Three Black Swans (3 page)

Missy felt brave enough to run the world alone, and often regretted that she was not in that position. But she could not run the high school television studio alone.

“I’d better ask Mrs. Conway first,” said Rick dubiously.

Mrs. Conway was one of two assistant principals. She ran a number of student activities and was the sharpest knife in the faculty kitchen. Hoaxes required people to be gullible, or not have time to think clearly, or to be coaxed to think in the wrong direction. Mrs. Conway would not do any of that, since her main occupation was seeing through students’ fibs and excuses.

“Rick,” said Missy sternly, “you’re a senior. You’ve run the studio for two years. If you can’t make this decision, what
do
they allow you to do? It’ll just be for one minute. Sixty seconds.”

“Tell you what. If you and this girl come into the broadcast room tomorrow morning at seven thirty-five, ten minutes before I begin, and if I can’t tell which of you is which, we’ll do it.”

*  *  *

Within moments, Claire had second thoughts.

Being best friends with her cousin was one of the nicest parts of Claire’s life.

She could not remember refusing her cousin anything. On the other hand, she couldn’t remember Missy asking for anything so off the wall.

Claire prided herself on her sharp mind, her easy grip on theories and theorems, her total recall of dates and data. But now thinking did not happen. Low-level anxiety occupied her body.

Missy called back, bursting with the news that Rick was on board. Claire nerved herself. “I’m not going to do it, Missy. I can’t lie to Dad and ask him to drive me twenty miles each way during rush hour while I miss some school and he misses work.”

Actually, Claire’s dad was pretty much her slave and believed that anything Claire did was perfect. Her mother was the digger-out of detail. Mom led Jazzercise classes that met at dawn, midmorning, in the afternoon and in the evening. She kept track of Claire via texting, phone calls and interrogation and wouldn’t settle for a meaningless line like “I’m helping Missy with something.” But Mom would be at the community center when Claire needed this ride.

Missy was beside herself. “Claire! Rick said yes! It’s all set! Find your cashmere birthday sweater.”

“Our birthdays are two months apart, Missy. I’m older and I look it. Mrs. Stancil won’t buy a fake twin act.”

“That’s my difficulty, not yours. Tell me the real problem, Claire.”

Claire had never been able to say no to Missy. It was as if
Missy had a route into Claire’s heart and mind that Claire could not protect. “I hate getting caught doing something wrong.”

“It isn’t wrong, Clairedy. This is an actual assignment, which I will carry out brilliantly. Nobody will be in trouble, especially not you. Mrs. Stancil and the whole school will believe me. They’ll be impressed at how well I pull off my hoax. All you have to do is stand there and be photogenic.”

Claire sighed.

Missy correctly read this as surrender. “Be on the curb outside my school by seven-thirty.”

“I need an alias. I can’t use my real name. Maybe you could call me Wanda or Annabel. That will give me a little distance from this nonsense.”

“Wanda or Annabel? Where did you come up with those? I can live with Annabel, I suppose. Do you want a new last name too?”

“Griffin.”

Their mothers had been the Griffin sisters, Frannie and Kitty. The sisters were not as close as their daughters. Oh, sure, they talked and gossiped and the four parents went to the movies and football games together and everything. But
needing
to see each other—no.

“Annabel Griffin,” said Missy. “The long-lost identical twin. It’s perfect.”

“And when your buddy Rick, who obviously has the brains of a canned pea,” said Claire, “asks how I found you, or where I live, or who adopted whom—do you have answers ready?”

“Of course I do. Hoaxes are all about clever answers. My middle name is clever. Remember, we have to fill only a minute, Clairedy. How much can go wrong in sixty seconds?”

*  *  *

C
LAIRE’S FATHER PULLED
into a visitor slot at Missy’s high school. It had not crossed his mind that his sweet little girl would lie to him and so it did not cross his mind to quiz her. “I’ll just sit in the truck with my coffee and my paper,” he told Claire. “If it’s going to take longer than fifteen minutes, phone me. I’ll come in, and that will hurry things up. I know how Missy can chatter.” Her father fussed with the sip opening on the lid of his take-away coffee cup, which refused to snap into place. He didn’t pick up on Claire’s anxiety.

She headed toward the front doors, leaving her book bag and purse in the truck. She felt naked without them, as if she had no business being here.

And I don’t, she thought.

She had never been in this building. Missy’s school system had only tenth through twelfth grades in the high school, and it was only six weeks into Missy’s sophomore year. Claire had not yet attended any of her cousin’s school games or activities.

The front steps were imposing but shallow. Claire stumbled, which demolished her poise. The years leached away, and she
felt like a newcomer on the first day of seventh grade, wearing the wrong clothes.

It was 7:37.

At 7:45 would come the Pledge of Allegiance followed by the announcements, presented by Rick.

Claire paused on the last step.

There was something dreadful about hoaxes: the perpetrator planned to make suckers out of her very own friends.

I can turn around, she thought. Go home. Text Missy so she has time to cancel with Rick.

Claire could not imagine letting Missy down. Furthermore, she could feel Missy’s excitement. She and Missy were already breathing in synchrony. She even knew that Missy’s panting was from eagerness while she herself was gasping from worry.

I don’t
know
, she reminded herself. I just know Missy well enough to guess.

How odd that Missy had even noticed the hoax assignment. Missy did not care for biology. She did not care about Mrs. Stancil. Why was Missy going to such trouble?

The glass-walled foyer faced south and had collected the heat of the sun even at this early hour. Claire was immediately uncomfortable in her pink cashmere sweater. It was too dressy. She had a flicker of surprise that Missy hadn’t thought about this, because Missy had excellent fashion sense. Then she thought, Missy wants people to see clothing instead of us. Helps the hoax along.

Claire threaded through strangers, unpleasantly aware of her hot clinging sweater.

“Hey, Missy!” came a shout.

Oh, good. Her cousin had come to get her. Claire looked around.

A total stranger was waving and smiling. “You finish your essay, Missy?” he called.

Missy was not in the foyer. Only Claire was in the foyer.

The boy was laughing now, and two girls standing near him began to laugh too. “Yes, you, Missy,” said one of the girls. “Love the sweater. You going somewhere special?” The girl walked up to Claire and hugged her lightly.

Missy and this total stranger were close enough friends for hugs? How could such a friend be so clueless? How could she literally touch Claire and still not know she wasn’t Missy? “There is a special event coming up,” Claire said nervously.

“We’ll want to hear all about it,” said the girl. She and the other two students drifted away.

Maybe Mrs. Stancil’s hoax assignment was not so stupid after all. People needed to pay attention. Ask questions. Accept nothing without careful examination. This would be a wake-up call.

The foyer had largely emptied. Missy had told Claire to turn right and follow a long straight corridor. Claire obeyed. She turned into a dim corridor and saw a distant pink sweater.

The pink sweater approached.

Claire had the oddest sense of seeing herself in a mirror. Herself was walking toward her. That was her own thick ponytail swinging back and forth, her own earrings bouncing on her own small earlobes. Her own head was tilted slightly to the
side. That was her own wave, long fingers not relaxed and curved, but held stiffly, as if lacking a middle joint. Now Claire’s smile burst on the other face and Claire’s laugh came out of the other mouth.

Claire’s eyesight blurred. Her steps grew uneven.

This is a hoax, she told herself. This is pretend.
I
can’t be the one who falls for it.

“Could you cheer up a little, Clairedy?” teased Missy. “You’re thrilled, remember? There will be witnesses in the studio, so don’t goof up. You just have to hang on for a few minutes. I’ll do the work.”

Missy flung open a door and pulled Claire into the studio. Claire was now facing a wide plain desk on which lay a thin sheaf of papers. Flanking the desk were an American flag and a plastic fig tree. On the wall behind the desk was a blown-up photograph of the high school, with today’s date tacked on the blue sky.

Standing at the desk was a short cute chunky boy wearing heavy black-framed glasses. He looked like a 1950s singer inventing rock music. “Wow!” said the boy, his jaw falling open. “Wow,” he said again. “Missy,” he said to Claire, “this is—I don’t know. I mean—I never believed you for a minute. But …” He was half laughing, half horrified. “Missy,” he whispered, “I actually can’t tell which one is you.”

Claire felt herself shutting down. The lights in her brain were going off.

“I’m
Missy,” said her cousin. “You’re talking to my long-lost identical twin, Claire.”

There were gasps from the students behind Claire, who were manning cameras and control panels. “How did you find each other?” demanded one of them. “It’s like a miracle,” whispered another.

“It
is
a miracle,” said Missy, turning slowly to look into Claire’s eyes.

For years, Claire had been the tall one. This year she and Missy were the same height, so their eyes were exactly even. Missy’s were the same color and shape as her own, deeply set and perfect for eye shadow. Claire was inches from the exact same complexion, pointy chin and full lips. Inches from identical thin eyebrows, such a contrast to the extra-volume black hair.

Nothing is identical, Claire told herself. We share a strong family resemblance. People often comment on it. We are not twins. I am two months older than Missy. Miracles happen, but not the kind where the mother fails to give birth to the second twin for eight weeks. Anyway, my parents are my parents. Missy’s parents are her parents. Nobody is adopted.

Missy, when she was nervous, always yanked out her ponytail. At the exact same moment both cousins pulled out their pink hair elastics, shook their heads in the same way to free up their hair and re-ponytailed.

“Isn’t it time to do the Pledge of Allegiance, Rick?” asked Missy, yanking out her ponytail a second time, which meant she was really nervous.

Claire locked her fingers to prevent herself from yanking out
her
ponytail a second time. I am not Missy’s mirror image, she reminded herself. This is a game. All I have to do is smile. Only Missy has to act.

Rick studied them minutely and then shook himself like a spaniel coming out of water. “After the Pledge, I do my regular stuff, and then I cut to you, Missy. You’ll have about a minute. Margaret here will do a countdown, so you stop at the exact right second.” Rick checked his lavalier mike, straightened his shirt and sat behind the desk.

There were no adults present. Either Missy had contrived to get rid of supervision, or Rick and his crew were so trusted that advisors didn’t feel the need to be here. They might change their minds now. Claire whispered to her cousin, “What happened to Annabel Griffin?”

“I forgot about her.” Missy squeezed Claire’s hand. It gave Claire the oddest sensation that Missy was the older one. She was guided onto a stool, and a tiny mike was fastened to her sweater. She could not suppress a shudder.

“And roll,” called out one of the crew.

Rick smiled at the cameras. “Good morning, friends.”

Claire could not smile. She could barely stay attached to the stool. A series of memories passed through her, like the flipping of old snapshots. Mom refusing to let her dress like Missy anymore (“Baby-girl outfits are fine for Missy, but you need something tailored, Claire; something mature.”). Mom insisting she could not wear her hair the same as Missy (“That looks sweet on Missy, but you need something more sophisticated.”)
or participate in the same activities (“Don’t copy Missy. Don’t be a sheep in a flock. Strive to be different.”). She remembered herself laughing. “Mom, I’m not copying Missy. All girls my age have long hair. I’m just part of the crowd.”

“Is that the best thing, dear?” her mom had asked.

“Mom, it’s hair. It does not predict my future as a clone of society.”

A clone, thought Claire.

Hideous deep panic crawled into her heart.

When Missy began to talk, Claire was startled. Announcements were over already?

“Hi, everybody,” said Missy, beaming at the cameras. “I’m Missy Vianello. I’m a sophomore here. And I have the most wonderful, amazing, beautiful thing to share. My identical twin just surfaced. We just found each other! Can you believe it? I have a long-lost identical twin. And this,” said Missy, touching Claire’s shoulder, “this is my twin, Claire.”

A sob formed in her throat. Claire choked it back. She pressed her lips together and then her jaw. It was like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. Tears spurted out the top. “We shouldn’t have done this,” she said to Missy. Her voice sounded like gravel. “I shouldn’t have agreed.”

Missy ignored her. “Claire’s going to attend school with me today,” she said, perky as a cheerleader, “and this seemed like a good way to let everybody know who she is and why she’s here.”

Claire felt as if her bones had cracked. She tried to find something to hold on to, but for once it couldn’t be Missy.

Missy was a stranger. What does she know and didn’t tell me? thought Claire. We’ve always shared everything.

And then she thought, Or have we?