Part 8 ~ Monozygotic

Sidonie managed to stave off Summer’s plans for her hair by reminding her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.  She hadn’t eaten in a long time, in fact.  Not since yesterday’s breakfast just before leaving for school.

Lunch at school had been interrupted by some Very Bad News.  And dinner . . . well, dinner had been so far from her mind as to not even exist.

She was not really hungry now, but eating seemed like something she ought to do.  Also it distracted Summer from misguided attempts at beautification, if only for a little while.

There was a smallish kitchen in the theatre basement, and to get to it they had to walk through a jungle of old props, set pieces, and racks of costumes.  She wondered where the people who had once worn the costumes and held the props had gone, and why they had left all their things behind.  Summer cheerfully shared that many of the furniture set pieces and props had proven handy in making The One and Only into a home.

Sidonie couldn’t help but imagine vultures ghoulishly picking over the remains of a sad (but noble) old theatre company that had suffered a death by the claws and teeth of television and movies.  She then wondered why so fanciful a thing should come to her mind.  She thought it must be the influence of the Ghetto.

Breakfast was Frooty Flakes in a bowl with 2% milk.  The refrigerator made a low rumbly noise like it was getting ready to take off.

Summer found things to say, mostly questions about Rivalie that Sidonie gave brief answers to in between mouthfuls of cereal.  It was strange how Summer seemed to think of Uptown Rivalie as a faraway, exotic place.  It was neither of those things.  But Summer revealed that she had never been outside the Ghetto in her life.  This was not so odd, Sidonie realized, as she had never been inside the Ghetto in her life.  Until last night.

“Why do you stay in the Ghetto?” she asked, once there was nothing but a film of pinkish milk in the bottom of the bowl.  “There’s no rule against it.”

Summer looked briefly scandalized, but smiled when she said, “Well of course not, but it’s dangerous.”

“I thought the Ghetto was supposed to be the dangerous place.”

“Not if it’s your home,” Summer said.  “Then it’s just . . . home.”

“But how is Rivalie dangerous for you?”  Even as she asked she thought of a car speeding through a stop light, glass breaking, metal crunching.  Chaos.  She blinked the thought away.  That could happen anywhere.  It could happen in the Ghetto.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Summer.  “It’s not as if anyone tries to hurt broms exactly.  It’s just, things happen.  It’s unlucky.  Like we’re not meant to be there, so things just go wrong, somehow.”

“But Alex and Bobby went to Rivalie and nothing went wrong.”

A bit of anxiety clouded her face for a moment.  “They’re just the naturally lucky sort,” she said.  “So they are always doing dangerous things.”

“Is that their job?” Sidonie wondered.  “Doing dangerous things for Dan?”  She only half meant to wonder it out loud.

“Something like that.”  Summer popped up from the table and grabbed her cereal bowl.  As she rinsed it in the sink she said, “Speaking of jobs, I should be getting to mine.  Autumn will be angry at me if I take any longer.”

Sidonie thought this meant that she would soon be alone, but Summer left very little room for argument when she said, “Come on with me, you’ll love our little place.  And we can do something with your hair!  I think you would look adorable with curls.”

Sidonie rewarded her with a wan smile.  Her mother had tried to curl her hair once.  She had sat there patiently with little rollers all over her head, but her hair was defiant.  It fell back into perfect straightness as soon as the rollers came out.  But she followed Summer up the stairs and out of the theatre all the same.

They walked along the sidewalk and Summer said bright hellos to broms they met.  Sidonie felt curious eyes upon her, and hoped the walk was not too far.

Summer turned down Genvensee, and Sidonie thought how oddly less mystical it seemed in the morning light.  They didn’t go very far, not as far as Sidonie had gone lat night, before coming to a shop door beneath a sign that proclaimed itself to be Genvensee Sisters Tattoo & Beauty Parlor.  The sign was hand painted in flowing script with a design of dragonflies swarming around it.  Painted vines and climbing flowers framed the door.

“They named a street after you?”

Summer laugh.  “Not us, specifically.  They named the street a long time before we were ever born.”

“But your family.”

“Yeah, I guess.”  She shrugged, as if it was no big deal.  “Being a Genvensee used to mean something, but not so much anymore.  It’s better to be a Maianzel.”

“So I’ve heard.”

They went into the shop, and found Autumn sitting behind a counter, reading a book.  The counter was crowded with knick-knacks: little figurines and snowglobes and the like.  The book, Sidonie recognized with some chagrin, was Old Bromia by Feyanna Ardash.

Autumn put it down with a guilty start as soon as they walked in, as if it was somehow disrespectful to read the work of the dead.  At least, in the presence of the dead’s offspring.

“Do you like it?” Sidonie asked.  There was a set of frogs playing musical instruments on the right side of the desk, next to an antique cash register.  They looked to be made of pewter.

Autumn nodded.  “I’ve read it before.  When I was a kid.  I liked that it was set in the Ghetto.  No stories ever are.”

“Dan seems to resent it.”  She reached out and touched one of the frogs.  The one playing a piccolo.

“Dan resents a lot of things.”

“Autumn!” Summer exclaimed sharply, then covered with, “I’m going to style Sidonie’s hair!  Come on, Sid, we’ll give it a wash and then decide what to do.”

“Does she want you playing with her hair?” Autumn asked, picking up the book again, seeming to decide that it wasn’t so disrespectful after all.

Summer’s face fell, like a cake deflating out of the oven.  “Well, I . . . she didn’t say that she didn’t want to . . . .”

Sidonie glanced between the Genvensee sisters, noticing again how they looked so alike, except that Summer was dyed and tattooed and pierced.  Autumn was wearing the same overalls as last night, and the embroidery on the front was the only adornment anywhere on her person.  She was the artist of the two, the one responsible for Summer’s tattoo and (Sidonie guessed) the elaborate doorway.  It seemed odd.

“Are you twins?” she asked.

Autumn nodded, and Summer perked up again.  “Yep . . . but our mother always said we were as different as identical twins could possibly be.  Autumn has all the sense and I run around like a magpie on crack.”

“Your mother said that?”

“Exact words.”

“You don’t have to let her do anything to your hair,” Autumn said.

“It’s alright.”  There was no escaping it now.  Not after seeing the sad face.  Besides, it didn’t matter how she looked.  Not at all.  So why be afraid?  “It’s pretty boring the way it is.”

Autumn shrugged, and opened the book, apparently done with the conversation.

Sidonie followed Summer over to a barber chair in the back.  “Don’t let her scare you, she makes it sound like I don’t know what I’m doing.  But this is what I ‘do’ so I ought to know, right?  Autumn does the tattooing and I do all the rest.  Nails, hair . . . styling, coloring, removal of.  It’s fun.  But Autumn never lets me touch her hair.”

Sidonie glanced at Autumn, with her long hair falling down to her waist.  She didn’t have it curled or straightened or anything “unnatural” but on her it looked very nice.

“So what do you think?  What would you like me to do?”  She asked the question as if afraid that Autumn would come over and tell her to make sure she had express verbal permission for everything she did.

Sidonie wondered what would make Summer the happiest.  If she was not to care at all about her hair, it seemed right that one person should be especially pleased with the outcome.  Curls were out of the question, even though Summer had suggested them, because those would only lead to disappointment.

“Can you dye it?” she asked.

“Of course, but—”

“Then I’d like it cut really short.  Like boy short.  And could you make it blue?”

Summer was silent for a moment, and since she stood behind the chair, Sidonie couldn’t see what was on her face.  She turned.  Summer looked confused, doubtful, and excited all at once.  But it was as if the three emotions were dancing a ballet rather than fighting.

“Are you sure?  If you don’t like it, it’ll take some time to grow out.”

Sidonie shrugged.  “But it will, eventually.”

“Okay!” Summer’s cautious hope widened into a full smile.  She whipped out a drape and flung it over Sidonie with a flourish.  She winked, and Sidonie felt that she had, probably, made the right decision.