Nitu was always at least two steps ahead of me when it came to numbers, and that was saying something.

  I turned back to my page and continued taking notes. All I heard around me were the sounds of pencils scratching paper and the backs of hands brushing eraser bits off of desktops.

  It was like music to my ears.

  I wrote down all the important details in my own special form of shorthand (when Owen saw it for the first time, he thought I’d created an alien language), and I had a pretty good idea of how to solve the problem.

  I was practically humming to myself.

  “Mr. Hollis?” one M said, interrupting the moment.

  “Please raise your hand if you have a question,” the teacher requested. He was kind of a stickler for classroom rules, which was one of my favorite things about him.

  After all, what kind of a world would it be without rules?

  The twin sighed and lifted one hand as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world to do.

  As if Mr. Hollis had asked him to scale Mt. Everest with no boots.

  That attitude wasn’t going to get him very far in this class, and there was a small part of me that felt excited, knowing that things were about to turn around for at least one of the Matthews twins.

  “Yes?” Mr. Hollis said, holding his chalk a couple of inches from the board.

  “Your answer will be wrong.”

  My mouth dropped open almost as fast as Nitu’s did.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Hollis said, eyebrows raised in surprise. He probably hadn’t been on the receiving end of the word “wrong” in years.

  I turned in my seat, wondering what on earth the twin was going to say next.

  Naturally, I wasn’t sure which one had spoken.

  “Arizona doesn’t—” one of the boys said.

  “Change their clocks,” the other finished.

  They sounded like they’d been practicing the sentence for years, just like everything else I’d seen or heard from them.

  How did they both know what to say? I hadn’t heard them whispering, and I could see from my desk that their notebook pages were blank.

  Completely blank.

  “So,” the first twin continued, “if you don’t take into account the fact that Oregon adjusts for daylight savings while Arizona stays on mountain time and doesn’t roll back their clocks in November, your train’s arrival time in Phoenix is going to be off by an hour.”

  I gulped.

  Daylight savings?

  No one had said anything about daylight savings.

  I looked at the scribbles on my page.

  Why hadn’t I thought about daylight savings?

  Mr. Hollis cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the second twin said, “Unless we say that the train trip is happening sometime after next March, when our clocks spring forward and line up with Arizona’s again.”

  Mr. Hollis frowned.

  The other twin nodded. “That would solve it.”

  “Mr. Hollis?” his brother asked. “Should we say the train trip is—”

  “Happening next spring?” his twin finished for him.

  “Uh … yes,” the teacher said. It was the first time I’d ever seen him at a loss for words.

  And I didn’t have much to say either.

  On the way out of class, Nitu shook her head. “That was interesting.”

  “Yes, it was,” I agreed. Interesting and annoying.

  “I can’t believe they thought about something so random. Daylight savings never would have crossed my mind. I mean, I just stick to what’s on the page.”

  “So does Mr. Hollis, obviously.”

  She shrugged. “It was kind of cool.”

  That was the last thing I needed to hear.

  “Especially when they finished each other’s sentences,” she continued. “I’m telling you, there’s something to that twin telepathy.”

  The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me that Mitch and Marcus were so closely connected. They could anticipate each other’s moves on the basketball court, they shared the same way of thinking through problems, and they even finished each other’s sentences.

  I wanted that bond with Owen.

  At dinner that night, I thought back to my attempt at trying to get in tune with him through eating. Yes, I had failed, but many experiments failed the first time. If no one was willing to try again, we wouldn’t have cars, televisions, or even lightbulbs.

  Yes, I would try again.

  My hope was that if we could develop the same kind of bond as M&M shared, we could be as strong as they were on the court. An academic bond with Owen was out of the question, obviously.

  So, I laid my napkin on my lap at the same time that Owen did, then lifted my glass of milk, matching him perfectly, sip for sip.

  With relief, I noted that mirroring his movements was a bit easier the second time around.

  When he lifted his fork, I lifted mine.

  I knew it was a very simple idea, but some of the best ideas in the world were simple. I could practically feel the bond between us growing stronger.

  He pierced a piece of broccoli and I did the same, then started to lift it toward my mouth. But instead of Owen doing the same thing, he moved the fork to spear a piece of steak. I hesitated, but followed his lead.

  Then he scooped up some mashed potatoes.

  When I saw that he was going to shovel those different foods with those different tastes and textures into his mouth at the same time, I gagged.

  “Russell?” Mom asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I told her, though I was far from it.

  I didn’t even like my foods to touch on my plate, let alone in my mouth!

  I removed the steak from my fork and sighed.

  Apparently, getting in sync with Owen was going to happen somewhere other than at the dinner table.

  But I wasn’t giving up yet.

  My next attempt to get closer to my brother was at the following Pioneers practice, where we ran laps to warm up. In no time at all, my lungs burned and my legs felt like they weighed at least a ton. Each.

  But I was on a mission, so I pushed myself to run faster than ever before. And I did. But I was still lapped by the perfectly synchronized Matthews twins, which was all the encouragement I needed to push even harder.

  By the time I caught up with Owen and Chris, I was sticky with sweat and gasping for breath.

  “Whoa, Russ!” Owen said. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I told him, having to split the word up over two gasps to get it out of my mouth. “Just warming up.”

  “Don’t kill yourself,” Chris said. “We’ll have a whole practice to do that.”

  “I know,” I said, and choked.

  We ran in silence, aside from my panting, for about twenty seconds. It felt like an hour and a half.

  “Are you guys watching the game tonight?” Chris asked.

  “Definitely,” Owen told him. “Right, Russ?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and gasped.

  “What do you think about Will Sanders?” Chris asked, looking to me for an answer.

  I was supposed to keep up with their insane pace, breathe, and carry on a conversation?

  Really?

  I glanced at Mitch and Marcus, who were chatting away like they were on a stroll instead of a death sprint. The soles of their Adidas hit the floor at the exact same time, every time, and it didn’t even look as if they were trying.

  Which meant I had to try harder.

  “He’s good,” I grunted at Chris, even though I’d forgotten what player he was asking about.

  “Blow out the air every couple of steps,” Owen suggested. “Don’t keep sucking more in.”

  And risk my lungs deflating completely? “I’m okay,” I croaked.

  “No, you aren’t. Trust me, it’ll help,” Owen insisted.

  But breathing wasn’t going to help me. Nothing was.

  With each step I lost a bit of speed, until I was trailing them by a couple of feet, then half a lap.

  Keeping up just wasn’t in the cards.

  When Coach Baxter finally blew the whistle to stop the torture, I’d never been more grateful for anything in my life. I walked in circles for a few seconds, hands on my waist while I caught my breath. I tried to ignore the fact that none of the other guys were even slightly winded.

  “Winning streak or not, we still need to work on some basics,” Coach said. “Starting with free throws.”

  My specialty! I couldn’t help smiling.

  Coach split us up into two groups, and I was assigned to the far net with Nicky Chu, Paul, and a handful of the other guys, including M&M.

  Terrific.

  We lined up to take turns shooting, and I somehow ended up sandwiched between the twins.

  “My brother and I want to stand together,” the one behind me said.

  “Oh, uh … sure,” I told him, moving aside.

  They couldn’t be two feet away from each other?

  The twins waited their turn, exchanging smiles and nods I couldn’t even begin to understand. It was like speaking without words. Sign language without the signs.

  Telepathy.

  “What are they doing?” Nicky Chu whispered.

  I shook my head instead of answering, trying to imagine doing the same thing with Owen and not succeeding.

  Coach blew his whistle and the first twin dribbled to the free throw line and held the ball under one arm while he shook the other to loosen it up, then crouched and straightened a couple of times. When I thought he was ready, he crouched and straightened again.

  Was it basketball or ballet class?

  He finally took the shot, which soared through the air in a perfect arc and dropped right through the net with a silent but deadly swish.

  “Sweet,” Nicky Chu said quietly.

  And I had to admit it was sweet. That is, until the second Matthews brother did the exact same thing, right down to shaking his hands loose and crouching.

  “Amazing,” Paul said. “They’re exactly the same.”

  There was another silent swish, and the ball was passed to me.

  I was a terrible dribbler, so I carried the ball to the free throw line. I liked taking shots when there was no one between me and the basket, and the silence made me feel calm. I had time to relax my shoulders and every other body part before throwing the ball.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Nuts!” Owen shouted from the other basket as I heard a ball bounce off the far rim.

  I sighed, then bounced the ball twice, took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, licked my lips, and rolled my shoulders. I bent my knees and jumped in the air as I threw the ball.

  It bounced off the backboard with a satisfying thwack and dropped right through the net.

  Whew.

  “Nice shot,” one of the twins said as I joined them at the back of the line.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling.

  “Your stance is kind of weird, though,” the other one added.

  “Yeah, crooked,” the first one agreed.

  “But it was still a decent shot,” the other said.

  “Yeah, and a basket is a basket, even if you look—”

  “Weird scoring it,” they said together.

  What?

  Between the back of the line and my next turn shooting, all I could think about was my “crooked” stance. Dad had told me it was fine when we practiced, and I had scored, so did it matter if I looked weird shooting?

  Yes, it did.

  Metalloids: boron, silicon, germanium …

  The twins took their next shots, and both were perfect.

  Arsenic, antimony, tellurium …

  The ball was passed to me and I took a deep breath as I approached the line for my second turn.

  All I could think about was my crooked body.

  “Try pushing off the other foot,” one of the Matthews brothers called out to me.

  My shoulders tensed.

  “And relax,” the other one added.

  As if I could.

  I exhaled and threw the ball, which fell about three feet short of the basket.

  “Now that was a brick,” the two voices said in unison.

  I made my way to the back of the line and missed the next four shots I attempted.

  I stood in line, waiting for my next humiliation and focused my attention straight ahead.

  As I stewed over M&M’s successful efforts to psych me out, I realized that I’d discovered a new element to add to the periodic table.

  It was incredibly toxic and it was going to take helium’s place, with an atomic number of two.

  Twinidium.

  Picked Off

  Our game against Dante Powers and the rest of the Hogarth Huskies was coming up fast.

  I was feeling more nervous about it than I wanted to. It seemed like I’d been looking forward to going head-to-head against Dante forever, but that was back in the days of the old-school Pioneers. Back when I only sat on the bench because I needed to catch my breath.

  I’d had a couple of dreams about the game, and more than a few daydreams during class.

  In my head, I beat Dante every time. I outdribbled, out-passed, and outshot him. I beat his state record and got carried off the court on my teammates’ shoulders.

  If even one of those things happened on game day, I’d be stoked.

  But we had to play the Willamette Warriors first.

  On Wednesday afternoon, the Pioneers piled onto the bus for the trip to Willamette, ready to keep our winning streak alive.

  The Twinvaders didn’t sit with the rest of us at the middle or the back of the bus, but instead right behind the driver. One of them pulled a notebook out of his backpack, and they studied it together.

  Russ told me they were math superstars, but even my brainiac brother saved his homework for, well, home.

  “What’s the Warriors’ record?” Russ asked from the seat next to me.

  “Five and three,” I told him. “Not as good as ours.”

  “But close.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “We’re close.”

  We couldn’t say the same about Hogarth, who hadn’t lost a game yet.

  I shook my head. I needed to stop thinking about Dante Powers and concentrate on the game that was only half an hour away instead.

  “Is there anything I should know about them?” Russ asked.

  I shrugged. “Just that we have to win if we want to keep our streak going.”

  “No special tips?”

  “Not really,” I said, confused. Special tips?

  He was quiet for a minute and I started trying to get my game face on.

  “Are you going to wear your watch when we play?”

  “What?” I asked, totally confused.

  “Are you going to—”

  I rolled my eyes. “I heard the question, Russ.”

  “So, are you?”

  “I never do.”

  He nodded. “Cool.” Then Russ cleared his throat. “Did you bring your Nike socks?”

  I turned toward him. What was his deal? “Duh, Russ. I always wear them on game days.”

  “Cool,” he said again. “You know, I’ve seen some kids wearing sweatbands. On their wrists?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Well, maybe. Do you think you’d ever wear those?”

  “Ha! Not in this lifetime.”

  “But NBA players wear them,” Russ reasoned.

  “No, some NBA players wear them,” I corrected. “Not the ones I like.”

  “Gotcha,” he said, nodding again.

  I felt like I was taking a test and it was making me edgy. And I definitely didn’t need to feel edgy before a game.

  “What’s with the twenty questions?” I asked.

  Russ looked surprised. “I’ve only asked a couple.”

  “Yeah, but you look like you’re just getting started.” Before he could say anything else, I told him, “I’d just like some quiet time for now. Is that cool?”

  Russ nodded.

  But a bus packed with basketball players wasn’t the place for quiet time.

  While I looked out the window and tried to picture myself sinking a three-pointer, or even making a couple of good layups, the rest of the team cranked up the volume.

  “How many points are we going to win by?” Chris yelled from the backseat.

  “Thirty!” Nicky Chu shouted back.

  “That would be sweet, but I’m betting more like fourteen,” Paul said.

  They went around the whole bus and every guy answered.

  “What about you, Owen?” Nate asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe eight?” I said.

  “Russ?”

  “I think eight, too,” he said.

  “You do?” I asked him, and he just shrugged and smiled.

  When it was the Twinvaders’ turn, they sounded like robots as they said at the exact same time, “We don’t predict outcomes.”

  “How do they do that?” I muttered.

  “I have no idea,” Russ said with a sigh.

  “Does anyone have an eraser?” one of the brothers asked the rest of us.

  “Not in my gear bag,” I muttered to Russ. “I mean, come on.”

  “I do,” Russ said, reaching for one of the eight thousand zippers on his backpack.

  “Cool,” Mitch or Marcus said when Russ passed it forward. Then he actually smiled and kind of shrugged as he explained, “Miscalculation.”

  “Minor miscalculation,” his twin corrected, loud enough for the whole bus to hear. Like anybody cared. “Minor.”

  “Right,” the one with the eraser said, his cheeks turning red. He nodded to Russ. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Russ said, nodding back. After a second or two, he said, “I wonder what they’re working on.”

  “A plan to take over the universe, I bet.”

  “You know, it’s interesting. In math class the other day—”

  “Hold up, Russ. I’m only telling you this to help you out, but unless somebody pukes, gets sent to the principal’s office, or both, you should never start an interesting story with, ‘in math class.’”

  “Right, but—”

  “Are you sure this story is going to be interesting?”

 

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