Before 19, Volume 3, 2014
Kenz and I
Kenz and I By Emma Cunningham
She wakes up to the buzz of the alarm, crushes the snooze button, and rolls over. I groan, but as if compelled by a supernatural force, I crawl into the bathroom and wash my face with water and cleanser. I peer out the door to see her already back asleep, as if the piercing reminder that the day was beginning had, in fact, not happened at all. When I dress myself in the morning, I turn to her before turning to the mirror. I rearrange my attire until she is satisfied. “You look like a bruise. Who in their right mind would put that black and blue together?” she laughs from across the room. I bow my head and pick up the pink button down lying on my bed. “Is this better?” I ask in a hopeful voice, willing to wear most anything for a yes. She throws on the first thing her hands touch and still manages to look perfect. She neglects to zip up her thick black Patagonia and walks out the door with a smile, welcoming winter with open arms. I zip mine up quickly before the cold has a chance to steal a place underneath it. Her blonde hair blows beautifully in the wind, while mine instantly becomes tangled in knots. She associates winter with warm fires and the poignant smell of Christmas pine. To me, winter is depressing and long and cold.
She was born at 10:04. I was born at 10:05, and she will never let me forget that difference. Four pounds. Four pounds and two ounces. Two small ounces that would proceed to haunt me for the rest of my life. We put on our patterned bathing suits, the most thrilling reminder that summer has arrived. I glare at her toothpick legs and flat stomach, wondering how the bags of Cheetos and boxes of cookies have yet to attack her. She glances towards me and I watch as she immediately eyes my thighs. “You should go for a run later,” she tells me, almost instinctively. The thrill of summer is gone as quickly as the pace of her confident strut toward the pool. She likes to listen to music while she does her homework. I find it extremely distracting. She listens to music for the catchy lyrics. I listen for the lyrics that make me cringe, that make my stomach tie into an intricate knot at every word that is somewhat relatable. When she talks to someone it is natural. She leaves each conversation without a hint of doubt. I hang on to every word, constantly repeating them over and over again in my head until my analysis is no longer coherent. “You should be more confident, Emma. Guys don’t like insecure girls. Confidence is key, oh and you should really stop over thinking everything.” This apparently comes easily to her, but for some reason I can’t seem to grasp that concept. I taught her how to parallel park. It’s rewarding to know that one of her talents is finally thanks to me– that I can take credit for something that she does, because I give her all of the credit for who I am and how I act. I admire her, “The Outgoing Twin.” Not “The Shy Twin,” not “The Awkward Twin,” and certainly not the “The Fat Twin.” I have my license. She doesn’t, and there’s something about being the only one that is comforting. She likes the rush of driving a race car through a quick and curvy track. When I drive, it is slow and therapeutic– I prefer dirt roads surrounded by trees over hot asphalt surrounded by an audience. She likes the rush of passing someone on the inside around a left turn. I like the rush of a scary episode of Criminal Minds. We both love the beach. We both walk and subconsciously inhale the warm, salty summer breeze in tandem. As we exhale, things begin to change. She is reminded of our childhood memories, spending Thanksgivings and Christmases in Palm Beach. She remembers boogie boarding in Nantucket and building drip castles in Anguilla. I am taken back to Outward Bound. The trip
Before 19, Volume 3, 2014 that changed my life. The one thing that I completed on my own, without my other half. Each crashing wave evokes memories of my eighteen-hour solo in the Outer Banks. Stripped of my cellphone and any other connection to the real world, no one was in sight, no contact could be made, especially no contact home. The waves relax me, bringing to memory my greatest accomplishment: solitude. Not only was I fully capable of creating a shelter out of three tent poles, a kayak paddle, and a tarp, but I was finally able to be independent, on my own, without my other half, my better half, by my side. When I arrived home from my trip, she told me that she was extremely proud of me for doing what I did, and that she could not have done that. Now when we talk about it, she rolls her eyes and denies that it happened. I don’t think she likes me knowing that she’s proud of me, or that I did something that she couldn’t, but I wouldn’t forget something like that.
Kenz and I