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“No,” I cry, my eyes wide and horrified. I only got home from school a few moments ago. I should have known something was going on when Mom had Mrs. Humphries send me into the living room instead of allowing me to hide in my bedroom. But I never expected this.
“I’m not asking you; I’m telling you. There’s no other option,” Mom says calmly, almost dismissively.
“No, I can’t do it. It’s bad enough that you have me pretending to be Penelope to get her through school. I’m not pretending to be her at a party. It’s insane, no one would believe it,” I cry again.
“Well, then you had better make it believable, because you will be attending our dinner at the Winslows’ tonight in your sister’s place. Do you understand me?” Her cold, emotionless voice is so familiar to me now that I can barely remember her being loving or caring. But then, before this stupid inheritance ruined our family, she was rarely here, always away traveling with Dad.
“Why can’t Penelope go?”
“Because your sister is unwell, and she can’t be seen with bags under her eyes and a green tinge to her skin,” Mom snaps, rolling her eyes like I’m a moron.
“So why don’t you just tell the Winslows that she’s sick? It’s hardly a crime. People get sick all the time,” I cry, darting my gaze to my dad, like he’ll agree with me, which of course he won’t.
Mom’s stony glare lands on me, her eyes narrowing with barely restrained anger. “Do you want this family to be ruined?” she hisses. “Do you want us to lose everything? Do you want to be the reason why your sister’s future is destroyed?”
I’ve heard this speech so many times, I could probably recite it back to her. When this all started, I used to feel this huge sense of responsibility every time I was reluctant to do what my mom wanted, like Penelope not getting her inheritance would actually be my fault if I didn’t comply. But all that guilt has faded over the years to a bitter resentment for my parents, almost more than for my sister.
I feel their betrayal even more deeply than hers, because at least Penelope is the one who will be directly affected by the loss of the money. Our parents are just greedy, power-hungry sycophants. They love the spotlight. They love the power of being in control of my sister, who she’ll marry and therefore who will ultimately get my great-grandfather’s fortune.
“Well?” Mom demands, tapping her toe impatiently against the floor, her angry, twisted face close enough to mine that I can smell the wine on her breath.
“Would it make a difference if I said I didn’t care?” I ask quietly. I know I shouldn’t bait her; it won’t end well. But it’s bad enough that they hide me away so people don’t remember Penelope has a twin, that they force me to miss my own classes to make sure my sister passes hers, but now they want me to pretend to be her at a party.
No. This is a step too far, it’s too much, and Mom needs to realize that.
Her palm hits my cheek, and the crack of her skin against mine is so loud that it seems to echo around the room, ricocheting off the perfectly decorated walls and around the luxurious soft furnishings.
My head flies to the side, and I close my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek to stop the tears that are filling my eyes from falling. For the last year, when my parents can’t force me to do what they want with guilt and coercion, they’ve started to resort to physical violence to ensure my compliance.
Inhaling slowly, I taste blood in my mouth as I open my eyes. I want to see some remorse in her gaze, something to show that she cares that she just slapped her daughter. But all I see is a stranger looking back at me. Someone that I don’t even recognize as my mother. Because she isn’t really my mother anymore, and I’m not her daughter. I’m just a puppet who looks like her cash cow.
“Go upstairs and shower. I’ll bring you an appropriate dress to wear.” She dismisses me. “And make sure you cover that blemish on your cheek,” she snaps, walking away without a backward glance.
My mother, ladies and gentlemen, is a grade A bitch.
I don’t run from her even though that’s what I want to do. To run and just keep on running until this life and her are nothing more than a memory. Instead, I turn my head and look at my dad. I don’t know why I’m expecting him to react. This isn’t the first time he’s watched Mom hit me. When I catch his eye, he looks me over, sneers, then turns his attention back to the newspaper in his hands, like I’m so insignificant to him that I’m not worth his notice.
Turning, I leave the room and slowly start to climb the stairs, my heart beating out a panicked rhythm in my chest. I knew this day would come eventually. The day when they’d make me do more than just take my sister’s tests. But a part of me hoped they’d realize how fucked up all of this is, because if this is okay and normal to them, what else will they expect me to do?
My parents have never been doting, loving people who showered us with care and attention, but before the will, we were a normal family, or as normal as the truly wealthy ever are. We were raised by nannies, who took care of us while our parents were distantly attentive, ensuring we had everything we needed. We were homeschooled by a series of tutors who taught us from the age of five all the way until we turned fourteen and started high school. We were perfectly dysfunctional, but still a family.
Now, I don’t even recognize my mom and dad as the same people who smiled, brought us gifts from their travels, and kissed us good night whenever they were home. Those people are gone, ruined by the dangling carrot of money and power. Now all that’s left is their empty husks with only one focus, one agenda, and one daughter that matters.
Forcing myself to keep moving, I pad silently up the stairs to my bedroom, my steps barely making a sound on the hard marble. Halfway up, I stop, sit down on a step, and take off my shoes and socks. Mom hates it when I do this because, according to her, it’s uncouth not to wear shoes on one’s feet, even in your own home. But I don’t care, no one ever sees me anyway, and right now I need to feel grounded and remind myself that I’m still me.
Pushing my bedroom door open, I wait for the calm, peaceful feeling to settle over me, but instead I’m confronted by the oppressive scent of my mother’s perfume and the dress that’s laid out on my bed.
Pale pink, A-line skirt, conservative neckline. It’s clearly from Penelope’s closet, and I hate everything about it. Mom likes to boast that my sister is a brand. She’s Penelope Rhodes, heiress, blonde, beautiful, flawless. Men desire her, women are jealous of her. Effortlessly graceful, the perfect high society darling. Of course, no one but me knows just how fake and manufactured everything about my sister is. Penelope is a product of my parents’ creation, she doesn’t exist anymore than I do, only where I’m being forced to do as my family demands. My sister is just as complicit in all this deceit as they are.
Sudden, raw, furious anger wells up inside of me. I can’t do this. I can’t be Penelope in a social situation. Just because we share the same face, I’m not my fucking sister. But I don’t understand why they’d want me to do this either. Gulliver Winslow is the number one pick on my parents’ list of suitable husbands for Penelope. His family is the epitome of old money, their blood pure and blue. So why would they risk me going in her place? It doesn’t make sense.
Full of righteous indignation, I stomp across the landing to my sister’s room, throwing open the door without knocking. Her room is immaculate, perfectly clean without a hint of her true personality, and completely devoid of life. “What the hell?” I hiss quietly, taking a step into the room and flicking the lights on as I pass. She’s not here.
“Why aren’t you ready?” my father’s brusque voice questions from behind me, making me jump and spin to face him.
“Where’s Penelope?”
“She’s sick,” he states blandly, ignoring the very obvious fact that my sister isn’t ill, she’s just not here.
