Free There Will Come a Time by Carrie Arcos Page B

Pete. I’m kind of busy. We have orchestra and jazz band performances.”
    â€œYou always have those,” he says. “This’ll be your chance to stop lurking around, avoiding most of humanity. It’s senior year. We’ll make history with this performance.”
    â€œI’m not lurking,” I say, but realize I’m sulking when I say it, so I straighten up.
    Pete’s pushing is beginning to piss me off. I don’t like to be pushed. I look at Sebastian for help.
    He shrugs and says, “It might be a good idea. Orchestra’s no big deal this semester. It’ll get your mind off of . . . I mean, on this year.”
    I know he means to say, Get your mind off of Grace , but I’m glad he doesn’t because I might have to punch him in the nose. I don’t know what’s happening, how everything is about doing the talent show. I’m now feeling claustrophobic on the rooftop. I eye the door and think about making a break for it.
    â€œI was having trouble coming up with a theme, but this is perfect.” Pete walks along the side of the roof like he’s balancing on a tight rope. “I’ll get Krysta to work on a downtown skyline for the sets. We’ll have models, dancers, musicians, dancers as models. . . . Sebastian and Mark, you guys can handle themusic. Maybe it could count for your senior thesis as well. It’ll be huge.”
    Brandon, Sebastian, and Pete are all looking at me. I want to tell them no. I want to tell them to leave so I can be alone. I just want to slip through the school year without drawing attention. Getting pulled into Pete’s fashion-show drama—and it’s Pete, so I know it’ll be drama—is the last thing I want to do. But I’ve never said no to Pete, and when I don’t say anything, Pete takes that as a yes.
    â€œGreat. When do you think you’ll have something ready?”

Eleven
    I ’ve parked across the street from the small yellow house. I watch the front door and wait—for what, I’m not sure. It’s not like I’m going to get out of the car and walk over. I’ve played that scene over in my head many times and it never ends well. Watching this house has become one of my routines, like my trips to the bridge. I park in the same spot each time. I’m a little surprised that no one’s noticed and called the cops.
    I take out my phone and post a question for anyone who’s online at Twinless Twins.
    Am I still considered a twin?
    It only takes a couple of moments for the answers to come.
    Kelly: Yes.
    Brian: Yes.
    Greg: Yes.
    Susan: Yes.
    John: Yes.
    Greg: You’ll always be Grace’s twin. Death doesn’t end that.
    Kelly: Once a twin, always a twin.
    Brian: Brady and Brian. Brian and Brady. It’s been ten years and I still link his name with mine in my head.
    I do the same thing. I don’t say it out loud, but I still think in terms of we: Grace and me. A unit. One we instead of two singular I s.
    Susan: Forever
    I look up from my phone. Across the street, a few kids are now running around the front yard. They don’t even look old enough for elementary school. Their mom sits on the front porch, talking on her phone, watching them. She’s pretty, even from this distance.
    The dad comes out with a soccer ball. He drops it on the ground and kicks it to the older one in the red shirt. He tries to kick it back, but misses. He runs and grabs the ball with his hands instead and pushes it to his dad.
    The dad smiles and shows the two boys how to kick the ball. They don’t really get it; they’re too young to play soccer. But the dad is patient and keeps at it. I can’t hear him, but I imagine he’s saying Good job , over and over again.
    After a few passes, the younger boy wraps his arms around his dad’s legs. The dad staggers backward, as if the kid’s strength is pushing him. The older boy jumps on his