I’ll Give You the Sun(82)
Author: Jandy Nelson

“That’s why you gave it to me, then!”

“My entirely sinister plan.”

I didn’t think it possible, but he draws me even closer into him. “We’re Brancusi’s The Kiss,” I whisper. One of the most romantic sculptures ever made: a man and a woman pressed together into one.

“Yes!” he says. “Just like it.” He steps back, brushes a strand of hair out of my face.

“A perfect fit like we’re split-aparts.”

“Split-aparts?”

His face brightens. “So Plato talked about these beings that used to exist that had four legs and four arms and two heads. They were totally self-contained and ecstatic and powerful. Too powerful, so Zeus cut them all in half and scattered all the halves around the world so that humans were doomed to forever look for their other half, the one who shared their very soul. Only the luckiest humans find their split-apart, you see.”

I think about the latest note to Dearest. How Guillermo said he was half a man with half a soul, half a mind . . . “I found another note Guillermo wrote. It was in one of those notepads he has everywhere, a marriage proposal—”

“Yeah, I’m going to have to take the Fifth, isn’t that what you Americans say? He’ll tell you all about it one day, I’m sure. I’ve promised him—”

I nod. “I understand.”

“Those two were split-aparts, though, that’s certain,” he says. His hands find my waist. “I have a brilliant idea,” he says, his face whirring with emotion. Not any percent of him seems full of it anymore. “Let’s do it. Let’s flip our bloody lids together. Here it is, the rest of it: I was a mess at The Spot because I thought I blew it with you. I don’t care that G. has added a beheading to the list of barbaric punishments for my coming near you. I think my mother’s prophecy is real. I look everywhere. I search crowds. I take so many pictures. But I recognized you, only you. In all these years.” The most cockamamie grin has taken over his face. “So how about it? We’ll pop around on Hippity Hops. And talk to ghosts. And think we have the Ebola virus and not the common cold. And carry onions in our pockets until they sprout. And miss our mums. And make beautiful things—”

Completely swept up, I say, “And ride around on motorcycles. And go to abandoned buildings and take off our clothes. And maybe even teach an English bloke how to surf. Except I don’t know who just said all that.”

“I do,” he says.

“I feel so happy,” I say, overwhelmed. “I have to show you something.” I unclasp myself from him and reach under the bed for the plastic bag.

“So, Noah drew you. Not sure how—”

“You don’t know? He used to camp outside the window at that arts high school and draw the models.”

I cover my mouth with my hand.

“What?” Oscar says. “Did I say something wrong?”

I shake my head, try to make this image of Noah peering into a CSA classroom go away. He would have done anything. But then I take a deep breath, tell myself, it’s all right, because by next week he’ll be at CSA and that calms me enough to rummage around for the plastic bag. A moment later, I sit back down next to Oscar with it on my lap. “Okay. So once upon a time, I saw this cubist portrait my brother did of you and had to have it.” I look at him. “Had to have it. It was love at first sight.” He smiles. “He and I were always playing this game where we’d swap parts of the world for others in a quest for universe domination. He was winning. We’re . . . competitive, that’s the nice way of putting it. Anyway, he didn’t want me to have you. I had to give up almost everything. But it was worth it. I kept you here.” I show him the spot where the picture hung by my bed. “I would stare and stare at you and wish you were real and imagine you coming to that window, just like you did tonight.”

He bursts out laughing. “That’s incredible! We’re absolutely split-aparts.”

“I don’t know if I want a split-apart,” I say honestly. “I think I need my own soul.”

“That’s fair. Maybe we can be occasional split-aparts. On occasions like these, for instance.” He runs a finger slowly down the side of my neck, crossing over my collarbone, then down, down. What was I thinking with this plunging neckline? I wouldn’t say no to a fainting couch. I wouldn’t say no to anything. “But why rip me up and stuff me in a bag?” he asks.

“Oh, my brother did that. He was angry at me. I tried to put you back together many times.”

“Thank you,” he says, but then something across the room catches his attention and in a flash he’s up and walking toward my dresser. He picks up a photograph of my family and studies it. I’m watching him in the mirror. His face has turned ashen. What? He turns around and stares right through me. “You’re not his older sister,” he says more to himself than me. “You’re twins.” I can see the wheels spinning in his head. He must know how old Noah is and now he knows how old I am.

“I was going to tell you,” I say. “I guess I was afraid to. I was afraid you’d—”

“Holy hell.” He’s springing for the window. “Guillermo doesn’t know.” He’s halfway over the ledge. I don’t know what’s going on.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait. Oscar. Of course he does. Why would he care? Why is it that big of a deal?” I run to the window, yell out, “My father was eleven years older than my mother! It doesn’t matter.”

But he’s already gone.

I go to the dresser, pick up the photograph. It’s my favorite family portrait. Noah and I are about eight and dressed in matching sailor outfits looking totally daffy. But it’s because of my parents that I love it.

My mother and father are gazing at each other like they have the best secret.

THE INVISIBLE MUSEUM

Noah

Age 14

One by one, I empty each tube of paint into the laundry sink.

I need color, rich, bright, fuck-you, fuck-off, fuck-everything color, mounds and mounds of it. I need the gleam of new paint. I need to sink my fingers, my hands, into chartreuse, into magenta, into turquoise, into cadmium yellow. I wish I could eat it. I wish I could drown my whole body in it. That’s what I want, I think, mixing and swirling, making green, making purple, making brown, spiraling one into the next, sinking my hands, my arms into the cold slippery shining mush until my eyes are dancing.