Within/Without

chapter three.

    "Simon, are you hearing me?"

    I open my mouth to respond, but the painful realization that he is right and I am wrong and that this possibly means I'm on my way to being screwed swallows the rest of my words. This is a point I never wanted to reach.

    I lean down, snatching up my backpack. Mr. Ripley doesn't stop me as I get to my feet, slinging the backpack over my shoulder and adjusting my jacket. I catch a glimpse of my dark-haired, blue-eyed self in the reflection of Mr. Ripley's trophy case, and wonder, just for a second, how it would feel to wear this face everyday. To never wake up with a new one. To be normal, God forbid.

    I've never believed what my parents do: that I'm sick, that I have some sort of genetic illness they somehow passed down to me. But would it be terrible to believe something, at least, is wrong with me?

    "I hear you," I tell Mr. Ripley, turning towards the door. "Loud and clear."

    "Then fix it."

    I pause on the threshold, fingers still hanging on the doorknob. "I'm trying to," I tell him. "I've been trying to my whole life."

When I get home, Noah's turned the dining table into his workshop, as usual. I shuffle into the apartment, keys jingling, and jostle a light on with my shoulder. The front room floods with yellow-gold light, illuminating the scratches across the wood floors (from the multiple times Noah and I have tried and failed at rearranging furniture), bathing my array of potted ferns and miniature trees in artificial sun.

    A shiver runs down my spine; Noah must have touched the AC again.

    As I bump the door shut behind me, my older brother doesn't look up. "Hey, Ginger Snap. Did you procure the sushi?"

    I approach the table with caution, as the collage of wires and electrical tape and tools I don't know the name of is making me feel like one wrong step could fry my insides. I set the to-go bag down in front of him. "California rolls."

    Noah snorts. "Basic."

    "Sometimes it's not so bad to go back to the basics."

    "Oh, you—" Only then does Noah look up. His mellow brown eyes regard me in disgust for a moment before he says, simply, "Fix your face."

    "But I'm Oliver today."

    "I hate Oliver. Oliver looks like some obscure model that got put out on the street and is now trying to make homeless look fashionable," Noah says, lifting his safety glasses from his face, pushing them up into his reddish-blond hair instead. "I'd like my little brother instead, please."

    "This isn't—this isn't the sort of thing you can just order. I'm not a dollar menu."

    Noah silently replaces his safety glasses. I exhale, and by the time I've sat down across from him, I'm in my own skin.

    He casts a brisk glance upward to validate that I am in fact Simon now, grins a little, and sets his screwdriver down. He rustles around for the California rolls, and soon the kitchen's heavy with the scent of soy sauce and ginger.

    "What's this mess you've made of the table?" I ask, splitting apart my chopsticks.

    Noah downs at least two rolls of sushi before answering. He's bigger than me—in both height and muscle mass—but watching him eat like a bear (which is pretty much how Noah always eats) still perturbs me sometimes. "A motor," he says around the sushi. "Or, at least, it will be. I'm gonna attach it to a bike so I can get around the city better."