You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

His lips make a tight, thin smile. A smile that says, “Hey, it’s okay,” but nothing is okay. I am going to combust. I have never been this embarrassed in my life. He won’t meet my eyes, and his hand drops to his lap, leaving mine cold, cold, cold.

“I should go. I’ll go.” I pack my viola as fast as I can. Suddenly I’m fourteen years old and in Eitan Mizrahi’s bedroom. Except that time, I got what I wanted: I was able to change his mind.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Arjun says to the floor. Clearly there’s no changing his mind.

As I race down his hallway and into the elevator, my heart, which swelled when I laid my hand on his, shrinks to the size of a pea. Maybe it even disappears completely. It occurs to me he might be so uncomfortable that he’ll drop me as a student. Give up on me. I’d have to find a new teacher, and no one understands my music the way he does.

It’s not until I get back on the bus that I wonder why, if he was so eager to shut me down, it took him so long to move his hand from mine.

Two

Tovah

I USED TO THINK BEING a twin meant I’d never be the center of attention. That I’d always share the spotlight with my sister or fight for control of it. For a long time, I didn’t mind sharing. I hid behind Adina while others praised her for her music, her poise, her looks.

Then my shyness mutated, and I started wanting to be seen too. We tried to share the spotlight until she got jealous. Until something shattered our entire family, and in the aftermath she ruined the precarious balance between us. Turned us into two girls who share some DNA and nothing else.

Tomorrow, when we turn eighteen, Adi and I will take a genetic test that tells us whether we’ve inherited our mother’s Huntington’s disease, the asteroid that knocked our family out of orbit four years ago. The black hole slowly swallowing her up.

Tomorrow I take the next step in knowing whether it’ll one day swallow me, too.

But tonight I skate.

Lindsay whizzes by, black hair streaming behind her. Four years on the track team have made me somewhat athletic, but I don’t have much grace. I never know what to do with my arms.

“Have you noticed,” I ask Lindsay when I catch up to her, “that we’re the oldest ones here?” There are two other birthday parties at the rink tonight. Mine is the only one that doesn’t require parental supervision.

“Considering I’m the same size as most of them, I was feeling like I finally found my people.” At four ten, Lindsay’s more than a half foot shorter than I am. She wears tiny T-shirts and matchstick jeans and carries a bucket of a purse the size of her torso. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

It was Lindsay’s idea to have my birthday here, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Great Skate is a relic from the 1980s. Neon orange carpet in the dining area, strobe lights, outdated music collection. It smells like foot spray and fryer grease. Adi and I spent birthdays here as kids, eating oily pizza and hoping the guys we liked would ask us to skate with them. At that age, holding a guy’s clammy hand while Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” played from the rink’s scratchy speakers was the most romantic thing I could imagine.

“I’m . . . trying,” I say after grappling for the right word.

Though my sister and I ignore each other most days, Great Skate isn’t the same without her. If no one asked us to dance during couples skate—or more accurately, if Adi didn’t like the boys who inevitably asked her—we’d glide around the rink with our arms linked, pretending we didn’t care. And after a few laps, we didn’t. We were the independent Siegel sisters! We didn’t need boys.

We slow down as we approach Lindsay’s boyfriend, Troy, and his friend Zack, both wobbling on their skates near the rink entrance. Lindsay, Troy, and I are proud AP kids who’ve spent most of high school preparing for college. Advanced classes, student council, after-school sports, and as many other extracurriculars we can squeeze in. When Lindsay started dating Troy at the beginning of sophomore year, Zack, whose only AP class is Studio Art, joined our group.

Given what this birthday means, I hoped tonight would be just Lindsay and me, but I’m used to sharing my best friend with Troy. While there’s nothing wrong with him, sometimes I want to be selfish. I’m just not brave enough to tell her.

Lindsay drags her toe to stop and tugs on Troy’s Seahawks sweatshirt strings. “I can’t tell if you guys are pathetic or adorable.”

“Pathetic,” Troy grumbles. “That group of fourth graders has lapped us four times. I think I’ll stick to writi

ng about others’ athletic achievements.” Troy’s the school newspaper’s sports reporter, and he can rattle off statistics about all of Seattle’s teams. None of them ever seem to be winning.

“I prefer adorable.” Zack wobbles and nearly loses his balance. His wavy russet hair falls in his face, and he has to grab the wall for support. “Nailed it.”

“Have you been finger painting?” I ask, gesturing to his hands. His knuckles are smudged blue and yellow.

Zack examines them. Grins like he’s just realized he’s a mess. “It’s mixed media, and I happen to be using my fingers.”

“Sounds like finger painting to me.”

“That’s because you’re not an ar-tiste like Zack is, Tov,” Lindsay puts in.

“Hardy-har. Got any big plans now that you’re eighteen?” Zack says. “You can pierce or tattoo anything. Vote. Go into an adult store.” His mouth quirks up when he mentions this last one, and when his thick-lashed hazel eyes catch mine, I feel my cheeks grow warm.

“I’ll be keeping it pretty tame,” I say. He doesn’t know what my actual, life-changing turning-eighteen plans are.