2
Ginny and I weren’t always such polar opposites. There was a time when we were inseparable. We were the sort of identical twins who dressed alike, wore our hair the same way, and completed each other’s sentences. We were twins in the vein of Mary-Kate and Ashley, minus the millions of dollars and a hit television show.
Somewhere in the attic of Dad and Susan’s two-story colonial in Dallas, Texas, there are volumes of photo albums documenting this period of my life.
Our lives, I should say.
There was no me back then, just as there was no Ginny. There was just us. Me and her. The twins.
On the rare occasion I actually flip through one of those albums, I can never identify myself in any of the pictures. Ginny and I are interchangeable in our matching rompers, matching socks, and matching patent leather shoes. Our haircuts are the same, as are our smiles.
Was it Ginny who fell off a pony in the kiddie area at the rodeo, or was it me? Which one of us lost a tooth first? Who colored the picture of the house and the smiling family of stick figures that still hangs in a frame above the staircase in our childhood home?
I used to try to sort those early years out, to untangle the web. Then I realized it was hopeless. Being a twin means knowing you’re always part of a bigger whole. We were one once, and now we’ve been split in two.
The day after our fifth birthday, our mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That’s when it all stopped—the matching outfits, the photos, the carefully curated albums. Seven months later, she was gone.
I think that’s when the split became permanent. Our father had enough on his plate raising twin girls on his own while trying to get tenure at the same time. Making sure we were fed and dressed in clean clothes every morning was a victory in itself. Matching outfits and hair ribbons were out of the question. For the first time, people could tell Ginny and me apart. Somewhere deep down, so could we.
Despite all our similarities, my sister and I handled the loss of our mother in completely different ways. I attached myself to our father—our sole remaining parent—morphing into the quintessential daddy’s girl. Other than Ginny, he was all I had left. My love of books is firmly rooted in my childhood and my devotion to my dad, a university English professor.
Ginny loves him too, obviously. She always has. But growing up, she ached for our mom. That’s what all this pageant business is really about. Our beauty queen mother left a big, beauty queen–shaped hole inside Ginny, and she’s been trying to fill it for the past twenty-four years.
I remind myself of this fact when I take up my duties as official pageant dog walker. Buttercup despises me. That much is obvious when she collapses to the ground and tries to writhe out of her collar in order to get away from me the minute the door to our room clicks shut behind us. It’s a full-on spectacle, made all the more humiliating by the fact that it’s taking place in front of a hallway full of glamazons.
“Stop it,” I hiss.
Buttercup flips onto her back and paws at the air. For a second, I wonder if she’s having a seizure. But there’s a mischievous glint in her googly eyes that assures me she’s fine. She’s just in the throes of a canine temper tantrum, not a medical emergency.
“Oh my, is your sweet little dog all right?”
I look up. Miss Nevada is teetering toward me on a pair of those mile-high platform stilettos.
More beauty queen interaction is so not what I need right now. I let out a strangled laugh. “She’s fine. She’s just a little shy.”
Miss Nevada isn’t buying it. “Are you sure? I could take a look at her if you like. I’m a veterinarian.”
Seriously? She looks like a petite, Asian-American Barbie doll. No way can I picture her elbow-deep in a pregnant cow. Maybe she’s not that kind of vet, though. Still, I’m a little thrown.
“Really?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.
She nods. “First in my class at Cornell.”
“That’s really impressive.” My smile falters. I’m beginning to worry about Ginny’s shot at the crown. She’s an Instagram model. Meanwhile, Miss Nevada is the Lucy Liu of veterinary medicine.
Not that any of this matters. It’s nothing but a plastic tiara covered in cheap rhinestones. Ginny needs to move on and do something real with her life. Something like vet school, or at the very least a dog-training class. Then maybe Buttercup would learn some basic social skills.
“Thanks.” Miss Nevada looks me up and down. I can tell she’s wondering what I’m doing here, as I’m obviously not a pageant contestant. My face grows hot for some reason, but thankfully she bends to inspect Buttercup, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’d much rather the dog be the center of attention than me.
Miss Nevada gives Buttercup a once-over as she continues to squirm and grunt. I’m somewhat reassured by this development. Buttercup’s disdain apparently has nothing to do with me personally. She doesn’t like anyone but Ginny.
“You’re right. She seems fine.” Miss Nevada stands again. She can’t be any more than five feet three, but thanks to her heels, I have to lift my gaze to look her in the eye. “As you said, she’s just . . . shy.”
It’s obvious shy is code for something far less flattering.
I have a sudden pang of sympathy for the ridiculous dog. We’re both outsiders here.
Maybe Buttercup senses this too, because when I squat to scoop her wiggling bulk into my arms, she goes still. For once, she’s cooperative. “She’s a rescue.”
Miss Nevada nods. “Well, my name is Lisa Ng and I’m right down the hall if you need anything.”
“Thank you. We’re fine, though. Really.” I turn and head for the elevator, trying not to dwell on what a pathetic pair Buttercup and I must make.
When the elevator doors slide open, there’s no escape. I’m confronted by our reflection in the mirrored walls, and the sight is pathetic indeed. My hair has somehow gone even limper, plastered to my head and neck in damp copper strands. The Hogwarts T-shirt, which seemed so quirky and intelligent a few hours ago, seems juvenile in comparison to the fancy day dresses and sleek suits all the pageant contestants are wearing. The pitiful lump of dog I’m holding doesn’t help the situation.
Not for long, though. The elevator stops on every floor, picking up beauty queens all the way down. By the time we reach the lobby, I’m pressed against the back wall, choking on hair-spray fumes and a half-dozen different varieties of perfume. It’s pretty awful, but just as the descending numbers on the display above the elevator doors wind down to 1, an aroma much worse fills the confined space. The stench is horrendous, so thick that I can taste it at the back of my throat. Its pungency obliterates any and all lingering traces of flowery perfume and hair products.
And to my great horror, it seems to be coming from Buttercup.
Every head in the elevator swivels in our direction. Perfectly pert noses scrunch in unison. There’s apparently no doubt that the source of the stench is either me or the dog in my arms. Miss Idaho presses a hand to her flat stomach, as if she might vomit. I wish I could say it was an overreaction, but honestly, it isn’t.
What on earth has Ginny been feeding this creature?
“Sorry,” I mumble, longing to feel invisible again. Like usual.
My face burns with embarrassment as the elevator doors slide open and everyone bolts. I’m sure of two things . . .
First, I’m going to murder my sister. Strangling her with her beauty queen sash seems like a really great idea.
And second, for the rest of the week, Buttercup and I will be taking the stairs.
Five hours later, after I’ve left Ginny and Buttercup behind, I return to the Huntington Spa Resort, as happy as a person can possibly be.
I’ve spent my afternoon riding the Hogwarts Express, eating an enormous amount of chocolate frogs, and, thanks to the magic of technology and J. K. Rowling’s imagination, zipping around on a broomstick through the middle of a Quidditch match. There’s an actual magic wand in the back pocket of my jeans, which I used to cast spells all over the park. If butter beer contained alcohol, I’d be sloppily drunk.
Best of all, I’ll get to do it all again tomorrow.
My mind is spinning with ideas for the upcoming school year’s book festival at the library. It’s one of my biggest responsibilities, but also one of my favorite parts of my job.
Last year, the festival’s mascot was Skippyjon Jones, the star of the popular children’s book series about a Siamese cat who thinks he’s a Chihuahua. This year will be all about Harry Potter.
I broke down and purchased a sorting hat from one of the gift shops, simply because I know the kids will love it. Plus I invested in a whole pile of Harry Potter–themed arts-and-crafts books. I spread everything on top of my hotel bed and grin at Ginny, waiting for her to tell me I’m the best school librarian in the state of Texas.
“What’s with that huge hat? It’s crooked.” She crosses her arms.
I don’t even dignify this with a response. Honestly, I know she doesn’t read much, but hasn’t she seen at least one of the Harry Potter films? Or has she been living under a bedazzled rock for the past two decades?
“Do you think it’s possible to rent an owl?” I ask.
Her gaze narrows. Or it would, if not for the Botox. “You want to adopt a live owl?”
“No. That would be crazy. I just want to borrow one for the day. For the book festival. Not a regular owl, though. I need a great big white one.” I spread my arms out wide to indicate Hedwig’s approximate wingspan.
“Right. Because that’s not crazy at all.” Ginny smirks.
From her perch atop Ginny’s pillow, Buttercup rolls her googly eyes at me. I’m clearly outnumbered.
But I’m also in a fantastic mood. A vacation mood, so I refrain from pointing out the general insanity of Ginny’s pageant obsession. I don’t want to argue. Besides, I’m pretty sure she knows how I feel about her quest to become Miss American Treasure.
The title alone is absurd. It sounds more like a Nicolas Cage movie than a beauty pageant. But hey, it could be worse. Our mother could have been crowned Miss Armadillo Festival Sweetheart. Which, in case you’re wondering, is an actual small-town Texas pageant. I know this because Ginny contemplated entering it one year as practice for the big leagues. I managed to talk her out of it when I pointed out that instead of a tiara, the winner was crowned with a stuffed armadillo that had been fashioned into a hat. As much as Ginny loves the pageant life, she draws the line when the crown involves wearing roadkill on her head.
“Are you ready for dinner? I’m starving.” I’d eaten my body weight in theme park food, but I’d also walked a few million miles. And unlike every other person in the building, I won’t be strutting across a stage in a bikini in the coming days.
Ginny plops on her bed, crisscross applesauce. She’s at least five shades tanner than she was earlier today, and she’s dressed in a glittering red gingham top, white skinny jeans, and her Miss Texas American Treasure sash.
She had a pageant luncheon today, where I presume they served kale or something. She’s probably hungry, too. “Sure. I was thinking maybe we could get some room service, order a rom-com on one of the movie channels, and have a little picnic. What do you think?”
“That sounds like heaven.”
And it is.
We spend the next few hours mooning over Ryan Gosling, laughing and picking food off each other’s plates. Ginny meant what she said earlier—it really is like old times.
My twin and I haven’t seen much of each other in recent years. After high school graduation, I went away to college at the University of Texas in Austin while Ginny stayed back home in Dallas. It was the first time we’d lived apart, and the distance had seemed even greater as she’d devoted herself full-time to her pageant career and building her social media following while I embraced Austin’s laid-back vibe and the campus’s progressive atmosphere. As Ginny was modeling swimsuits, I was writing my thesis on feminism in classic literature.
Being away from home changed the way I looked at pageants. I’d never been as crazy about them as Ginny, but they’d always been a part of our family life. Though once I was on my own, I no longer saw them as a sweet family tradition. The more I read and the more I saw Ginny’s bikini and tiara pictures pop up in my social media feeds, the more archaic the whole thing felt. I couldn’t imagine Virginia Woolf, for instance, competing in a beauty pageant.
When I was home for Christmas junior year, I tried to convince Ginny she needed to do something different with her life, something more meaningful. That conversation didn’t go over well at all. We tend to avoid the topic now, but it’s always there, hanging between us.
After graduation, I moved back to Dallas and started working at the library. My twin and I once again became a permanent fixture in each other’s lives, but things are somewhat strained. As much as I’d like to blame our uneasy relationship on my twin’s pageant obsession, I can’t. Not entirely, anyway. I just sometimes feel like we’re competing against each other, and I’m always the one who ends up losing, while my twin walks away with the crown.
When Ginny learned she’d lucked out and scored one of the few private rooms this week—instead of being assigned a roommate—and invited me to come stay with her, I was a little surprised. I almost said no, but I’m suddenly glad I came to Orlando. It might give us some much needed time away from our usual routines so that we can get back to us, but I shouldn’t get my hopes up, since this is probably the last chance we’ll get to just hang out together and have fun. Pageant preliminaries start the day after tomorrow.
But for the duration of our little picnic, I forget all about the pageant. It’s not until the movie is over and we’re getting ready for bed that I’m reminded why I’m actually here.
“Can you take Buttercup for a quick walk?” Ginny yawns and crawls under her covers.
My gaze flits toward her sash, hanging neatly over a hanger in the open closet. Would it kill her to put it on and take her own dog outside?
I clip Buttercup’s leash to her collar and pick her up before she can repeat her earlier temper tantrum. For obvious reasons, I bypass the elevator and take the adjacent stairwell.
We’re about halfway down to the ground floor when I hear another set of footsteps. They seem to be heading in our direction, and I cringe, wondering which state beauty queen I’m about to run into.
I glare at Buttercup. “I swear, if you fart again, you’re on your own from now on. Got it?”
She belches in response. Lovely. Why does this dog hate me so much?
We round the corner, and I keep my head down. Maybe if I don’t make eye contact, I won’t get trapped into a conversation about hair extensions or world peace.
But the first thing I see when I step onto the landing is another dog, and it looks so much like Buttercup that I stop dead in my tracks.
“Wow.” I blink. It’s another Frenchie mix, or maybe a purebred. The dog is the same blue-gray color as Buttercup and has the same roly-poly eyes and comically oversize ears.
“Twins. What are the odds?”
I drag my gaze from the dog to its owner, who’s definitely not wearing a beauty queen sash. On the contrary, the person on the other end of the leash is a he, and he’s wearing a tie. A very posh-looking tie, silky smooth. I have the irrational desire to reach out and touch it.
“Twins,” I echo, because I can’t seem to come up with anything else to say. The exact odds of identical twins being born to humans is one out of every two hundred and fifty births, but I’m pretty sure he meant that question rhetorically.
He smiles, and it’s a very attractive smile. Very swoon-inducing. This stranger might not be a beauty queen, but he’s still pretty. In a chiseled, roguish sort of way, of course. Like Rhett Butler in Armani.
Am I the only average-looking person in this entire hotel?
He nods toward his dog. “This is Hamlet.”
A Shakespearean pet name? My librarian heart beats a little faster.
“Let me guess.” He glances at Buttercup and lifts a brow. “Fluffy?”
I let out a laugh and shake my head.
“Fang?” His smile widens. “It’s Fang, isn’t it?”
He’s listing dog names from the Harry Potter series, which means he’s noticed my Hogwarts shirt. It also means he’s more than just casually familiar with the books. Where on earth did he come from? Did I somehow conjure him with my theme park wand?
“It’s Buttercup, actually. But I’m rethinking that now. Fang is a much better fit. Thanks for the suggestion.”
It’s suddenly unbearably warm in the stairwell. I’m consciously aware of the fact that I’m staring at him. I’m studying him so closely that I notice the dimple in his left cheek, hidden beneath the stubble that lines his jaw. I notice the dark rim around his irises—such a contrast to the clear light blue of his eyes—and I even manage to take in the fine weave of his suit jacket.
What am I doing?
“Is the elevator broken?” he asks, glancing up the stairs in the direction I’ve come from.
“No. Just trying to avoid all the pageant hoopla.” I tilt my head. “You?”
He shrugs a single muscular shoulder. “Same.”
Now I’m certain he can’t be real. There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t want to be trapped in an elevator with one or more beauty pageant contestants. I know this for a fact.
Buttercup squirms in my arms. She’s getting impatient, which is fine. The longer I stand here, the more likely I am to say something ridiculous. “I should probably get Fang downstairs. It’s been a while since she’s been out.”
“Of course.” He steps out of my path, and Hamlet obediently follows him.
The two dogs may look alike, but that’s clearly where the similarity ends.
“It was nice chatting with you, Hamlet’s dad.” I give him a flippy little wave.
And then he’s gone.
There are butterflies flitting around my insides. A whole geeky, book-loving swarm of them.
Later, Hermione.
I’m so besotted that I let Buttercup drag me around the perimeter of the hotel three times so she can pee on every palm tree on the premises.
When we get back to the room, Ginny is sitting up in bed, putting lotion-infused gloves and socks on her hands and feet. “What took you so long? I was about to send a search party after you.”
“Oh, it’s kind of a crazy story . . .” I unclip Buttercup’s leash, and the dog bounds straight for my sister.
Only then does the charmed, fluttery feeling fade.
The dog can’t get away from me fast enough, which really shouldn’t bother me. There’s no love lost between us, that’s for sure.
But the rebuff reminds me that certain things are better left unsaid between Ginny and me. And even though I’ll probably never see the man from the stairwell again, I have a fierce need to keep our brief, meaningless interaction a secret.
Mine and mine alone.