There Will Come a Time (7 page)

We got paid $150, which we split three ways. They fed us too. By the end, we had twenty-six eleven-year-old girls worshiping us. Not bad for an afternoon. If you get them when they're young, you'll have them as a fan for life.

“Want to help me, Mark?” Fern says.

I don't really, but I pick up a yellow crayon and add a big sun to Fern's drawing. She has five stick figures standing in front of the house.

“Okay. In that case, can you make sure you clean the bathroom and your room today?” Dad asks.

“Yep.” I can do this: be the good son, be a good brother. I glance at Fern. I've got another sister left.

“And your mom called again,” Dad adds. “She says she's been trying to reach you. She wondered if you changed your number.”

“I might have gotten a text or something. No message, though,” I lie.

Fern writes
DAD
and
MOM
underneath the figures in the middle.

“It would be good to call her soon,” he says.

“Yeah, okay.” I have no intention of calling Mom, but I say what he wants to hear.

Jenny begins to clear the table. My dad gets up to help her. He places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, probably because we're talking about Mom. Jenny smiles at him.

Fern writes my name underneath a figure, and I write Grace's name underneath the last one. Fern has drawn her with a triangle, like she's wearing a skirt, even though Grace never wore skirts. Her hair is black and shorter than it should be. I give it some length. I also add some lashes to her eyes and make her smile a little more even.

Fern catches her breath. “That looks just like Grace. You are a good drawer. Look, Mom!”

Jenny comes over to the table. “Yes, it does. Just like Grace.” She places her hand on the figure, and I have to look away. “Let's get you ready for the day.”

They leave and my dad stays at the sink with the water running, even though he's finished rinsing the dishes. His shoulders are hunched over. I'm trying to think of something to say, but my phone buzzes.

Hey

I'm sorry
, I type, and get up from the table. This time I mean the words. “Bye, Dad,” I tell him, and head back upstairs, leaving him at the sink. He doesn't respond.

You should be.

I know.

Me too

Come over

When?

An hour?

Maybe

An hour and a half later the doorbell rings. It's Hanna, standing there with her hands in her jean pockets.

“Well?” she asks when I open the door.

I smile, hoping that will be enough to win her over, but she kind of pouts. I can tell she's going to make me work for it.

“I said I was sorry.”

“True,” she says, and walks past me into the house. She takes off her shoes and throws them into the shoe basket by the front door before making herself at home on the couch in the living room. “Where is everyone?”

“Park.” I think about joining her, but I sit across from her on the love seat.

“You didn't want to go?” She asks me all formal, like I'm being interviewed for some after-school job.

“Would you?”

“Probably not.”

Our conversation is stilted as if there's something still
unfinished between us. I consider apologizing again when she stands up.

“You have anything to eat?” She heads for the kitchen.

“Yeah. You feeling okay?”

“Just a little low.” And right on cue, her pump beeps. “All right, Pepe,” she says, and pats her side. “Mama's coming.”

Whenever her sugar levels are too low or too high, Pepe makes a soft beep. Hanna says he's just temperamental. Sometimes she sets Pepe on silent so she doesn't have to explain to people why she's beeping.

I pour her a glass of orange juice.

“Thanks,” she says. “Maybe my sugar's fine. I could just be PMSing.”

“Aww, man, why'd you have to do that?”

“What?” She hops up and sits on top of the counter, as she's been doing since we were kids. She swings her legs back and forth and drinks the juice.

“If I were to say that, I'd never hear the end of it.”

“It's not like I asked you to get me a tampon or anything.”

I put my hands over my ears. “Not listening.” She knows this kind of talk freaks me out. Some things a guy just doesn't need to know. Grace used to try to discuss her womanly problems with me too. I guess she and Hanna thought it was funny to see my reaction.

Hanna pulls a book from her back pocket and tosses it to me. It's Grace's journal.

“Listen, Mark,” she begins. “If you don't want to do the list, I understand.” She avoids my eyes. “She probably just wrote it not thinking that she'd actually do these things. It's not like she thought anyone would read it and follow through. I don't want to push you. So . . .”

Hanna puts the empty glass down and jumps off the counter. She reaches out and touches my arm as she passes me, and the walls within me start to crack.

“No,” I say.

“No?” She turns around.

“I mean, let's do it.”

Hanna studies me, and I give her my best
I'm serious
look.

“Okay,” she says, and smiles. “Let's start training for the run. Mornings? Six a.m.?”

“That early?”

“I need time to get ready for school. You said—”

“Okay. Okay. Six a.m.,” I say, wanting to avoid another confrontation.

“One other thing. If you do read that”—she points to the journal—“you can't take it personally. Grace would never say half of those things aloud in real life. She never meant for us to read it, that's for sure.”

“Why? What's in there?” Hanna's caution makes me nervous.

“Just stuff. Nothing damaging, more unfiltered. Thanks for the juice.”

She heads for the front door and I don't even bother to see her out. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I can move.

The journal is small and so light, but now it feels heavy in my hands. Hanna's got me curious, even though I think she meant to deter me from reading it. That's the thing, though: Once you know you shouldn't do something, you kind of want to do it even more. I flip through and skim a poem. When I turn the page, the first line catches my attention.

I hate that I'm always being compared to Mark.

Okay, Grace, don't sugarcoat it or anything. Love you too
. But I keep reading.

He's so good in music; why aren't you, Grace? I can't help that I'm not a genius musician. I remember when we were little, Mom and Dad used to dress us in color-coordinated outfits. Both of us had those ridiculous straight bangs. Mark got that bowl
cut. Ha ha. Score! At least Mom let me have long hair.

We were always “the twins.” The twins this and the twins that. One entity. Don't get me wrong, I love Mark. He's funny and talented and easy to talk to. He's there for me when I need him and vice versa. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be totally on my own. Sure, I've been lonely before, but with Mark, I know I'll never be alone, not really. It's a twin thing.

I wish I could be free, kind of like when we switched high schools. Thank God for that, at least I get some break. I like having my own friends. My own life.

That's how it'll be in college. I'll go away, and so will Mark. We'll start over. We'll text and call, but we'll reinvent ourselves. We'll still be twins, but no one will know me as part of Mark and Grace. I'll just be Grace. I can't wait.

I slam the journal shut. She got her wish, except I'm the one without a twin. I'm just Mark. I suddenly hate Grace. I take Hanna's empty juice glass and throw it. The glass breaks against the wall. I leave the shards on the floor, not caring what Dad and Jenny will say.

I
quickly pull a T-shirt over my head as Sebastian honks again out front. I don't have time to brush my hair, so I grab my usual brown beanie.

“Mark! Sebastian's outside!” Jenny yells from downstairs.

“Coming!”

After Hanna and I went for our first run, when we ran
maybe
a mile—well, more like ran/walked a mile—I thought that Hanna would change her mind about the 5K. I was wrong. We've been at it for over a week, and I'm actually sore. I've got a lot more respect for runners. I know my body will adjust, like building calluses on my fingers from playing the bass and guitar. I don't even notice them anymore, but at first they hurt to the touch. I try not to wince as I step down the stairs.

At the bottom, Jenny holds out a brown paper bag with my lunch in one hand and a paper towel with a bagel and cream cheese in the other. I know I should tell her that she doesn't need to make my lunch anymore, that I can do it, but I like that she still wants to take care of me.

“Mark! Hugs!” Fern says, and jumps at me. I bend down and pat her on the back. Since Grace died, she kind of freaks out at good-byes. Any time you leave the house, she'll give you at least three hugs before you get out the door.

Sebastian honks again.

“Will you tell Sebastian not to disturb the neighbors anymore?” Jenny says. “He can get his butt out of the car and ring the doorbell.”

Today I need my upright, so it takes a little maneuvering to hold my bagel, my bag, and my bass, which I carry like a backpack.

“I will. Sorry, Jenny.”

“Have a great day.”

“Hugs!”

I can't bend down, so Fern wraps herself around my legs. And this is how I shuffle to the door: with Fern attached to me like a small squid.

“Dude. We're going to be late!” Sebastian snaps as I put my bass in his backseat.

“Relax. We'll be right on time.”

Sebastian hates being late, and he hates when I tell him to relax. He acts like he's the most chill person, but he's got all of these rules, and you don't find out about them until you start to break them. Like the late thing. I didn't fully grasp his obsession with being on time until he became my ride to school.

“And can you lay off the honking? You're starting to piss off Jenny.”

Sebastian turns up the music as an answer. It's one of his beat tracks. Not only is Sebastian one of the most talented drummers I've played with, but he's also sick at composing. He does all the instruments on his computer.

“Seriously, get up earlier or something.”

“I'm up at six. Hanna and I are training for a 5K.”

“Wow, I knew you had it bad, but—”

I cut him off. “It's this thing she wanted to do for Grace.”

Sebastian turns down the music. I tell him about the package from the police department with Grace's journal and her Top Five.

“I'm in. We can go bungee jumping at this place my cousin went. It's not too far. You hike a couple of miles to some bridge over a river. I'm off in a couple of Saturdays if you want to go.”

I look out the window at people sitting in their cars on the freeway, just like us. They're listening to music, talking. This is
good. I can do this: ride with Sebastian to school, talk about Grace, be normal.

“You'll have to speak to Hanna. She's got some plan.”

“I'm not going in the ocean after October. We should get Charlie to take us. I don't have a wet suit. Do you have one?”

“Yeah. Can you turn the music back up? I love this track. When'd you do it?”

“Last night.”

He turns it up, and I'm lost in the beats. I'm glad for the distraction. I hadn't planned on telling Sebastian about Grace's list. Now he's talking about bringing Charlie. It's becoming a production. I just wanted to do the five things and not make a big deal about it. I close my eyes and focus on the music, letting it take me to another place where I'm creating bass lines and a melody, a place where I'm safe.

•  •  •  •

During lunch, Sebastian asks if I want to go with Pete and him to get some cheap tacos at the truck up the road. We have an open campus, so most of the time students, especially seniors, leave for lunch. I don't want to go, but I'm still hungry, even though I've already eaten the lunch Jenny packed. I give him my order: a couple of carne asada tacos.

I'm looking forward to time by myself, actually. Since being back at school, everyone seems concerned about my
reentry. From teachers to students, it's as if everyone got the same memo:

Mark Santos is returning to school after the traumatic loss of his twin, Grace. Please don't mention Grace when you're with him, except to express how sorry you are, and then move on. Please make sure Mark is not left alone during the day. Be positive when you're around him.

It's making me a little jittery.

I avoid everyone by looking down and keeping my earbuds in, though I don't even have any music on. In the hallway, I pass a couple of guitarists sitting on the ground, playing dueling versions of “Stairway to Heaven.” I give them the nod and keep walking.

I only have one more year and after that, who knows. The cutoff for early admissions to Berklee College of Music is November 1, and I'm not going to make that. I think the next deadline is mid-January, so I still have some time if I want to try to go in the fall. Dad stopped bugging me about it when I started seeing Chris. I think they both felt it was placing too much pressure on me, but my music advisor keeps asking me about my plans. She's trying not to push, but I know she wants me to be proactive. She's worried that I'll miss my window of opportunity. Who says I have to go to school right away? I'm not sure I want to be in some professional orchestra. I could take the studio musician track. Maybe I could hook up with some artist and go on tour for a year or two. Everything's uncertain now.

I hear the music and the dancers laughing and yelling before I round the corner of the hallway. Dancers. They have no problem expressing exactly how they feel all the time and they're always hugging or touching each other. At the moment, half of them have some kind of massage train going where they're rubbing the person's back in front of them. The other half has got a dance circle going.