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Despite our relationship not being everything I imagined it to be, I do love my sister, or at least I love the person she used to be before the inheritance imploded all of our lives. Back then, she might not have been my biggest fan, but we were at least equals.
Now, when I consider my life, everything can be categorized as either before or after the inheritance. Before the inheritance, I had two parents and a sister. After, I lost all three of them to greed and the pursuit of power.
A part of me kind of understands what my great-grandfather was trying to do when he named Penelope in his will. But I don’t think he considered the kind of pressure his stipulations would put on someone who was barely more than a child.
He planned her life for her, refusing to allow her the grace to fail when failure is inevitable because my sister is human and no one can be perfect all of the time.
The very first time I pretended to be Penelope was a couple of months after Reginald’s death. I found her sobbing and completely inconsolable because she had a math test coming up and she was terrified that she would fail it, ruin her grade point average, and lose everything. By that point, my parents had brainwashed her into believing that her entire worth was tied to the inheritance, and she was starting to buckle under the pressure. So, I suggested that just that once, I could take the test for her.
I assured her that no one would know it was me. I even joked that she was so popular that most of the people at our school didn’t even know she had a twin. Back then, I thought I was just being a good sister. I had no idea how that one event would change everything.
A sound just outside the door has me freezing, not breathing for fear that whoever is on the other side will hear me.
When I took that first math test for Penelope, I’d thought it’d be a one-off, but it wasn’t. The day I found this room, I’d just finished taking my third pop quiz in two weeks while pretending to be my sister, and I’d been so flustered that a teacher would realize it was me and not her that I’d darted from the room the moment the bell rang, hoping to get somewhere out of sight before the corridors filled with kids.
In my haste to find somewhere I could hide, I’d fallen over my own feet and straight into this door. When I’d reached for the handle to help pull myself up, it had twisted and the door had opened. This room has been my sanctuary ever since. After I’d hidden in here ten or so times, I noticed a set of keys hanging from a hook. I wasn’t expecting any of them to be the key for the darkroom, but there it was, old and tarnished and just begging me to lock the room and see if anyone noticed.
They didn’t. Not when I left traps to see if anyone else used the room, not when I added stuff to make hiding in here a little more comfortable. That was three-and-a-half years ago, and up until now, no one has ever tried to come in while I’ve been in here.
More noise comes from outside, and the door rattles. Lurching into motion, I grab my backpack and dart behind the couch, crouching down and clutching my things to my chest as I make myself as small as possible. A long moment passes as I wait, holding my breath, while I listen for the sound of a key in the lock, but nothing happens.
After several long moments curled into a ball in the tiny space behind the couch, I push up onto my knees and peer over the top of the leather. The room is still empty, the door still closed and locked. A relieved rush of air bursts from me, and I crawl out from my hiding spot and wilt down onto the couch, the old leather cushions almost swallowing me.
Checking my watch, I sigh. I need to get back to class. Not that my attendance really makes a difference, because I miss almost as many of my classes as I actually attend. My situation at GAA is complicated. I’m a registered student, and the office, principal, and I’m assuming all of the staff know that both Penelope and I attend. In theory, we both have our own class schedules, but only me, Penelope, and our parents know that I switch places with my sister almost on a daily basis to make sure she stays the perfect little student.
Sliding my backpack on, I walk to the door, twist the lock open, and slowly turn the handle until the door unlatches. The bell is due to ring any minute, but for now, the halls should be empty, and I probably don’t need to sneak around, but old habits die hard.
Pushing the door open an inch, I peer around the edge, scanning the hall for anyone watching. It’s empty, but I still wait another moment before I open it any further. Creating a gap just big enough to squeeze through, I immediately close the door behind me and lock it. As I slide the key into the inside pocket of my blazer, I draw in a calming breath. Every moment here is a pretense, but I’d rather spend my time pretending I’m invisible than acting like my sister. Stepping away from the door, I drop my gaze to the floor, let my hair shield my face, and blend into my surroundings. Invisible, unimportant, forgettable.
2
GULLIVER
What the fuck is Penelope Rhodes doing sneaking out of the old photography darkroom? The corridor is empty except for me and her. The warning bell for next period will ring in a moment, but right now we’re the only two stragglers who aren’t where they’re supposed to be. My secluded spot, hidden in the shadows beside a bank of lockers, is the perfect place to see but not be seen. It’s also out of the range of the cameras and far enough away from the smoke detectors that I can enjoy a cigarette without anyone noticing.
Penelope isn’t someone I usually pay attention to, she’s too busy making sure everyone is looking at her for me to give a fuck what she’s doing. But right now, I’m rapt, wondering why she’s shiftily scanning the hallway like she’s doing something she shouldn’t be.
If it was anyone but her, I wouldn’t care. I’m not a snitch, and I don’t care who’s fucking in the empty classrooms or doing coke in the bathrooms. But Penelope prides herself on being perfect, she’s the epitome of Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, and right now I’m intrigued to know what the hell she’s up to that she doesn’t want people to know about.
Gaze fixed on her, I scoff lightly as she pushes a key into the lock on the darkroom door and secures it before sliding the key into her blazer pocket. Rolling my eyes, I let my back rest against the wall behind me. Of course, she has a key. She’s the golden girl of GAA, and the faculty definitely loves her enough to give her a private room to use as she sees fit, but if she’s not doing anything wrong, why is she acting like she’s up to something?
Penelope was a quiet, friendless freshman when her great-grandfather named her in his will. The moment she gets her inheritance, she’s going to be a very rich woman and every single person at this school knows it. Now our simpering classmates follow her around like they think money is going to start falling out of her asshole, it’s fucking pathetic.
What baffles me is that our entire graduating class is all fucking rich. And I’m not talking buy-yourself-the-latest-pair-of-limited-editions-kicks rich. I mean the never-have-to-work-a-day-in-our-lives kind of rich. The fact that we even attend GAA says that our parents are loaded, so why worship the bitch just because she’s going to be mega wealthy?
Unable to tear my gaze away, I stay silent and still as she does something so unlike the Penelope Rhodes I know and hate that I actually blink to see if I’m imagining it. As I watch, she lowers her head, drops her chin almost into her chest, lets her straight blonde hair fall over her cheeks, obscuring her face, and curls in on herself, like she’s trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. Then she walks away.
“What the fuck?” I murmur beneath my breath. I don’t know what just happened. Penelope is quite possibly the most confident woman I’ve ever met. To her, life and especially this school are her stage and the rest of us are just the audience, intended to stare up at her in wonder while she struts past.
She doesn’t cower. She doesn’t hide herself or try to be anything less than the center of attention. So, what the hell was that? The bell rings, but I ignore it. The urge to follow her has me pushing off the wall and emerging out of my hiding place as I try to keep her retreating form in sight. Little Miss Perfect isn’t the type to skip class, but she sure as shit isn’t in French right now, where we’re both supposed to be.
Keeping enough space between us so she doesn’t realize I’m following her, I turn the corner and almost walk straight into someone as they step out of a classroom.
“Mr. Winslow, where should you be right now?” Principal Smith asks, her shrill voice instantly recognizable.
“Je suis supposé être en cours de Français, mais comme vous le savez déjà, je le parle couramment et pourrais probablement orienter l’enseignant sur la manière d’améliorer sa prononciation,” I reply back to her in flawless French.
Her scowl is so funny, I barely hold back a smirk. It’s widely known, and kind of ironic, that Principal Smith doesn’t speak any of the four languages that are taught here, including Latin, which is a compulsory course every student is required to take to graduate. “I don’t speak French, Mr. Winslow. Perhaps you should get to your class and ask your teacher to critique your oral skills,” she says, one hand propped on her hip, the other pointing in the direction of my classroom.
