The Twins & Me

Arlo

"It's gonna be a hot day," Lila says from the hallway.

"Got it covered," I answer, finishing filling in my brows. I step back from the bathroom mirror to gauge how even they are—

Better luck next time, I guess.

Back in my room I slip on a loose, T-shirt style dress with fishnet tights and saddle shoes—my comfort outfit. I wriggle a little in front of the mirror Lila snagged for me from Goodwill, letting my bracelets settle on my wrist and bringing the gold chain out from where it got trapped under my dress. A little charm dangles at the end—a gold star from Dad for my eighteenth birthday.

"You're going to be great," I say to myself, quoting Mom on every one of my first days of school. With one last, deep breath, I grab my backpack, unplug my phone from the charger, and go out to the living room to meet my sister.

"A bike would probably be your best bet," Lila says as we pull up to a red light.

I nod, checking my classes for the day for the thousandth time. I have the building and room numbers memorized, but last night had a nightmare I forgot how to read so now I'm panicking.

"I used to ride straight from my dorm and locked my bike up at the Library. It's basically the center of campus," she babbles on, trying to distract me.

I nod again.

"We'll get you one this weekend, how's that sound?"

"It's not like I have anything else to do," I mumble, checking the street names as we drive by them.

"Relax, Wren. The campus isn't massive. You'll be fine."

The tall buildings taking up entire blocks speak differently. Students walk the sidewalks, backpacks slung over their shoulders and in pairs or groups. The streets narrow the closer we get to the heart of the campus, as less and less cars navigate this way.

"Here," she says, pulling off to the side of the road near a large building with a glass façade. Block letters fixed above its doors read, "Crandle Street Library."

Out front are benches and a courtyard area where people mingle. There's a long row of bikes chained to bike posts and students handing out fliers.

"They usually have Club Rush the first week of school. Maybe you should consider joining something? I worked for the student newspaper. It's how I got into advertising."

My mouth is very dry.

"Hey," Lila says, laying a hand on my arm.

I turn.

She gives me a confident smile. "You got this. You're my sister, after all."

I stop myself just in time from rolling my eyes, but it does the trick. It gets me out of the car.

"If you fuck up the bus thing just call me and I'll come rescue you," she says before I close the passenger door of her silver Lexus.

"I've ridden the bus before," I say, though not too confidently.

She winks at me before pulling away from the curb. I watch until she turns the corner, out of sight.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Mom: You're going to be great.

That gets me moving to my first class—Art History.

It's in the large building adjacent to the library, a spacious lecture hall on the first floor. The seats fan out in rows and slope downward, where a petite woman stands behind a computer. A large screen descends from the ceiling behind her and she dims the lights.

It calms me a bit when I notice there are a bunch of people sitting alone, having no friends in the class like me.

You're in your element, Wren, I tell myself. School. Yes. You're good at school.

"First ten rows, please," our professor calls out in a small voice. "I'm not much of a projector and I want to make sure everyone can hear me."

This earns a few laughs and I make my way down to the fourth or fifth row, finding a seat near the end. I follow suit of the people around me and pull out my laptop. I open the syllabus (which I downloaded as soon as my class schedule was confirmed).

With only a minute to go until 10 am and the professor beginning to introduce herself, there's movement to my right as someone claims the seat next to me.

In the dim I can make out his form, lean and strong with thick, dark hair falling into his eyes. A dangling earring flashes in the scarce light as he slings his bag onto the ground in front of him. His leg bumps into mine as he gets settled.

"Sorry," he mumbles in a hushed voice.

"It's okay," I whisper back, and he looks up at me.

His eyes are soft and brown, lips full and stubble spreading across his cheeks. He pushes his curly mass of hair from his forehead and smiles.

Drop dead gorgeous, handsome. I feel my face heat up when he doesn't break eye contact and I look away.

Oh, boy.

I squint at the professor, willing myself to pay attention to her words: "For the first four weeks of the semester we're going to be focusing on the 13th Century..."

His gaze is still on me, I can feel it, and before I can help myself I glance at him.

Light from the screen reflects in his dark eyes as they roam over my face, then down my body. He gives a cheeky smirk before making a point to look at the teacher.

Is he flirting? Is that what's happening? Because my experience with flirting is next to zero and I would have no idea how to respond if he were. Noah had done enough flirting for the both of us. For some reason, I can't picture his face anymore.

The professor flips through her slides, giving us an overview of the course and a little about herself. I actually find myself paying full attention to her when she speaks about her time in London, working for the British Museum.

It doesn't deter me for long, though, because I feel the boy shift.

"What's your name?" he whispers.

I glance at him; he's leaning on the armrest we share, phone in hand.

"Wren," I answer.

"Wren," he repeats slowly, savoring my name.

Goosebumps spread down my arms.

"I'm Arlo."

I instinctively stick out my hand. "Nice to meet you."

He gives me a wide grin and clasps my hand. It's warm. "You, too."

After a moment he releases me, but his gaze doesn't stray. "Freshman?"

I cock an eyebrow. "What gave me away?"

He nods toward my laptop. "You're mightily prepared, little Wren."

I suppress a shiver. "No, trust me, I'm always like this."

He grins. "That so?"

I nod, giving him a once-over. "And I can guess even as a Freshman you weren't this prepared."

He bites the inside of his cheek. "No, can't say I was."

We don't speak for the rest of the class, but I can feel his eyes on me periodically. I notice he bobs his leg up and down and his arm never moves off of the armrest.

As the professor raises the lights and dismisses us, Arlo says, "You doing anything right now?"