I stare down at the paper cup in my hand, reading the initials PSL scribbled onto the side. Laney once wrote a story for the paper about the nationwide pumpkin craze. She was convinced the whole thing could be traced back to this little drink. I wonder if that story still exists, even though I’m no longer editor in chief.
“Sequoia?” I say, glancing up from my cup. “Does the Windsor Academy have a school newspaper?”
She turns onto the main road, flashing me a strange look. “No. Why?”
I shake my head and take another sip from my drink. “No reason.”
If Sequoia Played Piano
Sequoia lives in one of those really nice gated communities with a country club and a golf course. I try to hide my reaction as she pulls into the driveway of her house because I’m supposed to have been coming here for more than three years, but it’s difficult. The house is spectacular. It’s three stories, with dramatically steep angles on the roof and a white stone façade.
When we walk through the front door, I feel like I’m walking into a museum. The interior is all rich creams and dark woods and red accents. And the most beautiful piece of classical music is playing from a speaker in the next room.
“Sorry about that,” Sequoia says, sounding slightly annoyed. “My sister is home from school for Thanksgiving break. She’s been at it nonstop.”
I follow her through the spacious living room into the kitchen, passing a round, turret-shaped nook where a girl is seated at a magnificent white grand piano.
Someone is playing that song?
I could have sworn it was a recording.
“Your sister,” I repeat curiously, taking a step toward the piano room. I can’t see the girl’s face because her back is to us, but from behind, they could practically be the same person. She has the same willowy frame as Sequoia and the same reddish-brown hair.
I watch, mesmerized, as the girl’s fingers move over the keys in graceful strokes, and I can’t help but be completely swept away by the sound.
“Kamilah,” Sequoia whines. “Can you give it a break for three seconds?” Then Sequoia leans in to whisper to me, “We haven’t had peace and quiet around here since she got back from Chestnut Ridge.”
Chestnut Ridge?
The fancy boarding school? Wow. No wonder she plays so well. That’s one of the hardest high school music programs to get into.
“You know,” Kamilah huffs, shutting the cover with a hard clack, “I don’t come up to your room and tell you to stop studying, do I?”
“My studying is quiet,” Sequoia retorted.
Kamilah turns around and I stifle a gasp when I see her eerily familiar face.
“You’re twins!” I say, before I can stop myself.
Whatever argument Kamilah was going to make next is completely ripped from her mouth. She gapes at me. “What’s with her?” she asks Sequoia.
Sequoia is looking at me with a matching expression. Glancing between them is kind of freaky. It’s like standing between two mirrors. “She’s…” Sequoia says haltingly. “She … didn’t have her caffeine this morning.”
She grabs me by the arm and drags me up the stairs until we’re safely behind the door of her room. “What was that?” she asks accusingly.
“Sorry,” I mumble, looking at the floor.
“You’ve only known Kamilah for three years.”
“I know. It’s just, sometimes I forget how much you look alike.”
Sequoia is quiet for a long moment. When I brave a glance up at her, she’s staring at me with an unnerving expression. “Okay, I’m going to chalk up your weird behavior lately to head trauma and stress. But I swear, if you crack on me, too, I will never forgive you.”
Crack on her, too?
What does that mean?
But before I can pry further, the soft melodic sound of another classical piece floats up the stairs. Sequoia lets out a groan and opens her bedroom door long enough to yell, “Why don’t you try getting a life and leaving the house for once?”
The piano gets louder in response. Sequoia slams the door again and gives me an apologetic look. “We’re just going to have to blast some music to mask the sound.”
“I think it’s kind of nice,” I say wistfully. “She’s obviously very talented.”
Sequoia shoots me a look of disgust. “Ugh. You’re beginning to sound like my crazy parents. God, it’s so much better when she’s locked away in that boarding school with all the other smug musical geniuses. Then I don’t have to listen to them fawn over her like she’s God’s gift to the world.”
I’m getting the feeling that this is not your average sibling rivalry. “They fawn over you, too,” I say.
I know I can’t be sure that’s true, but I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t be. I’ve been watching CoyCoy55 for the past three years. She’s smart. And beautiful. And inspiring. How could parents not be proud of a child like that?
She snorts. “Hardly.” She opens her closet door but just stares inside, like she forgot why she went in there to begin with.
“Sometimes I wonder how they chose, you know?” She says it so quietly, I’m not sure she even meant for me to hear. “We were infants. How did they pick her to be the musical one and me to be the academic one?” She turns and lets out a sad laugh. “I’ve seen the home videos, we were both banging around on pots and pans with a vengeance. Was her banging that much more melodic than mine?”
From the way she’s talking, I’m pretty sure this is a conversation we’ve had before. Probably even numerous times, so I know better than to ask her for an explanation. Instead, I try to offer comfort.
“Being academic is just as impressive,” I tell her.
She removes two plastic garment bags from the closet and lays them down on her bed. “Yeah, maybe if I was at the top of the class like you. But trust me, number six is nothing to brag about in this house. Not when you’ve been told your whole life that you’re being pitted against your twin sister.”
“Your parents never said that,” I argue, feeling confident in my statement. Because honestly, what kind of parent would say that?
“Maybe not in those exact terms, but the message has been pretty clear.” Sequoia lets out a deep, burdened sigh. “If I can just get into Harvard, everything will be fine. I’ll finally prove them wrong.”
I walk over and put my arm around her. “Of course you’ll get into Harvard.”
“You don’t know that,” she accuses, tears welling up. “A million things could go wrong. My SAT scores might not be high enough. I could flunk a test next week. I could bomb my admissions interview.”
I cringe at the reminder of being in Watts’s living room, variations of the word crap spewing out of my mouth like a broken fountain.
“Yeah, but you’re forgetting the most important thing,” I tell her.
She wipes the moisture from the corners of her eyes. “What?”
I squeeze her shoulder. “You go to the Windsor Academy! Do you know how good that looks on a college application? Do you know how many Windsor students get into Ivy League colleges every year?”
“Eighty-nine percent,” she replies automatically, like she’s a robot giving a preprogrammed response.
“Wow! Really?”
She shoots me a strange look and I conceal my surprise. “That’s right, 89 percent! See! That’s a huge percentage! Because the Windsor Academy is an amazing school.”
She sniffles. “Not as good as Chestnut Ridge.”
“Better than Chestnut Ridge,” I assure her.
She seems to contemplate that for a moment, a far-off look in her eyes. Then she asks, “Do you ever feel like a racehorse?”
I’m not following. “A racehorse?”
“Yeah. Like someone has invested all this money in you, everyone is watching, but no one really cares what you do or how you do it, just as long as you cross the finish line first?”
There’s something very sad about her question. It strikes a chord in me. I rack my brain f
or an appropriate response, but before I can get anything out, Sequoia unzips the first garment bag and says, “C’mon. We should start getting ready or we’ll be late.”
If I Turn Into a Princess
I realize I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to dresses but these two are absolutely amazing. Sequoia has dressed me in a sleek, strapless navy gown with a gathered waist while she’s wearing a stunning layered coral dress with a sequined hem.
Are we going to a school fund-raiser or the Academy Awards?
She also offered to do my hair and makeup, for which I’m grateful, because she did a much better job than I could ever do. My hair is pinned up in a side chignon with loose strands framing my face and my eye makeup is dark and sultry. Looking in the mirror, I can’t believe what I see. I can’t believe I’m wearing a dress like this. In my other life, I considered changing out of my jeans and Dad’s ratty old leather jacket the height of refinement. Now, I look like a celebrity!
I never thought I’d feel this way, but it’s kind of fun getting all dressed up. I guess it makes a big difference when you actually have somewhere to go.
The fund-raiser is being held at the country club in Sequoia’s community. Evidently, that’s why we decided to get ready here. It’s only a short drive from her house. The entire way there, I’m panicked that I won’t know what to do or what to say, but it becomes obvious the moment I walk through the door of the ballroom that Other Me, being the rock star that she is, already took care of everything.
I stand in the doorway in absolute awe. At Southwest High we sold candy and cheesecakes to raise money. This is like a society ball.
The giant room is decorated in Windsor Academy navy and silver. The tables are covered with glittery fabric and crystal glasses, and the waiters, dressed in white tuxedos with navy blue bow ties, are bustling around, putting final touches on the table settings.
The guests start arriving a few minutes later, and by eight o’clock the room is packed with beautiful people swathed in beautiful clothes. Everybody here is either a Windsor student, teacher, parent, or alum.
I make small talk with faculty. I eat delicious passed hors d’oeuvres. I steal away for the occasional dance floor romp with Sequoia. And I post so many SnipPics, my feed is overflowing. I just want to document everything. I want to freeze this moment and capture it in a frame.
This is, by far, the most glamorous thing I’ve ever done.
It’s truly something else.
Normal high-school seniors don’t attend events like this.
That’s because you’re not normal anymore, a voice in the back of my head reminds me.
I don’t think it’s fully hit me until right now.
My life at the Windsor Academy isn’t just about digital textbooks and award-winning teachers. It’s about so much more than that. Robotics Club, and Investment Club, and fancy fund-raising galas.
With the dress and the fancy party and the pumpkin in my latte, I’m beginning to fully understand how Cinderella felt when she was poofed right out of her sad failure of a life and into a brand-new exciting one.
So what if I don’t run a newspaper or write for a literary magazine? I’m living a true fairy tale!
After dinner is served, I wander through the aisles of the silent auction, clutching my expensive crystal glassware and marveling at all the amazing items that companies have donated. We’re not talking about a little teeth-cleaning at the local dentist or a gift basket from the grocery store. These donations are legit. Ski trips to Steamboat Springs, spa packages for two, even shopping sprees with a personal stylist! And some of the silent auction bids are over ten thousand dollars!
When I ran the Southwest Star, I was over the moon when we raised a tenth of that in a month! I remember how touch and go it was for the first few issues after I became editor in chief. We were living month to month, never knowing if we would be able to raise enough money to put out another issue. Printing physical copies cost money. Money the school wouldn’t give us. We sold ads to local businesses to keep ourselves afloat: orthodontists and nail salons and restaurants. I had to bang on doors and convince business owners why advertising in a “washed-up” medium was a good idea. The staff called me the Closer because I refused to leave until I got a check. For the most part, I simply pestered those poor people to death. But it worked. Because when you believe in something as much as I believed in that paper, you do what it takes.
And clearly, Other Me believes in this.
She believes in the Windsor Academy. Otherwise, why would she put so much effort into organizing a fund-raising event for it?
I stop and study the bid sheet for a bottle of red wine. It must be a pretty good wine because the highest bid is currently twenty-five hundred dollars from someone named—I bend down and squint at the messy handwriting—Dylan Parker?
That can’t be right. Why would he be bidding on a bottle of wine that he can’t even drink in support of a school that he doesn’t even like?
“It’s my dad,” says a voice, startling me. I jump back and accidentally land on the hem of my strapless dress, nearly pulling it right off my body.
A hand reaches out to steady me. When I finally catch my balance I see that it belongs to Dylan. He’s dressed in a black tux that, like his Windsor uniform, looks wrinkled and thrown on. His bow tie isn’t even tied.
“Whoa there,” he says. “We wouldn’t want you to fall twice in one week.” There’s no sympathy in his tone, only smugness.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and turn back toward the auction table. But I can still feel him there behind me. For some reason I get the impression that he’s watching me. Waiting for a reaction.
“It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?” he asks after a moment. “That my dad will spend twenty-five hundred dollars on a bottle of wine that he’ll never drink?”
“It’s for a good cause,” I retort tightly, without looking at him.
He scoffs. “Sure. Yeah. A good cause. There are children starving all over the world. The wild elephant population is dwindling because of poachers. The oceans are full of oil and trash, and half the fish species on the menu tonight are being overfished, but hey, let’s give our money to rich kids because God forbid they have to use year-old iPads in their science classrooms.”
“If you’re so against this fund-raiser, why are you even here?” I fire back.
“Trust me, there are plenty of places I’d rather be. But I wasn’t really given a choice. My dad is a very proud Windsor alum. As was my grandfather.”
“So you’re a legacy?”
He groans. “God, I hate that word.”
I sigh and keep walking, hoping to get away from buzz-kill Dylan. I can’t believe I ever went on a date with this guy!
I bend over to read the description on the next item and nearly drop my crystal glass. “Holy crap! Someone got Daphne Wu to donate autographed copies of all of her books?”
She’s hands down my favorite author. I remember when CoyCoy55 posted a picture of her in the Windsor Lauditorium when she came to speak last year.
Dylan steps up next to me and flashes me a strange look. “Seriously?”
“What? Not a fan?” I roll my eyes. “What a surprise.”
“Actually, I’m a huge fan. I was commenting on your reaction.”
I do my best to ignore him. Chances are he’s going to make some obnoxious comment about how I’m a zombie and zombies shouldn’t have favorite authors or some nonsense like that. I take a sip of my drink and move on to the next item up for bids—a set of designer luggage.
He follows, keeping his gaze trained on me. “I mean, didn’t you get Daphne Wu to donate the books?”
I spit out my drink. “What?”
He gives me another confused look. “I thought you got all the donations.”
“I did?!” I clear my throat when I see his reaction. “I mean, that’s right. I did. Yay for me.”
Meanwhile, inside, I’m screaming.
How on eart
h did Other Me manage to convince someone to donate a ski vacation worth over ten thousand dollars?
I’m beginning to think she really might be superwoman.
Dylan is still staring at me with that inquisitive expression, like he’s not quite sure what to make of me. I avoid his probing gaze by looking at the highest bid on the designer luggage set, blinking in surprise again when I see Dylan Parker’s name.
“So your dad is Dylan Parker, too?” I ask, peering up at him.
“Yup.” He makes a popping sound at the end of the word. “Dylan Parker III.”
“Doesn’t that make you a fourth?”
“The zombie can count!” he says, like he’s just discovered life on Neptune.
I scoff and turn to confront him. “I am not a zombie.”
He laughs. “Are you kidding? You’re like the queen of the zombies. Just look at all this!” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the entire room.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he spits back. “You don’t see the irony in raising money for a school that costs fifty thousand dollars a year to attend?”
Fifty thousand dollars?
I don’t remember the tuition being that high. Although to be honest, I never spent a ton of time on that section of the website.
“Well…” I struggle to find a defense, but I just don’t have one.
“Well, exactly,” Dylan says. “It’s ridiculous. This shindig alone probably costs over a hundred thousand dollars. And you’ll probably raise, what? A hundred and twenty-five? That’s some zombie math for you.”
I cross my arms, feeling my breathing grow shallow. Why do I always get so flustered around this guy? Why can’t I just ignore him and be done with it?
“Look,” I say, losing my cool. “I happen to really like it here. I’m grateful to be attending the Windsor Academy. And I’m not going to let you or anyone else spoil that for me. This school is amazing. It provides opportunities that most people would kill for. And if it takes a little extra money to make that happen, then I’m honored to donate my time and energy to help.”
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 13
