Page 27 of Twice as Twisted

“I almost never wear my glasses,” he says, lounging back in his chair and smiling bigger, so big his eyes squint a little at the corners. It’s an easy smile, one I’ve never seen on Baron’s face.

Because this is not Baron.

I’ve been watching them for months, even when they weren’t watching me. I thought I had them memorized, but I was thrown off by nothing more than the way he combed his hair and the fact that I was more focused on my book. Baron and Duke may be identical twins, but the mistake is embarrassingly basic. My pulse has become erratic, and I glance around at the rest of my table, at the girls like Vanessa and Natalie, ones I thought were above such gossip and nonsense, to see if they noticed.

They’re all silent, either staring or pretending not to listen while clearly eavesdropping on our every word. No one is so much as whispering at our table, and only a few quiet hisses sound at the next few tables as well. It’s ridiculous and the very reason I don’t do this kind of thing.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, cutting my eyes at the others meaningfully, hoping Duke will take the hint.

“I’m vetting you,” he says, still sprawled out in his chair.

I gape at him. “Vetting me.”

“Yeah, see, I’m extra protective, being Baron’s twin and all. So, if you’re going to be dating, I figured I’d come right out and ask what exactly your intentions are with my brother.”

He doesn’t bother lowering his voice, and since the whole area is quiet, his deep baritone booms out like an announcement. I can see the other girls exchanging glances, eyebrows raised with the promise of gossip they’ll be sharing later. Even Vanessa, the traitor I once called a friend, won’t meet my eye.

“I have no intention of dating anyone,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “I already told Baron that.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work,” Duke says. “See, we might act all big and tough, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leans forward suddenly, his eyes alive with a conspiratorial gleam, his lips twisted into a playful, inviting smile. Now he lowers his voice, and I find my breath catching, my body drawn forward before I can stop it, as if his magnetism is irresistible even for a girl made of nothing but blank cardboard.

“We’re actually very sensitive,” he whisper-shouts. He shoots a wink at a girl beside me who clearly overheard this pronouncement, and she giggles and turns bright red.

“I don’t date,” I say, gripping my book so tightly I can feel it warping. “You can ask anyone.”

I don’t know why I’m suddenly so nervous, babbling like an idiot, since no logical person would ask someone else if I dated. It must be my brain’s attempt to recover intellectual equilibrium after my infantile blunder with his identity.

“Then it’s a perfect time to start,” he says. “Your date’s at eight tonight, which means you’ll need at least two hours to get ready. Should I be there at six?”

“What?”

“For the pre-date prep,” he says. “Like a pre-game warmup. You can do your makeup and shit, and I can get to know you, make sure you’re suitable for him, and that you’re not going to break his heart.”

“No dates,” I say firmly. “I told him no.”

The room is too warm, my cutout paper heart is doing funny skips and hops like a living thing, and my skin is buzzing.

“Call it what you want to,” Duke says, clearly enjoying himself even though I think I might combust. “If ‘date’ is too much pressure, just say you’re hanging out. Wear something cute, but not too sexy. Can’t have me falling in love with my brother’s girlfriend before he gets there, can we?” He drops a wink at me this time, and my chest gets all tight and prickly, like my lungs are filled with hot fiberglass.

“I’m not wearing anything because I’m not going on any dates, or pre-dates, or post-dates,” I say, gritting out the words in frustration.

“That works too,” he says, cracking a naughty grin. “Not going to turn down a naked chick even if she is my brother’s girlfriend. I’ll see you at six… In whatever you’re wearing.”

He stands, leaving his chair pushed back from the table, and strolls off before I can pick my jaw up off the floor. Everyone is staring at me, whispering, snickering. I’m not sure if I’m blushing or flushed with anger, as I’ve never done either before. Whatever it is, it feels terrible.

If I wasn’t already being stared at, I’d throw my apple at the back of his head. If I was a normal girl, I’d march after him and shove him in the back and make him turn around so I could give him a piece of my mind. But I’ve never given anyone a piece of my mind, because if I did, they’d probably take it to a lab and examine it, study it to determine what kind of monster I was, if I was born or made, bitten by a bat like Dracula or sewn together piece by piece, like Frankenstein’s.

So I keep my mind and my hands and my fruit to myself. I bend over my book like no one is looking, and I bite into my apple with monstrous ferocity. It crunches like bones, the juice filling my mouth like the sweetest poison.

They’re just messing with me, the way cruel kids do. I’ve seen it, even if I haven’t experienced it. Popular kids messing with scholarship kids, girls pretending they’re interested in a boy just so they can shoot him down in front of a crowd; pretending to take an interest in what another girl is doing, their words seemingly innocuous or underhanded at worst, but their tones and looks and snickers devastating. Popular boys going along with them, letting a cheerleader tell some poor hapless loser that the boy likes her, even though he’s clearly into the cheerleader herself.

I guess now that they’ve destroyed my cousins, it’s my turn. I don’t know why they bother. I’m not popular. They already took the thrones from my cousins and proclaimed themselves the new kings. Everyone more or less went along, albeit uneasily. It would be hard to argue with a group of guys who just lost their sister, even if they weren’t all over six feet tall, built like Roman gods, and so gorgeous it’s hard to think when more than one of them is in the same room. And they’realwaystogether.

When I open my locker at the end of the day, I pause with my books halfway to their spot inside.

A blood red sucker lies alone in the center of the dark wooden cavity, gleaming as if under a spotlight.

I stare at it, everything else disappearing. Most of our work is online, so I bring my laptop and my few books to my classes and return them after school. My locker sits empty until then. Even so, I never give out my combination like the other girls who share their lockers with friends until they can’t remember which one is assigned to each of them. I’ve never even shared my combination with my brother. I am literally the only person who knows it—except the office.

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