Three Black Swans Read online

  Claire couldn’t laugh. The hoax disturbed her. But there was an easy way out. “What do your mom and dad think of your plan?” she asked.

  Claire adored her aunt and uncle. They were totally fun people. Former elementary school teachers, they lived in a welter of projects. Even now, when their daughter was sixteen, there was always some family project going on, like making bookmarks or birdhouses or even bricks. A visit to Uncle Matt and Aunt Kitty’s was like changing planets. Claire’s parents shared stuff like cooking and cleaning—“Let’s vacuum!” her mom and dad would say to each other—but Missy’s parents would say, “Let’s weld our own garden sculpture!”

  Missy lowered her voice. “I wasn’t going to bring my parents into this.”

  “When identical twins are first revealed,” said Claire, “viewers want to see how thrilled the parents are that their long-lost daughter is found.” Claire was confused by her own statement. Under what circumstances could a daughter be lost?

  “Why would the parents be thrilled?” countered Missy. “Obviously they didn’t want you. If they had wanted you, they would have kept you. And here you are, like a lemon of a car, back from the garage again.”

  If twins were separated, Claire reasoned, then one of them had been adopted. Claire pictured a teen mother surrendering her babies. Perhaps with so many would-be parents in the world, the social worker had divided these pretend twins in order to satisfy two families instead of just one.

  Claire imagined a heavy middle-aged woman, a Department of Social Services name tag pinned lopsidedly to her ill-fitting shirt, holding a blanket-wrapped newborn in each arm, tossing one baby in one direction and the other baby in the opposite direction. “Good luck!” she called, making a quick entry in her handheld computer.

  That would be the end of twins. Babies who had been conceived with a life companion—an in-house best friend, as it were—would grow up alone.

  Would they feel the loss?

  How could they? Those thirty-year-old men Missy had seen on television hadn’t known they had an identical sibling. And yet their bodies and lives had gone on behaving like twins, even to the point of bowling scores. Spooky.

  Claire’s mother and Missy’s mom were sisters. The two families were close. Just about every Friday night either Claire stayed at Missy’s house or Missy went to Claire’s. Claire and her cousin were more intensely connected than most sisters she knew.

  It was something she didn’t talk about with her other friends. At age six or ten or twelve, it was okay for your cousin to show up now and then for a sleepover. But Claire Linnehan was nearly seventeen. At seventeen you did not look forward with longing to spending your Friday night with your cousin. A seventeen-year-old wanted parties and boys, movies and gangs of friends. Claire had those, but not on Fridays, which were Missy time.

  For years, both sets of parents had been trying to dull the excessive friendship between the cousins. You don’t need to show up weekly, they would say. How about once a month instead?

  Claire could get clammy hands thinking about lasting four weeks without Missy. Maybe their parents were right. Maybe the degree of friendship they shared was a little off. Normal teenage girls did not consider a cousin’s visit the most important event of the week. If Claire pretended to an entire high school that she was actually Missy’s identical twin, it would be off the charts.

  It was also the ultimate don’t-we-look-alike? fantasy. Claire was attracted to that. And if Missy and I were identical twins, thought Claire, nobody would say it’s weird that we need each other. They would say it’s a biological imperative.

  “Parents do pose a hoax problem,” Missy admitted. “But I don’t need to bother with details, Claire. People just have to believe me for a little while. They don’t have to believe me forever. Biology is third period, so my hoax only has to last until ten-thirty.”

  “Short hoaxes are probably the best kind,” agreed Claire. It could be fun—just the kind of crazy thing she and her cousin would do. “Okay. Call me back if Rick says yes, and I’ll work on Dad for a ride.”

  * * *

  Missy never postponed a task. She was a full-speed person, which was the main reason her parents were not allowing her to drive any time soon. Missy did not slow down for corners.

  She called Rick, who was startled to hear from her: he was a standout senior and she was an ordinary sophomore. They were in no classes together. They knew each other because one day she was at his house doing homework with his younger sister Alaina and Rick had gotten Missy a soda out of his refrigerator. That was exaggerating. He had been getting himself a soda, and when Missy said she was thirsty, he silently delivered a can.

  “Rick, you won’t believe it!” cried Missy now. She ran her sentences together to give him less time to think. “The most amazing thing has happened! Oh, Rick, I’m so excited I’m ricocheting off the walls. I have the best news in the whole wide world and I have to share it with everybody. I think the way I want to announce this is, I want to be on TV with you in the morning.”

  “I don’t have live guests, Missy. Or dead ones. I sit there and read announcements.”

  “This will boost your ratings.”

  “My ratings are one hundred percent. I’m on the air in every classroom every day.”

  Missy lowered her voice. She gasped for breath. “Rick, a girl got in touch with me. She found out that she was adopted. She’s my twin.” Missy let herself sob. “And what’s truly unbelievable, and shocking, and I don’t even know how to think about it yet—we are identical. When we met—oh, Rick!—it was like seeing myself walk toward me. She’s me. I’m her.”

  “You are a separated twin?” said Rick. “I can’t even picture that. Missy, you’re so beautiful. There are two of you? What did your mother and father say? I mean, if your twin is adopted, you must be adopted, too.”

  Missy was derailed by the news that Rick thought she was beautiful. The hoax did not have its previous appeal. She wanted to discuss Rick’s feelings and go to a movie with him, instead of sit in a high school TV studio pretending to be a twin. But it was imperative not to let Rick dwell on details like who was adopted by whom. Missy hurried on. “Rick, she’s coming to school with me tomorrow. My twin. She’s going to attend class with me so we can start getting to know each other.”

  “Wow,” said Rick. “Are your mother and father okay with this?”

  Missy found it annoying that the only person she knew with a broadcast position was giving her a hard time rather than seizing on this incredible scoop. “Rick, here’s the truth,” she said, preparing her biggest lie. “This is scary. I’m so thrilled I can’t sleep, but the thing is”—she whispered, as if her identical twin might overhear—“I’m a tiny bit skeptical. I can’t compare how we look. I can’t inspect both of us. But if we’re on TV, even for thirty seconds, the viewers will see immediately whether or not we are identical. If we’re not—if she’s just some girl with the same hair and eyes—the whole school will tell me so. This is my test.”

  “I think you should go with DNA,” said Rick. “And they do specific blood tests for identical twins. They analyze more than a dozen aspects of blood chemistry. We learned that in anatomy and physiology. Identical twins have to be identical right down to—”

  Missy burst into tears without even trying. “Rick, please! She’ll be here tomorrow! I want the ice broken. I need you to introduce us at the beginning of the day so I don’t have to make explanations every single minute. I need you, Rick. I’m not brave enough to do this alone.”

  Missy felt brave enough to run the world alone, and often regretted that she was not in that position. But she could not run the high school television studio alone.

  “I’d better ask Mrs. Conway first,” said Rick dubiously.

  Mrs. Conway was one of two assistant principals. She ran a number of student activities and was the sharpest knife in the faculty kitchen. Hoaxes required people to be gullible, or not have time to think clearly, or to be coaxed to
think in the wrong direction. Mrs. Conway would not do any of that, since her main occupation was seeing through students’ fibs and excuses.

  “Rick,” said Missy sternly, “you’re a senior. You’ve run the studio for two years. If you can’t make this decision, what do they allow you to do? It’ll just be for one minute. Sixty seconds.”

  “Tell you what. If you and this girl come into the broadcast room tomorrow morning at seven thirty-five, ten minutes before I begin, and if I can’t tell which of you is which, we’ll do it.”

  * * *

  Within moments, Claire had second thoughts.

  Being best friends with her cousin was one of the nicest parts of Claire’s life.

  She could not remember refusing her cousin anything. On the other hand, she couldn’t remember Missy asking for anything so off the wall.

  Claire prided herself on her sharp mind, her easy grip on theories and theorems, her total recall of dates and data. But now thinking did not happen. Low-level anxiety occupied her body.

  Missy called back, bursting with the news that Rick was on board. Claire nerved herself. “I’m not going to do it, Missy. I can’t lie to Dad and ask him to drive me twenty miles each way during rush hour while I miss some school and he misses work.”

  Actually, Claire’s dad was pretty much her slave and believed that anything Claire did was perfect. Her mother was the digger-out of detail. Mom led Jazzercise classes that met at dawn, midmorning, in the afternoon and in the evening. She kept track of Claire via texting, phone calls and interrogation and wouldn’t settle for a meaningless line like “I’m helping Missy with something.” But Mom would be at the community center when Claire needed this ride.

  Missy was beside herself. “Claire! Rick said yes! It’s all set! Find your cashmere birthday sweater.”

  “Our birthdays are two months apart, Missy. I’m older and I look it. Mrs. Stancil won’t buy a fake twin act.”

  “That’s my difficulty, not yours. Tell me the real problem, Claire.”

  Claire had never been able to say no to Missy. It was as if Missy had a route into Claire’s heart and mind that Claire could not protect. “I hate getting caught doing something wrong.”

  “It isn’t wrong, Clairedy. This is an actual assignment, which I will carry out brilliantly. Nobody will be in trouble, especially not you. Mrs. Stancil and the whole school will believe me. They’ll be impressed at how well I pull off my hoax. All you have to do is stand there and be photogenic.”

  Claire sighed.

  Missy correctly read this as surrender. “Be on the curb outside my school by seven-thirty.”

  “I need an alias. I can’t use my real name. Maybe you could call me Wanda or Annabel. That will give me a little distance from this nonsense.”

  “Wanda or Annabel? Where did you come up with those? I can live with Annabel, I suppose. Do you want a new last name too?”

  “Griffin.”

  Their mothers had been the Griffin sisters, Frannie and Kitty. The sisters were not as close as their daughters. Oh, sure, they talked and gossiped and the four parents went to the movies and football games together and everything. But needing to see each other—no.

  “Annabel Griffin,” said Missy. “The long-lost identical twin. It’s perfect.”

  “And when your buddy Rick, who obviously has the brains of a canned pea,” said Claire, “asks how I found you, or where I live, or who adopted whom—do you have answers ready?”

  “Of course I do. Hoaxes are all about clever answers. My middle name is clever. Remember, we have to fill only a minute, Clairedy. How much can go wrong in sixty seconds?”

  * * *

  EARLY MORNING

  Thursday

  CLAIRE’S FATHER PULLED into a visitor slot at Missy’s high school. It had not crossed his mind that his sweet little girl would lie to him and so it did not cross his mind to quiz her. “I’ll just sit in the truck with my coffee and my paper,” he told Claire. “If it’s going to take longer than fifteen minutes, phone me. I’ll come in, and that will hurry things up. I know how Missy can chatter.” Her father fussed with the sip opening on the lid of his take-away coffee cup, which refused to snap into place. He didn’t pick up on Claire’s anxiety.

  She headed toward the front doors, leaving her book bag and purse in the truck. She felt naked without them, as if she had no business being here.

  And I don’t, she thought.

  She had never been in this building. Missy’s school system had only tenth through twelfth grades in the high school, and it was only six weeks into Missy’s sophomore year. Claire had not yet attended any of her cousin’s school games or activities.

  The front steps were imposing but shallow. Claire stumbled, which demolished her poise. The years leached away, and she felt like a newcomer on the first day of seventh grade, wearing the wrong clothes.

  It was 7:37.

  At 7:45 would come the Pledge of Allegiance followed by the announcements, presented by Rick.

  Claire paused on the last step.

  There was something dreadful about hoaxes: the perpetrator planned to make suckers out of her very own friends.

  I can turn around, she thought. Go home. Text Missy so she has time to cancel with Rick.

  Claire could not imagine letting Missy down. Furthermore, she could feel Missy’s excitement. She and Missy were already breathing in synchrony. She even knew that Missy’s panting was from eagerness while she herself was gasping from worry.

  I don’t know, she reminded herself. I just know Missy well enough to guess.

  How odd that Missy had even noticed the hoax assignment. Missy did not care for biology. She did not care about Mrs. Stancil. Why was Missy going to such trouble?

  The glass-walled foyer faced south and had collected the heat of the sun even at this early hour. Claire was immediately uncomfortable in her pink cashmere sweater. It was too dressy. She had a flicker of surprise that Missy hadn’t thought about this, because Missy had excellent fashion sense. Then she thought, Missy wants people to see clothing instead of us. Helps the hoax along.

  Claire threaded through strangers, unpleasantly aware of her hot clinging sweater.

  “Hey, Missy!” came a shout.

  Oh, good. Her cousin had come to get her. Claire looked around.

  A total stranger was waving and smiling. “You finish your essay, Missy?” he called.

  Missy was not in the foyer. Only Claire was in the foyer.

  The boy was laughing now, and two girls standing near him began to laugh too. “Yes, you, Missy,” said one of the girls. “Love the sweater. You going somewhere special?” The girl walked up to Claire and hugged her lightly.

  Missy and this total stranger were close enough friends for hugs? How could such a friend be so clueless? How could she literally touch Claire and still not know she wasn’t Missy? “There is a special event coming up,” Claire said nervously.

  “We’ll want to hear all about it,” said the girl. She and the other two students drifted away.

  Maybe Mrs. Stancil’s hoax assignment was not so stupid after all. People needed to pay attention. Ask questions. Accept nothing without careful examination. This would be a wake-up call.

  The foyer had largely emptied. Missy had told Claire to turn right and follow a long straight corridor. Claire obeyed. She turned into a dim corridor and saw a distant pink sweater.

  The pink sweater approached.

  Claire had the oddest sense of seeing herself in a mirror. Herself was walking toward her. That was her own thick ponytail swinging back and forth, her own earrings bouncing on her own small earlobes. Her own head was tilted slightly to the side. That was her own wave, long fingers not relaxed and curved, but held stiffly, as if lacking a middle joint. Now Claire’s smile burst on the other face and Claire’s laugh came out of the other mouth.

  Claire’s eyesight blurred. Her steps grew uneven.

  This is a hoax, she told herself. This is pretend. I can’t be the one who
falls for it.

  “Could you cheer up a little, Clairedy?” teased Missy. “You’re thrilled, remember? There will be witnesses in the studio, so don’t goof up. You just have to hang on for a few minutes. I’ll do the work.”

  Missy flung open a door and pulled Claire into the studio. Claire was now facing a wide plain desk on which lay a thin sheaf of papers. Flanking the desk were an American flag and a plastic fig tree. On the wall behind the desk was a blown-up photograph of the high school, with today’s date tacked on the blue sky.

  Standing at the desk was a short cute chunky boy wearing heavy black-framed glasses. He looked like a 1950s singer inventing rock music. “Wow!” said the boy, his jaw falling open. “Wow,” he said again. “Missy,” he said to Claire, “this is—I don’t know. I mean—I never believed you for a minute. But …” He was half laughing, half horrified. “Missy,” he whispered, “I actually can’t tell which one is you.”

  Claire felt herself shutting down. The lights in her brain were going off.

  “I’m Missy,” said her cousin. “You’re talking to my long-lost identical twin, Claire.”

  There were gasps from the students behind Claire, who were manning cameras and control panels. “How did you find each other?” demanded one of them. “It’s like a miracle,” whispered another.

  “It is a miracle,” said Missy, turning slowly to look into Claire’s eyes.

  For years, Claire had been the tall one. This year she and Missy were the same height, so their eyes were exactly even. Missy’s were the same color and shape as her own, deeply set and perfect for eye shadow. Claire was inches from the exact same complexion, pointy chin and full lips. Inches from identical thin eyebrows, such a contrast to the extra-volume black hair.

  Nothing is identical, Claire told herself. We share a strong family resemblance. People often comment on it. We are not twins. I am two months older than Missy. Miracles happen, but not the kind where the mother fails to give birth to the second twin for eight weeks. Anyway, my parents are my parents. Missy’s parents are her parents. Nobody is adopted.