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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.
“Hey.” Phoebe points at a man three steps in front of us. “Is that Smith?”
I’d recognize that black leather jacket anywhere. His hair is longer. Not so gelled, and definitely without his signature frosted tips. We decided to “take a break” after we graduated two years ago. He was going to Berkeley, and I was moving across the country to try to make my parents happy. We used to call each other every week freshman year, but last summer, we lost touch. His parents were in London recording an album, and he tagged along to take a summer photography class at the Royal College of Art.
“Smith!” I shout over the airport din. “Over here!”
The couple in front of me grumbles something under their breath about manners and airport etiquette, but I don’t care. Seeing Smith right now is the boost of serotonin I’m going to need just to get into the car my father arranged to take us home.
Smith looks from side to side before finally turning around. Our eyes meet, and he smiles at me like I’m the best news he’s gotten in weeks. He waits for me at the bottom of the escalator, and I practically leap into his arms.
“Pen.” His voice is muffled in our embrace. “God, I missed you.”
I breathe in the smell of his cologne mixed with the aged leather of his jacket. “Not as much as I missed you.”
“Ahem.” Phoebe clears her throat.
“Phoebe. Good to see you too.” Smith gives her a hug. “I like the haircut. The blond suits you.”
A hint of a smile tugs at Phoebe’s lips, which is a grand gesture when it comes to how she feels about Smith. It’s not that they didn’t get along or that they didn’t like each other growing up. Smith changed the dynamic of our relationship. We went from being a duo to a trio, turning Phoebe into a third wheel.
“That’s our car.” Phoebe points at a driver holding a sign with our names written on it. “We should get going. Mom probably wants a break from Nana Rosie.”
“Good old Nana Rosie.” Smith chuckles. “I still remember that Thanksgiving a few years ago when she made all of those pies.”
“Oh, yes.” I nod. “The great pie fiasco of 2002.”
“Why did she make so many pies?”
“Because the year before, she’d just had a hip replacement and couldn’t bake. Our mom promised that she would bake Nana’s famous lemon meringue and grasshopper pies, and she swore she’d follow Nana’s recipes exactly.”
“But she didn’t.” Phoebe chuckles softly. “She ruined every pie crust she touched and somehow managed to screw up canned pie filling.”
“Mom ended up buying pies from the grocery store the morning of Thanksgiving, thinking Nana Rosie wouldn’t be able to tell,” I say. “Of course, she could and was immediately offended.”
“That’s putting it nicely,” Phoebe says. “Nana Rosie had a complete meltdown. She said if she would’ve known that pies were going to be store bought, she would’ve baked them from her bed.”
“The next year, she baked every pie she could think of. Hence, the great pie fiasco of 2002.” I shake my head. “Mom got so pissed by the stunt. I’m surprised nobody ended up with a pie to the face that day. It wasn’t until last year that Nana Rosie finally agreed to visit again for Thanksgiving.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear she’s back,” Smith says.
“I doubt our mother is.” Phoebe taps her watch. “We better get going.”
“Do you have a ride, Smith?” I ask. “Because if you don’t, you’re welcome to ride with us. We’re basically going to the same place.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I told my folks I’d give them a call when I got to the airport, but I’d rather not spend the next half hour waiting for one of them to come get me.”
“Totally,” I say with a little more enthusiasm than planned. “Tell your parents you’re on your way.”
The car ride is mostly uneventful. Smith tells us about Berkeley and an art installation project he’s working on for a local bar and music venue. Phoebe gives him the rundown of what life is like at Princeton—or at least what life is like for the people who do more than spend every waking hour in a classroom or being tutored. It kind of feels like old times. Maybe even better. I used to be the one with all the stories to share while Phoebe sat quietly. Now our roles are reversed, and to be honest, I don’t mind it right now. In fact, having someone else do all the talking about Princeton is a huge relief. Phoebe looks happy. Smith looks happy. And I, for once, am happy to be in the same zip code as Smith Mackenzie again.
When our car turns onto Clementine Street, Smith’s mother is sunning herself in a crocheted bathing suit and sarong on the front lawn. In her defense, it is an unseasonably warm fall. I smile just thinking about my mother losing her mind over the fact that our dining room has a clear view of the Mackenzies’ front lawn. This is almost as good as the Easter that Fiona invited the entire Lilith Fair tour to sunrise yoga. Nobody was naked or anything, but according to my mother, she’d never seen so many unrestrained breasts and ungroomed armpits in all her life.
Fiona Mackenzie is a goddamn legend.
“Looks like your mom’s taking advantage of global warming,” I say.
“God, I want to look like her when I’m that age,” Phoebe whispers.
