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 for 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.”