Motion (Page 4)

“Whatever you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night.” Gabby studied her nails. “And you know what I mean about being a Mary Sue. Helping Lisa is just part of the same saintly shit, different day.”

Why was she giving me grief about being helpful? Oh. That’s right. Because she’s unhinged.

“While you’re standing here telling me to be bad, Lisa is in jail. Aren’t you at all concerned about her?” As much as I despised interacting with Gabby these days, we were both here for one reason: to help Lisa because we loved and cared about her.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m concerned about her. I’m terrified for her, okay? And I’m doing everything I can to get her out and save her ass, including putting up with you.”

“Putting up with me?” Arg! She was so irritating, all my questions fled my brain.

“You heard me.” Talking to her was like arguing with a flat-earther. Ignorance plus arrogance is why we can’t have nice things!

Best just to get straight to the point. “Why was Lisa arrested?”

Gabby’s flippancy morphed into a severe scowl. “Does it matter? She needs your help. What? Now you don’t want to help her?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then help her, and put on these clothes, and stop making this about you.”

“I just want to know why—”

“Classic Mary Sue behavior. Even when you’re being bad, you’re still looking for a way to be the do-gooder center of attention. Where is the fun in always being the good one when it means you have no friends? Why must you ruin fun for everyone else?”

“Oh, you know, I think the fun is in not being arrested for doing something stupid and selfishly forcing your sister to clean up your giant mess.” Despite my best efforts, a hint of bitterness entered my voice, and that flustered me.

Rattled by my uncontrollable, unexpected, and uncharacteristic show of feelings, I cleared my throat and dropped my eyes. Apparently, my ability to speak truth without emotion was on the fritz. Best not to speak to her at all. Pulling out the black bra and shirt Gabby had brought, I held the top up to me. Scowling, I wondered where the other half was, it seemed to be missing the section that covered the stomach.

Gabby snorted and rolled her eyes. “None of Lisa’s clothes are boring. You’re going to be noticed.”

Reaching for a bunched-up pile of black leather in the bottom of the bag and realizing it was pants, I heaved a sigh. “Whether or not I’m boring is irrelevant. Whether or not I’m likable or nice or good or a Mary Sue is irrelevant. The fact is, I am boring and unlikable by your standards. That’s never going to change because I don’t subscribe to your standards. So, moving on, is there anything else I can wear other than these two items?”

Gabby turned her grumpy expression to the scrap of the shirt, black lace bra, and the black leather pants. “What’s wrong with these?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, resigned, and scooped them up before turning for the bathroom. “I’ll go change.”

“Too bad you can’t actually change,” she called after me. “Too bad putting on Lisa’s clothes doesn’t also give you some of her badass mojo and rebel spirit.”

Unable to help myself, I mumbled, “You belong on Venus, Gabby.”

“You mean, because it’s, like, the planet of love?” she asked with fake sweetness.

“No. Because it’s, like, our solar system’s analog to hell.” And with that, I closed the door to the bathroom and changed. Into my sister.

2

Introduction to One-Dimensional Kinematics

“You actually look . . .” Gabby snorted, as though she couldn’t believe what she was about to say, and then said, “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

We’d left the Westin near O’Hare via taxi and were now downtown in the Old Town Triangle area of Chicago, near my parents’ brownstone. We’d already visited the hair salon and were now finishing up at the makeup store, during which I’d said less than ten words total. I didn’t want to fight with Gabby. Even though we only saw each other about once a year, I was so tired of fighting with her.

But now the moment was imminently upon us. Soon we’d be walking the few short blocks home. Time flies when one is fretting about impersonating one’s twin sister.

While I’d been getting my “blowout” as Gabby called it, I’d received a call from someone who identified herself as Lisa’s lawyer. She’d left a voice message, detailing her strategy for getting Lisa released, the projected timeline—still one week—and that Lisa’s phone had been sent via priority to the Chicago house.

What she didn’t reveal was why Lisa had been arrested in the first place. I’d tried calling her back, but it went straight to voicemail.

Currently, I was staring at my reflection; at the copious waves of dark brown hair falling over my shoulders, how wearing it down brought out the olive tone in my skin more than wearing it back; at the red stain and gloss accentuating the fullness of my lips; at the dark liner and mascara and eye shadow emphasizing the thickness of my lashes and honey color of my eyes. Paired with the half shirt and leather pants, the entirety of everything together made me look . . .

I look hot.

With a resigned sigh, I accepted that Gabby was correct. “I look like Lisa.” Which meant I also looked like our mother. Even at fifty-two, our mother and Lisa were often confused by the press.

“Exactly.” She grinned. “Like I said, you’re gorgeous. You work out, right?”

I gave her a noncommittal shrug. I swam daily and used a standing desk, which probably didn’t meet her definition of working out. Lisa and Gabby, I was pretty sure, both had personal trainers. Theoretically, I wanted a personal trainer—because wouldn’t that be nice? Someone to plan my workout, keep it interesting, keep me engaged, think about my health so I didn’t have to—but in reality, I didn’t want one.

I’d tried it once. The guy touched my arm to reposition it without asking me first. I flinched, which caused me to drop the dumbbell on his foot. I never went back, but I did pay his doctor’s bills and sent him a year’s supply of protein bars.

She walked to the other side of the chair, and the Sephora external aesthetic-modifier technician (which is what I decided they ought to be called) stepped back, giving Gabby room to inspect my face from a new angle. “Wow—” her eyes swept over me, from the black and white Converse on my feet, up to the leather pants, to my bare midriff, chest, collarbone, neck, “—you really do look like her.” She sounded surprised.

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t point out the obvious, that we were identical twins. Of course I looked like her. But Gabby wasn’t being insulting for once and I had enough on my mind. No need to pick another fight. Hopefully, merely looking like Lisa would be enough to convince Leo’s friend that I was Lisa, because I had no idea how to act like a normal person, let alone like my sister.

Gabby cocked her head to the side, her gaze growing thoughtful. “Why don’t you wear your hair down ever? Or do your eyes. You’re beautiful, or would be if you put in the effort.”

“We already talked about this.”

“Because you want to be a nerd-girl stereotype, Mary Sue?”

“Human beauty is irrelevant in physics,” I mumbled. Not wanting to get into it, but beauty was more than irrelevant. It was a liability.

“Okay, Borg.” She lifted that eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then it has no mass,” I said automatically.

“What?”

“If it has no matter, it has no mass.”

Her stare was blank. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a physics joke. If something has no matter, then—never mind.” I pressed my lips together.

“No more physics jokes!” Gabby stabbed a finger at my shoulder.

Leaning away, I lifted my hands in a show of surrender.

She administered one final exasperated eyebrow lift before turning and giving the external aesthetic-modifier technician instructions on what items we were going to purchase.

Meanwhile, I stood from the chair and tried not to lick my lips. The lip stain wasn’t flavored, but the gloss the employee had applied over it tasted like bubble gum. In a word, delicious. I’d had a minor addiction to cherry flavored Chapstick at one point and it had taken a year to break the habit. Thus, I vowed to throw away the bubble gum gloss as soon as I left Chicago.

Or as soon as I landed at LAX.

Or, at the very latest, as soon as I made it back to the hotel in Los Angeles.

Maybe I’d keep it for a week, what’s the harm in that?

“Let’s go, Mona Lisa.” Gabby nudged my arm, pushing me toward the door as she handed over the bag with all the makeup. I gave her the side-eye, accepted the products, but said nothing.

Once outside, she nudged me again. “Get it? Mona Lisa?”

“Yes.” Hil-AR-ious.

My parents had decided naming my brother Leonardo, me Mona, my sister Lisa, and giving us the last name of DaVinci was a really great idea. It could have been worse. They could have named my brother “Michel,” me “Ang,” and Lisa “Elo,” which had been their original plan. Over the course of my life, I’d come to understand that my parents had named their children as a reflection of themselves rather than as a reflection of their hopes for us. Based on my informal sampling of celebrity children, it was always thus for superstars.