At our senior year pep rally, the entire graduating class stood lined up on the athletic track. “If your parents ever hired a private tutor for you, take one step forward.” A large portion of the crowd shuffled ahead. I didn’t move. “If your parents have taken you on an international vacation, take a step forward.” I stayed planted. “If your parents paid for you to develop a special talent or hobby, take a step forward.” Only a few kids were left near the starting line. We awkwardly lowered our heads. “If your parents have always viewed you as their pride and joy, take a step forward.” I gripped the cuffs of my sleeves. The question physically ached. When I finally looked up, I was the only one left on the starting line. People turned around, looking at me with curious pity. Looking past the crowd, I saw my twin sister standing at the very front. She was one step away from the finish line. And I couldn’t even leave the start. With the blast of the principal’s whistle, we were told to sprint to the end. My sister, Maya, crossed the finish line effortlessly. I trailed far behind, gasping for air, feeling like my lungs were about to collapse. “Life isn’t fair, and all you can do is sprint to your own finish line!” the principal announced over the megaphone. This senior rally ended with me crossing the line dead last. My twin sister, Maya, was first. She jogged over, smiling, and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Mia, it wasn’t that tiring,” she said breezily. But those questions had forced a 300-yard gap between us. A 300-yard chasm carved entirely by our parents’ blatant favoritism. I awkwardly pulled my arm away. By the time late-night AP study hall ended, it was 9 PM. Mom was waiting at the school gates, as always. She instinctively reached out, took Maya’s backpack, and cheerfully opened the passenger door for her. I suddenly felt a surge of quiet rebellion. I didn’t open the back door to slide in like I usually did. I just wanted to see if Mom would even notice I wasn’t there. I stood on the sidewalk. Waiting. The engine revved. The car drove off and vanished around the corner. I started counting the minutes. I wondered how long it would take for Mom to realize the backseat was empty. Thirty minutes passed. My legs grew stiff. Finally, my phone buzzed. Mom. “Mia, why haven’t you come upstairs yet? Maya and I are eating late-night takeout, we aren’t waiting for you.” My tears fell, shattering silently against the pavement. She hadn’t just failed to notice me missing at the school. She had driven all the way home, parked, and walked inside without ever glancing in the rearview mirror. The string in my heart that had been pulled taut for seventeen years finally snapped. I opened the calendar app on my phone, highlighting Graduation Day in red. One hundred days. I just had to endure one hundred more days. Then, I would leave. And I would never come back. Chapter 2 It was past midnight when I finally walked home. The motion-sensor light flickered on as I opened the door. On the dining table sat the remnants of their takeout. Next to it was a small container left for me. I opened it. The leftover casserole was packed with onions. For seventeen years, they still put onions in my food—knowing I hated them—and lectured me about being a picky eater. But I loved asparagus. Maya hated it. So asparagus was never allowed in the house. I dropped my backpack and sat in the dark living room. Moonlight caught the polished surface of Maya’s piano trophies, making them gleam. When I was little, I begged to take painting classes. Mom just sighed. “Mia, do you know how expensive art supplies are? Money doesn’t grow on trees.” A year later, Maya saw someone playing the piano on TV and threw a tantrum because she wanted to do it too. Our parents instantly took out a loan and spent ten thousand dollars on a baby grand. If Maya absentmindedly hit a few keys, my parents showered her with praise. When Maya cried about not placing in local competitions, my parents secretly donated to the organizers to ensure she got a medal. The day she won, she shoved the trophy in my face, beaming. “See? I told you I was a prodigy!” I couldn’t smile. I couldn’t force a congratulations. Mom kicked me under the table, whispering, “Don’t ruin the mood.” To this day, my art supplies consisted of mechanical pencils and printer paper. My drawings, much like my life, were entirely in grayscale. I often stared at that dust-gathering piano, wondering if that ten thousand dollars would have bought me a lifetime of canvases. The moonlight shifted to our family photo wall. In every portrait, Maya stood dead center, my parents leaning toward her. I was always on the far edge, practically out of frame. But those were the pictures I cherished, because they were the only ones that actually included me. The rest were snaps from their international vacations. The Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, the London Eye. I had asked to go once. I was firmly rejected. “You’re the older sister,” Dad had said. “You need to be responsible and watch the house.” “We’ll take you next time,” Mom promised. “We’ll take turns.” “We’re identical twins anyway,” Maya had chimed in. “Me going is basically you going.” I waited for years for my “turn.” It never came. Eventually, I stopped asking. I stopped wondering why it mattered that I was the older twin when we were born minutes apart. I finally realized the truth. It wasn’t about birth order. They just loved their other child. Not me. Chapter 3 The next morning, Mom pushed my bedroom door open. “Mia, why didn’t you eat your leftovers?” I didn’t answer. I knew that wasn’t the real reason she was here. “If you’re not busy today, go to the library and print Maya’s practice exams. Oh, and her new private SAT tutor doesn’t know the neighborhood. Go wait at the entrance of the subdivision and guide him in.” “Mom, I’m a senior too,” I said, looking her in the eye. “She can do her own chores.” Mom’s face dropped into a scowl. “How much time does it really take? Your sister isn’t scoring as high as you on the practice tests. We can’t interrupt her studying.” I laughed bitterly. Interrupt. In middle school, when my grades were worse than Maya’s, I was told to do all the household chores so Maya wouldn’t be “distracted.” Now, I was outscoring Maya by four hundred points on our SAT mock exams. And I was still the one doing the chores. She left a list on the counter. Aside from playing assistant to Maya, I had to do the laundry, buy groceries, and pay the HOA fees. By the time I finished my errands, the sun was setting. My weekend was gone. Maya, meanwhile, had been heavily tutored all day. My time was disposable. Maya’s was sacred. That night, my parents came home and fawned over Maya’s corrected practice tests. I was handed a box of leftover takeout. Full of onions. This time, I didn’t pick them out. I choked them down, forcing myself to remember that there were things in this world much harder to swallow. Since I was robbed of my weekends, I stole time wherever I could. I slept four hours a night. I memorized vocabulary while walking, rehearsed calculus formulas in the shower. Nosebleeds became a daily occurrence. I never told my parents. There was no point. I knew my only ticket out was a flawless GPA and a perfect test score. On the morning of the SATs, I was shooed out of the house early. Maya was still asleep. Mom was making her a gourmet breakfast; Dad was warming up the car. I took the city bus, watching parents drop their kids off at the testing centers. Even though Maya’s testing center was only a block away from mine, they told me to take the bus so Maya wouldn’t have to be rushed. When the final bell rang, parents flooded the courtyard, hugging their exhausted kids, handing them water bottles. I walked out alone. Out of morbid curiosity, I walked a block over to Maya’s center. Sure enough, there were my parents—holding an umbrella over Maya to block the sun, handing her an iced latte, laughing as she recounted the test. A picture-perfect family. I smiled. Then the tears fell. We shared 99% of our DNA. But that missing 1% was something I would never have. Their love. Chapter 4 My SAT score came back a 1580. Maya’s was an 1100. But at the massive graduation and college-reveal party my parents threw, the giant banner read: Congratulations Maya Miller on your College Acceptance! They told me they forgot to add my name and would make it up to me next time. As if you graduate high school twice. At the party, Maya was dressed in a stunning gown, soaking in the admiration of our relatives. My aunt, perhaps taking pity on me, shoved an envelope of cash into my hand. “It’s okay if you didn’t do well, Mia. Don’t be jealous of your sister.” I opened my mouth to tell her I had a near-perfect score. Before I could, Mom swooped in and snatched the envelope. “Oh, don’t give her that. The poor thing totally bombed her exams.” When results had come out, I had clearly stated my 1580 at the dinner table. No one had even looked up. But Maya’s 1100 resulted in a dinner reservation at a five-star steakhouse. When college acceptance letters rolled in, Dad hired an expensive admissions consultant to help Maya pick her school. No one asked where I was going. When my acceptance letter finally arrived in the mail, Mom glanced at the envelope, didn’t bother opening it, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “I’ll hold onto this for you,” Mom told my aunt, slipping the cash into Maya’s designer purse. Dad stood up and clinked his glass. “We are so incredibly proud of Maya’s hard work today!” The room erupted in applause. I remembered the principal’s question on the track. If your parents have always viewed you as their pride and joy… The only girl who had stepped forward with me that day was a student on food stamps whose uniform was bought by the PTA. But her parents loved her. The thing I lacked wasn’t money. It was love. I quietly slipped out of the banquet hall and dialed the admissions counselor at my chosen out-of-state university. “Hi, is there any way I can move into the dorms early?” The counselor paused. “Is everything okay at home, sweetheart?” I choked out a quiet, “Yeah.” She didn’t pry, but she immediately approved an early move-in override. When I got home that night, my acceptance letter was still on the counter. Unopened. Covered in coffee rings. Tomorrow, Dad would likely use it as a coaster, and Mom would throw it away. I took it, went to my room, and packed a single suitcase. I realized all my clothes were drab grays and blacks—cheap, durable, easy to wash. Maya’s closet was a rainbow of boutique labels. Maya was meant to shine. I was meant to fade into the background. I booked a Greyhound bus ticket. A grueling 30-hour ride across the country. I didn’t care. The university was thousands of miles away, and they had offered me a full-ride scholarship. More importantly, it had an open studio art program. I had lost the 300-yard dash at the start of my life, but I knew the person who won the marathon was the one with the most endurance. Before closing the door, I took one last look at the house. Maya’s trophies gleamed. The photos smiled down. The house wouldn’t feel my absence at all. I smiled, and pulled the door shut.
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