The Other Me Part 7

"What happened?"

"The usual." He shrugs.

"I don't know why you provoke them."

"Hey, if they tune me about not being built like a rhino, then I'll tune them right back. They have small d.i.c.ks. I was only being honest. Besides...." He peels back his bottom lip, inspecting the damage. "Rumor has it that you can kill an oke by touching some pressure point with your pinkie."

"That's rubbish."

"No harm in keeping up your reputation. Even Piet won't mess with you." He grins despite his split lip. We traipse out of the bathroom and head toward his car. Dirk never thanks me for these rescues. I know he appreciates them, because he's let himself cry in front of me more than once while we're patching up his face in the bathroom. That's the other thing I envy about Dirk. When he hurts, he cries. I don't care how much of a moffie that makes him, I respect the guy.

When Belinda broke his heart in grade ten, Dirk spent two days crying over her in my bedroom. When his fifteen-year-old Rottweiler died last year, he spent a week sobbing about it. Even his dad got teary-eyed when Buster pegged. The last time I cried was at Mom's funeral, until my father told me real men don't cry, or did I want everyone to think I was a baby. I was only thirteen.

I HAVE HAVE to give points to my father for learning how to cook. My aunt lived with us for a while after Mom died, and she taught us all how to make toast and do laundry. Guess my father got extra lessons because he doesn't make half-bad macaroni and cheese, although Mom's was better. Mom's food tasted good because she loved to make it; she loved to feed her boys. My father cooks because we have to eat to survive, and you can taste the difference. to give points to my father for learning how to cook. My aunt lived with us for a while after Mom died, and she taught us all how to make toast and do laundry. Guess my father got extra lessons because he doesn't make half-bad macaroni and cheese, although Mom's was better. Mom's food tasted good because she loved to make it; she loved to feed her boys. My father cooks because we have to eat to survive, and you can taste the difference.

Tonight we eat in silence. The tension at dinner is usually alleviated by the TV, except there's no Project Blue Book Project Blue Book. They could've scheduled that pointless awards ceremony any other night and preempted a mult.i.tude of c.r.a.ppy shows, but no. So now we're eating at the table, each of us trying to ignore the other's existence. At least he doesn't pretend anymore, doesn't even ask me how my day was or what's happening in my life. My father glances at the two empty seats-his gaze lingering longer at the s.p.a.ce Mom used to occupy. We still use the place mats she made in one of her craft cla.s.ses, and like everything else since her death, they've faded from canary yellow to washed-out cat vomit.

I catch my father staring at me while I'm doing the dishes. "What?" I sc.r.a.pe dregs into the bin.

"You need a haircut." He grabs a beer from the fridge and heads for the patio. That's about the limit of his parenting. I finish the dishes and retreat to my bedroom. Marilyn Manson leers at me from a poster on the wall as I hit play on the hi-fi. Angry metal pours out of the speakers and I jump around, whipping my too-long hair back and forth in time to the drums. Dizzy and with a headache clawing its way up my neck, I collapse on my bed with a clean sheet of paper.

Dear Mom, I wish it had been Dad in the car that night. I know it's my fault, and that it makes me a terrible person for even thinking it, but I don't care. I wish it were him who died. Or maybe even me. Anyone but you, Mom.

Am I an Alien, Treasa Test #03

HYPOTHESIS: Extraterrestrials possess superhuman abilities such as molecular manipulation. Extraterrestrials possess superhuman abilities such as molecular manipulation.

GOAL: To prove I can heat up cold water faster than normal. To prove I can heat up cold water faster than normal.

METHOD:.

Run the tap on the warm setting and time how long it takes for the water to heat up.Repeat step one, placing my hand on the faucet, and time how long it takes to heat up again.

RESULTS: It took approximately thirteen seconds for the cold water to become hot under normal conditions. It took approximately four seconds for the cold water to become hot with my hand on the faucet channeling energy into the water. It took approximately thirteen seconds for the cold water to become hot under normal conditions. It took approximately four seconds for the cold water to become hot with my hand on the faucet channeling energy into the water.

CONCLUSION: The water heats up faster, indicating the presence of extra molecular energy-proof that my presence decreases the time it takes for the water to heat up. Caveat: Normal body heat may account for part of this faster time, and so does the fact that the tap had already heated up once before. So, only partial evidence for possible molecular manipulation. The water heats up faster, indicating the presence of extra molecular energy-proof that my presence decreases the time it takes for the water to heat up. Caveat: Normal body heat may account for part of this faster time, and so does the fact that the tap had already heated up once before. So, only partial evidence for possible molecular manipulation.

Treasa

WHEN SCHOOL SCHOOL ends on Thursday, Jordan drags me straight to the music block, foregoing our usual shade sojourn. I've been miserable the whole day since last night's episode of ends on Thursday, Jordan drags me straight to the music block, foregoing our usual shade sojourn. I've been miserable the whole day since last night's episode of Project Blue Book Project Blue Book was preempted due to some American awards show. Now I've got another agonizing week of waiting ahead of me. The thought of seeing Gabriel today both alleviates the misery and adds to it. was preempted due to some American awards show. Now I've got another agonizing week of waiting ahead of me. The thought of seeing Gabriel today both alleviates the misery and adds to it.

"You shouldn't ask him until April," Jordan says.

"Ask him what?"

"To the dance. That gives you enough time to find someone else without making Gabriel think you're desperate."

"He's a Matric. He's not going to want to go to a grade ten dance."

"You could make it worth his while." Jordan grins and bites her bottom lip. I roll my eyes instead of saying something cruel that I'll definitely regret later.

"How's the art project?" I ask as we arrive at the music block. Someone's playing a familiar piano piece, the melody echoing down the corridor.

"It's going well, except I think I might get expelled for this one."

"You've said that before."

"True. Is that Gabriel playing?" Jordan bypa.s.ses the choir room, following the sound of the piano to a practice room near the toilets. There's a tiny window carved into each of the not-quite-soundproofed doors. She cranes her neck, smiles, and jerks her head for me to take a look. I stand on tiptoes and stretch my neck, only just managing to catch a glimpse of the boy at the piano.

He's playing without sheet music, his eyes closed as his fingers sweep across the keys. Beethoven. Sonata Pathetique. It's one of my favorites. Gabriel barely pauses as he finishes the first movement and starts the second.

"Impressive," Jordan whispers as she stands next to me, sharing the view. She jostles me deliberately, knocking my elbow into the door. Gabriel's head snaps around, his eyes wide. We step back from the door as he yanks it open, irritation scrunching up his features.

"Oh, hi." He rearranges his frown into a smile. "Am I late?" He checks his watch.

"Not at all. We were just enthralled by your playing," Jordan says.

"Enthralled?" He runs a hand through his hair, and seeing the way the strands fall back into his eyes makes my knees turn boneless.

"Well, Ree knows about music. You like this one, right?" She nudges me, and I unglue my tongue from my palate.

"Pathetique. The second movement. I... I love it." A blush meanders up my neck. I take a deep breath and send it scurrying away from my cheeks.

"One of my favorites too. Want to hear some more?" He barely glances at Jordan, his gaze focused on me.

"Sure she does. I'll see you in choir." Jordan gives me an ungentle shove toward the practice room and trots away, leaving me alone with Gabriel.

"The room's a bit small." He ushers me in, and I slip into the corner as he sits down at the piano. I stare at his head, at the way his hair parts and falls asymmetrically to either side of his face. He's not wearing the earring, but there's a scar on his left earlobe. He loosens his tie and pushes up his sleeves before closing his eyes. His fingers hover above the keys for a moment before he leans into the opening chord. I lean against the wall for support as he plays. The stool creaks as he s.h.i.+fts according to the music, accentuating the dynamics.

Far too soon, he slows it down and brings the movement to a delicate end. He turns on the stool and looks up at me with such expectancy on his face. I want to kiss him right now. I banish the impulse and stutter my way through praise of his performance.

"HOW COME COME you like Beethoven?" he asks as we leave the practice room. you like Beethoven?" he asks as we leave the practice room.

"I always wanted to play piano, but I've got stubby little fingers." I splay my fingers and my heart catapults into my throat when he takes my hand and presses his palm against mine. His fingers are more than a full knuckle longer. He chuckles and releases my hand as goose b.u.mps race up my arms. Must be my alien genes reacting so violently to his proximity.

"Long fingers aren't essential," he says.

"Short fingers don't help."

"Guess not."

"Did you know Rachmaninoff could play a thirteenth?" I ask.

He pauses to look at me with narrowed eyes. Did I say something wrong? "How did you know that?" Gabriel asks.

"I read."

He looks away, a smile on his face, and this one looks different, soft and genuine, turning his green eyes electric. "I can only reach a tenth."

"Still better than me. I can barely play an octave."

He chuckles and opens the choir room door for me. Jordan's chatting to Sibo and Lethi, their conversation interrupted by the sudden hush as we walk in. The Matrics and grade elevens give me death stares.

I scurry to my seat, not making eye contact with the older girls. Gabriel ambles over to the piano and runs through some scales.

"If there's some hierarchical order to these things, no one told me and no one called dibs," Jordan says so the whole room can hear. The grade eights giggle, the grade nines look bored, and the others snicker. Gabriel doesn't even look up from the piano where he's trying to stretch his fingers to reach a thirteenth. That makes me smile.

"So, you going for it?" Lethi sits next to me.

"We'll see."

"You should. He's cute."

"Thanks for the endors.e.m.e.nt."

"Anytime, girlfriend." Lethi snaps her fingers as if she's from a ghetto and not a larny estate.

Choir practice is a blur. I try to concentrate on the material, try to sing as flawlessly as Gabriel plays, but my attention keeps s.h.i.+fting from "Adiemus" and Faure to Gabriel's fingers. Finally, it's over, and a group of Matrics sashays over to him. More than one of them probably see him as Matric Dance material. Yeah, there's no way he'd agree to go to some corny grade ten Charity Ball.

Lethi and Sibo wave their good-byes, leaving Jordan and me waiting by the gate. "I still can't believe your mom took the whole earring thing so well," she says.

"You wanted me to get grounded?"

"No, but I thought she'd see me as a worse influence."

"You'll just have to try harder."

"I can do that." She grabs my skirt by the waist and hoists it up a few centimeters, exposing my thighs and the ends of my boxers.

"Jesus, Jords." I slap her hands away.

"You've got nice legs. You should show them off more," Jordan says, just as Candyce and crew arrive hot and sweaty from tennis practice.

"Are those boxers?" Jordan reaches for the ends of the boy's underwear Mom only buys me because I insist they're the most comfortable thing to sleep in.

"Oh, look, the Lesbian s.l.u.ts. Would you like a skirt with that belt you're wearing, Jordan?" Hannah's glossed lips curl up in a cruel smile.

"You know I slept with a guy, right? Not that I have anything against lesbians, but just to be clear." Jordan glares.

"Jordan, watch it," I warn under my breath.

"Look lesbian to me," Hannah sneers.

"Would you shut it? G.o.d, you're so immature." Candyce throws her sports bag down and turns her back on Hannah.

"You got cramps?"

"Thanks to you."

"You can be such a b.i.t.c.h, Candy." Hannah looks smug.

"Such a dirty mouth. No wonder the boys love you," Candyce shoots back, eviscerating her friend.

Jordan and I stare, gobsmacked, as we watch the verbal sparring between the cool-kid BFFs. "Now that's not something I would've expected." Jordan turns her attention back to me. "Lesbian or not, I think you should shorten your skirt."

"Is that allowed?" Gabriel sneaks up on me yet again.

"One should never miss an opportunity to break the rules." Jordan grins as she untucks her s.h.i.+rt and pulls off her tie.

Gabriel just shakes his head and slips on his blazer. I didn't think it was possible for him to look any hotter. What is it about boys in uniform?

"See you Sat.u.r.day?" Jordan heads for the car park.

"There might be a change in time. I could let you know if I had a number to call."

A sly smile spreads across Jordan's face. "My cell's not working right now. Get Ree's number. I've gotta go. See you." She gives me a quick hug before skipping toward her mom's convertible.

"Should I call you 'Ree'?" Gabriel takes his phone out of his pants pocket. A Nokia, just like mine, except his is gray where mine's blue.

"Only Jordan calls me that. You can call me Resa if you want."

"Like the guy in Project Blue Book Project Blue Book?"

Oh, kill me now. "Well, my parents have been calling me that for years." Even more lame. Here, call me by the nickname Mommy uses. I want to die. Is it too much to ask for a meteorite to land on my head right this instant?

"I prefer Treasa. What's your number?"