“I think you got an A on your Lit test,” I said, laughing. “No worries, that won’t happen again. I’ll be sure to make enough mistakes to get you a solid C next time around.”
“Next time,” I muttered to myself. Those two words sounded foreign and remote. I’d been so focused on getting through one day, one hour, one minute as Maddy that I hadn’t thought about the simple fact that I’d have to get up and do it over again at school, in public, tomorrow.
I paused, shaking my head in disgust as I realized what I was doing. I could almost hear her scolding me, going on about how if I wanted to, I could be as pretty and popular as her. I’d disagree with her, remind her that she was the beautiful one, always had been.
I thought about the first time we had that recurring argument. It was in freshman year and it lasted three days—until Mom finally stepped in and told us either to knock it off or risk losing our phones for a week. Dad pulled me aside that Saturday after dinner. He sat me down in his study and took out his wallet; he showed me the pictures he’d accumulated of us over the years. They were cheesy-looking school pictures with fake fall foliage or blue backgrounds. He had one for each year we’d been in school.
I’d flipped through those pictures, groaning at the one where a gaping hole replaced my two front teeth, then tossed them back at him, completely confused as to what ten years of school photos had to do with anything.
He put his wallet on the desk next to his keys and told me to think about what Maddy had said and the words she had used. I thought about it for a half second, then left the room vowing to hate her forever.
“I’m an idiot. We’re identical twins.” I whispered those words to her now, finally getting what both Maddy and Dad had been trying to say.
“I miss you. I know we weren’t getting along lately, but I figured eventually we’d work it out. I never imagined we wouldn’t get the chance.”
I picked up a strand of dead grass and started peeling the fine threads apart. When one was shredded, I tossed it to the ground and started on another. “Mom’s losing it, and Dad thinks I need to talk to a shrink. Alex agrees.”
There was her sweet voice again, as clear as day, asking me what I’d expected to happen. The few times I’d come to her with a problem, she’d done that—rolled her eyes and told me to open my eyes and watch, stop thinking so much and watch how other people did it, then figure it out.
“Mom had my drawings. She was trying to frame one. It was a crappy one I had left over from my application to art school.”
I thought about my mother’s tears, the look of pure anguish that had clouded her eyes. I’d done that. In every way possible, I’d done that to her.
“Dad’s working a lot,” I continued. “Both he and Mom think the three of us need to talk”—I paused and waved my hand around the damp ground I was sitting on, my eyes landing on my own name etched in granite—“about this.”
Her words echoed through my mind with bittersweet clarity. And let me guess, Ella. You don’t want to talk about it. You want to curl up with your sketch pad and forget it happened.
“You’re right.” Talking about it wouldn’t make it go away, wouldn’t bring Maddy back. It would only make the pain clearer.
I reached out, my hand meeting the cold, hard side of the gravestone. “I don’t want to remember any of it,” I said, as tears pooled in my eyes. “I want to change it. I want you back.”
“Have you talked to anybody about it? Since the day you woke up in that hospital bed, have you spoken of it?”
My whole world stopped at the sound of his voice. Everything froze as I fought to speak the lie I’d entrenched myself in. “Josh, it’s not—”
“Don’t,” he said as he held his hand up for me to stop. “Don’t say that I’m wrong or that I don’t know who I’m looking at.”