The One with Naked Moon Dancing
“Just tell them the truth, Penny.” Phoebe sighs as we collect our luggage from baggage claim. “Half the reason Mom and Dad get so upset is because you wait until the last possible minute to tell them what’s going on at school and pretend everything is fine, which means they have to hear you’re struggling from one of Dad’s friends.”
It’s easy for Phoebe to tell my parents the truth. It always has been. Her truths are easy.
Mom, Dad, I got straight As again.
Mom, Dad, I got accepted into every Ivy League school I applied for.
Mom, Dad, I’m sorry I won’t be able to come home for the summer. I’ve been offered an internship with Google. I hope you both understand.
If Phoebe’s truths were my truths, I’d never have a problem telling them. Hell, I’d tattoo them across my face or pay a skywriter to broadcast them over Coronado Island. But my truths have never been remotely close to Phoebe’s. Take the one I’m sitting on today for example.
I’m failing out of Princeton . . . again. This means for the second year in a row, my parents are going to have to hear: Mom, Dad, I’m failing almost all of my business and engineering classes. It also means that for the second year in a row, I’m going to have to sit through an awkward Thanksgiving dinner with one of my dad’s work colleagues telling us how lucky we are to have a guaranteed spot at the best—meaning wealthiest—international engineering firm in the world. I can hear his words now: All you have to do is pass your classes, and you’re guaranteed a lifetime of success.
“Maybe.” I grab both of our bags from the conveyor. “Just don’t say anything if they ask you. Tell them that everything seems like it’s been going better since I started tutoring.”
Phoebe takes her bag, and we make our way to the escalator. “What if I just tell them to ask you, so I don’t have to be caught in the middle?”
“If you say that, then they’ll know something is wrong.”
“Well, something is wrong. You’re failing.”
“Look, I’m going to handle this, Phoebe. I swear. I just need a little time so I can figure out how to do it in my own way. OK?”
“Fine,” Phoebe groans in frustration. “But I’m not going along with any of your stories. I don’t need Mom and Dad on my case because you’ve dragged me into your problems.”
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.”