An Unstill Life by Kate Larkindale Read Free Book Online

alike.
    I found myself sketching Jules on the side of my page, her face appearing next to an oversized orange. Her long dark hair twined around the fruit and mingled with the stems of the flowers protruding from a thick-bottomed vase. I moved on, sketching in her shoulders, her firm breasts, the pinch at her waist and the gentle swell of her hips. Her legs stretched downward, long and shapely, her calves muscular.
    To balance the composition, I started drawing another figure on the other side of the arrangement of flowers and fruit. This one was smaller and straighter, had fine, light-colored hair that hung to her shoulders. Me. I finished the sketch and studied it, comparing myself, as I so often did, with Jules. She had curves where I didn’t. She was tall; I was short. Her hair was thick and dark; mine was fine and pale, almost colorless.
    And those were just the physical differences. Jules and I couldn’t have been more different if we tried. Everything came effortlessly to Jules—school, friendships, boys, sports—whereas I had to work for everything. The only thing I had ever slid easily into was art. It was the one thing that soothed me, where my synesthesia was not a distraction. Yet here I was—distracted.
    I tore the page from my sketchbook, crumpled it, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket by the door. Gripping my pencil, I focused my attention on the still life and drew.

    My mind still occupied with Jules, I decided to go to the hospital after school. Hannah had ballet and Mel had track. I wondered why I had never found any kind of extra-curricular activity I wanted to take part in. As I wandered toward the bus stop, I thought about the various things I’d tried out over the years—dance, soccer, swimming, gymnastics—and how much I’d disliked all of them. Jules loved them all. Maybe that’s why I’d ducked out at the first possible moment. I couldn’t compete. Or maybe I never wanted to. Jules was born to shine. I was quite satisfied following in her wake, never making any ripples of my own.
    She was alone when I walked into the hospital room. She stood in front of the tiny mirror on the wall, braiding her hair.
    “Hey, where’s Mom?” I glanced around, certain she’d be there.
    Jules turned, dropping the half-formed braid that unraveled and sent dark curls tumbling over her shoulder. “Hi, Livvie.” She smiled. “Mom went home. She was kind of tired. I’m glad you’re here. I could use your help.”
    Alarm bells jangled in the back of my skull. Something about Jules’s smile, the way her eyes burned with uncontained energy, made my stomach clench. She had a plan.
    “What?” I asked, trying to keep the note of suspicion out of my voice. I could see it though, the words lavender as they fell from my lips. “What do you need?”
    Jules crossed the room and plopped herself down on the bed. It was littered with magazines, and she shoved a few aside, patting the mattress to encourage me to sit next to her.
    I stood where I was, studying her. She wore an old pair of pajamas that hung off her slender frame. Her skin was pale and appeared dry and papery. Blue veins traced across her jaw, trailing down her throat to disappear into the open neck of the faded pajama top. Her hair, usually glossy and sleek, hung limply to her waist. She kept running her hands through it, lifting it from her neck, piling it on top of her head, then letting it drop.
    “It’s not catching, you know.” She thumped the empty space next to her again. “Come and sit down, Livvie.”
    I shuffled across and sat down. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
    “Can you cut my hair?” She lifted it again, dragging the heavy mass over her shoulder so it hung down over her breasts.
    “Cut it?” I knew I sounded stupid, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning of the words. Jules couldn’t cut her hair. Jules was her hair.
    “They’re going to make me do chemo again.” Fear painted the words purple, and they lay