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They’re the same as Jeremy’s. I see that now.
They’re twins. She told me that at school. But they look nothing alike, except for their eye color. Though there’s something about them that’s different. I just can’t tell what. Maybe it’s ’cause he never actually looked right at me—at least, not long enough for me to get a good look—and Izzy…she always looks right at me when talking to me.
“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” she whispers really fast. Her cheeks turn red and she makes a cringey face. “It’s a secret.”
I lift a shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Pinkie promise?”
I nod, and we lift our pinkies, twisting them together. Her skin is warm and soft just like Momma’s, but her finger is small like mine.
She bends down, kissing her knuckles and I grin, doing the same.
Then she twists her head over her shoulder, leaning away, and spits at the air, and I pretend to do the same the other way, trying not to laugh.
“What?” she huffs, wiping the back of her mouth. She makes a scrunchy face. “Girls can spit too. But don’t tell my mom.” She rolls her eyes, and turns back to the piano.
I like her. She’s funny.
I’ve never had a friend who was a girl before. Boys are always saying how they’re annoying, and Dad made it seem like they’re boring and whiny and too sensitive, but so far she’s nothing like that.
“Come on,” she says, and I bring my hand back to the piano. This time, she lets go as soon as my fingers start moving. It reminds me of the time Dad taught me how to ride a bike.
And just like then, it’s like something just clicks in my brain. I hit the wrong note—I feel it. Hear it. Izzy goes to show me the right way, but I shake my head, and try again, this time finding the right one.
“You did it!” she says, clapping, and I feel a smile, the biggest smile I’ve ever smiled, stretching across my face.
Izzy squeals, jumps up, and starts dancing as I play the song again. She looks like a monkey jumping around the piano, and I find myself laughing.
I make a couple mistakes, but I’m doing it.
I’m making music.
I am the music.
“More?” I say when I hit the next note.
She grins, and plops back down next to me. “I totally skipped the basics,” she says, giggling. “But it’s okay. We’ll go back now and start over.”
She starts playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
And that’s what we do, until her mom calls us up to do homework. She shows me every song she knows, and I’m not nearly as good as her.
But it’s there.
I feel it.
It’s like my fingers are buzzing with lightning, and it makes me think of my favorite song—the one I listen to when I pretend to be invisible—and makes me wonder if I finally found my superpower, and it was inside me all along.
The music…
It’s in me.
He cut his hair.
It makes me sad, though I’m not really sure why. There’s just a twisty feeling in my chest when I think about it and remember yesterday, when he peeked up at me, long silky blond hair hanging down his face.
It doesn’t look bad, but still. I don’t like it. I feel like he didn’t actually wanna cut it.
