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Sorina’s voice was dreamy when she asked, “Are you going to take Kyrie?”
I reached out, placing my palm on her calf. Touching her was nothing like touching anyone else. It calmed me. The slight buzzing in my ears, the swelling anxiety, it fell away when I touched her flesh. “Do you have a better idea?” I asked, having one of my own, needed her to say it.
She shook her head. “No. Take your pretty friend. Have fun,” she said.
We said little else that night, and I thought of nothing else but Sorina as I walked home—her blue eyes, her flesh, the pink of her nipples visible through her wet clothing.
I smelled of her. Of her home—earthy, like pennies in a well. And when I fell to bed, the nightmares did not reach me.
But I dreamed—writhed, touched myself in the dark.
And that was a nightmare in itself.
FIVE
If you had asked Valerie, she would have told you plainly that she’d never been the good daughter. The most loved daughter.
She’d been the daughter of pity. The daughter of social status. The daughter ofthis is a good deed.
Valerie Hawkridge’s mother and father adopted her from a Seattle foster home when she was five years old. Her mother said her ruddy hair drew her to her. She stood out. She reminded her of autumn, Libby Hawkridge’s favorite season. She reminded her of falling leaves and apple cider.
Of course, Valerie was a child, not a season, but it got her out of the foster home, so she didn’t complain.
She went from the foster home to a three-story house in the suburbs. She went from sleeping on a cot to wearing a uniform on her first day at a cute little private school. One more piece of her new parents’ perfect, cookie-cutter life.
She went from being an orphan to a daughter. Asister.
Her new brother was five years older than her. And her new sister was only ten months older. It didn’t take long for them to be attached at the hip or behave more like twins than two little girls that were only related by law.
Serendipity loved to remind Valerie that she was ten months older than her when she did wrong, when she wanted to tattle, and when she tried to confess all the cruel things her new sister did.
Valerie was the perfect daughter; she’d styled herself that way.
Serendipityappearedto be the perfect daughter.
Behind her laughter and embrace was resentment.
Why did they need to bring Valerie home? Why did they need a new daughter when they had her?
Serendipity never spoke those words out loud, but Valerie felt them when her eyes landed on her some days. They were thick as thieves, but the older sister was the only thief. The younger was the lookout. Valerie was the cover-up.
It had started small.
Serendipity killed their brother’s fish. Valerie covered. Said it was her.
Serendipity stole twenty bucks from their father’s wallet. Valerie covered. Said it was her.
Serendipity convinced her new sister it was okay for her to take the blame. She had no real parents, so she could be forgiven easily.
Serendipity said Valerie wasdirty, and if she helped her, she would be clean one day.
She couldn’t see what she was then. A child’s eyes were so pure. She wanted to belong, and with Serendipity, she did. Even if it was just as a scapegoat of sorts.
When they hit high school, Serendipity was the most beautiful girl in their class. She was five foot ten, legs for days. Her hair was jet black, and her ivory skin always drew men in. Her classmates, the teachers, everyone.
Valerie was popular by association. She shouldn’t have been—not with her frizzy, red hair, braces, and awkward way of speaking. Not according to the laws of high school.
There is a price to pay for being an imposter.
