Page 67 of Almost Rotten

My phone vibrates on the table beside me, startling me out of my reverie.

I pick it up, ignoring Mercer’s last text, and tap on the message Atty just sent.

Atty:Marco

Grinning, I twist one way, then the other, searching for my twin. As kids, we’d call out “Marco!” when looking for each other in a store or at the library. I think my mom started it, actually.

When I don’t spot him, I type out a response.

Me:Polo

A minute later, he rounds a corner and wanders my way.

“Hey.” My brother smiles, his dimples popping as he props himself up against the side of the table. “I didn’t want to disturb you if you were trying to focus.”

“All good.” I return his smile and close my notebook. “I was just finishing up. Where are you coming from?”

“Study group for intro to peace comm.”

I snicker. “You’re such a hippie.”

He shrugs. “I like to think Mom would be proud.”

I sigh. She would be.

Our mom worked at McMaster University just like our dad. She was a tenured professor in the department of sociology,and she considered herself a lifelong learner. She took classes semester after semester because she enjoyed them. I inherited my dad’s love for a healthy debate, but my love of learning came from my mom.

When we were fourteen, she discovered that she had enough credits to obtain a new degree. Wholly by accident. She walked in that year’s commencement for the hell of it. I still have her bachelor’s of peace communication diploma in a storage unit somewhere.

“Did you eat yet?” my brother asks. “We could grab dinner?”

I bite on my lower lip and eye Tytus across the space. “I could eat, but it depends on what Ty wants to do.”

He’s set up in one of the study cubbies with headphones on. He’s unaware of my brother’s presence, though I don’t doubt that if I even stood, he’d be on full alert.

Atty shifts, positioning his body between me and the table. I have to crane my neck to keep from getting an eyeful of his crotch—thanks, bro—but when I try to scoot my chair, he gives me a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“I’m worried about him,” he tells me in a hushed whisper.

Him, meaning Tytus.

“He hasn’t come back to our room the last couple nights. On the surface, he seems fine. He’s playing great, but he’s slipping more often. My gut tells me something else is going on.”

Head tilted, I survey Ty. He’s still got his back to us, shoulders forward, head down over his textbook.

“I haven’t noticed anything,” I lie.

Atty peers over his shoulder, then gives me a tight smile. “I feel weird saying this to you, but I’m wondering if it could be a girl. Or a guy? I don’t know. But he’s acting so different… and he has to be sleepingsomewhere. Maybe he’s seeing someone?”

He is seeing someone.

Me. Every inch of me. Every night.

But I can’t exactly say that to my twin brother.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I say, even as my stomach knots with guilt. “Let you know if I notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Thanks.” He sags against the table once more, his posture easing. “How are you doing? Now that the season’s started, I feel like we barely talk.”