Page 23 of The Chemistry Test
Penny
We park on the driveway, and I tell CJ to leave my wheelchair in the car since we’re right outside anyway. Then, I wait in the car while he unlocks the front door so I don’t have to stand up for too long.
I close the door behind me as I enter, and he leads me through the narrow hallway, into the living room on the right.
There’s a coffee table that seems too far away from the sofa when you first come in, and a small-ish table with three chairs pressed right against the far wall, in front of waist-height bay windows. But all for good reason.
The whole arrangement is clearly set up to accommodate the main attraction – a black and grey playpen right in the middle, in front of the sofa. It reminds me of the pop-up Batman tent Delilah and I had growing up, lovingly passed down from Parker.
‘But it had a lot more bats and stuff, obviously,’ I add, trying to casually fade myself out as I recount the world’s most boring story.
CJ laughs as he unzips one of the sides, revealing two tiny, triangle-headed fluffballs who make any embarrassment I was feeling fizzle away.
There’s a tabby kitten snuggled up in a hooded cat bed who I want to describe as big because of how she looks next to the other one, but she’s still smaller than any kitten I’ve ever seen.
She walks up to CJ, purring loudly even before he picks her up.
‘This is Tabby,’ he says, putting her on my lap. ‘And that,’ he adds, patiently waiting for her to come out. ‘Is Callie.’
Tabby pads around in my lap for a second before clambering back to CJ and falling asleep on his knee as we watch the much smaller kitten.
He leans down and picks up a sleepy paw.
‘Tabby says sorry she cut your campus tour early, by the way,’ he says, as he waves her paw at me.
‘Well, actually it was Callie who did. She was acting out of sorts so my mate panicked and—’
I tear my eyes away from the kitten to look at him. ‘You only left because you needed to check on Callie?’ I think back to the moment, trying not to keep my hopes up. ‘Really?’
He starts laughing, clearly in a completely different headspace to me.
‘What do you mean, really ? That’s a pretty good reason to leave, she needed me.
I mean, I know you kind of did too and I felt bad about dashing off, but my girl could’ve been dying for all I knew.
’ He gestures to her, still wobbling around in the pen.
‘Look at her – I’ve had hamsters bigger than that! ’
My chest pangs at the words ‘my girl’ and the way he’s tenderly stroking Tabby down the bridge of her tiny (probably-less-than-one-centimetre-long) nose.
‘Why didn’t you say that, then?’ I think back to how much of a difference it would have made if he’d just let me know. ‘I would’ve understood. Surely, you know that?’
He laughs again, but there’s a darkness to it this time, like he’s laughing at someone, not with them. Only, I can tell I’m not the person he’s laughing at.
‘I did consider telling you, but someone spread a rumour about me once. Being’ – he closes his eyes and forces out the words, a few octaves lower – ‘a crazy cat lady.’ He’s still smiling in theory, lips pulled up, cheeks round, but it’s too dull to be a real smile.
You wouldn’t even have to know him to be able to tell. It’s that bad.
‘CJ,’ I sigh, putting my hand on his arm. There really is no way to live a non-controversial life. Just a private one. ‘That’s a “them problem”, not a “you problem”. Someone, somewhere, will always create a problem where there isn’t one.’
‘Yeah.’ He lets the fake smile slide away, shaking his head.
Defeated. ‘CJ the crazy bloody cat lady,’ he mutters, no longer stroking Tabby, as if he doesn’t want her to think he’s talking to her in that way.
It’s quite possibly the subtlest yet most attractive thing I’ve seen someone do.
But he doesn’t need to know that, at least, not explicitly.
‘Girls would love that, though, you know,’ I press.
‘You being into this. It’s a shame the rumour didn’t go a little further, actually.
Might’ve done you a favour.’ I wink. ‘You know, since the whole personal trainer thing didn’t work out for you.
’ I try to hold out until he breaks first and give him a nudge for good measure. ‘Right, Jackson?’
He grins at me. Exactly as I hoped he would. And not just slightly, either. A full-on, room-brightening, Hollywood grin that’s better than even the smirkiest of smirks.
‘You’re telling me,’ he says slowly, puffing out his chest obnoxiously, ‘I’m not only Jackson the aspiring personal trainer – I’m Jackson, the failed one?’
I nod, right as the tiny calico kitten finally reaches us. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ I steal a glance at him to assess the situation.
His eyes are narrowed, both with mischief and merriment. He looks like he’s about to tackle me to the ground when, right on cue, the world’s smallest predator lands on my thigh.
We both stop laughing and look at the kitten.
He smiles at her proudly. ‘What can I say, I trained her well.’
‘Spoken like a true cat lady,’ I tease, though I barely hear his response as I’m so focused on taking in the minuscule kitten properly now she’s here. She’s incredibly unsteady on her feet, but purring loudly, making a soft buzz, like a finger running over a fine-toothed comb. ‘How old is she?’
‘They’re both seven weeks, but Callie has cerebellar hypoplasia, which is why she’s so wobbly and has that tremor.
’ He throws a little toy mouse to her. ‘In the cat community, these cats have actually been nicknamed “wobbly” cats. It’s not the same at all, but I like to think of it as being like the cat version of cerebral palsy,’ he says.
‘When my mum first fostered a CH kitten, that’s what I assumed it was. ’
‘Does it hurt her?’ I ask, watching Callie’s little paws shake as she chews the stuffed mouse.
‘No, it doesn’t hurt her. CH cats usually live really good lives, actually.
Although her size isn’t part of the condition, that’s something else.
And even though the vets aren’t entirely sure what’s wrong, it’s one of the main things that’s holding her back at the moment.
’ Callie stands and drops the mouse in front of him, waiting for him to throw it again. I stare at her in surprise.
‘I didn’t know cats could play fetch like that,’ I say. ‘Even my dog, Dusty, can’t play fetch. We got him from Dogs Trust a couple of years ago. He loves to chase the ball, but he never got the hang of bringing it back.’
‘Must be a Dogs Trust thing,’ he jokes. ‘Mine are from there and they’re exactly the same. Even Me, the smarter one.’
‘What? You can’t play fetch either?’
‘No, not me. My dog, Me. He can’t play fetch, either.’
I facepalm. ‘Did you name him that?’
‘Yep.’ He smiles. ‘I got two golden retrievers, so it was the obvious choice. Marley and Me.’
‘Have you got one called Peeve, by any chance?’
He looks up. ‘Why would I have one called Peeve?’
I take a second to compose myself. ‘So, when new people come over, you can say, “This is my pet, Peeve.”’
He bursts out laughing. ‘I don’t, but now I need one.’
‘I can’t take all the credit,’ I admit, snickering too. ‘There was a puppy called Peeve at my local branch when I was well enough to visit more often. And rightly so,’ I say, thinking about the little terror. Who stole my whole heart. ‘Who now sleeps in my room and goes by the name ...’
His eyes melt as he connects the dots. ‘Dusty?’
I nod. ‘Yep, my little pet, Peeve – Dusty.’
I only got to visit and drop off treats for the dogs for around a year before my illnesses forced me to give it up, but I still miss it with every inch of my being.
My expression doesn’t waver, but I think CJ can sense a shift, so he picks Callie up and dumps her on my lap. Which of course, instantly snaps me out of it.
‘I still can’t believe they’re the same age,’ I say, as she pads around on my lap.
‘It definitely puts Callie’s situation into perspective seeing them together,’ he says. ‘They’re from the same litter, so you’d expect them to be a similar size, but they barely look like the same species the way Callie’s going.’
I can see what he means, her head is so small that her little eyes look huge and even though she feels soft, her fur looks sort of ... spiky.
‘They don’t know what a blessing that is, looking different,’ I say. ‘I have a twin and no one can ever tell us apart.’
CJ wrinkles his nose in surprise. Like you should automatically be able to tell if someone’s a twin, just from meeting one of them.
‘Are you actually identical, or do you just look really similar?’
‘Actually identical.’
He grins. ‘I bet I could tell you apart.’ He points to my phone on the floor. ‘Can I see a photo of you together?’
‘If you want,’ I say, picking it up and scrolling through my photos for a few where we look particularly alike.
‘What’s his or her name?’ he asks, immediately slamming his hand over his mouth.
I almost pull a muscle raising my head to look at him. ‘You did not just say that,’ I tut, playfully. ‘As a Biomed student as well!’
‘Can I blame it on lack of sleep?’ He laughs. ‘I’m still doing the Callie night shift.’
‘I’ll let you off this time,’ I say. ‘When I was on tube feeds and constantly being woken up by the feed pump at night, I was so tired, I once asked my Biology teacher if mitochondria were bigger than cells.’ I cringe just thinking about it. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
He laughs again, not even questioning the whole tube feeds thing. ‘You’re going to love the cell structure class next term.’ He grins. ‘So, what’s her name?’
‘Delilah,’ I say, quickly putting a few photos of us in a separate album.
‘Does she know what it’s like in New York City?’
Lord above. I roll my eyes as I hand him my phone. It’s as much of an acknowledgement as I’m willing to give.
‘Whoa, you really do look—’ he starts, and then stops as he accidentally zooms right in, the screen filled from brow to bust of what may as well be me, times two.
We both stare at the screen, eyes wide, before I quickly zoom us back out a bit.
No one needs to see our cheesy grins and ever-so slightly misplaced bra straps that close-up.
‘Identical,’ he finishes, sounding somewhat hoarse. He clears his throat. ‘And I feel like your parents named you the right way round. Penny suits you more than Delilah would.’
‘That’s only because you know me as a Penny,’ I say.
Unless he thinks Delilah is a prettier name, and Delilah is the prettier twin.
My great-aunt once made a comment like that at our ninth birthday party.
Mum told her not to be silly, but it wasn’t the first time I’d overheard something like that, it was just the first time I’d heard a family member say it.
CJ’s still looking at the first photo. I don’t think he knows I put the pictures in a separate album for him. ‘There are four photos there. You’ve got ten seconds to guess each one.’
‘Okay, I think I’ve got it,’ he says, scrolling back to the first picture where we’re wearing light-up Christmas jumpers. To me, Delilah and I look completely different.
‘I can’t get over how similar you look,’ he says, zooming in. ‘Okay, Delilah on the left, you on the right?’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Correct,’ I say, bracing myself for the inevitable, triumphant cheer. He gets the next one right, the third one wrong and lingers on the fourth.
‘Answer in three seconds or that counts as being wrong.’ I hold up three fingers. ‘Three ...’
‘You literally look like mirror copies in this one.’
‘Two . . .’
‘Delilah on the right, you on the left.’
I do a drumroll on the floor. ‘Correct.’
‘Thought so. You’ve got rounder eyes,’ he says, turning the phone around so he can see the whole photo better since it was taken in landscape.
‘Your sister’s pretty cute,’ he says, holding out my phone.
I snatch it back. ‘Everyone says that,’ I say flatly, because they do. He looks taken aback but stays quiet.
Now I feel bad. ‘I didn’t mean to say it like that. She’d probably say the same about you, to be honest. I’ll tell her about you if you want. She has EDS, but she doesn’t use a wheelchair like I do.’
‘No, it’s alright,’ he says, for once looking unreadable. He’s as much of a closed book as the rest of us when he’s not smiling. At least he doesn’t have a resting bitch face. I tell him so.
‘Thanks?’
I nod. It’s a good thing.
‘You’re the older twin, aren’t you?’ he asks.
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘Makes sense.’ He nods, smile restored.
‘Why? I’m not bossy.’ I mean, maybe I am with Delilah at home, but he doesn’t know that.
‘No, you’re not bossy,’ he says. ‘But you’re very .
..’ His eyes are still but unfocused like he’s reading an invisible list – or picking the most appropriate words from it.
‘Organised.’ His mouth bunches up at one side, deep in thought.
‘Conscientious and ... cautious. You fit the stereotype of a firstborn almost exactly.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I say, taking my water bottle out of my backpack.
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah. I’m older than Lilah but I’m not the oldest. My brother, Parker, is.’
He studies me closely. ‘So, you’re technically a middle child?’
‘Technically,’ I say, watching him take out his own bottle of water.
‘I can see that too,’ he says, which to me, shows how you can make anyone fit any description if you try hard enough. ‘They’re the peacemakers.’
‘If you believe in that,’ I say. ‘I don’t think birth order actually makes much difference.’
He finishes his water and re-screws the lid. ‘That’s debatable.’
Mine is still half full. Or empty. ‘Everything’s debatable, CJ.’