Opposite identicals, p.1
Opposite Identicals, page 1
Opposite Identicals
Copyright © 2023 Deborah Kerbel
Yellow Dog (an imprint of Great Plains Press)
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Winnipeg, MB R3L 1L8
www.greatplains.mb.ca
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Great Plains gratefully acknowledges the financial support provided for its publishing program by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund; the Canada Council for the Arts; the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher Marketing Assistance Program; and the Manitoba Arts Council.
Design & Typography by Relish New Brand Experience
Printed in Canada by Friesens
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Opposite identicals / Deborah Kerbel.
Names: Kerbel, Deborah, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230472966 | Canadiana (ebook) 20230472974 |
ISBN 9781773371115 (softcover) | ISBN 9781773371122 (EPUB)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS8621.E75 O67 2023 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
Opposite Identicals
Deborah Kerbel
For Dad, with love
Chapter 1 . Joule
Why did I even come? I hate this lake. I should’ve stayed home. But Nova begged like she always does and I hate saying no ‘cause then she huffs and puffs all day and it’s not like I can ignore it because we share a bedroom.
So, I said maybe.
And then our parents did that thing where they tell me I can do what I want because I’m fourteen now and “old enough now to make my own decisions”. But then five minutes later they were all come with us and don’t be a Negative Nancy and quality family time blah blah blah.
So here I am.
With a sigh, I shift my weight on the hard, metal seat, desperate for a comfortable position—if such a thing exists in an oldtimes rowboat. Water sloshes all around us as the boat dips to the left.
“Careful, Joule,” Dad says, scooting to balance us out. “Don’t want to tip and scare the fish off.”
“It’s not like they’re biting anyway,” I mumble, stretching my legs out in front of me. Why did I think today was going to be any different than all the other times my family’s dragged me out to Pickle Lake? I hate sitting still. I hate floating in the middle of nowhere. I hate sharing space with live bait. I hate fish. If the lake wasn’t full of them, I’d jump in and swim to freedom.
It’s 2041, why can’t my family waitlist for fish at the hypermarket like everyone else?
Dropping my chin into my hands, I scan the shoreline for Mom. She’s ‘nausea prone’, which is a polite way of saying she gets pukey every time she’s on the water. I volunteered to stay back on shore with her this time, but she said: “Great. I could really use some help collecting soil samples”. So naturally, I jumped in the boat with Dad and Nova.
Soil samples?
I object.
Just the thought has me itching for a tub of sanitizer.
“Isn’t it a gorgeous day? Isn’t this view just resplendent?” Dad asks no one in particular. He points to the reflection of the treeline in the water, then closes his eyes and sucks back a deep breath—like he’s trying to inhale the scenery. “I really needed this break from the lab.” He tips his hokey captain’s hat back to catch a few seconds of sun. A goofy smile floats over his face and he hums an old Drake song.
Ugh.
I love my parents, but they’re the two biggest geeks you ever met. They’re both biochemists and part of a team studying the effects of SuperCrops on the environment. The minute their research grant came through last winter, they were packing up our house in the city and moving us out to the middle of cornland. Apparently, this place is home to one of the first SuperCrop farms in the country. They plan to keep us prisoner here for a year while they collect data for their study. But don’t you worry about me. I’m already sketching out my escape plan. So far, it involves Grandma, a rope, a pair of disposable ZedAs, and the charging station on Highway 8. Funds are a bit of an issue. I’m still working on that.
The bucket of live bait behind my sister’s seat snags my attention. Did it just move? I shrink back in horror. “Can someone get those worms away from me?”
Dad’s eyes flip open. He follows my gaze to the bucket. “Correction, those are crickets. Extra-large ones, at that. We couldn’t find any worms. The latest drought must have sent them deeper underground. Of course, you know worms require moisture on their skin in order to breathe…”
“Whatever. Can you move ‘em?”
The absolute last thing on earth I want to talk about is bugs. That’s Nova’s thing. Not mine.
Dad chuckles as he gestures around the tiny boat. “Sure. Where would you like me to put them, Goose? In my hat?”
I roll my eyes so hard, it hurts. “I don’t know. Can’t we just go back now?” I ask, using my squeakiest whine—the one I know grates on Dad’s nerves the most. “We’ve been here for over an hour. I’m dying. Those bugs are creeping me out. And all this quality time is killing me. Literally.”
His smile disintegrates into a frown. It literally drives him bananas when I misuse that word. Yeah, I’m a brat. Sorry, not sorry.
Nova glances over her shoulder. All big-eyed and shock-faced. “No. Not yet,” she says, adjusting her earmuffs. “Not until I catch something. I don’t want to break my streak.”
I sigh and curl my toes through the loops of green netting at my feet. Nova loves fishing. Of course. She loves boring places like this lake. And the cornfield behind our house. She loves being around nature and living in the country. She loves fish. And they obviously love her because she’s managed to catch one every time we’ve come out here. She even loves waking up early and searching the yard for creepy-crawlies to use for bait. I don’t get my sister sometimes.
Okay, most times.
Nova has phobias like other kids have friends. She’s scared of pretty much everything but her own shadow. From crowds to heights to darkness and on and on. I wish somebody would explain how a fraidy-cat like Nova can be so comfortable around dirty, slimy things? She wants to be an environmental scientist when she grows up—just like our parents. She’s a perfect mini version of them.
I, on the other hand, am like a cloning experiment gone wrong.
Last night when we were getting ready for bed, I told her I want to send our photo in to Guinness Galaxy Records. I think we’re a lock for winning the title of Earth’s Most Opposite Identical Twins. I’ve always wanted to be famous and that seems like the easiest way to do it. But Nova said the idea of twenty billion strangers looking at our photo gives her the heebie-jeebies.
“What if some stranger in a dark basement scrolls through the site and sees our picture?”
All I could do was shrug. “That’s just the price of fame, Honey-bun.”
“Well, what if they’re only wearing underwear? Or…or sitting on the toilet?” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Or picking their nose?”
“Yeah…so?”
“Don’t you think that would be mortifying?”
“It’s not like we could actually see each other.”
She shook her head. “Still. Way too creepy.”
Creepy? From a girl whose idea of fun is collecting dead bugs for science experiments and examining vermin under a microscope? Fine. Whatever. When I’m famous, I don’t want to share the spotlight with her anyway.
She tucked a stray chunk of hair back into her ponytail. “Besides, it would aggravate my scopophobia.”
“Your whatnow?”
“Scopophobia. You know—the fear of being watched. I’ve had symptoms ever since that time you hid a pin-cam in our room and sold subscriptions on Streamza.”
Okay, so that actually happened. But don’t judge. A couple months back, I figured it would be the fastest way to raise funds for my escape plan. I was going to call our show “True Story of Chic and the Geek.” But Mom and Dad shut the whole thing down before it ever started. And thanks to my tattletale twin, I lost my Hollagram account for a whole month.
I flopped back on my bed.
“Yeah, don’t forget about your cherophobia, Nova-cain,” I said, tossing a sock at her head. “Wouldn’t want to aggravate that either.”
“My what?” she said, batting the sock away.
“Cherophobia. You know…the fear of fun?”
“Look who’s been reading the dictionary!”
She was so impressed by my big word, she didn’t even register my shot at her personality. Typical Nova. She picked up the sock and carried it over to the dresser.
“Anyway, even if Mom and Dad did give us permission, the Guinness judges wouldn’t choose us. We look too much alike to be opposite identicals.”
Okay, two points for Nova there. Looks-wise, she and I are practically carbon copies of each other. Until I dyed my hair blue two summers ago, even our parents had a hard time te lling us apart. Maybe I should start wearing a name tag…
Something warm and gooey splatters on my arm, bringing my thoughts rushing back to the rowboat. Startled, I twist my head and bend my neck back. Whatever it is, it looks white and drippy and—oh, no!
I plunge my arm into the lake. The boat dips to the side.
“Whoa, there,” Dad shouts. “Whatcha doing, Joule?”
“A bird pooped on me!” I yell, splashing handfuls of cold water over myself.
“Wait—what kind of bird?” he yells back. “If it was a crow, we should collect a sample.”
I pretend I didn’t just hear that and keep splashing.
“Careful!” Nova shrieks. I can feel her shifting her weight, trying to steady us. Or get away from my frantic splashing. Maybe both.
From the front of the boat, I can hear Dad laughing. Actually laughing. Like it’s funny that a random bird just used his daughter as a toilet.
“Don’t worry, Goose,” he says. “Bird splatter is generally thought to be a sign of good luck.”
I swivel around and stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious.
“How exactly is that supposed to be good luck?” I ask, rubbing my arm so hard my skin squeaks. My shirt’s wet from all the splashing and I smell disgusting—like muddy fish water. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse.
“Well, the bird chose you out of ten billion people, didn’t it?”
I’m about to explain how ridiculous that sounds when three quick pulses buzz against the inside of my wrist. With a groan, I wipe the droplets off my ZedA just in time to see a new NurseIT alert scrolling across the screen.
Hey, Joule! What’s wrong? Our sensors indicate rising anxiety levels.
I flop back onto the rusty seat. No kidding.
A regimen of slow, deep inhalations is recommended. You’re welcome.
Dropping my arm, I reluctantly pull in a few long breaths. ‘Cause if I don’t follow the instructions, the stupid app is going to nag me for the rest of the afternoon. Like every other overprotective caregiver on the planet, Mom and Dad insisted on installing the latest NurseIT app on our ZedAs. It monitors Nova and me regularly for health issues by testing microscopic samples of our sweat every ten minutes. It picks up everything—like if we’re hungry, or tired, or feverish. Or just in a grumpy mood. Somehow, it even knows when we’re constipated. It’s horrible. I’ve tried a bazillion times to disable it, but Mom and Dad locked the app so we can’t shut it off. Lately they’ve been working such long hours on this new research project, NurseIT has become a pseudo babysitter. When Mom and Dad are too busy crunching data or analyzing soil samples, the app reminds us to eat, sleep, put on a coat, even take our multivitamin. Then at the end of every day, it emails them an annoyingly detailed report. I can’t stay up ten minutes past my bedtime without it tattling on me.
Suddenly, Nova lets out a short scream and starts reeling in her line.
“I got something!” she squeals, bracing her feet against the side of the boat. Forgetting about the poop for a second, I turn to watch. It must be a big fish because the tip of her pole is almost touching the surface of the water. “Grab the net!” she squeals.
I do as I’m told. If she catches this fish, maybe we can all go home.
Dad drops his pole and scoots forward to help her. “Keep your tip up. Let him take the line. Don’t force it.”
Nova’s face has gone bright red as she struggles with her pole. I’ve never seen her have such a hard time landing a fish before. Gripping the handle of the net, I wait and watch for the familiar flash of scales and fins beneath the surface. But my gaze lands on a strange swirl of water near the spot where Nova’s fish should be. It’s small, but kind of hypnotic.
“Hey, Dad—look at that,” I say, glancing over to check if he sees it. But he’s too busy directing Nova’s battle with the fish to notice anything else. I turn back to watch the swirl again. Bit by bit, it gets bigger and more fully formed. Now there’s a small spot in the centre—like over a bathtub drain after you pull the plug. It’s dark and perfectly circular, like a tiny tunnel to another world.
Is that what you call a black hole?
I lean forward on my seat to see if I can get a glimpse inside the tunnel.
But a second later, Nova interrupts my thoughts with a shriek. I look up just in time to see her fishing pole flying out of her hands. For a moment, everything freezes. I’ll never forget the image of her pole gliding over the silvery water. Then—bloop!—it’s swallowed up into the black heart of the swirl.
Chapter 2 . Nova
I have no clue what happened out there. Dad said maybe I lost my grip on the pole. “You were sweating, your palms got slippery. It happens. No biggie.”
I reject that theory. Breaking my fishing streak feels like a biggie. And I wasn’t sweating that much. At least, not on my palms.
Mom suggested that only a monstrously large fish could have been strong enough to yank the pole out of my grip. “A bottom dweller. We wouldn’t have wanted to eat it anyway.” But I’m not convinced about that. Scientifically speaking, the lake likely isn’t big enough to sustain fish larger than ten to twelve pounds. Up until this morning, I’d have even said that was an irrefutable fact.
But then…
Something highly unusual happened while I was reeling in my line today. A quick flash of something unexpected in the water. I can’t be sure, but it resembled a massive dorsal fin—the size of fin you’d find on an extra-large fish. Which is definitely not what we’re used to catching in Pickle Lake. Whatever the thing was, it only broke the surface for a nano-second before slipping back down under. Now I can’t help wondering if maybe it was my imagination. Or a trick of sunlight reflecting off the water. But then…how did I lose my fishing pole?
Joule’s explanation was the most fantastical of them all. On the way home, she told us she saw a black hole open up in the middle of the lake and suck my pole down into it.
“It’s true. Swear on my life.”
Hmm.
I’m not even sure she knows what a black hole is.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate my sister’s effort to make me feel better. But illogical arguments and wild speculation never helped anybody. Black holes occur in outer space. Not Pickle Lake. That’s a fact.
The cornstalks shiver in the warm evening breeze. Making a pillow out of my hands, I lie back and stare up at the darkening sky. This cornfield is the perfect place to go when you want to be alone but don’t want to feel lonely. Our neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Otis, own the land between our house and Pickle Lake, including this cornfield. When we first moved out here three months ago, they were suspicious of our family. The first time I met Mrs. Otis, she hid behind her screen door and stared at me like I was a zombie who had come to snack on her brains.
I just wanted to borrow a wrench. A fact I’d already explained to the AgroTech security guard who’d blocked my way coming through the field. Hard to believe these towering cornstalks were all just tiny seedlings back then.
“Do you have one?” I asked, shuffling my sneakers on the dusty porch floor.
“Do I what? Speak up, now!”
I cleared my throat and tried again, as loud as I could without yelling. “Our faucet is dripping and we need a wrench. My mother thinks she left the toolbox at our old house.”
She studied me for a minute. “I probly shouldn’a be talking to you. Mr. Otis thinks your family’s come to spy on us.”
“My parents are scientists, not secret agents.” I held up my palms like I was surrendering to law enforcement.
Mrs. Otis whisked a pinky finger around the inside of her ear before reaching out for the screen door handle. “I dunno ‘bout this,” she said, pulling her hand back at the last second. “I’m sure you’re nice folks. But we had to sign papers, yanno? No talking to strangers ‘bout the crops.”
“It’s okay. We don’t need to talk, ma’am.” Fine with me. I don’t like chitchat.
Her gaze dropped to my mittens before skipping up to my earmuffs. I was wearing the old brown wool ones. My favourite pair.
“You got a chill?”
