Chapter 1
“Wisdom, eat your breakfast,” Mama said as she handed Knowledge his plate. We eat the same thing every day, but Mama always seems to get our palettes mixed up. I’m the one who eats grits, bacon, and eggs with a single bagel slathered in cream cheese.
Knowledge is different. He eats sausages, cinnamon oatmeal, sliced strawberries, and grapes for breakfast. But neither of us has ever made an attempt to correct her. Every morning we just swap plates whenever she turns her back to answer a work call. She never seems to notice when we do, so what’s the point in telling her?
Knowledge and I always stare each other down during breakfast. It’s just a thing we do nowadays, after what happened. It never feels like there’s space for twin conversations anymore. But it doesn’t exactly bother us—we can speak to each other almost telepathically. A twin thing, if you will. We can always sense what the other is feeling just by looking into each other’s eyes, like we can see each other’s soul through the depths.
It’s pretty special, if you ask me.
Plus, I don’t necessarily talk much anyway. Never really had the passion for it. Back then, the only people I had conversations with were Knowledge and our parents. With other people, I wouldn’t give them the time of day—sorta like now. I don’t talk to Mama much, and Knowledge and I rely on our twin telepathy more often. I don’t ignore them on purpose. It’s just that my body doesn’t have the need to respond after what happened. Even though I sometimes get the urge to reply, it’s like my throat just locks up and doesn’t allow it.
Now I just communicate with body language. Minor facial expressions, head nods, “Mhm’s” and “Untunt’s.” People usually understand, and if they don’t, they just couldn’t. Knowledge and I live in Brooklyn, in a small neighborhood anyway, so everybody I know understands me. And that’s all that matters—besides my brother, of course.
Knowledge and I go to a private school on the outskirts of Brooklyn. We’ve been going there since sixth grade. Knowledge has more friends than me, but I don’t care. Friends are the least of my priorities. They’re nice to me, though. That’s something I can respect.
Knowledge’s closest friends are Teagan and Cleide. Cleide’s in our grade, a scrawny light-skinned boy—and a ginger. He’s pretty cool to me. Teagan is one grade above us, but he lives two houses down, so we see him more often. He’s as dark as us, pretty buff too, but the coolest thing about him is his hair. He has locs with seashell clips spread throughout the back, and in the front he usually ties in dandelions. Lots of kids in our neighborhood and school clown him for it, but me, Knowledge, and Cleide understand.
It’s cool.
Mrs. Delaware is our homeroom teacher. I don’t like her, though Knowledge thinks she’s alright. She’s always bugging me, trying to make me “come out of my shell.” But I don’t have a shell. I just don’t like talking to people—and I don’t like talking to her most of all. Whenever I step into class, she always says good morning extra loud to get my attention, and when I don’t reply, she says the same thing to make me feel guilty:
“Wisdom, I’ve said good morning. Don’t you think you should be respectful and respond?”
I hate her.
I love the class, though. English is my strong suit. People find it ironic that I love English so much, since they say I barely speak it myself. But I disagree. It makes plenty of sense. People don’t understand how articulate I am, but I can’t blame them. I do wish they’d stop treating me like I’m handicapped, though.
I was diagnosed with a developmental disorder when I was two. Ever since then, adults have coddled me. Sometimes it’s necessary, but lots of times I wish they’d just leave me be—especially at school. I always have teachers hovering over my shoulder “just in case.” I also have check-ins with the school’s counselor, Mrs. Massee. She’s pretty cool. She isn’t overbearing like the others, and she never forces me to talk. I applaud her for that.
My second favorite class is fourth period. Not because it’s social studies—it’s easy, but nothing special. It’s because of that girl in the very front. We share one other class together, and she always sits with Knowledge and me at lunch.
Chastine is her name, but everybody calls her Chazz.
In my head, I call her Sweet Chocolate. Her skin is a rich brown, a shade lighter than mine. She always wears two long braids down to her hips, and she always has a fresh pair of pink-and-white Reeboks on her feet. Did I mention the way her skin looks?
I believe she’s the girl of my dreams. I think we’re gonna get married. Eloped in Cambodia after graduation, then move to Jamaica. Knowledge thinks I’m going too far—he says it’s stupid to expect so much. But I disagree. I already know she likes me, or at least she’s interested.
Last week proved it. Everybody felt down, and I felt like a worm in the ground. Sixth to eighth graders only get the bus ramp for break instead of the playground. Knowledge and I usually sit together at the bridge near the bus entrance that leads into a forest. But that day Knowledge was too hurt to come to school. I almost stayed home with him, but I didn’t want to miss The Color Purple in class.
So I was moping at the bridge when Chazz came and sat next to me. She had two massive Hershey bars in her hand. We didn’t say anything—we didn’t have to. We just sat close and ate chocolate the whole break. I’d never believed I would find chocolate tasty, but that day I couldn’t get enough of it.
Now do you understand why I call her Sweet Chocolate?
Me and Chazz may not interact much, but every now and then before fourth period, there’s always a Hershey Kiss on my desk.
Knowledge and I do loads after school. Basketball, football, golf, tennis. We’re in band and art club together, and I also do book club and chess. Knowledge is better at football because he doesn’t mind being rough. I don’t mind either, but it’s not where I thrive. That’s why I play defense and Knowledge is a quarterback. With basketball, though, my strategies usually win games more than his. I’m better at chess, and Knowledge makes cleaner sculptures.
Band is our middle ground. No one is better than the other. It’s how we set ourselves apart: sports and all. It shows we both have our strengths and weaknesses.
Nowadays, no one shows up to our games as often. Dad was always there while Mama worked, being our hype man. He’d cheer his head off from the sidelines, whether it was Knowledge getting a touchdown or me sinking a three-pointer before the buzzer. Now, whenever we look out into the bleachers, we see everyone else’s parents but ours.
Mama shows up when she can, but that’s rare since she got promoted. Of course I’m happy for her—she’s my mama, and now she can buy me twice as much as she could before. But sometimes I wish I could look out into the crowd and see her screaming our names from the top of her lungs.
I can’t force it, though. So whenever I score a shot in basketball or tackle an opponent before they reach the other side, all I can do is imagine both of them there to keep me going.
We get home at night, around 9:30. Me and Knowledge wash up, eat dinner, then head to bed. We sleep in the same room, with our beds on the floor cramped against a wall. Mama says it’s weird, but we dig it. It’s something no other twins we know choose to do. And if they do, we haven’t met them yet.
Author’s Note:
Many movies such as Dayveon, Red hook summer, and others inspired me to finally make this book. Indelible means a lot to me because it’s something that reminds me to showcase my creativity and my opinions without caring what others may have to say, because I won’t be able to finally get the recognition I deserve as an author and filmmaker if I care too much about senseless critiques.
Asaan Abbott | 13 | Statesboro, GA | @saankali on TikTok
