The Length of a String - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Elissa Brent Weissman is the award-winning author of several middle grade novels, including the Nerd Camp series, and the editor of Our Story Begins, an anthology of writing and art by today's kids' book creators back when they were kids themselves. She is a graduate of Johns Hopkins University and earned a Master's degree in children's literature at Roehampton University in London. Named one of CBS Baltimore's Best Authors in Maryland, Elissa lives with her family in Baltimore, where she teaches creative writing to children, college students, and adults.

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22 August 1941
t. 1950

Dear Belle,

All my life I’ve shared with you. Before we were born, we shared Mama’s belly, splitting the resources so equally that we weighed the exact same amount at birth. The story of our arrival was our bedtime story for years and years. How the doctor didn’t realize there were two of us until nine minutes after I was born, when you followed me into life. (How you have always loved a good surprise!) How in those nine minutes, Mama and Papa had already named me Annabelle. How they were so shocked at your arrival, they didn’t think to come up with a second name. Instead, they split mine in two. I became Anna, you Belle.

Twelve years later, we share more than a name. To strangers, we’re identical. We have the same straight brown hair cropped to the same place beneath our ears, the same gray-green eyes, the same pattern to our forehead wrinkles when we squint without our same-prescription glasses. We have the same height, the same weight, the same narrow heels that make buying shoes the same type of challenge. Save the mole on my left elbow that you lack, we are mirror replicas. So, like a name, we share our appearance.

We certainly don’t share a personality. You are carefree and adventurous, while I am careful and cautious. You are quick to laugh, but also quick to cry. Your emotions flap back and forth like clothes drying on the line. We are both 12 but in many ways you are like our baby sister Mina, lashing out in anger in one moment, then jumping with delight the next, your hurt erased at the sight of something pretty.

Don’t be angry at that comparison. You are the fun twin, the mischievous twin, the reckless and funny and passionate twin. I am the dull twin, the quiet twin, the responsible and reserved twin. I’m more careful than you, and more deliberate. I compared you to Mina, but you always compare me to Oliver. That is a compliment as well. Oliver is only 4, but he’s wiser than most adults. We all love his story too. How he had so many ear infections as a baby that Mama used to worry he wouldn’t hear. How he now hears every whisper, and how nothing escapes his big blue eyes. We know it’s more than that, however. He understands. People, ideas, feelings . . . it’s as though the tubes the doctor put in his ears made a path all the way to his heart. I am quiet like Oliver, and I like to think I share at least some of his intuition.

Of course I’ve arrived back at sharing. With so many brothers and sisters, we know nothing besides sharing. Me, you, Oliver, Mina, Greta (who is every bit 9), and Kurt, now 14 . . . Our house was quite full enough with 8 people. When the occupation pushed Grandmother and Grandfather to move in, it became nearly unbearable for us all. I know you too have wished to have something for yourself . . . a bed, a hairbrush, a whole potato, or an entire magazine. The only thing I’ve ever had for me and me alone are my thoughts. I try to keep them for just me, but in that I even fail, for you, Belle, know me to my core. You speak for me and through me, and often (does this happen to you?) it’s as though I don’t know my own opinion until I hear you speak yours. 
I’ve often wished for some time alone . . . some moments, belongings, or experiences just for me. I wanted to be like the magician who performs at the Luxembourg Fair and make my 5 siblings, even you, even Oliver, vanish.

Now here I am, crossing the ocean, my wish come regrettably true. Who is vanishing, you or me?

Chapter 1
October 2014

“You’re invited!”

Parker Applebaum dangled two postcards over the low shelves in the synagogue library. Even though I couldn’t see her from my spot on the floor with Madeline, I knew it was Parker because there was a giant photo of her face taking up half the postcard. Madeline and I looked at each other and suppressed giggles. The picture looked like it was meant for a department store ad. Parker’s long red hair was blowing in the wind, and her mouth was open in a hearty grin, like the photographer—no doubt a professional one—had caught her mid-laugh.

Madeline squinted at the postcard. “Where are her braces?”

Parker’s actual face appeared over the bookshelf. “Photoshopped out,” she explained. “This photographer’s amazing. He doesn’t usually do bat mitzvahs, but he’s willing to do mine because we used him for my modeling portfolio. Let me know if you want his number. I can probably get you guys in too. And,” Parker sang, her lips curling up, “guess who else is invited.” She cocked her head in the direction of the tables in the center of the library.

“The whole class?” Madeline deadpanned.

The corners of Parker’s lips dropped. “I was talking to Imani,” she said. She smiled at me and did a double-raise of her eyebrows. “I’m inviting Ethan Bloom.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound casual. Ethan and I are both on our school tennis team, and ever since Parker heard him compliment my backhand a couple weeks ago, she’s been convinced that he likes me. I’m not as convinced. It’s not like he complimented my serve (which stinks). Everyone compliments my backhand, because it’s killer.

“I’m going to sit you and Ethan at the same table,” Parker said with some more eyebrow wiggling.

Mrs. Coleman’s face appeared above Parker’s. “Girls,” she said. “Back to your projects, please.”

Parker smiled and handed Mrs. Coleman a postcard. “You’re invited, Mrs. Coleman.”

“December sixth,” our teacher said without needing to look. “Will you have your haftorah ready by then? How about the research project you’re supposed to be working on as we speak?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Parker rolled her eyes and reminded us, “December sixth,” before walking away.

Madeline and I went back to our Holocaust books. As if we didn’t have to do enough to prepare for our bat mitzvahs (write a speech, know all the prayers, read nine lines of Torah, sing a long haftorah portion . . .), we each had to research some aspect of the Holocaust. Like we hadn’t heard enough about the Holocaust every year of our lives. I’m usually pretty good about doing classwork, even for Hebrew school, but this assignment was seriously uninspiring. We couldn’t even use the internet to look stuff up the easy way; Mrs. Coleman was making us use actual books, which was why our Hebrew school class had permanently relocated from a classroom to the synagogue library.

Not wanting to think about Ethan or my Holocaust project, I waited till Mrs. Coleman was out of earshot and then poked Madeline with Parker’s postcard. “Are you going to have your photo on your invitations?” I whispered.

Madeline blew air through her lips, like a bike tire deflating. “I don’t think so. We’re not even going to do paper invites; wastes too many trees.”

Figures. Madeline’s parents are green to the extreme.

“When are you going to tell your parents what you want for your present?” she asked.

I sighed and leaned back into the bookshelf. Instead of having a blowout party for my bat mitzvah (like Parker) or a tasteful luncheon (like Madeline), I’m going to get a big present. My parents said they’d get me whatever gift I want, within reason. I know exactly what I want, but so far I’ve only worked up the nerve to tell Madeline. I...