Imperfect Solo by Steven Boykey Sidley

Author:Steven Boykey Sidley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse
Published: 2019-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

BAD THINGS HAPPEN. I know this.

My twin sister died when I was eleven. She looked nothing like me. She was tall and blonde and athletic and quiet, a contrast to my short, dark, noisy self. I adored her.

I like to imagine that we spent nine months chattering and cackling and musing comfortably in the darkness and warmth of the womb, formulating our views on the world to come, hatching strategies, proclaiming fealty and mutual protection.

And when we emerged, me mewling and bewildered a few seconds after her silence and surety, we kept our pact. Sleeping in the same bed, chest to back, our childhood smells and breathing in perfect sync. Wearing the same clothes even, until she drifted into the mandates of her gender. But we were as one, a telepathic wonder of simultaneity. Hungry, angry, sad, good humored, and wild at the same time. Finishing sentences. Laughing before a joke was finished. Finding endless comfort and constructing an impenetrable bulwark against loneliness.

Her name was Rebecca. My dad called her Rebbe, cleaving to the Hebrew name for teacher, notwithstanding its insult to ancient Jewish patriarchy (at which my father scoffed anyway). She was smarter than me. She was better looking than me. She was taller than me. And she was my sister. My pride was immeasurable.

It is hard now to imagine the impact of this slight and willowy girl at my side while I struggled to navigate the exigencies of childhood. Most children want to please their parents. I wanted to please my sister. Most children are selfish, as any parent can attest. I was too, with the caveat that my selfishness included Rebbe. The world owed us. I could not even contemplate a me without her.

She was good at sports; I was klutzy. So she often remained after school to run or swim or toss, hit and slam balls of various sizes while I headed home to my books, looking out of the window every so often, imagining the sound of the bus that was soon to come. And when I heard that diesel purr I would stop what I was doing and run down to the gate, open it wide, and step onto the sidewalk, where she would turn the corner and see me, the smile planted on my face launching her own. Perhaps at this remove my memory is romanticized. I surely forget petty jealousies, territorial scraps, short tempers. But this is what remains now, the chaff shed from wheat. This is what I choose to retain.

An incident at school. I am walking to the bus at the end of the day, which is a short hop from the front gate. I am eight years old. My path is suddenly blocked by three older boys. Even an eight-year-old knows things. I am going to get my ass kicked and my stuff stolen, not that I have much.

“Joshua Meyer fuckshitcuntface. You dissing me?”

I stop. Consider a run. But I’m too slow. I stay silent. My heart starts to hammer.

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