The bar offers a variety of overpriced alcohol and fancy cocktails, and before Mother can catch me, I order myself a lemon drop martini. I haven’t been to one of these events in almost a year, and I can safely say that I still hate it. Even when it’s to save the environment, I despise this exhibition of wealth, the vain conversations, the networking… But on an evening like today, to celebrate my dead twin?
I abhor it.
At some point, my brain dissociates, and everything goes on autopilot. I sit, eat, drink, talk, and laugh. But I’m not there anymore. I feel empty, devoid of human emotion. This entire “commemoration” is a painful reminder I don’t need. Victoria, the best twin, isn’t around to do all the good she always planned on doing. And I, the bad twin, can never live up to the promise of her bright future. No matter how hard I try, I never will. This past decade is proof of it.
When Mother tells me to stand, I comply like a puppet. I follow her, Gerry, and Father to the stage, where a microphone awaits. With everyone’s eyes on us, I regret choosing this dress because I know what they’re all thinking. Victoria would have been a size six and fit it better. She would have picked something less tacky. She would have been the perfect image of the Kensington’s legacy.
I really am a stain in this picture-perfect family—a failure among success.
Father talks, his words a blended litany of self-pitying declarations, retellings of moments he remembers wrong, truths that are only his and Mother’s—not mine and Vicky’s. His sentences mourn the loss of his precious daughter ten years ago, but his throat isn’t tight, his hands aren’t trembling, and his eyes are dry.
They didn’t deserve her. Victoria was precious, yes. She was my other half, the best sister in the world, the sweetest person to have ever lived. But they barely knew her because they couldn’t be bothered to care for us, other than analyzing report cards, disciplining us when we weren’t perfect, and dressing us up for the family’s Holiday pictures.
It’s Mother’s turn to speak now, and she’s a little more affected than Father was. Tears glimmer in her eyes but never spill over. I don’t know how she does it, but it’s a skill she’s mastered with time to make sure her makeup doesn’t get ruined. She too retells an account of Vicky that I remember differently, painting the image of this impossibly perfect teenager who never did anything wrong.
But she was right there with me, smoking that joint we found in a guest room after our uncle’s visit. We were together when we first snuck out of the house and walked two miles up the beach in the middle of the night to attend a bonfire. It was she who convinced me to leave the hotel undetected in the middle of the night during our sophomore-year trip to Paris. I can still remember how we walked the streets the entire night, watched the Eiffel Tower’s twinkling lights, and returned exhausted but fulfilled, just in time for breakfast.
She was perfect, yes, but not for the reasons my parents think.
Gerry didn’t spend enough time with us to truly know her either, but he shares a few anecdotes about his sometimes-mischievous baby sisters, and it rings truer than what our parents said. Because I wasn’t given notes or asked to prepare a speech, I know I won’t be expected to speak as well. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure I’d manage to say anything anyway.
When both Vivienne and Gerard share the microphone, I distractedly listen, curious to hear what other false truths they will utter about Vicky.
“This is why,” Father says, “to commemorate the ten-year anniversary of our cherished daughter’s passing, we are inaugurating the Victoria Kensington Foundation.”
My jaw slacks open, my eyebrows knitting together with surprise. Behind them, two people come to pull on the fabric that covers a massive panel. Before I can see what’s on it, my attention is grabbed by Mother, who speaks to the assembly.
“This foundation will support individuals affected by car accidents and promote road safety. It will aim to provide financial assistance, emotional support, and rehabilitation services to accident survivors, helping them rebuild their lives and regain independence. Our girl might not have survived her fatal crash, but in her honor, the Victoria Kensington Foundation will be the road to recovery for many.”
With all the worthy causes she fought for during her brief life, and knowing all the injustices she wanted to defend once she grew up, they decided to center this around her death? To make the worst day of her life the one thing she would forever be remembered for? How conceited can someone be?!
People applaud, some stand up, and all I can do is try to remember how to breathe. But it’s all over when my eyes fall on the panel behind them. I’m going to be sick. The acrid taste of bile gathers in the back of my throat, and the realization that I might vomit in front of those people hits me. This can’t be happening.
A deer. They chose a deer to be the foundation’s emblem. The very animal that sent Victoria crashing into a telephone pole. Do they not realize how wrong that is?
Since no one’s paying attention to me, I stumble down the three steps while my parents announce that the foundation will gladly accept donations tonight. I hastily walk toward the exit, nearly colliding with a waiter and his tray full of champagne flutes.
My feet take me to safety, to the bedrooms, while my brain scrambles to make sense of everything that just happened. When I open the door, shock strikes me.
This isn’t my room.
It’s Victoria’s.
Contrary to mine, my twin’s room is the perfect diorama of her on the day we turned seventeen, an untouched time capsule, a still that’ll never move again. The curtains are open, and the moon’s glow gives it an ethereal appearance, like all this might disappear if I switch on the lights. But I can see it all: the Taylor Swift poster over her bed, the fairy lights she put around her vanity table, and the Polaroid board she’ll never fill out. On the bed, there’s even Sir Spotty, the plush ladybug she got when we turned five. Her clever little brain decided that since not all ladybugs were ladies, hers would be a gentleman.
My chest hurts like there’s a bag of sand that weighs a ton settled on it. This tight dress is smothering me and not leaving enough room for all the emotions wrecking me. Ten years have passed, but I still would give anything to hold her again, to hear her pearly laugh, to inhale her scent.
Feeling like I might crumble if I don’t, I close the door behind me and wobble to the bed to lie on it. Sir Spotty ends up in my embrace as I pull myself into a fetal position, fighting against my uncooperative lungs to breathe, forcing them to fill. Ten years of guilt are crushing me, and I don’t know how to stop it.
“I miss you, Vicky,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. It should have been me.”
I’m still not breathing correctly when the door cracks open, the warm light of the hallway spilling in. Because I cannot let Mother find me like this, I let go of the plush and sit up.
“Genny?” The feminine voice isn’t Vivienne’s, and the silhouette is too tall. Also, no one’s called me that in years. “I couldn’t find you in your room, so I figured you were here. Are you alright?”
The newcomer flicks the light on, and I can see her face now. It only takes me half a second to recognize her, even though we haven’t seen each other since she finished high school a year before me. To me, she was an acquaintance, a familiar face in the hallways, but to Vicky, she was more.
“Penelope?”
