Morning, Penny decides, is no time to concentrate on walking attractively. Anyone who might raise an eyebrow over an eight o’clock waddle clearly doesn’t need to be listened to in the long run. She waddles to the bathroom, scratching her head and yawning widely.
“You look like Daffy Duck with a hangover,” Lorraine comments helpfully.
It doesn’t matter that Penny has been an identical twin her whole life; up until a year ago, when Mom put in an upstairs bathroom, she hasn't had to look at someone else in her body before breakfast. It’s disconcerting, and always something of a shock. She waddles up to the mirror and squeezes toothpaste onto her brush. Lorraine waltzes into the bathroom behind her and sits primly on the toilet. Penny averts her eyes politely, although technically they have been looking at each other naked so long that neither of them really care.
“I have this weird feeling,” Penny says suddenly, only just then becoming aware of it herself.
Lorraine looks at her silently, running her hand through her dyed-red hair. Penny notes with satisfaction that perhaps morning isn’t the time for glib remarks, either. “What feeling?”
“That something’s gonna change.” The feeling tingles up and down her spine, broadening her ribcage and pulling her continuously backwards. It jangles her nerves and makes looking at Lorraine in her body extra annoying. She only brushes the left side of her mouth, leaving the thick, heavy taste of sleep wallowing in the right, and stalks out of the bathroom.
She has perhaps twenty minutes before breakfast, which is time enough for all her morning rituals. As she gets dressed, applies deodorant and yanks at the snags in her hair, she ponders how in the world someone like her and someone like Lorraine could share a gene pool, let alone fifty percent of their DNA.
That feeling creeps back, spreading from her spine into her shoulders, pulling them backwards, and down into her arms and hands and legs. Her whole body becomes a defense shield, guarding her from whatever change she feels sure is coming.
She hears Lorraine belting show tunes from the shower.
Penny scowls and heads downstairs.
Mom leans against the counter, listening to Jack Johnson and pushing scrambled eggs around the frying pan. “Orange juice on the table, hon.”
Make you banana pancakes, pretend like it’s the weekend now . . .the CD player adds, always a good contributor to any conversation.
“Thanks. You know you don’t have to make breakfast for us in summer, too. We know you have work.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about, Pen, it’s your sister. She has rehearsal. If it were up to her she’s grab a candy bar and eat nothing else all day and then come home complaining no one feeds her.”
“Who’s complaining?” asks Lorraine from the stairs, a towel-turban wrapped around her head. She’s wearing her usual earthy tones in tight clothes that cling to her figure like it matters. Penny wonders briefly if she is that sexy just because she has the same body, but dismisses the idea. Although maybe if she dyed her hair red like Lorraine’s . . .
“So what’s your plan for the day?” Lorraine asks her as Mom sets down their plates. She digs in with vigor.
“Oh, I dunno. When does rehearsal end? We could hang out.”
“Four,” Lorraine says around a mouthful of food. “Actually, it starts at nine and I’m biking, so I gotta run, see ya Penny.” She bounds out the door, leaving her towel-turban draped over the chair and Penny alone with their mother.
~
Penny likes to think their house is the only thing for miles, but she knows there’s a cow farm just over the hill there. She heads the other direction, towards town. She’ll never get there walking, but that’s a good thing because right then all Penny wants is to be alone.
The world feels alive. The forest jumps and dances and swirles around her, assailing her with he woody scent of summer. A blue heron flaps off from a pond by the side or the road. A little rabbit scrambles away and hid es behind a bush of dying blackberries, long ears folded back and quivering. It’s hard to stay grumpy in a world this beautiful.
She can’t stay grumpy, but neither can she ditch that tingly feeling of imminent change. It tails after her like a child’s wooden duck on a string, always a little glimmer of discomfort on the edge of her vision. She quickens her pace as if it will help her get away.
“It’s changing.”
Penny whirls wildly to look behind her. A woman stands there, a woman maybe in her early twenties. She’s filthy. She doesn’t appear to be wearing anything save a ratty old quilt that looks like it’s been lying in the woods for five or ten years.
“Pardon?” Penny asks, a habit she picked up from her Canadian friend. “Do you live around here? I don’t remember seeing you at all.”
The woman steps closer. “It’s coming. It’s changing. You feel it, don’t you? Be prepared.” She has an accent, but not one that Penny recognizes. It seems, rather, as if moving her mouth to create sound takes too much effort and she’s pushing a bit to hard to compensate.
That persistent shiver of change somersaults in Penny’s chest, but the woman is creeping her out and she walks past her towards the house. “What’s changing?” she asks, as if she is merely humor ng the woman and finds the whole conversation rather irritating.
“Everything. The layers, they’re . . .imbalanced . . .they’re too strong . . .but you’ll be back soon enough when it’s over.” The woman turns and walks off the road into the woods, flat-footed, toddling forward like a child first learning to walk. Penny rubs at her forearms and heads hurriedly for home.
Just a few things though:
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