TUNEYBELL AND CRUELLA PLAYED FAIR with the occasional tangle. They lived side by side, bed to bed, one closet all the same. The same Barbies, emanated from the same genes, eating from the same cauldron of macaroni and cheese. Their drawings hung parallel on the fridge, their hairs clung to the same bathroom sink. They rolled together—to the pool, the tee ball games, the Sunday service, in the back of the Plymouth Voyager. They prayed the same rosary with Marcella, shared hand me up’s and down’s, rainbow coveralls and plaid jumpers, squished Daddy Long Legs in the yard, bolted through the same sprinkler spray in hot July, chalked up the same sidewalks. Together they played Peter Pan, made mud pies, built forts, climbed evergreens, sold lemonade. Their tenor was boyish, unwieldy, quiet, chummy bedlam. It was them, like twins, though never much of a muchness; each with a distinct nature but nevertheless, as Tuneybell, size 8, would lank with her twigs, a sturdy Cruella, size 10, sulked not far beside. Together they lived, capered, and snored behind the same door, the one that said, mutually, ‘NO BOYS ALLOWED.’ And they meant it.
When all was fair and resolved, crying concluded, words said, and trees climbed, it was the two of them, Tuneybell and Cruella, soaking in the same stinky bathwater at the end of a fruitful day, rinsing themselves of it all.
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