The Other Half of Me Read Online Free
Author: Emily Franklin
thing at our school’s spring fling last year. I remember eating a slice of pepperoni pizza near the refreshments table in the gym and watching him look up at nothing as he danced with pretty girl after pretty girl. I don’t know. My guess is that he must see some sort of fireworks in his mind.
I want to experience those explosions of color firsthand someday and know precisely what he’s thinking, but we would actually have to speak for this to happen. And we haven’t, because he is, of all things, a jock. Maybe we’re not at opposite ends of the social spectrum, but we’re not a natural overlap.
Still, he seems to be so much more than the category he naturally falls into. He’s always spouting obscure sports trivia to other jocky guys (example: What was the Mills Commission?) who never have the correct answer, so I know he’s smart, too. I want to tell him that I want to know him, or that I like the way I smile after he walks by. I want to tell him that the Mills Commission was appointed in 1905 to determine the origin of baseball (just because I eschew all activities sporty doesn’t mean the jumble of family talks hasn’t seeped in; I know more stats and facts than I’ll ever need). I want to show him how I paint fireworks on the canvas, all lights and colors spreading out into darkness.
It’s funny how you can’t exactly pick your crush. Well, you can, but once it gets hold of you it’s hard to shake off. I mean, Tate Brodeur isn’t whom I thought I’d like. Normally, I’m drawn to the brooding, slouching drama boys or their visual arts counterparts, all hip and retro with glasses or with accents from faraway places. But Tate’s about as commercial as you can get without being boring. I like his tilted mouth, the way he always appears to be looking closely at life, seeing the details like I do. Plus, he’s beautiful. Good-looking like the lead in a Disney dogsled-ding movie—all outdoorsy, but sensitive in his well-worn T-shirts and faded jeans.
I wrap myself in an oversized white towel and use the back of my hand to swipe the mirror clean. Outside, Russ, Sierra, and Sage are engaged in some sort of tag game that involves throwing whole lemons at each other. My mother is half-playing; my father is grilling the chicken. I can see them all, the five of them, from the bathroom window. They look happy. Complete. Matching. I imagine the same scene except with me in it and feel lonely all over again, imagining myself on the picnic blanket while they pound each other with citrus fruits.
I take a minute to study my face in the mirror. I’m maybe a shade darker than my winter self, meaning not entirely translucent. A knock at the door is followed by my mother’s face peeking through a slim crack.
“There you are.” Mom’s hand clutches the doorknob. “Good shower?”
“Yep, now I’ve moved on to questioning my existence.” I smile at her while I shake my hair out of its twist.
Mom smirks. “Oh, a little light pondering for the day?”
She gets me half of the time, and the other half it’s as if the only thing she recognizes is my exterior—the light brown swash of freckles over my nose and cheeks, the way my mouth has a full lower lip and two sharp points on top, how my hair is just a shade too light to be true brown and a few shades too dark to be interesting. “I didn’t mean to insult you before, Jenny. I only meant to say that sometimes when you have to struggle really hard with things—”
“I know; try, try again.”
Mom shakes her head. “No. I was going to say that every once in a while if you struggle and struggle and nothing happens, then maybe it’s time to move on.”
“So are you saying that Sid was right? That I have no artistic talent?” I watch my mother, wait for her to dispute what I’ve said. She doesn’t. “He said I’d get better.” Did he? Or did he only mean that I suck now and might not suck as much in the future?
“Okay,” Mom says, and starts to
I want to experience those explosions of color firsthand someday and know precisely what he’s thinking, but we would actually have to speak for this to happen. And we haven’t, because he is, of all things, a jock. Maybe we’re not at opposite ends of the social spectrum, but we’re not a natural overlap.
Still, he seems to be so much more than the category he naturally falls into. He’s always spouting obscure sports trivia to other jocky guys (example: What was the Mills Commission?) who never have the correct answer, so I know he’s smart, too. I want to tell him that I want to know him, or that I like the way I smile after he walks by. I want to tell him that the Mills Commission was appointed in 1905 to determine the origin of baseball (just because I eschew all activities sporty doesn’t mean the jumble of family talks hasn’t seeped in; I know more stats and facts than I’ll ever need). I want to show him how I paint fireworks on the canvas, all lights and colors spreading out into darkness.
It’s funny how you can’t exactly pick your crush. Well, you can, but once it gets hold of you it’s hard to shake off. I mean, Tate Brodeur isn’t whom I thought I’d like. Normally, I’m drawn to the brooding, slouching drama boys or their visual arts counterparts, all hip and retro with glasses or with accents from faraway places. But Tate’s about as commercial as you can get without being boring. I like his tilted mouth, the way he always appears to be looking closely at life, seeing the details like I do. Plus, he’s beautiful. Good-looking like the lead in a Disney dogsled-ding movie—all outdoorsy, but sensitive in his well-worn T-shirts and faded jeans.
I wrap myself in an oversized white towel and use the back of my hand to swipe the mirror clean. Outside, Russ, Sierra, and Sage are engaged in some sort of tag game that involves throwing whole lemons at each other. My mother is half-playing; my father is grilling the chicken. I can see them all, the five of them, from the bathroom window. They look happy. Complete. Matching. I imagine the same scene except with me in it and feel lonely all over again, imagining myself on the picnic blanket while they pound each other with citrus fruits.
I take a minute to study my face in the mirror. I’m maybe a shade darker than my winter self, meaning not entirely translucent. A knock at the door is followed by my mother’s face peeking through a slim crack.
“There you are.” Mom’s hand clutches the doorknob. “Good shower?”
“Yep, now I’ve moved on to questioning my existence.” I smile at her while I shake my hair out of its twist.
Mom smirks. “Oh, a little light pondering for the day?”
She gets me half of the time, and the other half it’s as if the only thing she recognizes is my exterior—the light brown swash of freckles over my nose and cheeks, the way my mouth has a full lower lip and two sharp points on top, how my hair is just a shade too light to be true brown and a few shades too dark to be interesting. “I didn’t mean to insult you before, Jenny. I only meant to say that sometimes when you have to struggle really hard with things—”
“I know; try, try again.”
Mom shakes her head. “No. I was going to say that every once in a while if you struggle and struggle and nothing happens, then maybe it’s time to move on.”
“So are you saying that Sid was right? That I have no artistic talent?” I watch my mother, wait for her to dispute what I’ve said. She doesn’t. “He said I’d get better.” Did he? Or did he only mean that I suck now and might not suck as much in the future?
“Okay,” Mom says, and starts to
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