Trace was older by two minutes. And she never let Chance forget it.
Not that anyone could forget those two minutes.
Their mother burst into joyful tears as Trace emerged, red-faced and wailing. Their father sat by his wife’s shoulder, running his gloved fingers over her cheeks.
They tried to take Trace away, but something held her back.
A nurse spotted the twins’ joined hands and gently but firmly pried them apart.
Trace let out an ear-splitting scream as everyone in the operating room cheered her release.
Inside Chance’s newly formed brain, something fragile broke.
His will to survive.
His heartbeat stuttered. Tried. And failed.
Chance’s knees wobble as he summits the rock face and surveys the run. He walked it yesterday, so he knows it’s clear of debris. He should check it again. But he won’t. He wants this to be the last time anyone tries this. He wants to be the hero.
He wants to be her hero.
He wants to be her.
He feels a lump in the back of his throat and fights it. Pushes it down, past the dull ache in his chest, past the flurry of butterflies in his stomach, the tremors in his arms and legs.
He sucks a wad of mucous into his throat and spits it over the edge of the path. It lands on the knife edge and dangles mockingly. He kicks at it until it releases and falls away.
His eyes burn.
“You gotta make your mouth like a cannon,” Trace said. “Like this.” She pursed her lips in a tight ‘O.’
Chance mirrored her.
“Good. Now get a big one back there.” She snucked hard through her nose and collected the rattle of snot at the back of her tongue. “Tild yer head gack,” she garbled over the loogy, “an’—”
She tilted her chin up, puckered her lips, and rocketed the spit in a perfect arc. It cleared their two skateboards, parked at the edge of the pond, and landed in the water, just missing a lily pad.
“Dammit,” she said. “I missed.”
Chance’s mouth hung open in awe as his sister wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned to him and smiled. “Your turn.”
His stomach quivered.
Chance hated when Trace threw a spotlight on him. He preferred to walk in her shadow. Where it was safe.
He conjured a teaspoon’s worth of spittle from inside his mouth and forgot everything else she told him. The spit dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. His cheeks flushed hot as he tried to wipe it off and cringed at the sliminess of his own fluids.
She didn’t laugh, but it didn’t matter. He failed her and that was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Keep practicing,” Trace said. “And try drinking a milkshake first. That helps.”
He nodded and wished he was someone else.
Chance drops his board and holds it under one foot to keep it from taking off down the path without him. He closes his eyes and winces as the tightness in his chest spreads into his shoulder. He takes a deep breath and his lungs resist.
Breathe.
He puts his hand out and touches the markings on the granite,
in perfect art bubble letters. And below it, in the jagged, left-handed scrawl of a dyslexic,
She’d have been angry at him for doing it.
She’d have told him to find his own rock. His own jump. His own destiny.
But he wanted to stay in hers.
“You can’t come on our dates anymore, it’s creepy.”
“They’re not dates. You guys are just hanging out.”
“They’re only NOT dates because you’re there, dumbass.”
“Don’t call me—”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re not dumb. It’s just… you need to do something, Chance. Do your own thing. Make your own friends. Get a girlfriend.”
His lungs seized and he started to cough.
She smiled wickedly. “Eleanor Tremblay told me she thinks you’re hot.”
He coughed harder and she laughed, smacking him supportively on the back.
“She did not,” he wheezed. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, bro. She’s sweet on you. You should ask her out.”
He shook his head and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “No one likes me like that.”
“Yes, they do, Chance,” she said. “The problem is that you don’t like you.”
He turned his face away, but she was used to his tears by now.
“You can’t come on our dates, Chance.”
“Fine.”
“It’s just creepy.”
“I get it.”
“Ask Eleanor out.”
“No.”
Trace sighed. “You know she got her parents to name their restaurant after you.”
Chance stood up and walked away.
Before she could see him smile.
He exhales and lets his hand slide off the graffiti.
The sun breaks over the horizon, and he shields his eyes from the glare.
He’s grateful for it. He’d rather not see what’s happening this time.
Trace was a skater. So was Chance.
Trace was a smoker. So was Chance.
Trace never graduated from high school. Neither did Chance.
Trace never got married or had kids. Neither did Chance.
Trace took risks, burned bridges, broke laws, made mistakes.
Chance tried to do those things. Tried and failed. Like his heart failed when she left him. The first time.
A sharp pain in his chest steals his breath, and he braces himself against the wall. He clutches his board with his left hand, his breath ragged and shallow.
Chance, breathe. Just breathe.
Another pang and his hands shake violently.
You need to do something, Chance.
She’s right. Do it. Take the jump. You’ll make it or you won’t. It doesn’t matter this time. Nothing matters.
Just don’t do nothing, Chance.
“You’re going to get hurt.”
“I’m a survivor,” she said, spraying the final touches on her name in perfect art bubble letters. “I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t.” His voice caught and he started to cough.
“Chance, I swear to God if you don’t get lost, I’m going to tell mom you’ve been smoking again.” She tossed the empty spray can over the ledge and Chance watched it fall, end over end, forty feet, into the crushed rubble at the bottom of the ravine. His eyes burned.
“I don’t care what you tell her.”
“Yes, you do.” She hocked a loogy over the side and Chance shut his eyes over a spell of dizziness. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he wished he was anyone else. He felt his sister’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” she said, waiting for his eyes to focus on hers. “You can’t follow me forever.”
He sobbed and felt sick. “Why not?”
She sighed and wiped his face roughly with the back of her hand.
“Because I said so.” She dropped her board and held it under her foot to keep it from rolling down the path without her. “Go home, Chance. I’ve got this.”
She shoved him back gently, enough to upset his balance, but not enough to knock him down. He clutched at the wall with one hand and reached for his sister’s hand with the other. But she was out of reach.
He let out an ear-splitting scream as the crowd gathered on the ground cheered her bravery.
Chance drops to his knees and brings both hands to his face. His board rolls away, down the cleared path. It bumps against the rock face at the first turn and soars over the edge. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. Falling. End over end, into the ravine.
His heartbeat stutters.
Tries.
Tries again.
And again.
And again.
His vision narrows to nothing.
“What the hell are you doing, Chance?”
He blinks her into focus, hovering over him. She hasn’t changed. She’s as she was. As always.
Chance sits up and drags his palms over his eyes to clear his tears away.
“You can’t keep following me forever.”
“Why not?” he sniffs.
“Because you’re a survivor.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be. I didn’t ask to be.”
“Well, tough shit.” She hocks a perfect loogy over the ledge. “You are.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says honestly.
“Well, you can’t do nothing.” She takes his hand and the ache in his chest returns. “Just don’t do nothing, Chance.”
He squeezes his sister’s fingers and knows they aren’t real. He squeezes harder.
“Ouch.”
He laughs and leans his head on her shoulder. Real or not.
“You can’t keep following me.”
“Fine.”
“It’s just creepy.”
“I get it.”
“How’s Eleanor?”
He shakes his head to hide his smile.
“Is she still single?”
“Divorced. Twice.”
“Well, now’s your chance, Chance! Third time’s the charm.”
“I don’t know. She has kids. Grandkids. It’s … complicated.”
“Well figure it out, bro. Because, if you don’t, I’m telling mom you’ve been at the ravine again. And that you’re blowing it with Eleanor.”
Chance laughs over a lump in his throat. “Tell her whatever you want.” He raises his head and looks away. “Just tell her I love her. And dad, too.”
The air around him changes and his heart flutters.
“Trace?”
He takes a slow, deep breath and sets one hand on the granite stone beside him. He gets to his feet, grimacing at the ache in his knees, but the ache in his chest has subsided. He instinctively reaches for his board, usually propped against his mother’s adjacent headstone, but remembers it’s gone. Lost in the ravine.
Just as well.
He’s too old for it now. And it was never really his thing. It was hers.
He considers going home but knows what will happen if he does.
He’ll do nothing. And he can’t do nothing.
“Eleanor?” She turns to face him at the counter, and his face goes hot. She looks different. Older. Grayer. But pretty. As she was. Always. “It’s Chance. Do you remember me?”
She laughs heartily and nods her head toward the sign over the menu board.
Chance’s lungs seize, but he covers his nervous cough with a chuckle. “Are you free later?” he asks. He runs a hand over his bald head and wishes he was himself, thirty years ago.
“I might be,” she says coyly. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” Chance says honestly. “I just have to do something.”
A year ago, on September something or other, I went as far as to sign up for a Substack account and create my own publication called Stock Fiction. My idea was to write short form fiction inspired by stock photography.
Stock. Fiction. Get it? 🙂
My first story went out on October 8th, to half a dozen writer friends and family members I had convinced to subscribe to my experiment. The image I chose to inspire that story might still be the most memorable to date.
So much has happened since The Girl with the Donut Fingers graced the interweb. Far more than can be sufficiently celebrated in a single post. But I’m going to try.
Join me on Sunday October 8th, for some combination of the year in review and the plan for year two.
Until then, do your own thing. I will too. 💜
One last thing, or rather two things:
My two recent (and very different) podcast interviews are up and ready for a listen, if you’re so inclined.
Many thanks to my gracious hosts,
and , for offering me these rewarding opportunities to speak with them in their respective Substack spaces.
Another achingly beautiful story, Meg. I love the ambitious sweeping arc over time in this story. The love and tension between brother and sister is so real. I’ve always been fascinated with twins. I have a trunk novel that I may release one day that’s based on twins.
Speechless.... I am becoming increasingly convinced that the short story is your niche....