Mirror to mirror, p.1
Mirror to Mirror, page 1
Dedication
For Theresa, my “twin”
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Overture
Maya: She’s the One
Chaya: She’s the One
Maya: At the Edge
Chaya: Leap
Part One: The Mirror
Chaya: Bet You
Maya: Climbing
Chaya: The Art and Science of Dosas
Maya: Practice
Chaya: Music and Noise
Maya: Major and Minor
Chaya: Bold
Maya: Fear
Maya: Echo
Chaya: The What If Game
Chaya: First Day
Maya: Homeroom
Chaya: Anisa
Maya: Jay
Chaya: Life Science
Maya: Poetry
Chaya: Extra
Maya: Lessons
Chaya: Better
Maya: Notes Inégales
Chaya: Matched Set
Maya: C
Chaya: What-Ifs
Chaya: Silence
Maya: Twins Who Fly
Chaya: Shy
Chaya: Wind Ensemble
Maya: Almost a Brother
Chaya: Identical
Maya: Dissonance
Chaya: Storm
Maya: Almost
Chaya: Blue
Maya: Repeat
Chaya: What’s in a Name?
Maya: In the Mirror
Chaya: Irritation
Maya: Wrong
Chaya: Ozone
Maya: Variations on a Theme
Chaya: Forty
Maya: Surprise
Chaya: Leap
Maya: Tremolo
Chaya: After
Maya: Concert
Chaya: Clumsy
Chaya: Itch
Maya: Perfect
Chaya: Up Here
Maya: Down the Mountain
Chaya: A New Competition
Maya: Mirror in the Mirror
Maya: Fermata
Chaya: Silent Storm
Maya: Hurricane
Chaya: Selfish
Maya: I Know
Chaya: Betrayed
Maya: I’ll Do It
Chaya: Let’s Play
Maya: Sorry
Chaya: Forced Silence
Maya: For Her Sake
Chaya: Phantom Limb
Part Two: Switch
Chaya: Not Quite Identical
Maya: Hide-and-Seek
Chaya: What Did You Do?
Maya: Advice
Chaya: The Next Step
Maya: Disharmony
Chaya: A New Song
Maya: Wrong Notes
Chaya: A Piacere
Maya: Abandoned
Chaya: Simmer to Boiling
Maya: From Up High
Chaya: The Same Side
Maya: Success
Chaya: She’s Fine
Maya: Lost
Chaya: Mano Sinistra
Maya: Pause
Chaya: Auditions
Maya: Stage Fright
Maya: Ditched
Chaya: No Going Back
Maya: My Fault
Chaya: Love and Like
Maya: Whispers
Chaya: Begin Again
Maya: What’s Really Going On
Chaya: Sharing
Maya: Fine
Chaya: Scary
Maya: Idea
Chaya: Hypothetically
Maya: Help
Chaya: Breathe
Maya: Hide
Chaya: Twin Telepathy
Maya: Thirteen
Chaya: Third Wheel
Maya: Dental Humor
Chaya: Thirteen Candles
Maya: Wish
Maya: Haunted
Chaya: Mirror in the Mirror
Maya: Bask
Chaya: Wild
Maya: Onstage
Chaya: Different
Maya: Apart
Chaya: Camp Plans
Maya: In the Morning
Maya: Alone
Chaya: Crowded
Maya: Away
Chaya: Unmatched Set
Maya: The Plan
Chaya: Silent
Maya: Schools
Chaya: Point and Counterpoint
Maya: It’s Time
Chaya: Goodbyes
Maya: Real
Part Three: Mirror to Mirror
Maya: Impostor
Chaya: Arrival
Maya: Unfamiliar
Chaya: Cabin
Maya: Move In
Chaya: By the Lake
Maya: Hurt
Chaya: The Trumpeter
Maya: Musical
Chaya: An Unexpected Turn
Maya: Sloppy Joes
Chaya: Singalong
Maya: What Would Chaya Do?
Chaya: Improvisation
Maya: Fool Me
Chaya: What Maya Would Want
Maya: Breathing Lessons
Chaya: Maya’s World
Maya: Suspicion
Chaya: Not Good Enough
Maya: Two Parts
Maya: Storm
Chaya: The Race
Maya: Jamming and Creation
Chaya: Campfire
Maya: S’mores
Chaya: How Not to Say Goodbye
Maya: Cold Feet
Chaya: Learn
Maya: Bargain
Chaya: Storm
Maya: Walk Away
Chaya: Twins Who Fly
Maya: Long Lost
Chaya: Reunion
Maya: Crack
Chaya: Broken
Maya: Truth
Chaya: Seven
Maya: Mirror to Mirror
Chaya: Nocturne
Maya: Think
Chaya: Hold On
Maya: Lies and Reasons
Chaya: Neither
Maya: We Can Go Together
Chaya: Crack
Maya: Pauses
Chaya: The Fall
Maya: Bleed
Chaya: Hiccup
Maya: Switched
Chaya: Consequences
Maya: It’s Time
Chaya: Tremble
Maya: Break
Chaya: Try
Maya: Blurry
Chaya: Nothing Broken
Maya: Not Perfect
Chaya: Brave
Maya: What If
Chaya: Chome On
Maya: Freckle
Chaya: The Winner
Maya: The Lake
Chaya: Maybe
Maya: Leap
Chaya: Coda
Maya: Tutti
Maya and Chaya: Encore
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Rajani LaRocca
Copyright
About the Publisher
Overture
Maya
She’s the One
I don’t like mirrors
but Chaya makes me look sometimes
at our twin reflections,
identical
almost.
The world sees
the same wavy black hair,
the same big brown eyes,
the same height,
the same voice,
but
Chaya’s the one with
the brighter smile,
the quicker laugh,
the faster quip.
The world sees the goofball,
the talker,
the second.
But to me she’s the one
who sees without showing
knows without telling
loves without asking.
She’s the one.
Chaya
She’s the One
People say they can’t tell us apart, but that’s ridiculous.
In the mirror, our identical faces are still different.
Maya’s the one who shines and sparkles,
her eye keener, ear sharper, soul deeper.
Calm and composed her music floats,
soars above earth-bound notes.
The world sees (a) perfection(ist).
But to me,
she’s the one I look up to, the one I come home to
the best part of me
in a separate space.
She’s the one.
Maya
At the Edge
Summer sun sparkles on the lake.
I shiver on the mossy rock high above,
the sound of water and wind fading
as I look down
to the faces of friends
beckoning.
I can’t hear their voices,
but I know they want me to
jump.
I want to,
but I’m stuck.
Their water-kissed smiles
call me
but still, I can’t move.
I close my eyes,
frozen
until I feel a warm touch on my arm.
You don’t have to jump, Chaya says, but if you want to,
we can go together.
Piercing through silence,
her voice is all the music
I’ll ever need.
I nod
she takes my hand
Together
we leap.
Chaya
Leap
Maya stares at the water.
I know she’s conjuring all that might go wrong.
Sometimes she drowns
in possibilities.
You don’t have to jump, I say, but if you want to, we can go together.
Sometimes you need to leap
and trust you’ll land in the right place.
I take her hand, and together we jump
through the mirrored surface.
The water tugs us down,
but I pull up.
Part One
The Mirror
Chaya
Bet You
Bet you can’t peel your orange in a single piece, I say.
Maya crinkles her nose with a smile,
a smile that’s exactly like mine,
just like the rest of her.
You’re on, she says.
It’s the week before school starts,
and we’re in our backyard
with our little brother, Neel.
It’s Gokulashtami, Lord Krishna’s birthday,
so close to Neel’s birthday
that I always think of it as his, too.
Mom has used a paste of rice flour and water
to make little footprints leading to the house,
like a divine toddler is visiting.
Maya and I wear matching salwar kameez,
Maya’s blue
mine pink.
We’ve dressed Neel as Krishna
in a yellow kurta and dhoti,
his peacock-feathered crown flutters in the sun.
The day Neel was born, just over six years ago,
we were scared we might lose him,
but now the only way he disappears
is up a tree.
We distract Neel to keep him from climbing.
Last year, he ripped a hole in his outfit
five minutes after he’d gotten dressed.
But today, so far, it’s working.
I inhale the citrus scent,
work my fingers under, through white pith,
stopping short of piercing soft flesh,
faster than Maya,
who approaches this challenge methodically,
like she does everything.
I’m almost done, the peel in a single piece,
when my hand slipsand it rips
with just a bit left on the orange.
I’ve lost the bet.
Maya’s triumphant smile is like a perfect chord.
Did it! she says.
You win. I give her half my orange.
Maya Akka, Neel says.
Peel mine in one piece, too!
Our little brother is too much.
Too talkative, too adventurous,
too demanding, too loud.
But he’s ours, and we love him.
The world can’t tell us twins apart,
but Neel always knows who’s who.
Maya peels the rest of the orange
in a single ragged piece.
Neel claps his hands.
You won twice! What do you get?
I know what I want—
for Maya not to worry, not to focus
on perfection,
to lose the shadows behind her eyes.
Maya’s smile crinkles her nose again.
I want to share it all with you.
We eat the juicy fruit, licking sticky fingers
as a breeze stirs late August air
like a song.
Maya
Climbing
Dad jokes that Neel was born
under the sign of Lord Hanuman, the monkey god.
As a toddler, Neel climbed out of his crib to the top
of his bookcase. As a preschooler, he climbed the doorway of
his room, perched at the top like a mini-Spider-Man. He once
climbed so high in our maple tree that Mom nearly called the
fire department until Neel came down on his own, smiling
like he’d never stop. Now he understands
he needs to tell someone
where he’s going,
and he can only
climb as high
as the swing set,
or he’ll be
in trouble.
But sometimes
he forgets.
I shudder
to think
of him
forgetting,
climbing
too high
crashing
to
the
ground.
Chaya
The Art and Science of Dosas
Sunday mornings are for dosas.
Just like making music,
making dosas is both an art and a science
that Mom has perfected.
Mom’s expert hands are always moving, sure and strong,
like Maya’s on the piano.
She ladles dosa batter onto the cast-iron tawa
it hisses as she spreads it in a circle.
Bubbles burst on the surface of the pancake,
and when the bottom is golden brown
Mom puts it on a plate
and Maya spreads a spoon of coconut chutney—
creamy, chunky, just the right amount of spicy.
I scoop in potato and onion filling,
bright yellow from turmeric
soft, fluffy, sometimes crunchy from urad and chana dal
flecked with bright green kari leaves and cilantro.
Bet I can fold this without spilling, I say.
I spread the filling on half, fold the other half
over, watching Maya watch me.
I let a potato piece fall onto the plate
on purpose
because I want to show her
sometimes imperfect
is perfection.
Maya
Practice
I love Mom’s pancakes
bursting with blueberries,
golden with apples.
And dosas are my favorite:
savory pancakes, crispy, spicy, fluffy, crunchy
flavors in perfect balance.
But whatever kind of pancake,
no matter how seasoned the griddle or tawa,
the first one never turns out right.
It sticks to the pan,
pale and limp and torn,
too small, too doughy.
Mom scrapes it off and says,
The first one is for practice,
the next one will be perfect.
She throws away the scraps
of useless pancake
no one will ever eat.
On the outside,
I’m just like my sister.
But on the inside, I’m
pale, doughy, useless,
stuck.
I’m the first one.
The one for practice.
Chaya
Music and Noise
Mom makes twin dosas for us twins.
Eat these while they’re hot.
You should eat, too, Maya says.
We can make some for you.
Soon, Mom says.
But Mom doesn’t leave the stove
until the kids have had two each
and Dad’s had three.
Can we go to the park? Neel asks.
Mom just started eating, I say.
It’s all right, Chaya. Go have fun.
I need to go grocery shopping.
We’ll wait for you, Dad says. Then we’ll all go to the park.
He glances out the window. A good kite-flying day. Or Rollerblading!
Both at the same time! Neel squeals.
Yes! Let’s clean up, says Dad. Hurry!
Mom frowns as she takes another bite.
Maya and I clear the dishes as Neel bops
around the kitchen like
a tiny pinball.
Dad is a tornado,
grabbing silverware,
exclaiming at the hot pan handle,
dropping pots into the sink.
Mom flinches with every clatter,
every bang,
eyes closed,
jaw clenched.
There’s an art and science to almost everything.
And what’s music to Dad,
Mom finds a cacophony.
Maya
Major and Minor
Dad is a major chord
the funniest dentist
in the world—
boisterous,
joke-cracking, teasing.
When my patients laugh big,
they open their mouths wider, he says.
In the past, he used to go on adventures
with Keerthi Uncle,
but now he ropes us in instead.
Let’s climb a mountain,
he might say
on a random Saturday. Or
Why haven’t we been scuba diving yet?
Mom’s a bank manager
who tells tellers what to do,
calms her clients
with her organized ways.
She plans our dinner menus,
posts them on the fridge.
Irons all our clothes,
even socks and underwear,
holds weekly inspections
of our rooms.
She turns to Dad
like a flower toward the sun,
