Toying with her braid, she said, “I’m having a snookball party tonight. Do me a favor and tell Hartly...even though she’ll insist you tag along. Are you house-trained?”
I’d heard of snookball and wanted to play so bad. Participants kicked a soccer ball–sized “cue ball” across an inflated billiards table, sinking other balls into one of four corner pockets. Like pool on steroids, with people acting as the cues.
I loved games, sports and mechanical puzzles. Actually, I loved winning. The rush! The high! But because I was the world’s sorest loser, no one ever wanted to play with me.
At PQ’s, no one would want to play with me anyway.
Just like that, my excitement dulled.
“Hello.” PQ snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Anyone home?”
I chomped my teeth at her, earning a gasp. “Implying I’m a dog isn’t an insult. Dogs are one hundred percent adorable one hundred percent of the time.” Dogs loved me. If LOVED stood for Let’s Organize a Violent End, Dangit.
Sometimes I wondered if they sensed something was terribly wrong with me.
Was something terribly wrong with me?
“Whatever. Will you give her the message or not?” PQ demanded.
“I both will and won’t give Harts the message.” Fingers crossed I irritated PQ as much as Mr. Wong had irritated me. “You won’t know until we do or do not arrive at your house.” Hartly loved parties and people, and yes, she would insist I attend, just as PQ had predicted. I wouldn’t have the strength to decline, because I loved making my twin happy. “If I do show up, I won’t pee on your rug...more than a couple dozen times. Probably.”
She scowled and muttered, “My boyfriend is off-limits to you. Go near him, and I’ll make you regret it.”
“Oh, no. Not that. Anything but that.” I faked a shudder. Why issue the warning, unless she’d learned about my summer romance? And how did my twin tolerate this girl? How did she see the best in others, while I only ever noticed their faults?
As if my day hadn’t been bad enough, Peter sauntered over, all swagger and superiority, and slung an arm over PQ’s shoulders. He was an inch taller than me, with hair the color of dark honey, tanned skin and hazel eyes framed by stubby lashes. As handsome as he was smooth.
Once he’d told me, When you walk into a room, you’re the only girl I see.
Warning bells had clanged inside my head—too smooth, too practiced. Though I’d questioned his sincerity, I’d ignored my instincts. In the end, I’d suffered for my stupidity, my heart taking an emotional beating.
“You ready to go, babe?” Peter asked her.
Babe?! “Aw,” I said in a sing-song voice. “A generic endearment for your generic girlfriend. How adorable.” As much as I despised the way he’d treated me, I couldn’t regret the emotional scars he’d left behind. They made me stronger.
He flicked me a glance, his eyes projecting a mix of anger, confusion and...longing? Did he want me still? Was it wrong to hope that he did...so I could watch him choke on his misery?
“Better babe than mistake,” PQ said with a smirk.
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. Any hint of vulnerability would cause her to strike. “Enjoy my castoffs with my compliments—and condolences.” I blew the happy couple a kiss, then strolled away, my head high, my shoulders squared.
Her outraged hiss trailed me. Did Peter’s gaze do the same? I thought I felt the heat of it.
I turned a corner, then another. The hallway crowd had thinned, providing an open path to my twin. My world righted itself, and I grinned.
Wearing a pink fit-and-flare dress she’d sewn herself, Hartly stood in front of our locker, fiddling with the combination. (We shared everything but taste in boys.)
Two jocks moseyed past her, elbowing each other in the chest. The taller one—so cute and muscular with deep brown skin—called out, “Uh. Hey, Hartly. Hi. Hello.”
His pale, redheaded friend ribbed him about his awkwardness.
Hartly smiled and waved. “Hey, Thomas. Great job on your oral report. I learned so much!”
Thomas—the tall one—puffed up his chest as if he’d just conquered the world.
Another day, another kid with a crush. Totally understandable. Hartly didn’t just see the best in people. She always supported and never judged.
No wonder she was my lifeline.
We were two halves of a whole, yet we didn’t look like sisters, much less twins. Her hair was black; mine was silvery-white. Her eyes were baby blue; mine were gunmetal gray and rimmed with gold. Her flawless skin had a dusky golden tint; I was ghostly pale, with a smattering of freckles across my nose. She was short and curvy; I was tallish and slender.
Our personalities were just as different. She was sweeter than sugar. I was...not.
Once, I’d overheard a private conversation between Mom and Nicolas. She’d likened us to seasons. Hartly is summer, warm and inviting. Others can bask in her light, then walk away with a smile. Everly is winter, cold and driven. She’s fun, but she’s treacherous, too. Rouse her fury, and you will suffer.
I agreed. Hurt a member of my family, and I would go nuclear.
I sidled up to Hartly and took over the lock. Using our secret twin-language, Isnenglisnish, I said, “Fisnorgisnet thisne cisnombisninatisnion isnagaisnin?” Forget the combination again?
We placed I-S-N before vowels, one per syllable. So far, no one had decoded our words.
She replied, “Isnif yisnou isnopisnen thisnat stisnupisnid thisning isnas isneasy isnas pisnie isnaftisner isni hisnave strisnugglisned fisnor isnan isnetisnernisnity—”
Click. The lock released, and the door swung open.
I laughed as I translated. If you open that stupid thing as easy as pie after I’ve struggled for an eternity—
“Isni isnam gisnoisning tisno scrisneam,” she finished with a laugh of her own. I am going to scream.
She reached for her books, only to pause and wince. Pain glazed her eyes and tension pulled at her mouth.
My chest clenched. “Another headache?” About the time I’d started seeing Angel in mirrors, Hartly had started having migraines.
I’d been keeping track of timing and intensity. The last one had been so bad, she’d yanked at hanks of hair while banging her head against a wall.
“This one isn’t as severe as the others.” She smiled and bumped her shoulder against mine. “Plisneasisne, disnon’t wisnorrisny isnabisnout misne.” Please, don’t worry about me.
Not worry about the most important person in my life? Try again.
“Maybe it’s time to tell Mom.” Maybe medication would help.
“No!” she shouted, then sagged. After confiscating my book and homework, then stuffing the items inside my backpack, she said more quietly, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bellow. But you know Mom will think I’m dying.”
Yeah. Freak-out was Mom’s default setting. She found hidden signs in everything, and all those signs pointed to the tragic death of her girls. The common cold = perishing in our sickbed. Tired = falling asleep and never waking up. Riding in a car = expiring in a crash. Without exception, the slightest change in our lives sent her into a tailspin of panic. The very reason I hadn’t mentioned my mirror Angel.
“Hey.” Hartly gave my shoulder another nudge, saying, “What is red, blue and yellow all over?” A pause. Then, “Colors.”
I snorted. Telling ridiculous anti-jokes had become our thing, helping to take the sting out of a bad situation. “What did the vampire say to the werewolf? Nothing. Both creatures are fictional.”
As she laughed, frantic yelps erupted at the end of the hall. A bucking, bleating minigoat raced rounded the corner, with a clear destination in mind: Hartly.
She crouched down, opening her arms in welcome. As much as she loved animals, th
ey loved her back. Stray cats and dogs gravitated to her, no matter where she happened to be. A parking lot, restaurant, even the grocery store. At home, a substantial number of birds tended to congregate outside our bedroom window.
“Look at you,” she said, nuzzling the minigoat’s fur. “So stinking cute!”
I wasn’t surprised when the creature purposely bumped into my leg, pushing me away. I let him. He’d distracted Hartly from her headache, so I owed him.
Thomas and his friend—I didn’t remember his name, so I decided to call him Red—came rushing back to ask if Hartly needed help. When she oh so sweetly declined, the guys stuck around to flirt, even singing, “Hartly Had a Little Lamb.”
“Any idea where this sweetie came from?” she asked.
“No, but I think you came straight from heaven.” Thomas grinned.
She smiled at him. That was when Red swatted her on the butt.
She gasped with surprise, clearly uncomfortable.
Fury straightened my spine with a jolt. What he’d done was not okay.
The goat agreed. With a bleat, he kicked Red in the shin.
Over the years, Mom had tasked me with one job, only one. Protect Hartly at all costs.
Of course, she also liked to say, Whatever the question, violence is not the answer.
Even as my mind shouted, Stop! The reward doesn’t outweigh the risk, I crashed my fist into Red’s nose. Tit for tat. Or smack for smack.
Cartilage snapped, blood pouring over his lips and chin as he stumbled backward.
Thomas moved between us and stretched out his arms to keep us apart.
Guilt prickled the back of my neck, my shoulders slumping. I’d both failed and aided my girls today.
“You brog by dose!” Bombs of rage exploded in Red’s eyes. He tried to skirt around his friend.
I guess he had no fear of me.
I ignored little tremors of dismay and braced for a fight. Thanks to Nicolas, I’d had a crap-ton of self-defense lessons. A round of practice might do me some good.
“Come closer, and I’ll break something else,” I said, just before I unveiled my most maniacal smile.
Red went still. Thomas backed up a step.
“Miss Morrow!” The swift click-clack of high heels sounded down the hall. Then the principal came marching around the corner. “What did you do? And why is there a goat in my building?”
I looked to Hartly and muttered, “Iisni isnam tisno bisne thisne scisnapegisnoat, it sisneems.” I am to be the scapegoat, it seems.
Guaranteed, Red and I would get suspended for our smacks. No big deal, right? More time at home meant more time with Angel. More time to read and practice doing a market analysis.
I tried not to smile as I went to face my “punishment.”
2
Innocence, heartache and treachery, oh, my.
What is truth, and what is lie?
Looking back, I could pinpoint specific moments that forever altered the course of my life, shaping the girl I had become.
Most recently, the instant I’d realized Peter was embarrassed by me.
The first time I’d seen Angel.
The day Mom married Nicolas.
In the beginning, I’d wanted him gone. He had the weirdest vernacular, like someone who’d grown up in a fantasy novel.
Son of a troll!
May your magic be strong and your heart be true.
A halfpence of gold for your thoughts.
However, I’d soon grown to love him. He put a much-needed sparkle in Mom’s eyes, never experienced irrational fear or anger around me like so many others, and always treated our family with kindness and respect.
Something else I liked about him. He had an award-winning poker face. The only time you could glean any type of emotion from him? When he looked at Aubrey Morrow. Well, Aubrey Soren now. He radiated adoration.
Today, as I sat at the rose-veined marble counter in the kitchen, I experienced another life-altering moment.
Hartly sat beside me. I did my homework, while she discussed proper table manners with Thor, a black-and-white Pomeranian with a lion cut and a propensity for yipping.
Mom bustled from one state-of-the-art appliance to another, preparing dinner. On the cabinets, Nicolas had painted quotes from “Snow White and the Evil Queen,” some long-lost version of “Little Snow White,” the one Mom had heard as a child.
A seedling of envy bloomed deep in her soul, her every thought like water, helping it grow.
One drop of poison will kill her strongest foe...and the last remnant of goodness that burns in her heart.
For she had forgotten a simple truth. Character meant more than beauty, always.
With Mom’s cascade of black hair, ocean-water eyes and golden brown skin, she was an older version of Hartly. I figured I’d taken after our father. Not that I’d ever seen a picture of him. Or knew anything about him.
I thought his name might be Edwin or Stephan—the only two names I’d ever overheard Mom whisper to Nicolas. Only once had Hartly and I gathered enough courage to ask about our father, but Mom had burst into tears, so we’d ended the conversation without receiving a single answer.
I’d often wondered if our father had abused her. Then again, she also refused to speak of her parents. And her childhood. And her homeland. We figured she’d come from overseas and English was her second language. She had a crisp, overly formal accent, like Nicolas, and sometimes referred to people as “mortals.”
“Everly, dear. You have been here for half an hour, yet you’ve said nothing about your after-school fisticuffs.” Mom wiped her floury hands on the pink apron that shielded her yellow sundress. Like my twin, she enjoyed sewing her own clothes. Because every lady should know how to sew, knit, swim, banter with kings and peasants alike, dance with grace and dignity, and defend herself from unscrupulous rogues.
I sucked at sewing and knitting but rocked at everything else. Go me! “Mom, you should be cheering. I only fisticuffed the boy once.”
From his perch on Hartly’s lap, Thor barked at me. Translation: Let me at her! I’ll show her a proper fisticuff!
Or maybe: Bacon! Hard to tell.
“Shhh. Enough of that. Sleep,” Hartly said, scratching behind his ears. Within seconds, Thor closed his eyes and drifted off. My sister didn’t just draw animals, she somehow calmed—and commanded?—them.
“The new school year has just begun.” Chopping up a potato and some thyme for a vegetable potpie, Mom added, “How are you already in trouble? Why did you hit him?”
I detected a tinge of disappointment in her voice—and fear? Did she think I would strike at her? Ignore the hurt. But, but...how could she ever believe such a thing? “I was protecting Hartly from a bully, just as you requested. He smacked her butt, so I smacked his face.”
“Were his actions inappropriate? Yes. Were yours? Yes. You protected your sister from a bully by being a bully.”
Hartly opened her mouth, intending to defend me, I was sure.
I reached over and squeezed her hand. No worries. I’ve got this. “Sometimes words aren’t enough, Mom.”
She floundered for a response, and I sighed.
I’d confounded her, as usual. We were just so different. Chocolate versus vanilla. Or arsenic versus vanilla.
Eventually, she settled on, “The principal telephoned. You are suspended for two weeks.”
“Knew it,” I muttered.
“You can turn in all homework assignments when you return and take makeup tests if your teachers are agreeable, but you will not be allowed to do extra credit. If you get in trouble again—do not get into trouble again.”
“That’s fair. As long as my victim is suspended for the same amount of time, since he is also an offender.” Trying not to grin, I pushed Mr. Wong’s worksheet aside. No hurry now.
<
br /> “Are you sassing me, young lady?”
I pinched my index finger and thumb together, saying, “Just a bit.”
Hartly hid a grin behind her hand. “Remind me to teach you the art of evasion.”
“Why evade when you can Hulk-smash?” I responded.
“This is serious business, girls.” Mom wagged a wooden spoon in our direction, then stirred the pot of simmering vegetable stock. “The victim’s parents decided not to lodge a formal complaint with the police. For now. What if they change their minds? What if you are taken away from me again?”
Uh...again? To my knowledge, no one had ever separated me from my family. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”
Tremors racked her small frame, the color fading from her cheeks. “When you girls were only a few months old, I was deemed...unfit. The two of you were placed in a temporary foster home.”
What? My heart thudded as I asked Hartly, “Do you remember this?”
“No!” she burst out, waking Thor. He began to squirm, so she placed him on the floor.
“Why were you deemed unfit?” Seeking comfort in the familiar, I shifted atop the bar stool to slide the compact out my pocket. Opened, closed. “And why are you just now telling us?”
Voice feather-soft, she said, “No one enjoys reliving the worst moments of their life.”
My chest tightened, a sharp pang shooting through me.
“Let’s discuss the past no longer.” She turned away—to wipe away a tear? Pang, pang. “You will use this time to contemplate the consequences of your actions. The hurt you’ve caused others...the disappointment you’ve caused me.”
PANG. Open, close. “I’m sorry, Mom.” I hated disappointing her more than anything else in the world.
Over the years, as she’d worked herself to the bone, she’d done everything in her power to ensure we had good food, nice clothes and a roof over our heads. Until Nicolas, no one had pitched in to help her. My father, whoever he was, had never given her a dime.
I would be forever in her debt. And I would repay her, just as soon as I started my company. Money was power, and power was security.
The Evil Queen Page 3