record.
His teammates are probably acting happy, and truth is, a lot of them are. I mean, Connor’s not the kind of guy to rub his tri-umphs into the faces of everyone else. He’s not arrogant, even though he has every right to be. He’s likable. But for some of the other athletes, especially the seniors, I bet they wish that, just once, Connor would come in second or, better yet, third 2 4
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
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or fourth. Couldn’t he trip over a shoelace or catch his foot on a hurdle? I wish he would. Just once I’d like to comfort him instead of congratulate him.
Maybe if we’d have been born together, instead of almost two years apart, we’d both be champions. Mom and Dad would have signed us up together. We’d have gone to the gym together and practices together. We’d be unbeatable. He would have been quarterback of the football team, and I’d have been his wide receiver, catching anything he threw at me and running in for touchdown after touchdown.
I know Mom and Dad thought they were doing the right thing. I know they were afraid that if they carried their perfect, laboratory-created, identical twins at the same time, they might lose us to yet another miscarriage in a long line of miscarriages. Don’t put all your eggs in the same basket, as the saying goes. I lost the coin toss. I’m the one who got to be frozen.
I guess I came in second then too.
If we’d been born together, today would be both of our birthdays. We’d both be eighteen, and Connor would be my best friend instead of a constant reminder that there is someone who exists in this world who will always be admired and respected and loved more than me.
We weren’t born together. We never played “pass the umbili-cal cord” in the womb. We never lay side by side in a crib. While Connor was rolling over and then crawling and then walking and talking and getting farther and farther ahead of me, I was frozen. And sometimes I feel like I haven’t quite thawed.
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f calories could be absorbed through the skin, a person would gain ten pounds just from walking into Luigi’s Italian Eatery.
The air is thick with the aroma of pasta and garlic bread. Italian music plays over the speakers, and candlelight flickers in the center of each table.
“How’s this?” the waitress asks, leading us to a rectangular table set for six.
“Would it be okay if we sat over here?” Cami says, taking hold of my arm and pulling me toward a table for two in the corner. Dad gives Mom a little grin because he didn’t know Cami and I liked each other like that. He didn’t know because we don’t. But we’re used to splitting off from the group, so to speak—the Connor and Emma group.
It’s crazy how at least once a month, Cami and I get dragged along to a movie or, last month, a rodeo, because Connor and Emma both think we need to get out more. Cami’s usually working at the grocery store, taking care of her little brother, or driving around in search of artistic inspiration. I, on the other hand, am usually trying to break records of my own on Xbox.
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Emma always checks Cami’s schedule first. If she isn’t working or doesn’t have to babysit, then she starts trying to force Cami to go, and Connor starts on me. They bug us until we give in and then it’s like we don’t exist. When Emma and Connor are together, everyone else becomes invisible. They’re Romeo and Juliet, and the sun hasn’t risen yet.
Cami isn’t in love, and I can’t have Emma, so we leave the star-crossed lovers alone and see who can get the lowest score at mini golf or who can shove the most Milk Duds in their mouth at one time.
Mom, Dad, and the golden couple sit down at the table, then the waitress takes two sets of silverware and brings them, along with two glasses of water, over to where we’re sitting.
“So.” I fold my hands together like I’m about to conduct a very important business meeting. “You wanted to see me.”
She tilts her head and smiles at me like I’m the world’s biggest pain in the ass. “As you are probably aware,