B00B9FX0MA EBOK

by Anna Davies

  “Because then it wouldn’t be a book,” I teased. “You need conflict!”

  “Do you? Because I’m usually fine chilling,” Matt said.

  “Me too,” I said as the car crested onto Main Street.

  “You never chill, Westin. You’re, like, the opposite of chill.”

  “Hot?” The word slipped out of my mouth before I had a chance to think. My face burned bright red as Matt smiled.

  “Yeah. Hot.”

  Thankfully, before I could embarrass myself further, he turned into the large parking lot in the center of town. He parked, then hurried around the car to open my door.

  “I’m really happy we’re hanging out,” Matt said shyly as we walked toward the restaurant.

  “Me too.” Now everything seemed fine. Better than fine. This was what I’d always wanted. Not a perfect SAT score. Not another trophy. I’d spent the last eighteen years running, terrified to ever slow down or stop. And now that I had — and the world hadn’t crumbled and I’d still reached the Ainsworth finals — it made me realize how much I’d missed out on in the past. And how much I didn’t want to miss in the future.

  “You know I had a crush on you in kindergarten?” Matt asked.

  “You did?” I was glad that the sun had already set so he wouldn’t see me wildly blushing.

  “You want to know why?”

  “Yes! I mean … if you want to tell me.” I shivered as we walked down the cobblestoned sidewalk. Matt put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into him. I could feel his warmth emanating from his jacket, and his scent — detergent, wood smoke, and toothpaste — was a perfect, tingly-inducing blend. I leaned in more closely.

  “I liked the way you pronounced animal,” he said finally. “You said it like —”

  “Aminal, I know.” My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Bradley, had made me say the word over and over again in front of the class. How can you not hear the difference? It’s obvious to everyone, she said. But it wasn’t to me. That night, I’d come home, crying, and had stayed up the whole night, hugging Pandemonium, my stuffed panda, as I whispered the word over and over to myself, stopping only when I was one hundred percent sure I was pronouncing it the correct way. The next morning, I’d marched to Mrs. Bradley’s desk, told her that her behavior was animalistic, and sat down to do a worksheet. I smiled at the memory, then wondered … would my twin have done that when she was seven?

  “It was cute.”

  “Maybe it was to you. To me it was pretty much the single worst experience of my childhood. If I need years of therapy in the future, I’m sending the bill to Mrs. Bradley,” I joked.

  “And what if you became a billionaire? Would you send her some stock options? Because it goes both ways. What if your destiny was a life of crime, until her early humiliating intervention made you realize that you didn’t want to break the rules — pronunciation-related or otherwise? Maybe that made you into the driven overachiever you are today. If anything, I think you should be thanking her.”

  “Maybe …” Wasn’t it the same thing with my twin? I could either blame her or thank her, but one thing was for sure: She’d been impacting my life for the past seventeen years. And the worst part was, I’d never even known.

  “Just kidding,” Matt said quickly, misunderstanding my silence as disapproval. “Mrs. Bradley was a total jerk.”

  “You can’t call a sixty-five-year-old lady names!” I reached my arm up to good-naturedly punch him on the shoulder, then dropped it to my side. We’d reached the Firebird’s red-and-gold awning. I felt a tug of disappointment. Going inside meant that the date was that much closer to ending. And I didn’t want it to end.

  The interior of the restaurant was cozy and redbrick, with the crackling fireplace, wall sconces, and sprays of delicate flower arrangements on each table proving its position as one of Bainbridge’s most expensive spots.

  “Hello.” The host stepped in front of us.

  “What’s up, bro?” Matt asked. I smiled, loving how Matt was so comfortable in his own skin that he could simultaneously set up a reservation at a high-end restaurant and call everyone “bro.”

  “Is this all right?” Matt asked anxiously as we were led to a table.

  “It’s perfect. No,” I said quickly. “I mean, it is perfect, but that wasn’t what I meant to say. I meant to say it’s … magic,” I decided. I’d had enough of perfect.

  “To magic,” he said gently, raising his water glass. I raised mine, too, and we clinked, but it was too hard, and a constellation of water spilled on my — Keely’s — dress.

  I instantly stood up and started to wipe it off but Matt only smiled.

  “You know, in some cultures, spilling on yourself means you’re going to have good luck.”

  “Yeah? Where?” I asked.

  “What, you don’t know?” he teased.

  “Contrary to what you seem to think, I definitely don’t know everything.” I realized that the water was seeping into my tights. “Why don’t you use this time to look up what culture thinks spilling on yourself is good luck, and I’ll clean up.”

  It wasn’t the smoothest exit, but it wasn’t terrible. I hurried to the back of the restaurant, where I was thankful to realize that I was the only one in the bathroom. I hastily began wiping the wet spot on the fabric, but the napkin caused little white lint balls to shed on the gray.

  Finally, once I’d done as much damage control as was possible, I left the restroom, ready to head back and talk to Matt about a subject that didn’t make me seem super-smart or super-weird. Like hockey. Or Spotify.

  But just as I was coming up with a list of Keely-like conversation topics, I stopped in my tracks.

  A girl was sitting opposite Matt. Gray dress. Shoulder-skimming brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. The barest hint of lip gloss. It was me.

  My heart surged. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. What was I supposed to do? All I could do was watch as she raised her hand to push her hair back from her forehead. Her blue eyes were wide and her cheekbones stood out from her heart-shaped face. Her bangs — the forever-too-long ones that always seemed to stick to my forehead or hook awkwardly behind my ears — had hints of gold in the strands. The dress hugged her curves in a way that I didn’t see when I’d looked in the mirror. She was beautiful.

  And it wasn’t a word that I was using as some self-compliment. I knew what I looked like, and I knew that I could be cute. But even though she looked like me, the way she moved was far different. I was mesmerized by the way her hand glided over the rough-hewn wooden table and toward Matt’s forearm, the way she tilted her head so the shadows of the candle flame flickered across her skin, the way she seemed preternaturally aware that everyone in the room was giving them a second glance. And why shouldn’t they have been? They looked like the perfect couple.

  A waitress emerged from the kitchen, practically bumping into me. She glared at me, and I watched as she headed to the table where Matt and my twin were sitting.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. What could I say? What could I do? She’d planned this, just like she’d planned everything else. Was she going to stay for the entire date? What would she tell Matt? She was wearing a similar dress to mine. Was that a coincidence, or had she been spying at me at Keely’s house?

  You said you wanted to wear the gray dress. Ingrid’s throwaway comment suddenly took on an entirely different meaning. Somehow, when I was looking for her, she’d found them. Had she been spying on me the whole time, ready to become me whenever I turned my back? I thought she was finished torturing me, but it was clear: She’d only just begun. Of course.

  Matt would notice. He knew me. He knew the way I talked to myself and the weird stuff I found funny, the stuff she wouldn’t know, no matter how much spying she’d done. Waiters and busboys rushed in and out, but none of them gave me a second glance. It was as if I was invisible. No one noticed that my life was in the process of being stolen from me.

  Just then,
she scraped her chair back, smiled at Matt, and allowed her hand to linger on his shoulder.

  “I’ll be back in a second!” I heard her voice over the dining room din. It was lower than mine — the type of voice that would use words like darling or lovely without irony. Why couldn’t he tell? Then, she sauntered away from him as if she had all the time in the world, clutching her phone and smiling at the host, the waiter, and the other patrons as she walked toward the back — toward me.

  I took a tentative step forward, ready to confront her, when all of a sudden a busboy crashed through the kitchen doors, his over-laden tray clattering onto the sandstone floor. I jumped to get away from the debris, and as I did, I saw her slip out a rear door.

  “Are you all right, miss?” The busboy sat back on his heels and looked up at me. I nodded and numbly headed toward the table.

  “Are you okay?” Matt asked, his eyebrows furrowing in concern.

  “Do I seem okay?” My voice was sharp.

  “Yeah. I mean … I guess so.”

  I nodded tightly. How could he not have noticed that he was talking to a totally different girl?

  “Is that the right answer?” Matt asked. “Or did you have another one in mind?” There was an edge to his tone as well.

  I shook my head. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” The word got stuck in my throat. I looked away. Before, I’d loved the way Matt’s eyes had lit up when he’d seen me in the school parking lot. But now, after seeing them light up for her, his gaze felt tainted. The whole night was tainted. I knew that my sister had been sending me a message by showing up, only what was it? That she could steal my life? That she was watching me? That I couldn’t try to predict her actions? All of the above?

  The silence between us widened as Matt glanced from the table to the bar to the framed landscape painting of rolling Tuscan hills mounted above the fireplace.

  Finally, Matt cleared his throat.

  “You seem really quiet all of a sudden. Like, shy. What’s going on?” he said finally.

  “Just tired. I’m glad to be here.” I sounded far less convincing than I had earlier, and I knew he knew it.

  “Good,” Matt said. The same strained silence fell over us again. “So, what sports are you into?”

  “None, really. You play hockey, right?” I felt like I was about to cry. Things had spiraled wildly out of control: My twin was out there, she wasn’t going to go away, and I was trying to act normal on a date. Just then, the waiter arrived and placed a steaming plate of shrimp and mussels atop linguine in front of me.

  “The seafood special!” he announced loudly.

  Of course. I was allergic to shellfish. Which my twin must have known. My stomach rolled in fresh waves of nausea.

  “Fresh pepper?” the waiter asked, holding the grinder aloft like a trophy.

  “Sure,” I said, watching the flakes rain down on my food. What did it matter? I noticed her abandoned white napkin sitting next to the plate, a blotted raspberry-kiss smirk all too evident. It looked like it was mocking me. I shook the napkin out and smoothed it in my lap, obscuring the mark.

  “Great.” Matt grabbed his fork and stared down at his plate of pasta. And I may have imagined it, but I could have sworn I heard laughter in the background.

  And then, I noticed something on the floor.

  It was a luxurious black leather purse, far more expensive-looking than the canvas satchel I toted everywhere. I leaned under the table and frantically grabbed it, rifling through it and pulling out a wallet.

  Matt put his fork down. “Are you leaving?”

  I didn’t listen. I opened the wallet, feeling my stomach free fall as the girl in the driver’s license displayed in the ID window stared back at me.

  Jamie Thomson-Thurm. 167 Revere Drive.

  Finally, I knew the identity of my sister.

  But she had mine.

  I pushed myself back from the table. “I need to leave,” I said. “Now.” She had my wallet. She had my ID. With my ID, she could do whatever she wanted — which must have been her plan. She wanted to mess up my Ainsworth chances, to make me freak out about the future. Or at least, she wanted me to think that was what she was doing. Had she killed Leah? And if she had, then what else might she do?

  “Is everything all right?” Matt rose to his feet.

  “No. I’m sorry.” I wove between tables, knowing everyone was staring. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I whirled around and shrugged it off.

  “Don’t touch me!” I yelled in a ragged voice I didn’t recognize as my own.

  Matt’s face fell and two waiters hurried to his side, half restraining him. I knew I needed to say everything was okay, but I was panicking, feeling like a caged animal caught in a trap. Deep down, I knew Matt wasn’t the enemy. But I also didn’t know how I could possibly explain everything to him. What I needed was to find Jamie. And until then, Matt wouldn’t be safe. Better he think I was a psycho and stay away than cross paths with Jamie.

  Based on her last name, I could only assume she lived with our father. It made no sense based on what my mother had told me about James running away, but at this point, the lies were starting to bleed into the truth. There was no one left to trust.

  My feet thwacked against the pavement as I ran to the Greyhound bus station on the other end of Main Street. I’d never taken the bus, but it seemed like the fastest, easiest way to get out of town. I was done playing detective. I’d fallen into her trap. And I wasn’t going to do that anymore.

  The bus station was tiny and empty, except for two students with huge camping-type backpacks sleeping on the metal chairs. There wasn’t a bus attendant, only a dirty schedule taped to the tiled wall.

  I squinted at it. It was barely visible in the dim fluorescent lighting and the numbers swam in front of me.

  Just then, a bus pulled up to the curb.

  I raced outside and onto the first step of the bus.

  “Boston?” I asked.

  “Well, we can bring you through Concord, and then you can catch another bus from there.” The bus driver glanced dubiously down the stairs at me, surely thinking I was some sort of teen runaway.

  “That’s fine.” I fished a twenty from Jamie’s purse, and picked my way through the seats. I wanted to be by myself. But the only seat available was next to a large man holding a cat carrier in his lap.

  As soon as the bus lurched out from the station, I dumped out the contents of Jamie’s purse on my lap. There was the oxblood-red wallet, containing a driver’s license, a few credit cards, and a stack of crisp twenties. I opened the zippered compartment and pulled out a pile of papers.

  Receipt from a coffee place. A picture of a brown guinea pig with a white tuft of fur on its head. Was that her pet? It was such an odd thing to carry, but it also made me feel a little less panicky. Murderers don’t carry around pictures of cute animals, do they? The picture was faded, and the corner was frayed. It was clear the photo was old. I turned it over. In childlike handwriting were the words Peanut Butter. I named him after my favorite thing in the world.

  I gently tucked the photo back. More receipts. Then I found it. An index card with my passwords, my Social Security number.

  My whole life.

  I slumped down in my seat, aware that the man carrying the cat was looking at me strangely. Adrenaline surged through my veins. 167 Revere Drive. In my mind, I repeated the words over and over, the syllables the only thing I was sure of. Once I met my father, I’d have proof that there had been two babies. I’d have someone on my side. And then — then — I could go to the police with proof and confront my mother and make everything go back to the way it should be.

  167 Revere Drive, 167 Revere Drive. The words lulled my brain, made me stop thinking of what Jamie would be doing now that she was in Bainbridge.

  “Miss?”

  A meow, followed by a hiss. The man with the cat carrier was trying to get past me.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Concord,” he ann
ounced.

  “Concord? I have to go!” I leaped to my feet and raced down the bus steps into another dingy bus station. I headed toward the lone ticket window. The tired-looking clerk raised an eyebrow.

  “Boston, please?”

  “Bus doesn’t leave until seven.”

  “There’s nothing earlier?” I pressed.

  The clerk shook her head.

  “All right.” I shoved a twenty through the metal grille of the window, then settled on a hard plastic chair to wait — while my sister was probably wrecking my life.

  When the bus finally rolled up to Boston, my eyes were gritty and dry from being awake so long and my heart was hammering against my chest as though I’d downed two extra-large espressos — even though I hadn’t had anything except the water at the restaurant last night.

  I blinked as I wavered unsteadily outside the bus terminal. I’d been to Boston a few times before, on school trips, but never often enough to know my way around. All of my fellow passengers seemed to have some sense of where they were going. I just had the Brookline address. I stumbled out to the taxi line, blinking in the weak sun. I flexed and unflexed my toes inside my shoes, then did the same with my calf muscles. It didn’t help.

  “Taxi?” A driver jerked his thumb toward the black-and-white cab idling on the corner.

  I nodded.

  “One sixty-seven Revere Drive?” I asked. “In Brookline.”

  The taxi driver nodded. My breath came in short bursts. James Thomson-Thurm was English. He had two children. He enjoyed parasailing, waterskiing, and opera. He had, at one point, been in love with my mother.

  What if he doesn’t believe me? The thought crept into my mind. Meanwhile, back in Bainbridge, everyone would believe Jamie was me.

  “Right here?” The cab driver pulled up to a four-story Victorian house at the center of a circular drive. Or, house wasn’t the right word. It was a mansion, straight from an architecture magazine. It wasn’t the type of place I’d imagined a professor of medieval history would live. And yet …