Other Half of Me

ONE I am not alone. Of course I'm aware that those are words people tell themselves at precisely the moments in which they feel completely alone. But I'm trying to shrug that off as I stare at the blank wall in front of me and try to picture what should go there. Fine, so it's not an entire wall--it's a canvas on a wall in an art studio--and I have precisely twelve minutes to paint something before Sidney Sleethly, the director of Downtown Studios, kicks me out for the day so other, "real" artists (read: ones who sell things and therefore make him money) can take over my tiny space. He likes to be called Sid because he worships punk rock icon Sid Vicious, but this man is a far cry from that kind of crazy-cool. In fact, the only reason I tolerate being tolerated by Sleethly is because his studio, with its cavernous rooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and various walls on which to display art, is the only place I truly feel at home. Even if within that feeling of homeyness (a word I can't stand since it reminds me of needlepointed pillows and stale sugar cookies that look good but taste like crap) is a morsel of loneliness. All in all, though, I'm not a lonely person, at least not in that crying, snot-on-the-sleeve, I-just-watched-some-parent-child-reunion-on-daytime-TV way. I'm just alone, as in unaccompanied for another ten minutes before I slog through the belt of late-summer rain to pick up my sisters from camp. After that I'll go back to my house, where it's impossible to be alone, and not only because of my sibling overload (twin sisters and a brother). The idea of personal space (not to mention personal freedom) isn't high on my parents' list of goals (and yes, there's an actual list on the fridge). Number three on the list--"Try until you get it right"--was added by my mom and dad after one of our theme dinners (this one was fajitas and virgin margaritas on the lawn, complete with a piata my mother made in a fit of craftiness). Everyone (everyone includes me; my brother, Russ; my sisters, Sierra and Sage, aka the whiny twins; and my ultracheerful and khaki-loving parents) had to wear floppy sombreros and listen to lame mariachi music. The evening wouldn't have been so bad (in fact, the food my dad cooked was pretty tasty) if only I hadn't had to deal with batting at the piata. Unlike the rest of the Fitzgerald clan, I am not, as they say, athletically inclined. Or as my gym teacher commented to my mother, "Jenny's lack of skill is only outdone by her lack of enthusiasm in class." Basically, if there's a field, a ball, and an implement with which to hit that ball, I suck. Russ (short for Russet--he's two years younger, but way ahead of me in the high school social sphere with his cool jocky friends and sporting talent) hit the fish-shaped piata blindfolded and backward. Sierra and Sage, their long straight hair swinging in graceful ponytails, whacked the thing until it nearly burst. My parents hit it no problem, and just when you could see the candy poking out from inside, it was my turn. I knew everyone had tried to prep the piata for me, making it so easy I couldn't fail. And yet I did. No matter how long I stood there, I couldn't make the bat connect with the papier-m0che fish. I couldn't make the candy spill out. I couldn't be what everyone wanted me to be: another sporty, varsity-playing Fitzgerald. With all due respect, I am the I in team. After the piata incident, I wasn't that surprised to see the addition of "Try until you get it right" on the list of family goals taped to the fridge. I'm centered enough not to fall apart over seeing that on the list, even though it was added right after I stormed out of the family fun with the piata still relatively intact. I watched from my bedroom as Sierra spun Sage around until she could hardly stay upright and yet managed to aim the bat perfectly at the mFranklin, Emily is the author of 'Other Half of Me ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780385734455 and ISBN 038573445X.