but the harmony is strange enough without messing about with structure.

I play the final, triumphant chords, and turn to Ms. Hafford. She has her head back and her eyes closed. Did my music kill her?

"Ms. Hafford?" I ask tentatively. "You all right?"

"Fine, fine. Just recovering." She rolls her head forward to look at me. "How many Tristans did you use in that second movement?"

"Enough." I grin, and her coral pink lips part in a smile.

"Play that at the concert, and you'll definitely get their attention."

"Is it too much?"

Ms. Hafford c.o.c.ks her head, her blonde bob brus.h.i.+ng her right shoulder. "You wrote it, you tell me."

"I think it's okay."

"And I think you're holding back."

"I am?"

"Yes." She shoos me out of the way and wobbles onto the piano stool. "That section, that bit of melody in the right hand, bit of Pachelbel in the ba.s.s with harmony a la Wagner." Her fingers seek out the notes, and she plays back the pa.s.sage almost as I wrote it. I wish I had perfect pitch like that.

"Here," she says, leaning into the chord. "Feel every note. You've poured your soul into this composition, now pour your heart into the playing." She makes the right-hand notes tenuto, and a lump forms in my throat as the harmony s.h.i.+fts mournfully in the ba.s.s. "Like that," she says and relocates from piano stool to chair, gesturing for me to sit down again. "Don't hold back, Gabriel. Just let go."

WHEN I I get home, feeling a little violated after letting Ms. Hafford hear such an intimate composition I'm now planning on sharing with St. Bridget's, I highlight the date and time on the invitation from Mrs. McArthur before sticking it on the fridge. So hearing me play reminds my father of Mom. Why is that a bad thing? Couldn't it be a good thing too, like having a living reminder of who she was and how much she loved music? We never even talk about it, as if pretending she never existed will somehow take the pain away of losing her. get home, feeling a little violated after letting Ms. Hafford hear such an intimate composition I'm now planning on sharing with St. Bridget's, I highlight the date and time on the invitation from Mrs. McArthur before sticking it on the fridge. So hearing me play reminds my father of Mom. Why is that a bad thing? Couldn't it be a good thing too, like having a living reminder of who she was and how much she loved music? We never even talk about it, as if pretending she never existed will somehow take the pain away of losing her.

I'm not saying anything to my father. He'll see the newsletter; there's no way he can miss it. Whether he comes to the concert or not is up to him.

Treasa

MOM DRIVES DRIVES me straight to the hairdresser, as if neatening my hacked-off curls will somehow fix what's broken inside me. I endure, ignoring the hairdresser's attempt at small talk. I keep my gaze down, avoiding the girl in the mirror. me straight to the hairdresser, as if neatening my hacked-off curls will somehow fix what's broken inside me. I endure, ignoring the hairdresser's attempt at small talk. I keep my gaze down, avoiding the girl in the mirror.

"This'll come out of your pocket money, young lady." Mom pays with her credit card.

We drive home in silence, without even the radio to punctuate the tension hanging so thick between us you could cut it into slices and serve it on a plate.

Dad's in the kitchen, home early because Mom probably called him, unable to cope alone with her delinquent daughter. He says nothing when I walk in, just folds me into a hug, and I feel like a little kid.

"Everything will be okay," he whispers and kisses my hair.

"We need to talk." Mom folds her arms.

"Well, I'm sure you've got homework." Dad pinches my cheek and gives me a wink. Dragging my feet, I head to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I don't want to hear them fighting about me.

I put on Manson to drown out the sounds of parental feuding and finally approach my reflection. A slow smile lifts the corners of my lips. After the mess I made, they had to cut my hair super short, leaving tight knots of curls flat against my head. The hairdresser even had to shave the back of my neck, my hair is that short. I love it! Everything else has gone to h.e.l.l, but at least the hair works. I don't look at all like Liam St. Clare, not even remotely like Gabriel, and that's okay, because I'm one step closer to being who I was meant to be.

Singing along to "Dissociative," I rummage through my cupboard for the band T-s.h.i.+rt I sometimes sleep in. So it's a Nirvana T-s.h.i.+rt with a huge cross-eyed smiley face on the front; at least it's black. I get to work with a pair of nail scissors, chopping out the sleeves. Leaving my school uniform on the floor in a crumpled heap, I pull on the T-s.h.i.+rt. The sides are too wide, showing my bra, and with b.o.o.bs the size of Jupiter, there's really no fooling the world about my gender. Still, with the shorts I got in the boy's department and my close-cropped hair, I look a lot less girly.

It takes me a moment to realize the plaintive mewing isn't coming from my hi-fi. Riker paws at my door, and I let him in, catching a few words from Mom.

"... is unbelievable. I don't know what to do, what to think. Did you read it?" she asks.

"Give me a chance." There's a rustle of paper as Dad settles at the dining room table. Now I'm curious and slowly turn down the volume on my music so I can eavesdrop better.

"And they think this is indicative of gender... gender what?"

"Dysphoria. That's what that Ms. Simmons said, but I don't think she's got any kind of medical degree. Still." Mom huffs. "Every single creative writing essay she's ever written is about a boy."