Gemini by Sonya Mukherjee

Normal.
    Just like everyone else.
    Exactly the same.
    Even then, I understood why she was saying it. Understood that it was the best thing to say. The simplest thing for other people to understand.
    But something in me hated it, and I wanted to rebel.
    We were not like everyone else. Who besides us had two minds that understood each other perfectly? That worked in such perfect synchrony that they could operate their four legs and four arms in unison without discussion, giving them twice the strength of a regular child? Not to mention twice the imagination and bargaining power, whenever we wielded them in unison, which we often did. We weren’t normal. We were magical.
    I couldn’t rebel at school. This had been made clear. If we didn’t behave there, if we didn’t act like everyone else, they might want to send us away to a special school, which wouldn’t be as well-suited to our needs. The school we went to, a regular school, was the right one for us, and that was why Mom had been there almost constantly—once or twice a week, sometimes more—meeting with teachers and administrators, sitting in on classes, making sure we were accommodated in just the right ways, and in just the right amounts.
    Part of the deal was that we had to be perfect, so they would understand that we were okay.
    At first my rebellions were so tiny, they went unnoticed. I drew pictures of me and Clara with wings, flying away over the clouds. Or with animal tails and hoofs, or even scales and talons. I drew a whole classroom of kids in one big conjoined circle. I was trying to say something, I think, but nobody seemed to hear. They thought my pictures were cute.
    Then one afternoon, when Mom was busy in the kitchen, I took all her favorite picture books off the shelf. All the ones about kindness and compassion and loving yourself just as you are. While Clara looked on in horror, I tore out a few key pages from each one. I painted them with my tempera paints, a collage of patterns and colors. Then, while they were still wet, I folded them into different shapes and pressed them into one another, adding tape and staples to secure them.
    By the time Mom came out of the kitchen, I had a strange, unwieldy tower that was taller than I was, and at least twice as wide. Clara and I were both covered in paint, and so was the hardwood living room floor, and part of the closest wall. There were a few spatters on the nearby sofa. Most of the picture books were ruined.
    I held my breath and waited for a punishment that never came.
    They bought me more paints and paper. Watercolors, ink pens, and pastels. A huge set of brushes. A new easel. Books and videos about art. They rearranged that corner of the living room and made it my studio.
    I’d failed at rebelling. But I felt like maybe they’d heard at least part of what I was trying to say.
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    I didn’t expect to see Alek until art class, but as Clara and I walked toward the gym for lunch, I noticed him trudging down the hill from the art room, a thick portfolio slung over his shoulder. His black T-shirt and black jeans hung loosely on his slight frame.
    When I caught his eye, he lifted a hand in greeting and walked over.
    Calm down, I told myself. He’s just a guy. This is no big thing.
    â€œYou robbing the art room?” I asked, nodding at the overstuffed black portfolio. “You forgot your mask.” I made two V signs with my fingers and placed them over my eyes, like one of those black masks that burglars wear in cartoons.
    â€œOh damn, I thought I was wearing my invisibility cloak. Now I’ll never get away with these invaluable treasures. And by ‘invaluable,’ I mean they have no value whatsoever.” He pulled one out as evidence. It was one of his own paintings, a pillaged English cottage with flames and smoke rising into the soft blue sky.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked. “That’s an awful