The further I get from home, the more I’m starting to feel like her. At one point I catch my reflection in a car’s rear window, and could swear it’s Ali staring back, incredulous. By the time I pass the New Street car park, there’s a line of traffic with engines running, stretching up the road. Scott’s car won’t be here, he will be checking the side streets for a space, but even knowing this, seeing a grey Astra in the line makes my palms sweat. The sun’s glare from the paintwork is dazzling, and makes little wobbly lines rise up from the bonnets, like in the desert. Most have their windows open wide, with arms hanging limply out of them. A green Cleo is playing the song about the cuckoo that my mother likes. I decide to go a quieter route, and turn down into a side road. I don’t want to run into anyone, dressed like Ali.
When we were kids, our mother always dressed us identically. When I walked past someone on the street, I used to step into their path, beaming,
‘Look at us. We’re twins. She’s my twin. Can you tell us apart?’ It made me a few minutes late for most significant events of my childhood. Ali would linger behind, concentrating on trails of orange lolly making their way down her fist, or looking into shop windows, where two more twins were reflected. If the person seemed game, I would make them guess who had been born first, who had weighed the most. Our mother pretended to be irritated by it, by would stand beside me, smiling, waiting for, ‘Gosh, twins! You must work ever so hard! I thought one was tiring enough…and I love their little outfits…’ She and I would stand, faces raised like flowers drinking in the sunlight, whilst my sister scuffed her Mary-Janes against the kerb.
I snap out of my daydreams the minute I see it. Scott’s Astra sits, triumphantly squeezed in between two estate cars. I’m not religious, but I find myself looking up at the sky, as I’m so thankful that he’s not still there. In fact, Sumner Street is quiet enough for me to hear an ice-cream van tinkling in the distance. The gardens look green and lush, and I sneeze with the overpowering scent of freshly cut grass. Ali’s flip-flops are starting to dig into my toes, her feet have always been a size smaller. I wish I’d brought some sunglasses, as I’m pretty sure I can feel my eyeliner running. I wipe my eyes, my fingers turning black. I wonder how my sister can wear such heavy make-up when it’s so warm out. It took me three goes in front of the mirror to get those little flicks in the corners right, although my hands were shaking anyway. Then I had to make it out of the house before she saw me, I waited, silent, until I heard her switch on the TV. I’ve never felt so guilty, slipping past the living room, past the low buzz of a sitcom and my twin’s breath. I put the flip-flops on outside, as the clack of them against my feet would have been a give away. Just before the front door shut behind me, I heard my mum call, ‘Ali, what time will you be back?’ I knew she meant me. And for the first time felt exhilarated by what I was about to do.
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