“Try this.” Falon hands me a tube of Chanel lipstick. “Phoebe always says this color would look better on you than her. I think it’s your hair that makes the difference.”
“Thanks.” I take it. “Can I ask you something, Falon?”
“Sure.”
“Do you agree with her? Do you think I’m some awful liar that sucks the life out of every room I enter?” My stomach drops to my feet as I brace myself for her answer.
“That’s not what she said or meant.” Falon pulls my hair back and ties it in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. “I think she just wants you to be you. She says it feels like you’re putting on this front when you’re around your parents, instead of just being yourself. They act differently too. I think she just wants everyone to be themselves and get along.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Everything will be fine after she gets some food in her system. I promise.”
Falon leaves me alone in Phoebe’s room to finish getting ready, and all I can think about is whether the wooden trellis next to the window can still hold my weight after all this time. My parents had the trellis outside my room removed when I was fifteen. I snuck out to see a Kelly Clarkson concert with Smith and we ended up getting stranded in Malibu. My father didn’t talk to me for weeks, and my mother seriously considered sending me to one of those wilderness survival schools for wayward teens.
I take one final look at myself in the mirror, and that’s when I notice the picture of Phoebe and me tucked in the bottom of the frame. We’re in our Princeton sweatshirts, sitting on beds opposite each other in our dorm. My hair is streaked with hideous highlights, and Phoebe’s is freshly cut and dyed blond. Phoebe’s hair color is the only way I know this photo is from our second year in college. Well, Phoebe’s second year. My last.
This is probably the last picture my parents have of us both in college. Our family fell apart that Thanksgiving, and I’m not sure we were ever truly able to put it back together.
Chapter 9
Thanksgiving 2006:
The One with Naked Moon Dancing
“Just tell them the truth, Penny.” Phoebe sighs as we collect our luggage from baggage claim. “Half the reason Mom and Dad get so upset is because you wait until the last possible minute to tell them what’s going on at school and pretend everything is fine, which means they have to hear you’re struggling from one of Dad’s friends.”
It’s easy for Phoebe to tell my parents the truth. It always has been. Her truths are easy.
Mom, Dad, I got straight As again.
Mom, Dad, I got accepted into every Ivy League school I applied for.
Mom, Dad, I’m sorry I won’t be able to come home for the summer. I’ve been offered an internship with Google. I hope you both understand.
If Phoebe’s truths were my truths, I’d never have a problem telling them. Hell, I’d tattoo them across my face or pay a skywriter to broadcast them over Coronado Island. But my truths have never been remotely close to Phoebe’s. Take the one I’m sitting on today for example.
I’m failing out of Princeton . . . again. This means for the second year in a row, my parents are going to have to hear: Mom, Dad, I’m failing almost all of my business and engineering classes. It also means that for the second year in a row, I’m going to have to sit through an awkward Thanksgiving dinner with one of my dad’s work colleagues telling us how lucky we are to have a guaranteed spot at the best—meaning wealthiest—international engineering firm in the world. I can hear his words now: All you have to do is pass your classes, and you’re guaranteed a lifetime of success.
“Maybe.” I grab both of our bags from the conveyor. “Just don’t say anything if they ask you. Tell them that everything seems like it’s been going better since I started tutoring.”
Phoebe takes her bag, and we make our way to the escalator. “What if I just tell them to ask you, so I don’t have to be caught in the middle?”
“If you say that, then they’ll know something is wrong.”
“Well, something is wrong. You’re failing.”
“Look, I’m going to handle this, Phoebe. I swear. I just need a little time so I can figure out how to do it in my own way. OK?”
“Fine,” Phoebe groans in frustration. “But I’m not going along with any of your stories. I don’t need Mom and Dad on my case because you’ve dragged me into your problems.”
Her words sting, but I don’t let on. She’s doing me a favor, and lately getting Phoebe to do me a favor is like pulling teeth. She just fits in so well at Princeton, and I don’t. It’s like our roles in high school have been completely flip-flopped. She’s the one involved in all the clubs and invited to all the parties, while I’m stuck in our dorm studying my ass off to no avail. When we walk down the hallway of our dorm together, it’s Phoebe everyone wants to talk to. I’m just the tagalong sister. The sister who keeps failing. The sister who got into school because her father pulled every connection he had. I’m the twin that doesn’t belong at Princeton, and if I’m honest, lately I’ve felt like I don’t even belong with Phoebe.