Jane and Catherine Gracey were-and had always been- weirdos. That was what other children had called them, anyway. In the lexicon of insults that were hurled at them on a daily basis by their peers, that was the term that appeared the most. In fact, most people, whether it be at school or in their neighborhood thought of them as weirdos. Ever since they were toddlers, the Gracey twins were never interested in appearing like other little girls. Instead of playing with Barbie dolls or My Little Ponies, for instance, they would always be found playing with monster figures or toy dragons. While most children drew sun flowers and rainbows upon picking up a crayon, Jane and Catie would draw graveyards and skeletons.
Mr. and Mrs. Gracey were not too keen on their girls apparent interest in the darker side of things, but they were not particularly interested in "fixing" them, either. They simply ignored them whenever the subject came up.
"Mommy! Mommy!" The little Jane had said, running to her one day, "I can read a poem!" She held up a copy of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe with as much pride as a child who had just learned to read The Cat In The Hat.
"That's nice, dear," Mrs. Gracey would say, waving a hand at her, as if she would disappear with the flick of a wrist, her eyes transfixed by the glow of the TV in front of her.
"Daddy!" The young Catie once came stepping into the garage as her father stood under the hood of his car. "Jane and I played Burn The Witch today and I got to be the witch!"
"Wrench?" Her dad's voice echoed as if he was in a well. "Could you hand me that wrench there, sweetheart?"
She went over to his tool box, picked up the wrench, then gave it to him. "Did you hear what I said?" She asked, making sure he had, she was so excited to tell him about her recent adventure.
"Uh-huh," he looked at the instrument. "I meant the right one."
"That is the right one, Daddy."
"No, this one doesn't fix the engine," he said confidently.
"Yes it does," she said patiently.
He paused for a moment, then sighed, determined to show his daughter that he was correct. He placed the wrench on the engine and a metal slot could be heard entering the machine.
There was another, longer pause. "Oh," he finally said, "I guess you were right."
Mr. and Mrs. Gracey were not the kind of parents that you would find in fairy tales or other stories, evil or wicked, they were perfectly fine people. But that was their problem, they were neither horrible or brilliant. They were the types of parents who simply felt that children were simple. Once they were in college, that was the time to treat their children like complex people filled with curiosity and interest in the world. But the two girls were thirteen, and for now, Mr. and Mrs. Gracey were fine with being fine.
Jane and Catherine were not just sisters, but identical twins. Only a few close family members and their parents could tell them apart. Jane for instance had green eyes, whereas Catherine had brown. Jane had a mole on her right arm, her sister did not. But save for those and a few other details, you would think that they were mirror images of one another. Both of them had black hair, both of them were exactly the same height, and both of them wore the same clothing. Unlike most kids at school, the Gracey sisters wore their love of dark things on their sleeves quite literally. Black shirts, dresses, and shoes, with the occasional white stripes and spots of red to keep their wardrobe varied. Sometimes they would even communicate without speaking. Just a look from one sister would receive a nod or a laugh from the other. Their fellow students would call them creepy or psychic because of their uncanny ability to talk to one another without saying a word, but they tried to ignore them as best as they could.
And so, they now sat on an old, rusty bench, alone. Catherine was carving something into the wood of the bench with a nail file while Jane sat reading a book, two activities that you would often find them partaking in.
"I'm making something," Catie spoke as if her sister had asked.
"I figured," Jane said, keeping her eyes on her book.
"Don't you want to see?"
"In a minute" Jane said, annoyed.
"Haven't you read that thing fifteen times?" Catie laughed.
"Fourteen," Jane shot back.
"What is it, anyway?"
Jane sighed, "It's a biography on Mary Shelley," that was her favorite author as Frankenstein was her favorite book. Most children her age hadn't read either of them, a fact that she was secretly proud of.
"Just look at it," Catie said impatiently.
"Fine," Jane placed her book mark in the middle of a page and shut it. She leaned over her sister. The wood was now decorated with the small face of a cat.
"It's a cat," Catie said after a pause.
"I can see it's cat," Jane huffed, but smiled anyways. They were both fond of animals in general, but cats were their favorite.
"Not just any cat," Catie grinned as if she was about to reveal a secret and pointed.
Across the road, sitting on the sidewalk was a feline. Its fur was as black as the sisters' hair and its ears were pointed straight up. Its eyes, however, were a deep green. Greener than they had ever seen from any other cat.
"So?" Jane shrugged.
"So?" Catie said in mock-outrage. "So? It's been staring at us since we sat down!"
Jane looked at the cat again and realized that it had indeed been looking at them once they had gotten there. "Cats do that."
"They look at things," Catie said, "but this one is different."
The Gracey twins stared at the cat again and the longer they looked at it, the more Jane knew what Catie had been talking about. The cat wasn't just looking at them, but gazing, as if concentrating on their every movement. It was looking at them the way you might look at someone on the street with a funny hat or someone who was playing an instrument on the corner.. Catie slowly lifted a hand and waved to it.
"What are you doing?" Jane asked.
"I'm saying hi," Catie said, not minding her tone. "It looks like it wants to say hi. You should too."
"This is stupid," Jane opened up her book again.
"And you're being rude," Catie said, continuing to wave.
Jane thought for a moment and looked back up at the cat. She supposed that, if she were a cat and she was looking at two girls across the street so intently, she would want to get their attention. And, furthermore, if one of the girls did not wave at her, she would consider that to be rude. Possibly even mean-spirited.
She closed her book once again and slowly raised her hand to the cat and waved. She thought she'd add a smile, to make sure that the cat knew that she was friendly, instead of just waving out of politeness.
"Good job," Catie said.
The cat twitched, as if noticing for the first time that the twins were looking at it. It glanced around, seemingly confused, then began to lick its paw. It did so for several moments, then directed an eye back to the girls. Seeing that they were still staring at it, the cat ran away so fast and so suddenly, it made the twins jump. Its black fur darted into the bushes and never came back.
The girls looked at each other for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.
"That was-" Catie began.
"Weird," Jane finished.
Before they could speak of it any further, the school bus finally arrived.
***
Luckily, for Jane, her favorite class was the first of the day: English. While most of her peers would be hunched over their desks, eyes glazed over, trying with every fiber of their being to keep themselves from falling asleep, Jane would sit with wrapt attention, hanging on to every syllable that came out of her teacher's mouth. This morning was not only lucky due to the subject of the class, but the lesson being taught today was on female writers, specifically Mary Shelley.
"Now class," Mr. O' Brien said. "Does anyone know what was Mary Shelley's full name?"
Jane's arm shot up like a rocket from the back of the room. She was never the type to do this in any of her other classes, but she made an exception for English.
"Yes, Jane?" He sighed, going through the daily routine.
"Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley," she recited.
"Very good," he said. "Does anyone know what famous poet she was married to?"
Jane's hand immediately went up yet again.
"Anyone but Jane?" He asked, scanning the desks.
Jane's arm extended even further, as if he couldn't see her.
"Yes, Jane?" Mr. O'Brien finally gave in.
"Percy Bysshe Shelley," she beamed.
"Well done," he quickly moved on to his next question for the class. "Can anyone tell me what Mary was-"
"I also know what happened after he died," Jane cut him off.
This caught the attention of her classmates. Those who were on the verge of sleeping were suddenly wide awake. They all turned to face her.
"Um, I'm sorry?" The teacher asked.
"After he died," Jane continued, excitedly, "Mary wrapped up his heart in a copy of one of his poems and kept it in her desk!" She ended her fact with a smile. Most would consider her eagerness to share her knowledge of Mary Shelley as a sign of arrogance, that she stated those facts because she wanted the class to know that she knew them, but this was not the case. Jane Gracey was not a know-it-all by any means, she was someone who loved things with a fiery passion and she assumed that, since she loved that particular morbid aspect of Shelley's life, then others in her class might as well.
This was not true. Her fact was met with horrified silence. Some of her classmates looked at her as if she had just coughed up a hairball, others giggled at her, taking joy in such an embarrassing moment. One, a new boy, smiled, but she wasn't sure if it was out of interest or malice.
"Yes," Mr. O'Brien, a man who was easily made uncomfortable, tried to break the silence. "That's. . . interesting," he immediately ignored her and moved on.
Jane felt a deflating feeling go through her, as if she was a balloon that had just been pricked by a needle. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and the cold sensation of shame washed over her. She sunk in her seat, mortified that she had even considered anyone else would be interested in what she had to say.
Her eyes slowly drifted across the room, no longer paying attention to what her teacher was saying, then she caught something at the corner of her eye. Just outside the window was the same black cat that she and Catie had seen just that morning. It was staring at her with those same remarkable green eyes and, like earlier that day, it ran off as soon as it realized she was looking at it.
***
Catherine's favorite class was unfortunately, much later than her sister's favorite. It was two whole hours after lunch and one hour before the day was done. She had always been a crafter and explorer, one to travel and create new things, so naturally her passion was in science class. Today was one that she had been looking forward to for weeks now: Project Day. Each of the students chose an invention from history to re-create. Jane had helped Catie with the research, the actual construction of it was all her doing. Before leaving the house that morning, she had placed it under a black cloth and ever so gently set it in her backpack. She had even moved her books and other things to the pockets so as not to crush it. Some splinters, sticky glued fingers, and even a little bleeding was involved, but it was well worth it.
Most days in which students would have presented something to the class, Catie was always eager to go first. She felt that it was better to just get it over with and relax for the remainder of the lesson than it was to wait and compare yourself to other's work. But today was different. Given the nature of the project, she wanted to go last. What she had under that black curtain would surely surprise every one in the room.
The students presented each of their projects one by one. A model of the Wright brothers first airplane was shown made out of popsicle sticks, the first telephone was another made from Styrofoam, there was even a very impressive train that one boy had made with his dad. All the students presented their recreations with the same flat tone as they read off Wikipedia facts from cards that they had written on days before.
"Catie?" Mrs. Johnson asked. "Why don't you show us yours?"
She smiled and let out a sigh, preparing herself. She turned around and her sister gave her a thumbs up. She carefully lifted the project out of her pack and made her way to the front of the class. All of the students rolled their eyes and snickered at the theatricality of her project, but she didn't mind. Her pride in her work outweighed her sense of what anyone else thought of her.
"For my project," she began, reciting her speech from memory, "I wanted to make something that was old and new when it was first created. You don't see these anymore unless you go to museums or castles in Europe, but I think this invention is important to history. Ladies, gentlemen, and persons! Boils and ghouls! I give you. . . ." she took off the black drape with a theatrical flourish, "The guillotine!"
Her recreation was indeed, impressive. The guillotine was made out of small plywood that stood a few inches tall. The actual blade was made out of one of her dad's razors. A little man that she made out of tooth picks was trapped in the stocks. No one noticed the level of detail that went into the project of course, they only stared at it, not sure what to make of it.
"Wait, wait!" Catie placed up a hand in protest, as if they didn't quite get what she was going for. "It also does this!" She pulled a piece of twine on the side of the small execution device and the blade came slashing down onto the neck of the toothpick man. His head fell off and rolled into a tiny wicker basket. She looked up to see her classmate's, and her teacher's, amazed faces. But they did not stare from wonder, they were starring out of horror.
Jane erupted into applause. "Bravo!" She cheered, "Magnificent!"
But her attempts to make her sister feel better only made things worse. If you've ever been ridiculed by your classmates like Catie and Jane had, then you will understand that perhaps the worse thing that a person who was ridiculing you could do, was not say a word. The saying that sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you, is a lie. Words can and will hurt you. But silence can leave scars.
***
Later that night, after dinner and homework, the Gracey twins went to bed, sad that they would have to wake for another day at school the next morning.
"What's wrong?" Catie asked as she got under the covers.
"I didn't say anything," Jane said, which was true.
"You don't have to," Catie responded. "I know that look. You're wearing your I Feel Bad, But I Don't Want Catie To Know face."
Jane sighed, disappointed that she had been caught. "I just. . . I just had a bad day, is all."
"We had a bad day. We always have bad days. Why was this one worse?"
"I don't know" Jane chuckled. " I hate that no one understands us. I hate that people are mean to us. I hate when they look at us, like we're some sort of. . . "
"Freaks?" Catie asked.
"Yeah. Why aren't there any kids at school like us?"
"I don't know. Maybe they'll be other kids like us next year," Catie always felt like she had to reassure Jane, since she was the oldest of the two. Even if it was only by a minute.
"Doubt it," Jane grumbled. There was silence between them, each wanting to have the other's back, but not knowing what to say. Maybe being quiet was the best thing to do at the time.
The silence was broken by a scratching sound. They both looked at each other, then around. The scratching sound continued until they both stared at the window. Sitting on the sill, behind the glass was the black cat they saw that morning.
"Oh my god," Jane said.
"Is that the- ?" Catie began to ask in amazement.
"Yeah."
"Well, don't just sit there, let it in!"
"What?" Jane spun around to face her. "Are you crazy?"
"It's a cat! We love cats!"
"It's a stray! It might have fleas or something! Besides, I saw it at school, watching us," she spoke as if that piece of information would present her case as entirely impenetrable.
"Perfect reason to let it in then," Catie said with checkmate confidence.
Jane sat, trying to think of an argument, she couldn't and groaned. "Fine!" She threw her hands up in the air. The cat sat patiently at the window as she walked over and opened it. The feline shot in the moment the window was wide enough, and Jane moved out of its way as quickly as she could.
"But it's sleeping with you! She closed the window as far as she could, but it remained stuck an inch above the sill.
"That's fine," Catie patted on the bed and the cat leapt up onto it. "I'll tell Mom and Dad that it was my idea too."
"You better," Jane flopped onto her bed. "Good night," she clicked off the nightstand skull lamp they shared.
"Good night," Catie said with a smile.
The cat clawed on the bed for a few minutes and then finally curled up next to the eldest Gracey girl. The twins drifted off to sleep soon after, but the cat stayed wide awake, keeping an eye on the small crack that Jane had made when she shut the window.