My part is first half.
I go to student government, chemistry, trigonometry, psychology, and history at school, then do the rest of the day at home. I maintain that Mom was in a mood when she made assignments this year—math and science are definitely not my best subjects. When I reminded her of this, she said, “That’s exactly why you’re doing first half.”
I finish applying lip balm, take a step back from the sink, and frown. I’m used to looking exactly like two other people, but I’ll never be used to Ella’s fashion sense. I’m actually wearing an argyle cardigan.
“What’s up, Ann Taylor Loft?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.
I lean back and crane my neck so I can see the digital clock on my nightstand: It reads 6:47—thirteen minutes before I need to leave for school. One of Mom’s major concerns is us standing out—and therefore being found out. So things like tardiness, bad grades, and attention-grabbing clothes are basically off-limits in the Best household.
I haven’t eaten breakfast, but I don’t smell bacon, so I decide to grab something from the cafeteria. Instead of sustenance, I opt for straightening. I plug in my flat iron, wait for it to heat up, then quickly but meticulously comb sections and pull the iron along, making the curls disappear. It’s got its drawbacks, but at least first half means that I pick the hairstyle for the day.
Expertly moving through the darkened bedroom, I smooth down one last wrinkle at the foot of the bed and throw my pajama bottoms in the hamper. Mom tries to act mellow, but I saw her OCD forehead vein pop out yesterday when she saw the state of my room—she’s got enough going on, so I cleaned it up. I gather my books and leave, gently closing the door behind me.
Just as I step from the cushy carpeting to the light hardwood in the hallway, Ella does, too. Her bedroom is across from mine: We face each other head-on. It’s like looking at a life-sized picture of me in another outfit: She has the exact same tone of chestnut hair, matching dark brown eyes, the same lips that naturally frown when they’re not smiling.
And they’re frowning now.
Ella’s eyes narrow to slits when she sees my hair. Her posture is pure pissed—underneath her plush robe, she pops a hip and rests her hand there—but more than seeing her anger, I can feel it. She exhales loudly and rolls her eyes.
“Are you done?” I ask. “We’re not at auditions for a teen drama, you know. You don’t have an audience.”
Ella shakes her head at me.
“I mean, you’re so selfish it’s ridiculous,” she says.
“It’s just hair,” I say, touching it. Awesome hair, I don’t say. Hair I’d like to have permanently.
“It’s not just hair,” she says. “It’s time. I’m up early as it is because I didn’t finish everything for second half. I have to study before Betsey gets up and then teach her all of the cheers. You know there’s a game next Friday! I have so much to do and now I have to flat iron my hair, too?”
“What’s going on?” Betsey asks from her door, rubbing her eyes. I feel a little bad for waking her up. Her part is evening, which means that on top of being home-schooled all day, she’s the one to juggle our college course, a part-time job, and cheering at night games. She goes to bed at least an hour later than we do.
When Betsey finally focuses on me, her dark eyes widen. “Seriously, Lizzie? Not again,” she says with a groan.
“Not you, too,” I say, eyebrows raised. She shrugs.
“Yes, her, too,” Ella says. “What you do impacts all of us, Lizzie. You should remember that next time. I mean, just, thanks for this. Thanks for ruining my day.” She storms downstairs, bare feet slapping gleaming wood floors all the way down.
I stifle a laugh. “Sorry,” I say to Bet with a sheepish grin. “But I like it this way.”
“It does look good,” she says, giving me a small hug. “But I’m still going to kill you.”
I stop in the entryway to gather all the stuff I need for school. I put my books in the bag. I unplug the cell phone from its charger and put it in the purse, then shove the purse in the bag, too. I shrug on the light jacket we chose for this fall and then grab the ends of the ball chain necklace and clasp it at the nape of my neck. When I straighten the weighty silver pendant so the vintage-looking pattern is facing out, there’s a little twist in my torso. But as I have for the past couple of months, I ignore it.
My mom hears me turn the door handle despite the fact that she’s listening to old Bon Jovi on the sound system in the kitchen. Sometimes I think she’s part bat.
“Lizzie?” she calls. “Come eat some breakfast.”
“I’ll eat at school.” I pull the door shut behind me, knowing my leaving will probably irritate her but hoping this is one of those days she lets her irritation slide. Otherwise, after school she’ll probably force me into a mother/daughter heart-to-heart about the importance of proper nutrition.
Outside, it’s a pretty fall day, a little hazy, but the sun’s managing to peek through. I inhale the ocean air as I walk across the cobblestone driveway, looking up at the hundred-foot pines that surround the property. With the imposing trees and an iron gate, you’d think a celebrity lived here… until you saw our car. Apparently top on the list of “safest cars for teens,” the sensible gray sedan is only just slightly better than the bus.
“Stupid old-lady car,” I mutter as I climb in and buckle up.
When I turn the key, I’m simultaneously blasted by heat and music; quickly I turn down the blower and flip to the alt rock station. I can’t help but laugh at Betsey’s taste: She may dress like someone who lives for jam bands, but her real musical love is country. I think back to Florida, when our neighbor Nina babysat us sometimes in the afternoons so Mom could run errands without dragging along three toddlers. We’d sit out by Nina’s pool listening to Reba McEntire, sipping sugary drinks we weren’t allowed to have at home.
“Now, don’t tell your mama, you hear?” Nina would say in her Southern accent. Practically drooling at the sight of juice boxes, we’d nod our little heads and swear on our baby dolls never to tell. Nina would sing along with Reba at the top of her lungs while Bet did backup vocals and silly dances, and I’d laugh to the point of a potty emergency.
Betsey never outgrew her affinity for country music and it’s one of the things that I love about her, because it’s one of the ways she’s different.
Still not used to the driveway—our old house was on a regular street—I do an Austin Powers maneuver to get the car turned in the right direction. Then I hold my breath as I drive up, hugging the right, since there’s a drop-off on the left.
I wait for the gate to inch open, tossing my hair off my shoulders and finally taking a breath. For another morning, I’m safe from death by driveway. Despite my hideous sweater, I have sleek, straight hair. And now, for a few hours at least, I’m out of the house. I smile for no one to see, because these things are worth smiling about.
Two hours later, instinctively, I touch the necklace around my neck. My heart rate is up: I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I try to calm myself as I picture the alert sounding on my mom’s phone, it dragging her from whatever she’s doing so she can check the GPS blip and make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. Back in Florida when we were little, the necklace used to make me feel protected. Now, sitting here in trig, panicking because I don’t know the answers, it feels invasive. Not only do I have my own stress to worry about, but I have her stress to worry about, too.
