“What do you mean? Like, with my homework? I don’t care, Rachel. It’s not important to me. It’s just school.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. What if … what if we switched?” There was a glint of excitement in her eyes as she spoke the possibility out loud.
The idea seemed ridiculous to me. Twins switching places was something that happened in movies and on TV—not in real life. “Come on, Rach. We’d never get away with it.”
She took another bite of licorice, chewing with enthusiasm, leaning forward in her chair as she spoke. “Yes we would. We could do it. I know how you are—how you walk, how you talk, everything. All I’d have to do is wear some more makeup. And you could be me. Alice, it would work. I’m certain it would.”
“I don’t know.” I stared at the drawing of the gap-toothed girl in my sketchbook. Maybe I’d meet her someday. Maybe I’d be walking down the street, and our paths would cross. It wouldn’t be the oddest thing that had ever happened to me. And then what would I do? Take her to my house, show her all my drawings of her? She’d think I was insane.
“Why would you want to do that, Rachel?” I asked. “It won’t matter if I get a C or a B in bio. My grades are still awful. And you’d have to pretend that you hadn’t studied too much, and that you didn’t care about school, or people would figure it out. So why even bother? What do we have to gain from it? We’d just be deceiving everyone for no good reason.”
“No.” She shook her head. “That’s not true. There are good reasons.”
“Oh yeah?” And I pulled my knees to my own chest, in a movement identical to what Rachel had done just a few minutes earlier. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s true: sometimes being with her was like staring into a mirror. It wasn’t something I ever got used to, not completely. “What are they, these reasons?”
“You suffer all the time,” she said. “You remember everything that happened that day. Don’t you?”
Her words gave me the shivers. She didn’t have to explain what she was talking about; we both knew she meant the accident that killed our parents. As close as we were, neither one of us ever brought it up directly.
I stared past her, gazing at the night light glowing just above the floorboard, the paint in the butterfly’s wings flaking from so many years of proximity to the heat of a tiny bulb. “I’m fine.”
Her tone was gentle and understanding. “But you’re not, are you? You weren’t fine today in class. And what about next week, when you dissect a pig’s heart? How are you going to feel? Will you be able to stand—”
“Let’s say we do it,” I interrupted. “Say we do it, and it works, and nobody figures it out. Maybe it helps me some. You’re right, I don’t want to dissect a pig’s heart anytime soon.” I looked at her. “Why bother, Rachel? What does it do for you? Why would you want to be me, even for a little while?”
Her eyes—which had sparkled with excitement only a moment ago—seemed to deepen in color as she shifted her gaze toward the floor. “Because I love you.”
I shook my head. “That’s not a good enough reason.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “It is.”
“…”
“…”
“Okay,” I said. “I have bio fifth period. What do you have?”
She let go of my hands and pushed herself away. Finally, I could look at her again without having to smell the licorice on her breath. She gave me a wide grin. Giggling, she said, “I have study hall.”
So we did it. And it was amazing. The first time I became my sister—even though it was only for a few hours—it felt like so many years’ worth of pressure, coming from somewhere deep within me, had finally been released. I forgot who I was for the day. Obviously, I was still myself physically, but it was like parts of me that were usually illuminated, at the forefront of my mind’s stage, suddenly went dark. They were there, in the background, but they didn’t rule me like usual. Not while I was Rachel.
My sister was happy to do it too—at least I always thought so. There were plenty of times when she volunteered without me even having to ask, whenever I was faced with something she thought might be unmanageable. Dissection. Punishment. Rachel seemed to feel like it was her duty to protect me from myself, to do whatever she could to ease my suffering. My gift, she believed, was too much of a burden for me to shoulder on my own. Rachel could help me carry it; allowing me to become her offered me some temporary relief. She did it for me all the time. She never said no, not once. She never showed any sign of reluctance, but somehow I knew that it must be draining her. How could it not?
She did it because she loved me, and for so long I believed that was a good enough reason. I let it keep happening, because after we’d done it once, I was hooked. I should have known better. It’s the kind of thing everyone hears over and over again, about any act or substance that alters your mind: it’s never as good as it was the first time. Maybe I understood that from the beginning, maybe not. It didn’t stop me from trying. And Rachel kept giving herself over to me, again and again, because she knew how desperate I was to escape from myself. I took so much from her, I realize now. Maybe it was too much. And even if it wasn’t, the fact remains: I never gave her anything in return.
Chapter Eleven
I’ve been sitting in the stairwell for what feels like hours, waiting, listening to the sounds of my aunt getting ready upstairs. It’s almost impossible to tell exactly how much time has passed, but I know it can’t be as long as it feels. She told me at breakfast that her meeting was at nine a.m. My aunt is always on time, which means she’ll have to leave the house by 8:45 at the latest to drive to the museum uptown.
Faintly, I can hear her moving between her bedroom and bathroom, her steps on the carpet muffled and barely audible. I don’t worry for a second that she’ll decide to take the secret stairs into the kitchen; my sister and I are the only ones who ever use them.
As I wait, I go over my plan for the day in my mind. Obviously I’m not going to school; instead, once my aunt leaves, I’m going to walk to the police station. It’s probably at least two miles away, but I don’t care. Once I’m there, I’ll demand to speak to one of the officers from yesterday, and I’ll find out what they’re doing to look for my sister.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. The sound of my aunt’s heels against the hardwood floor, her light steps heading down the hall, toward the kitchen. She moves around, going back and forth, coming close to the wall nearest me and then walking away, doing—what? There is the sound of glass clinking, probably a dish or cup, followed by water running. I’m holding as still as I possibly can, barely breathing, so afraid she’ll sense my presence behind the wall.
It dawns on me that she’s probably making herself a cup of coffee before she leaves. For her birthday last summer, Charlie saved up the money he earned working at the Yellow Moon to buy her one of those single-cup coffee makers that are so popular. I can hear it whirring to life as the heater kicks in, followed by the steady drip of water being forced through the machine, filling her cup. She sighs, waiting, and I imagine her leaning against the counter in one of her typical poses: tired but ready for the day, well dressed and smiling, with only a hint of weariness to her features.
The phone rings. It’s the house phone again—and like I said, almost nobody ever calls that line. It’s only for emergencies, and also to provide a connection for the security system that’s wired throughout the house, hooked up to all the outside doors. Every so often, Charlie will wander away. He never goes far—he usually ends up in one of the neighbors’ yards or at Mr. Morelli’s house, which isn’t a big deal—but my aunt and uncle try to keep the alarm set all the time now, so they’ll know if he leaves.
My aunt sighs again. Taking slow steps, she walks to the phone and answers it on the ninth ring. We don’t have an answering machine.
“Yes.”
“…”
This isn’t the first time I’ve hidden in the stairs, so I’m used to listening in on my fam
ily’s conversations when they don’t know I’m there. Eavesdropping is always an odd feeling, but listening to her one-sided conversation is even stranger.
“I have a meeting this morning, Mom. I can’t talk long.” She’s speaking to my grandma.
“…”
“I know I called you at ten o’clock last night. I thought you’d be awake.”
“…”
“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“…”
“Mom, it’s fine.” Her tone is impatient and strained. She and my grandma aren’t particularly close. She lives just a few miles outside town, in the same farmhouse where my mom and aunt grew up, but we only visit her a few times a year.
My aunt is silent, listening to my grandmother. After a while, she interrupts with: “We don’t know where Alice is—that’s why I called you. If she shows up at your house, you need to let me or Jeff know immediately.” Another sigh. “Because she’s not well, Mother. She needs help.”
Not well? She’s talking about me. Alice.
“I have to go, Mom. Please promise you’ll call if you hear from her.”
“…”
“Yes, we called the police. She’s eighteen years old. They’re looking, but they can’t do much. Not yet, anyway.”
“…”
“Of course Rachel’s worried. It’s not that we aren’t worried. Please don’t be this way.”
“…”
“Why would you want to do that?” she demands, her voice rising. “What do you have to tell Rachel that you can’t tell me? You’ll make things worse than they already are.”
“…”
“I need to get going, Mom.”
“…”
“I’m not doing that. I’ll let you know when we find her, but that’s all.”
“…”
“Stop it, Mother. I’m not having this conversation. She doesn’t need your help. She needs a professional.”
“…”
“I said I’m not doing this.”
“…”
“Great. Is that what you think?” My aunt’s tone is suddenly much quieter. In an instant, her voice shifts from anger to … what?
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m not Anna.”
It’s sadness. She’s talking about my mother.
“…”
“Don’t tell me how you feel. I know how you feel. I’ve always known.”
“…”
“I’m hanging up now. Good-bye.”
There’s a sharp beep as she turns off the phone. I expect her to do something else—to call my uncle maybe, or even start crying after such an unpleasant conversation—but she doesn’t do either of those things, at least not that I can hear. There is the sound of her keys jingling, followed by her footsteps leading to the front door, and four quick electronic beeps as she sets the security alarm. She pulls the door shut so hard that I can feel the whole house vibrating around me; the action is the only sign at all that she might be upset.
I wait. I close my eyes and slowly count to thirty in my head: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi …
Once I’m sure she’s gone, at least for the rest of the morning, I nudge the secret door open and step into the kitchen. The room is neat and orderly. The only sign at all of anything amiss is my aunt’s cup of coffee, which rests beside the phone on the countertop, untouched, no trace of lipstick anywhere on the rim, the contents still steaming.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen for a few seconds, still breathing lightly, almost as though I’m afraid someone might burst into the house and discover me at any moment. What did my aunt mean when she said that I needed a professional? What kind of professional? I’m not well?
She thinks I’m crazy, just like my grandma. She thought my mother was crazy too. Despite the occasional nagging doubt—and the fact that my intuition is sometimes wrong—I don’t need any help, that’s for damn sure. Rachel is the one who needs help right now. Rachel needs my help; she needs everyone’s help. How much longer can I lie to everybody about who I am? How long until the deception makes me responsible for whatever might happen to her?
Okay, Alice, I tell myself, you need to get out of here. I go upstairs to our room and grab my bookbag. I start to fill it with supplies: a notebook and pen, a change of clothes, my sister’s phone. I fish through her oversize purse—the same purse I was carrying on Saturday night at the fair—and find her wallet. Among other things, it contains her ID, her debit card, and twenty-seven dollars in cash. There are other random items floating around in her purse too: a fun-sized box of Good & Plenty candies, which are black licorice flavor. There’s a tiny French-to-English dictionary, its pages tissue-paper thin, the words so small I can barely read them. French is Rachel’s foreign language at school; she’s been taking it for years. (Not me; I did two semesters of Spanish to fulfill my foreign-language requirement, and I was done.) In the side pocket, I find a used tube of strawberry-flavored lip gloss, a handful of gum wrappers (but no gum) … and something else. At first I think it’s just garbage, the kind of stray papers and junk that tends to hide out in the bottom of bags that have seen plenty of use. But it’s something more. I tilt the purse onto her desk and shake out the contents of the pocket. A little pile of what looks like grass clippings falls out. I lean forward, peering at them, and pick one up.
They aren’t grass clippings at all. They’re tiny flowers. Even though their color has long faded away, I can tell they used to be yellow buttercups, the kind that spring up in droves on people’s lawns every summer. Each stem is tied into a little loop, which is knotted at the base of the flower. There must be a few dozen of them here.
It’s a weird discovery. I’ve never known Rachel to have an interest in … whatever the flowers are supposed to be. And it’s almost like they were hidden away in her purse, an entire collection of dried-up loops. What reason would she have to keep them? I scoop them into my hand and put them back into the pocket. Even if they’re garbage to me, they were obviously important to her. There’s no way I can throw them away.
Just as I’m pulling a gray hooded sweatshirt over my head, I hear a rustling sound coming from downstairs. I stop, listening.
Maybe it’s the mailman on the porch. But the mail doesn’t usually come this early.
It could be Charlie. Maybe he’s forgotten something he needs for work.
The rustling grows louder, more insistent. I freeze.
The security alarm goes off, the sound shrill and deafening. I can’t move. There’s nowhere to run—nowhere to go but down, and by the time I could make it to the secret stairs, whoever’s inside the house might find me. Even if I got there, what if he or she knew where to look? What if it’s the same person who took Rachel? It’s like the whole world is being drowned out; I can’t even think straight. After something like sixty seconds, if the four-digit code isn’t punched in, the police will be notified. The security company will call my aunt and uncle. They’ll have to come home.
There’s another option, though. I was here when the alarm was installed a few years ago. The tech the company sent out was a hulking, three-hundred-plus-pound guy with sleeves of tattoos on both of his arms. As his big fingers worked to adjust the alarm settings, he explained to us that our system came with a feature called a “hostage code.”
“It’s different from your regular alarm code,” he said. “Basically, it’s another four-digit combination of your choosing. Let’s say somebody breaks in while you’re at home. The alarm goes off, and they order you to punch in your code. Instead of using your regular code to turn it off, you’d use the hostage code. The alarm will turn off as usual, but the system immediately alerts the police that there’s a hostage situation at your residence.” He gave us a stern look. “Cops take this seriously. It’s only for emergencies.”
“How do we program it?” my aunt asked.
He’d smiled. “I already did it for you. I used your street address—4606. Because here’s the thing: if someb
ody breaks in and you’re not home, they’re probably gonna take their best guess at the code. What do you think they’ll try? Something easy, right? Like your house numbers.”
“It makes sense,” my aunt said later, explaining the new system to my uncle. “But Jeff, you should have seen this guy. He was … uh … imposing. Maybe we should switch the code.”
I remember the events so clearly, but I don’t remember if they ever actually reprogrammed the alarm. If they did, they never told me. As far as I know, they never told Rachel or Charlie, either.
I could try it now. 4606. I repeat the numbers over and over in my mind, terrified that I’ll forget them in my panic.
Too much time has passed already; I don’t have the opportunity to think things through any further. I run downstairs, toward the front door where the keypad is mounted on the wall, adrenaline rushing through my body, ready to push past whoever has broken in. As I’m running, though, I lose my footing. I fall. And when I hit the hardwood floor, landing flat on my back, I get the wind knocked out of me. I can’t speak or scream or move as I lie there, staring up at the figure hovering over me.
The face is familiar, concerned, and looks just as panicked as I feel. She takes me by the hands and pulls me to a sitting position. I struggle and struggle, trying to breathe, until something inside me releases and I find air again.
I’m not going to need the hostage code. “Two-five-one-one,” I gasp, pointing at the alarm panel beside the front door. “Two-five-one-one-stop. Go punch it in. Do it now! Two-five-one-one-stop.”
I press my face into my hands. I’m still dizzy from the fall. How long has it been since the alarm went off? Twenty seconds? Thirty? More?