A petite girl I recognize from Luminary Academy’s upper echelon appears, patting down her chin-length white-blond bob. “All right, all right, you called it. Even if hanging out with her wassoboring.” She wrinkles her nose and then lets out a squeal.“But she knew about the secret Chanel launch. Look what I got!” She waggles a hot pink purse by its gold chain.
Another girl elbows in, identical other than the shorter pixie-cut of her hair, brandishing a more subdued ivory clutch. “Definitely worth it, even if my twin never stops complaining.”
“Seriously!” someone calls from out of the frame. “Madison got to skip out on half of the making nice with that dullard by going off to combat club.”
Other Elodie arches her eyebrows at the girl beyond the camera. “Like you didn’t ditch us for a bunch of Blossom meetings too, Cadance?”
An arch laugh follows. “I put in enough time. And I have the goods to show for it.” A taller figure with tumbling honey-blond ringlets leans in front of the camera, brandishing a mint-green handbag. “And I hope I never have tolookat Monica again. You can put that on the record too.”
The video jiggles and then cuts out. I lower the phone to my lap, my stomach churning all over again.
The Somerset twins—Madison and Mia—and Cadance Hathaway. The other me seemed awfully chummy with them and their mean-girl talk.
It’s been years since anyone took a jab at me at the academy in my reality. Probably because they know Salvatore wouldn’t hesitate to literally jab them and carve them into little pieces as an encore. But I remember with sickening clarity one of the early days when I’d just started at Luminary—reeling from Dad’s death, the sudden move, and my grandparents’ rejection—when Cadance shouted across the cafeteria, “Hey, who let the mutt in?”
If I’d been able to keep Dad’s last name, it’s possible no one would have realized. I wouldn’t be surprised if my doppelganger’s friends have no idea she has anything but old-money, old-magic, European blood running through her veins.My skin’s light enough that people often assume I’ve simply got some Spanish or Greek in my background.
But in that other world, where my grandparents stole Dad’s name from us, I was Elodie Singh.
That, and my classmates saw my unmistakably brown mom dropping me off in her ancient sedan. I’m sure my grandparents tried to suppress the story altogether, but it didn’t take long for gossip to go around about a shameless tramp who’d tried to con them into believing I was their son’s kid.
It didn’t matter that I’d scored well enough on the entry tests to attend Luminary in the first place. All my classmates saw was that I didn’t belong, and so many of them figured it was their job to regularly remind me of that fact.
Which may be why it looks like my double went out of her way to erase Mom’s part in her existence. As I skim through more videos of vapid escapades with her friends and selfies showing off new outfits, new eyeshadow styles, and yet another frappuccino in some ridiculous flavor, it’s clear the highlights in Other Elodie’s hair have been a continuing style choice going back years. And it could be the lighting, but I think she was toning down the innate tan of her face with a slightly paler foundation.
Was she ashamed of her background all on her own, or did our grandparents encourage her disdain?
DidDad?
My thumb stalls over a pic someone else must have taken of Other Elodie at fifteen, posing in front of a concert stage. I’d know the man next to her anywhere even though his tawny hair is a tad grayed and peachy face a bit more wrinkled than in the photos Mom held on to.
My heart flips over under a wave of memory.
“Who’s my best daughter?”
I giggle as Dad sweeps me up off the living-room rug into his arms. “I’m youronlydaughter, Daddy.”
“That means you must be the best, then.” He sets me on his shoulders, but when he turns his head, I can still see the corner of his broad grin.
He dances a little jig in time with the drumming of rain on the windows, swaying me with him but always keeping a firm grip on my legs so I’m thrilled but not scared of falling. “It’s almost pizza time!”
Mom appears in the doorway, smiling but rubbing her temple. “I know I said I’d pick the food up, but this headache came on strong. The painkillers are taking their time kicking in.”
“Not a problem. You get your rest.” Dad whirls me through the air and sets me back on my feet. “You can look after your mom for twenty minutes, right, Sunshine?”
I jerk to attention. “I’ll take care of her.”
Dad salutes me, grabs the keys out of the bowl in the front hall, and walks out.
For the last time.
I shudder and blink hard. I haven’t cried over Dad in nearly a decade, but seeing him like this—seeing what I might have had if it wasn’t for tires skidding in a too-slick puddle—it hits harder than I was ready for.
I swipe the photo away and turn off the phone.
It’s late. My day’s been so long it stretched into an entirely different reality.
I’ve seen enough. I know who Other Elodie’s closest friends are, how she talks with them, how she dresses up her school uniform and what styles she favors when she’s out of it.
