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“Home, please,” I say, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes.
I must fall asleep, because I startle awake when the rear door opens. “We’re home, Miss Izabella,” Mark says, his voice soft and gentle, a concerned smile tipping the corners of his lips.
Blinking rapidly, I rub at my gritty eyes. Grabbing my backpack, I shuffle to the edge of the seat and take Mark’s hand, letting him help me from the car. “Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing his hand lightly. His nod is resigned as he releases me and I move past him, climbing the front steps to the house.
The door swings open as I approach, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Humphries, greets me, smiling tightly. “Miss Izabella, welcome home. Can I take your backpack?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Humphries, but I’ll take it straight up to my bedroom.”
“Miss Izabella?” Mrs. Humphries calls.
“Yes, Mrs. Humphries?” I dutifully reply.
“Your parents and Miss Penelope are engaged at dinner with the Woodsonvilles. Would you like to eat in the dining room, or would you prefer something brought up to your room?” she asks with professional politeness.
“If you’ve already cooked, then I’ll take it in my room. If not, then please don’t trouble yourself cooking just for me, I can make myself a sandwich later,” I assure her.
“The chef prepared some soup at lunchtime, I could heat some of that for you?” she offers, her expression softening.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I say, offering her a genuine smile.
Nodding, she leaves, heading toward the kitchen, and I quickly dart upstairs to the sanctuary of my bedroom.
The moment I push open the heavy wooden door and step into my room, I exhale a sigh of relief. The familiar scent of my safe haven washes over me, instantly calming me as the door swings closed behind me. My room is the only space in my very small world that is solely mine.
When I was a little kid, I used to watch a TV show about twins who shared a room and would snuggle together in one queen-size bed to share secrets. I’d idealized their relationship, but Penelope and I had never behaved like that. Even when we were little, she never liked me being in her space. The one time I tried to climb into bed with her, she screamed so loudly she woke our nanny, who quickly escorted me back to my own room. After that, it became a rule that we weren’t allowed into each other’s space unless specifically invited.
Now, I’m glad that she’s not allowed in my room, almost as much as I’m glad I’m not invited into hers. These four walls are my solace, my inner sanctum, where I’m Izabella Cordelia Rhodes all of the time, where no one mistakes me for my sister, and I never have to pretend to be anyone else.
Dropping my backpack into my closet, I kick off my black patent leather pumps, peel off my knee socks, and pad over to the bed. Flopping down onto my comforter, I scan my room and sigh, letting some of the tension melt from my body. My walls are a deep, rich purple, and as my gaze lands on the spots of colored paint marring the white ceiling, I can’t help but smile.
It’s probably childish to love my bedroom as much as I do, but I can’t help it. Until last year, my room had been the mirror image of Penelope’s—a sea of perfectly styled creams and pale pinks that I hated. For the last three-and-a-half years, I’d gotten so used to everything being perfect for my twin that I stopped thinking about what I wanted.
Then at the end of junior year, after I’d studied for and taken every single one of my sister’s end-of-year finals, our parents and Penelope left to spend the summer in the Hamptons, and I was alone, staring at the hideous pink throw pillows and wishing I could set them all on fire.
Two days later, I had Mark drive me to a hardware store and help me pick out everything I needed to change my bedroom from boring beige hell to the deep purples and silvers that now grace the walls. Renovating is a lot harder than it looks, and some of the walls are still patchy, but somehow the imperfections only make me love it even more.
My mom lost her shit when she saw the shoddy paint job I did. She threatened to punish me if I didn’t allow the interior designer to put it all back to the way it was. But for the first time in years, I refused to do what she wanted. Because what else can she do to me when she’s already stripping me of my identity, ruining my education, and having me spend more and more time pretending to be my sister?
The color of the walls in my bedroom might only be a tiny act of rebellion, but every time I step into this room, I’m reminded that I still exist, that I still matter, and almost a year later, I still love the color and the moment of freedom it represents.
Groaning tiredly, I roll off the bed and strip out of my school uniform. In just my bra and panties, I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Grabbing a wipe, I stand in front of the mirror and remove all of my makeup until my skin is bare, and I am finally able to breathe. Unlike Penelope, I hate wearing makeup. I hate fiddling with my hair and looking perfect just because that’s what’s expected of me.
You’d think that considering most people don’t even know I exist, it wouldn’t matter what I look like, but since we started this whole charade, neither my parents nor Penelope will let me leave the house looking anything less than catwalk-ready. Because if I’m pretending to be my sister, God forbid there be a blemish or a hair out of place.
After taking a quick shower, I’m pulling on a baggy shirt and a pair of cotton boxers from my dresser when there’s a soft knock on the door. Opening it, I find Mrs. Humphries standing in the hallway, carrying a tray laden with a steaming bowl of soup.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to take the tray from her hands.
“You’re welcome, Miss Izabella,” she replies softly.
I hate that I can see the sympathy in her eyes; both she and Mark know something is wrong with our family, but they don’t know the whole truth, no one does. No one can ever know. Parting her lips, she starts to speak, then stops. Nodding politely, she runs her eyes over me, presses her mouth into a frown, then turns and leaves.
Closing the door, I climb into bed, juggling the tray and trying not to let the soup spill as I settle back against my pillows. Reaching for my remote, I turn on my TV then press play, lifting a spoon full of hot, rich tomato soup to my lips as the familiar credits of Dirty Dancing start to play.
Right here, right now, in my space all alone, I finally relax and eat my dinner, allowing myself to just be me, just Izabella, and no one else.
…
