The Other Me Part 6

"Sure." Jordan nods toward the bathroom. "Want some vodka for the pain?"

"Is it that bad?" My hands start shaking.

"Feels like a bee sting. You'll be fine." Jordan picks up the leather needle, the biggest in the kit, and runs it under the hot tap.

"What about ice?"

"Don't be such a wussie."

"Have you done this before?" I take a seat on the plush purple toilet cover.

"No, but how hard can it be? You got the ring?"

"Oh c.r.a.p." The most obvious item, and I've completely forgotten. I'll need to put something through the holes once they're made.

"No worries. Disinfect that." Jordan hands me the needle, and I douse it with surgical spirits while she rummages through her drawers.

"Okay, let's do this." She takes back the needle and drops two matching silver studs into my hand. "Close your eyes, Ree."

I do and take a deep breath as Jordan drives the needle through my ear lobe. It stings, and there's a moment where I'm pretty sure she's going to tear my entire ear off, but then the needle's through. Jordan tugs it out the other end and pushes the stud into place before swabbing surgical spirits over the wound. Involuntary tears trickle down my cheeks.

"You crying?"

"No." I swat the tears away.

"I cried the first time I got my ears pierced." Jordan stands in front of me, her gaze s.h.i.+fting from one ear to the other. At least she's taking this seriously and trying to do a good job of it.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I was two, though."

I pull my tongue at her.

"But I did pa.s.s out when I got my belly b.u.t.ton pierced last year."

"Did that hurt?"

"Don't know. I was unconscious. Okay, close your eyes again."

I do, and Jordan stabs the needle through my flesh. This one doesn't go as well, and she has to tug really hard to get the needle through. I'm sobbing by the time she's got the second stud in.

With a wad of toilet paper stemming the flood from my nose, I admire myself in the bathroom mirror.

"Happy?" Jordan asks.

She did a good job. They're evenly positioned and the studs are visible without being too obvious. Mom might not even notice.

"Thank you." I let my hair down so that only one earring is visible. I like that better. Pity two earrings are the norm on girls.

"How soon til I can change jewelry?"

"A couple of weeks. You'll need to clean them every night until the swelling goes down." Jordan tosses b.l.o.o.d.y cotton swabs into the bin and reseals the surgical spirits.

"Did you see Gabriel's?"

"Ja, of course." Jordan smiles.

"I want earrings like that."

"That's nothing special, just an ordinary ring and ball."

"That's what I want."

"We'll go shopping once your ears are healed." She stuffs everything back into the first aid bag. "Can we go swimming now, Little Miss Rebel?"

Minutes later, I'm floating on my back in the pool, feeling like a mermaid with my hair fanned out around me. My ears sting every time they make contact with the chlorinated water, but I don't care. It's my body, and whether I want to irrevocably change it or not is my decision. Mom's just going to have to deal with it.

Gabriel

EVERY S SUNDAY, my father goes to church, leaving me home alone with my piano for two fleeting hours. This Sunday is no different. I wonder if he even remembers the date. I try not to think about it too much, concentrating on piano. The Beethoven is almost flawless now, although Bach and Schumann are still presenting problems for my fingers, no matter how many hours I dedicate to Hanon exercises. It's better having a challenge, though. If the pieces are too easy, then what's the point? I want to have to work hard to get it right. I want to sweat at the piano, to struggle with runs and trills, to bruise my fingers playing the most bombastic fortissimo. my father goes to church, leaving me home alone with my piano for two fleeting hours. This Sunday is no different. I wonder if he even remembers the date. I try not to think about it too much, concentrating on piano. The Beethoven is almost flawless now, although Bach and Schumann are still presenting problems for my fingers, no matter how many hours I dedicate to Hanon exercises. It's better having a challenge, though. If the pieces are too easy, then what's the point? I want to have to work hard to get it right. I want to sweat at the piano, to struggle with runs and trills, to bruise my fingers playing the most bombastic fortissimo.

It's only when I'm playing piano that I can forget. The music is all consuming, leaving no room for memory or grief, anger or hatred. Especially Beethoven. I should be practicing Bach, should be memorizing Schumann, but playing Beethoven is liberating. Home alone, I don't have to worry about my father b.i.t.c.hing that I'm playing too loud. He doesn't appreciate the value of a bone-rattling crescendo. There's no chance of me breaking a string, anyway, as much as that idea appeals to me. Not to damage the piano, just to be that pa.s.sionate, that aggressively relentless with your playing that the instrument breaks, surrendering to the music.

Rachmaninoff broke strings, and I'm pretty sure Horowitz and Ashkenazy did too. It seems like a rite of pa.s.sage: you're not a real pianist until you've snapped a string. Maybe when I tackle Rach's third piano concerto next term, it'll happen, preferably not on my piano at home. That'll be h.e.l.l trying to explain to my father.

I'm just getting to grips with the Bach when Dirk arrives and holds down the gate buzzer. I let him in, and his Beetle churns up the gravel on our driveway.

"Look what I got." He holds out the bankie bankie of weed for my approval as he follows me into the lounge. of weed for my approval as he follows me into the lounge.

"How's this?" I remove a bottle of Klipdrift from my father's booze cabinet.

"Nice. You think your Pa will miss it?"

"Doubt it."

We leave Dirk's Beetle in the driveway and amble down the street to the park. There's a family playing Frisbee with their border collie; besides them, and a few vagrants pa.s.sed out in the shade, we're alone. We head for the koppie koppie at the back of the park and climb all the way to the top of the rocks. From here we can see the whole suburb spread out below us: brick houses like Lego blocks, with patches of green lawn dotted with ink-splash swimming pools. Dirk rolls a joint, and I pop open the brandy. We sit in silence for a while, trading marijuana and alcohol back and forth. at the back of the park and climb all the way to the top of the rocks. From here we can see the whole suburb spread out below us: brick houses like Lego blocks, with patches of green lawn dotted with ink-splash swimming pools. Dirk rolls a joint, and I pop open the brandy. We sit in silence for a while, trading marijuana and alcohol back and forth.

"Did your Pa remember?" Dirk asks.

"Don't think so."

"JP?"

"I haven't spoken to my brother since Christmas."

Dirk takes a deep drag from the joint and pa.s.ses it back to me. I breathe in, holding the acrid smoke in my lungs for as long as possible. I'm getting numb from the combined effects of drugs and alcohol. My limbs feel heavy, like my whole system is slowing down. Maybe even time itself is shutting down. This is how the world will end, not with bombs and earthquakes-just a ritardando ritardando toward death. toward death.

"To your Mom." Dirk raises the bottle, and I nod. Five years ago today, my mom died, and it seems I'm the only one in the family who remembers. Even after all this time, I feel her absence, the ache physical, kind of how I imagine an amputee must feel after losing a leg. You think the missing bit is still a part of you, and it comes as a shock every time you realize it's gone. Only I lost an internal part of me no one can see is even missing. Only I feel the loss, feel that huge gaping wound that might suck me right down into the abyss, if I let it. Mom probably wouldn't want me chucking myself out of the car or getting stoned with Dirk or s.h.a.gging a girl like Karla. She'd like a girl like Treasa, though. Mom was a singer too.

"You know, she's been dead for years, and I still half expect her to waltz into my bedroom in the mornings with a cup of condensed milk coffee." I watch the family with the dog and the Frisbee, watch the mother pick the little kid up when he bails into the gra.s.s.

"Man, that was the best coffee ever," Dirk says.

Last time I had condensed milk coffee was the morning before Mom died. If only I'd known it was the last cup she'd ever make me, I would've savored it and not left half behind, too busy playing piano to pay proper attention.

d.a.m.n Klippies, now I'm getting all dronkverdriet dronkverdriet. I backhand unwanted moisture from my eyes, and the s.n.a.t.c.h of a melody spins loose from my imagination. It's simple yet beautiful, music in a minor. If only I had my notebook with me. I'll probably forget the tune by the time I get home, even though I try to catch it, humming the notes under my breath in the hopes of remembering. This'll be the first theme of my sonata. Finally, I have something to work with. Maybe this is how all those great composers did it; maybe I should do this more often: get wasted, get morbid, rip the scabs off old wounds, and let myself bleed all over the staves.

Treasa

THE FIGHT FIGHT ends with me slamming my bedroom door and wis.h.i.+ng I had a key to the lock. ends with me slamming my bedroom door and wis.h.i.+ng I had a key to the lock.

"Treasa Rae Prescott!" my mother yells from the pa.s.sage. She could storm into my room, but there's some invisible barrier, and once my door's closed Mom respects the boundary. I collapse on my bed and clutch a pillow to my chest. Burying my face in lavender scent, I let the tears flow uninhibited, choking on the sobs as they well up from the black hole inside of me.

Why the h.e.l.l is getting my ears pierced such a big deal, anyway? Mom had an apoplexy when she saw them, and then she tore Dad a new one for failing to notice when he picked me up. Of course, it's all Jordan's fault, and Mom threatened to speak to the school about it, at which point Dad wanted to know exactly what Jordan was guilty of and what the school should do about my dire rebellion. Then Mom and Dad started fighting with each other about me. That's when I ran.

They're still arguing in the kitchen. Mom's way of coping is to bake, which she does with the force of an F5 tornado, slamming cups onto counters and beating the eggs senseless. At least there'll be chocolate cake later. There's a pathetic mewling from just outside my door. I let Riker in and shut the door again, the barricade still in position. I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on my cupboard. The earrings are hardly noticeable. The studs are tiny, silver, and inconspicuous. I don't know why they're so offensive. I study my face, turn to see the profile, and smile, trying to dimple my left cheek like Liam St. Clare's. I look like I've just had a stroke.

In the right lighting, and if I had short dark hair, I think I'd almost look like Resa. He's got a feminine face, and I've got a boyish square jaw. That's about all that's boyish about me. I shed my clothes until I'm standing naked and stare at the girl in the gla.s.s. It can't be me. When did I get so round and soft? My b.o.o.bs look like udders, all swollen and veiny. Wonder how Mom would feel about me having a breast reduction. My hips have widened and my skinny legs have thickened. Oh my G.o.d, is that cellulite? I squeeze the skin of my thighs and gasp when the flesh dimples into a hateful orange peel. I hate the girl in the mirror. I hate her body, her face, her stupid freckles, her frizzy hair. When did I become her? In my head I'm still svelte and flat and boyish and cute. Not this. I don't want to be this. I don't want to be her.

There's a soft knock on the door, and I tug my clothes back on in a hurry. "Just a minute."

"Can I come in?" Dad asks.

"Yeah." I perch on the edge of the bed, teasing Riker and not minding when his claws draw blood.

Dad squats in front of me and lifts my chin. He brushes the hair off my face and turns my head left, then right, to look at my ears.

"I think they look very pretty and that your mother overreacted."

"You think?"

"Let's drop the att.i.tude, okay?" Dad sits beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

"Sorry."

"You didn't have to go behind our backs with this. We could have discussed it."

"I tried to. Mom said end of discussion, twice."

Dad sighs. He smells like cut gra.s.s and newspaper and Old Spice. I lean into him and he kisses my hair.

"Growing up isn't easy, Resa. Not for you, and believe it or not, not for us either."

"I don't understand." I wipe away fresh tears threatening my cheeks.

"You're our little girl. All we've ever wanted was to protect you, love you, make sure you have everything. You're precious to us, and now it feels like we're losing you."

"I'm right here, Daddy."

He smiles, although his eyes are sad. "I know, but you won't always be, and it's the little things like getting your ears pierced that remind us you're growing up."

"I'll be sixteen in four months."

"But you're still my little girl. You always will be, and we'll always be overprotective of you."

"Because I'm adopted?"

Dad takes a moment to consider his answer. "We wouldn't love you any differently if you were our biological child. We couldn't possibly love you any more than we do." He hugs me again, and my tears soak his s.h.i.+rt.

"I just wanted to pierce my ears."

"I know, sweetheart," Mom says from where she's hovering at my bedroom door. "I'm sorry." She walks across the room and does the same thing Dad did, scrutinizing my ears. "Did it hurt?"

"A little."

"Did you clean them? Whose needle did you use?"

"Mom." There's no hiding the exasperation in my voice.

"All right." She steps away, hands up in surrender. "But next time, come to us and not Jordan." I bite my tongue. Mom seems to have conveniently forgotten that I did come to her with this, and she didn't even want to discuss it. So maybe that's how I should do things in future. Ask for permission and then do whatever I want anyway when Mom says no, because afterward she'll realize she overreacted and just deal with it.

"Cake'll be ready in half an hour. Want to help me make the icing?"

I nod and give my dad one last squeeze before following Mom to the kitchen.

Gabriel

I GOT GOT there too late to stop the scrum from giving Dirk a thras.h.i.+ng. They're so tough, it takes all five of them to beat up my scrawny-a.s.sed friend. I haul Kelvin off Dirk and shove him into the wall. The others glare at me as they back off. Piet van der Merwe even lunges toward me, a bluff, and I don't even blink. He might weigh ninety kilograms and have fists like anvils, but I'm fast, and he'll be down on the ground crying like a little girl in two seconds. They mutter a string of expletives before cruising out of the bathroom. If Piet was just a big dumb bully, I think I'd forgive him, but he's valedictorian and should know better-not that being clever ever made a person kind. there too late to stop the scrum from giving Dirk a thras.h.i.+ng. They're so tough, it takes all five of them to beat up my scrawny-a.s.sed friend. I haul Kelvin off Dirk and shove him into the wall. The others glare at me as they back off. Piet van der Merwe even lunges toward me, a bluff, and I don't even blink. He might weigh ninety kilograms and have fists like anvils, but I'm fast, and he'll be down on the ground crying like a little girl in two seconds. They mutter a string of expletives before cruising out of the bathroom. If Piet was just a big dumb bully, I think I'd forgive him, but he's valedictorian and should know better-not that being clever ever made a person kind.

I offer Dirk my hand and pull him up off the floor where he's cowering between the urinals. Sometimes school feels like a warzone.

"f.u.c.k." Dirk shoves toilet paper up his nose and blinks back involuntary tears. "That's another s.h.i.+rt full of bloodstains." He dabs at the blood splatter on his chest.

"You don't want to report it?"

"And get them coming after me with cricket bats next time? No, thanks." He splashes water on his face and gingerly prods the swollen flesh of his left eye.