Phoebe

I occasionally recall one day in my past – just a normal school day last February when I was still a sophomore and I still attended an institution in Alabama.

It was lunch time and I was eating with the small circle of friends that had flocked to me the first day I had arrived. There’s nothing too special about that, but then one of the kids pulled out his schoolwork and asked me a question for a survey or something.

"If you suddenly were given a Monkey’s Paw, what would be your three wishes?” asked Oswin.

“Huh? Monkey’s Paw?” I stammered; having been focusing on eating, I hadn’t really been paying attention to the conversations around me. Apparently, Oswin had gone down the table because there were already seven other names on the paper.

“Yeah,” responded Oswin a bit condescendingly, him having at last found something I didn’t seem to know about. “We’re reading a story in English class about a monkey’s paw. They’re supposed to be able to grant you three wishes.”

“Oh yeah! I remember reading some story about that one time. I thought having one brought bad luck though--?” My pause at the end was intended to be for Oswin to answer, but he hadn’t read the same story it seemed as I had in my childhood.

“So what would you wish?”

I thought for a moment, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I should want the usual: money, fame, a car, world peace. . . . But I didn’t care for those things. Sure, a car would be nice, but I could walk. More money would be great, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t need as much a one million. Fame? well I was perfectly content to be an unknown nerd. And world peace seemed so unattainable that I wouldn’t even bother wishing it.

“I would wish for -- to travel the world. My second wish? Well, I want . . . to learn more languages than just Spanish. And my third wish? . . .”

“Well, what do you want?” Oswin asked impatiently.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll just put something down then.”

It seemed so stupid, but I wanted nothing more than to answer. I didn't want to become another "million dollar" person; I wanted my own thoughts . . . my own opinions . . . my own wishes.

“No, wait.”

Oswin stopped scribbling and glanced at me, waiting for me to say something.

"Uh, I’m debating; hold on."

Three clicks of his pen sounded, and I knew I must answer. "I can't decide if I want to meet an author or have any book in the world I want. I suppose I'll go with the books because even if I wanted to meet an author, I'd still have to decidewhich one."

He wrote it down and was beginning to put away the paper to resume eating, but I stopped him. "Can I see that?"

Oswin gave me the paper without saying anything, and I proceeded to read what everybody else wrote.
Date Jessica Simpson.
Have a million dollars.
World peace.
All the wars in the world to end.
Racing car.
Cure cancer.

Would it be so bad for me to be the same? Couldn't I be similar without being exactly alike? Why must I be different?

That was the first day that I ever really thought about me being unusual. Sure, it registered to me that I was "smarter". I remembered things that no one ever bothered to. But it never occurred to me that others didn't care about learning; I just thought they couldn't be taught it.

The further I thought about what I referred to as "The Day of the Monkey Paw", the more and more I discovered additional differences:

I read books for fun.
I watched shows like House and CSI, but avoided "reality" shows like the Bubonic Plague.
I liked quotes.
I was obsessed with giving everything -- every inanimate object and living creature -- a name.
I knew most of the former United States' Presidents' campaign slogans and the like.
I didn't like parties.
I didn't like being in crowds.
I was weird.

Even knowing that I was strange, I couldn't help but be happy -- because I was exceptional. That was the thing that scared me.

Because I didn't want to advance my dissimilarities, because I didn't want to be so different, and because I wanted so very much to be ordinary, I agreed to go to the party. I didn't really want to go, but I was intent on my goal to be just a little bit like my sister.

Twila Ivy Whitaker was everything I Phoebe Ione Whitaker was not --

She was shifting; I was stable and never changing.
She was outgoing; I was shy.
She was normal, social, and extroverted; I was weird, taciturn, and introverted.
She was blonde; I was a brunette.
She was interesting; I was dull.
She was perfect; I was flawed.

-- but she was the only person I didn't want to be different from.

We were twins, but we were nothing alike. Polar opposites in every way.