Mom called me a evil kid for the breaking, the shaking, the screaming. She cursed me, beat me, she wished she’d never had me. And then I really died. Mom says I’ve always been a troublemaker. But I’m not. I swear I’m not. It’s just—my body won’t listen to me? The very first time Mom tried to nurse me, I nearly bit her nipple off. She screamed. Dropped me right on the bed. She still brings it up. Like it’s evidence. Like it proves I came out wrong. “Ava.” Smack. The wooden spoon cracks against my palm.”If you were half as easy as your sister—half, Ava—I swear I’d actually have a minute of peace in my life.” She’s not even raising her voice. Somehow that’s worse. She’s just… done with me. Completely over it. I dropped my soup again. My hand just—opened. Like it forgot how to hold things. I didn’t mean to. This is my thing. My stupid, broken, unfixable thing. At three, I couldn’t grip a crayon without launching it across the room. At eight, my pen would shoot off the page mid-word, like my fingers had a mind of their own. Now I’m ten. And it’s getting worse. Way worse. She dragged me to to her hospital. They stuck me with needles. Taped electrodes to my head. Ran every test you can think of. Everything came back clean. So that was that. She made up her mind: I was faking. A liar. A needy little brat begging for attention. And after that? Every time my body did the thing—the spasm, the jerk, whatever it was—she’d hit me, until my arms go numb. Until I stop crying. Because crying just makes her hit harder. I’ve stopped counting how many times. I hurt all the time now. Every breath, every move. But Mom’s a doctor. And doctors don’t lie. So if she says I’m faking… then I must be faking, right? It has to be my fault. So maybe she’s right. Maybe I really am just a bad seed. Then Mia had her asthma attack. Mom was screaming. “Ava! The inhaler! Now!” I ran. God, I ran so fast. And then, my hand jerked. The inhaler shot out of my fingers, sailed through the open window. Gone. Mom’s whole face went scarlet. She backhanded me so hard my ears rang and my cheek bounced off the wall. “Are you out of your mind?! If your sister dies because of you, Ava—I swear, I will never forgive you. Never.” She scooped up Mia. Slammed the door behind her. I heard the deadbolt slide. I crumpled to the floor. The sobs just ripped out of me. “Mommy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please. I’m sorry…” I can’t breathe now. Not like panic. Something else. It’s like the air itself is draining out of the room. Like someone pulled a plug somewhere and all the oxygen is leaking away. I try to stand. My legs are rubber. They buckle under me. My hands. My arms. The spots that always throb during an episode don’t even hurt anymore. They’re just gone. Numb. Dead weight. I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait. This always passes. Few minutes. Ten. Fifteen, tops. My stupid, broken body always settles down eventually. Hands me back the wheel. But this time something’s different. My head. Oh God, my head. It’s splitting open. I’m gonna be sick. No. No, no, no. I need to call her. I need to tell Mom something’s really wrong this time. I drag myself to the coffee table. My phone’s right there. I grab it. Hit her number. She picks up already irritated. “What now, Ava? Mia’s still on the nebulizer. Can you please—for once in your life—just leave me alone?” I fight to push the words out. “Mommy… I don’t… something’s wrong…” She scoffs. This awful, hollow little laugh. “Oh, here we go. Faking sick again? Trying to one-up your sister? You’ve pulled this a hundred times, Ava. A hundred. Every single test came back normal. So you tell me—why the hell should I believe you?” Mia’s voice drifts through in the background. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” And just like that, Mom’s whole tone shifts. Warm. Gentle. “Hang on, baby girl. Mommy’s getting you water right now.” Then she’s back on me. Cold again. “I’m done, Ava. I already shortchange Mia because of you. I see fifteen patients a day. I come home dead on my feet. And you still won’t cut me a break. Every single time you pull something, I have to drop everything and deal with you. And Mia gets nothing. She’s actually sick right now, Ava. So what do you want from me? Huh? What more could you possibly want?” She hangs up. All I want is for her to believe me. Just once. I have never been lying.When my stomach hurt so bad I was rolling on the floor all night, crying into the carpet? She said I was dodging a math test. When I spiked a hundred-and-three fever? She said I’d pressed a heating pad to my forehead to trick the thermometer. Even the breathing thing—she says I’m just copying Mia.Putting on a show. But Mia wasn’t even having a real attack today. She was messing around with slime, accidentally inhaled some powder. That’s literally it. Mom said she’ll be home tonight. She promised she’d come back. I just have to hang on till then. She’ll see me. She’ll know. She’ll fix it. She has to. My eyes drift to the wall across from me. Mia’s wall. Plastered with her ribbons and trophies and photos. First place, piano. First place, spelling bee. Lead dancer in the spring recital. There she is in that picture. White tutu. Hair swept into a perfect bun. Beaming like the whole world belongs to her. My throat closes up. There’s a family photo tucked in the corner. The four of us—Mom, Dad, Mia, me. Except I look like I wandered in from a different family. I’m drowning in some cousin’s hand-me-downs. My hair’s a wreck. I’m smiling, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Anyone can tell. Everybody loves Mia more. And honestly? I get it. If I had to choose between a kid like me and a kid like her—I’d choose her too. That white dress she’s wearing in the photo. God, it’s beautiful. If I could dance like that. If I could wear something that pretty. If I could stand on a stage and not have my body betray me in front of everyone. Would Mom love me then? The thought hits me somewhere deep, this raw, hollow ache that I don’t have words for. And then, out of nowhere, something sparks inside me. This tiny, desperate flame. I want to wear that dress. Just once. Just to know what it feels like. I start crawling. I pull myself across the floor. My fingernails catch on the wood. Everything hurts. But I think about that dress. How pretty it is. How it smells like Mom’s hugs. Mia’s room. The closet. The tutu. I’m almost there. Inch by inch. Dragging myself forward. My arms are trembling. My skull is throbbing so hard my vision blurs. But I keep going. My fingers find the tutu. I rip it from the hanger and wrap my whole body around it. I press it against my face and breathe. It smells like Mom. Her perfume. Like the hug I’ve been dreaming about for years—the one she used to give me. The one she stopped giving me so long ago I can barely remember what it felt like. I close my eyes. Breathe it in. Let it fill me up. And then I exhale. Long and slow. Like something inside me is finally, finally letting go. The pain drains away. Everything fades to black. I open my eyes—no. Wait. That’s not right. I’m not opening anything. I’m above. I’m curled up on the floor next to Mia’s bed. The white dress is bundled in my arms. My lips are parted. My eyes are half-shut. I look… peaceful. Like I’m sleeping. But I’m not sleeping. I’m floating. Right here. Right above my own body. I reach down and try to touch my face. My hand passes straight through. No. Mom is going to walk in and find me like this. Clutching Mia’s dress. She’s going to think I was going through Mia’s things again. Causing trouble. Being the problem child. She’s going to be so angry. I try to move. Try to shove myself back inside my body, back into my skin. I can’t feel anything. I can’t reach anything.
Mom doesn’t come home that night. Mia finishes her breathing treatment at the hospital. Then she spots some girl from her class in the waiting room. She latches onto Mom’s sleeve, bouncing. “Can I go to her house? Please? Pleeeease?” The girl’s mom is standing right there, all friendly. “She’s welcome to sleep over. Just one night. No big deal.” Mom says yes without blinking. Doesn’t even pause. The other mom tilts her head. “Don’t you have another daughter? She should come too.” Mom flicks her wrist. “Nah, that one’s tough. She can fend for herself.” Tough. That’s the word Mom gave me after every test came back clean. Like a label she slapped on and never peeled off. Like she resents herself for ever losing sleep over me—so now she overcorrects. Hard. I’m not sick. I’m not fragile. I’m not worth worrying about. I’m just tough. Mia’s the delicate one. Mia’s the one who matters. Mia stubs her toe and sobs for an hour straight. Mom scoops her up. Kisses her forehead. Holds her like she might shatter. I quit waiting for that a long time ago. I got used to it. The broken promises. The way she picks Mia over me, every single time, without flinching. Mia needs her. Work needs her. There’s always something bigger. Something better. Always a reason that isn’t me. Mom and Mia roll in the next afternoon. I drift toward the door before I even realize I’m doing it. My arms reach out—force of habit—ready to pull her shoes off the way I always did. It was never about love. It was survival. The thing I trained myself to do so she wouldn’t start yelling. My hands pass straight through her. Mom squints around the living room. “Ava? You still in bed? Get out here. Now.” She toes off her shoes. Wanders into the kitchen for water. The kettle is bone dry. Her whole face hardens. “Ava! Seriously? You do nothing. Absolutely nothing. You can’t even boil water? What the hell is wrong with you?” I hover behind her. Watching the rigid set of her shoulders. “Mom,” I whisper. “I can’t boil water anymore. I can’t do anything. I can’t move.” She doesn’t hear me. She never hears me. Then Mia starts screaming from the bedroom. “Mom! MOM! Get in here! Ava took my dress! My white tutu! I told her nobody’s allowed to touch it!” Mom bolts down the hall. And then she sees me. My body. Her eyes zero in on the white dress crumpled against my chest. Her face goes crimson. She wrenches the tutu out of my arms. Without it, my body just—collapses. Tips sideways like a sack of trash someone forgot to take out. Mom doesn’t even glance down at me. She’s too busy turning the dress over in her hands, hunting for damage. When she spots the creases where my fingers had been clutching the fabric, something in her snaps. She snatches a hardcover textbook off Mia’s desk and cracks it against my skull. “Don’t you EVER touch your sister’s things!” My body rocks to the side. Settles back. “How many goddamn times do I have to say it? Are your ears just decoration?” “Oh, you wanna play dead? Fine. I’ll give you a reason to be dead.” She grabs a wire hanger off the floor and starts swinging. Again. And again. And again. I don’t move. I just float there and watch. Watch the hanger come down. Watch my body absorb every blow. No twitch. No whimper. Nothing. I can’t feel any of it. So this is what dead feels like. No pain. No fear. No nothing. Mom finally burns herself out. She’s doubled over, chest heaving. She delivers one last kick to my shin. “Get up. Take that dress to the dry cleaner. Then sit your ass down and write me five pages on why you’re grounded. You don’t eat till it’s done.” I don’t move. She stands over me. Waiting. Her jaw clenches. I can see her gearing up for round two— Her phone goes off. The hospital. “Dr. Taylor? The little girl in bed seven is asking for you again. She’s saying you’re the only one she’ll let hold her during her shot. Any way you can swing by?” And just like that, Mom’s voice transforms. Honey-warm. Gentle. “Of course, sweetheart. Tell her I’m on my way.” She reaches for Mia’s hand. “C’mon, baby. You’re coming to the hospital with Mommy. We’ll grab pizza from the cafeteria tonight—whatever toppings you want, okay?” Mia hesitates. Looks back at me on the floor. Blinks. “But… what about Ava?” Mom rolls her eyes so hard her whole head moves. “Leave her. She wants to play dead? Let her play dead. She’ll come crawling out the second she’s hungry enough. Trust me.” Mia shrugs, lets out a little cheer, and skips out the door. It slams shut. The apartment goes still. I sink down beside my own body. The textbook cracked my head open. But there’s nothing leaking out anymore. Not a drop. Mom, I won’t stain the carpet this time. I won’t cry for food. I won’t be a troublemaker anymore.
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