Rachel, Two:
I scrape my fork against the syrup left on my plate just to bother Rebecca as she comes down the stairs for breakfast. I see her hair is bouncing in tight, fake curls this morning, and I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. It’s like she goes out of her way to be intentionally prissy, just to fulfill the extra girly-quotient that I refuse to work for.
She sits down next to me and I basically ignore her, reaching across the table for the orange juice and refilling my glass. I have absolutely no intention of speaking to her this morning, not after the argument we had last night, and she knows it. She just wants me to be the one to apologize first, and I can assure you, that’s not going to happen. I chug half of my newly-filled juice glass and I can’t quite stop the burp that shatters the sleep-fuzzed morning quiet.
The reaction is astounding.
“Ew! Gross!”
“Young lady! Don’t you dare do things like that under my roof! How many times have I—?”
“Awesome one, Ray!”
“Everyone quiet!” That last one was my father. He’s glaring at me from over the top of the New York Times, his face angry and his forehead scrunched. “Rachel.” That’ss all, just my name through clenched teeth.
“What?” I ask defensively. “Reece does it all the time!”
“And Reece is a teenage boy.”
“So?”
“So, you are not. You are a young lady, and you should act like one.”
A thread of annoyed anger shoots through me, tightening my hands into fists. I feel my nails, short and unpainted and very unlike Becca’s long, wicked-looking ones, dig into my palms. “Why does it matter? There shouldn’t be that much of a difference! It’s a burp for Chrissake!”
“Don’t use that language in my house, Rachel!” my mother snaps, and suddenly I just want out of that kitchen.
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll use it outside your house then. I’m going to school.”
“The bus doesn’t come for another forty-five minutes,” Becca points out, always the logical one, and always unerringly infuriating because of it.
“I’ll walk,” I shoot back, grabbing my ratty aqua sweatshirt and my backpack from the living room chair and swinging them both over my shoulder.
“Rachel—!” my mother starts, but I’m already out the door.
Of course, by the time I remember that it’s mid-January and freezing, I can’t go back and decide to take the bus, or even grab my hat. No, that would just mean they won another battle, and I’m just annoyed enough to want to prove to them that I’ll walk to school if I damn well want to. So, I keep walking down the street, trying to ignore the wind cutting through my sweatshirt and attacking my bare legs.
Have I mentioned how much I despise that goddamned plaid skirt?
Becca:
I’ve lived in D.C. since I was six years old, when Daddy first got elected as a Senator. barely remember my life before the camera flashes and talks at breakfast about elections and public image. It’s not like I really mind though. I love the publicity and the private parties. I love making Daddy proud of me. It’s the reason why I bring home straight A’s - the only one in my family that does! And the reason why I worry so much about my appearance. It’s all about how others perceive you. The people who see my family in newspapers and on tv want to see a happy family, one that revolves around good morals.
And that’s what we are, essentially. My older brother, Reece, is a student at the local community college - much to my dad’s dismay at him turning down the opportunity to attend an Ivy - and still lives at home. He’s really, really intelligent too. He could have had Harvard or Yale, but instead he’d opted to stay home. At four, my little sister Renee is a little scientist, always mixing together any combination of things she can get her hands on. She goes to one of the most elite preschools in the D.C. Area. There’s me, sixteen going on seventeen. I go to private school too, the kind that’s practically like college. Every day, I’m forced to get up and go to school with the horrid uniforms. I get straight A’s and play the piano. I am the golden child.
Oh, and then there’s my sister, Rachel. As my twin, Daddy expects her to be a lot like me. Something she isn’t. And never has been. She’s my mirror image physically. But personality wise, she acts more like a brother than anything. When we’re not in uniform, she wears jeans and oversized shirts that hide the delicate body shape that we were so lucky to inherit from our mother. I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she tries so hard to make herself look like a boy, especially when she’s such a beautiful girl. We don’t get along, at all. Even though I’d like to.
Today, she ducks out of the bathroom we share just as I’m buttoning my uniform shirt. The skirt goes down to my knees, horrid and plaid. When I’m at home I leave it that way, but the instant I get out of view from my house, I roll it up until the skirt goes to my mid-thigh. It makes it look slightly better, as good as a green, plaid skirt can. I grab my make-up bag off my desk and slip into the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rachel getting dressed. I’ve seen it before, but I still don’t understand why she winces so hard at her own body. It almost makes me sad.
I push the door shut to give her her privacy, going back to fixing my hair into light curls. I spread some eye shadow on my eyelids to accent my blue eyes. I spend less time in front of the mirror than I normally do before heading downstairs. Daddy is standing at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand as he skims the headlines. He smiles as I walk in, looking up and turning halfway to give me a small hug and a kiss on the top of my head. I take my seat in between Rachel and Reece, watching Rachel drag her fork through the syrup on her plate. I bite my lip, aching to say something to her. Or to ask her what’s wrong. But I don’t, because I’m afraid of what I might hear.
Rachel, One:
I hate waking up in the morning. I know that sounds depressed and emo and overflowing with teenage angst and melodrama, but it’s the truth.
I hate waking up in the morning.
I hate waking up because usually I wake up from some sort of amazing dream, which I can never truly remember in the morning. I only know I had it, and that in it, I was probably happy. This isn’t to say that I’m not happy normally, I really am… if I ignore some things. And ignoring them isn’t too hard to do; not with seventeen years of practice.
I swing my feet out of bed and pad sleepily down the hallway to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with my reflection as always. Another thing I’ve perfected with years of practice. I don’t spend much time at the marble sink, anyway, which is funny—it’s something akin to an altar of worship to my twin sister, Rebecca. I foam my mouth up with toothpaste, spit; run a brush through my hair that’s dark brown and much too long for my tastes—Dad wants it long, says it’s better for public image—and pull the whole mass of it back into a simple ponytail; then I leave, simple as that. Becca scoffs at me about this pretty often, but it’s only a superficial type of criticism. She knows that my short stint in the bathroom maximizes her own time. She spends forever in there, squinting at her reflection in the mirror.
I really don’t like my reflection, have I told you that? It’s not because I’m a teenage girl with self-image issues. That statement is wrong on so many levels. No, it goes deeper than that. And right now, I don’t want to think about it, because right now, I am not allowed to talk about it. I don’t remember how old I was when I brought it up the first time, bu Dad was quick to tell me I was wrong, wrong, wrong, and that it would all go away.
Well, it hasn’t gone away. But I don’t talk about it. Better to keep the peace, I guess.
I try to go to my happy place as I get dressed, but it’s a futile effort, since I have to wear the same thing to school every day. You see, my dad’s a Senator, and so we live just outside of Washington, D.C. And because we live there and because our father’s a politician, we go to one of the big, elite, stuck-up, mini-Ivy-League private schools, and that means wearing a uniform. A fancy uniform, with girly blouses and knee-length skirts. I despise it. I hate it. I want to tear it up and set fire to it while I dance around it in circles, yelling.
Okay, so maybe not, but the fact that I have to wear a plaid skirt every single day is not pleasant. I pull it on quickly, trying not to look too much at my own body or the clothes going on it. I dislike them both immensely. But I repeat myself, I suppose, so I’ll stop being annoying now. Grabbing my backpack and slinging it over one shoulder, I take the steps two at a time, bracing myself for whatever drama my family has already cooked up this morning.
Gavin, Prologue:
Don’t talk to my sister about this, okay? She doesn’t understand. She talks about it like I’m deciding to ruin her life, I’m deciding to make things complicated. Bull shit. She doesn’t know what complicated means. Complicated is waking up every morning knowing you’re not right. You’re not who you feel like you are. Complicated? Complicated is trying to explain to your father when you’re five that you don’t want to wear that, pink is a girl’s color, and having him look at you like you’ve gone nuts. Complicated is having to try and find a name for yourself, because the one that everyone calls you is so drastically wrong, you cringe when you hear it. Complicated is looking in the mirror and not seeing yourself. Every. Single. Day.
Don’t let her tell you about complicated. She doesn’t know the word.
“Selfish,” now, that’s something Rebecca knows a lot about.
Trust me.
Rebecca, Prologue:
Family dinners have always been a priority in my house. Promptly at 6pm, we’re supposed to drop whatever we’re doing and be at the table. These means for my older brother to drop his xbox controller, or for my baby sister to stop playing potions with my mom’s perfume. I’m expected to stop iming my friends, and my twin sister is supposed to get off from doing whatever it is she does on her computer. And really, I don’t mind. I’ve always enjoyed out dinners, it’s the one time of the day when we’re all in the same room. There is always casual conversation as we pass around my mother’s cooking - which is absolutely delicious by the way.
Except for lately, there’s not a whole lot of talking. It’s mostly quiet, these days.
And that’s because my twin sister ruined everything.
