“I love you, but I don’t like you. You’re unstable and angry and irritatingly naive. I’ve always been jealous of your natural ability to be better than me at everything we do, and I hate how easily you slipped into my life the last four days. Growing up I did everything I could to differentiate myself from you! The real reason I wanted to leave with Dad fourteen years ago was so I wouldn’t have to live in your shadow! Does that feel good? Is that what you want to hear?” My voice cracks. And then I sneeze.

79. Angst and Resolve

SIRI

September 8, Tuesday

Nevada

My ears are ringing from Jamie’s explosion. We stay frozen in our positions as her cloud slowly settles on the floor of the bathroom. I’m holding a makeup brush aloft, standing in front of Jamie, who’s sitting on the toilet. A new layer of glitter coats everything.

Jamie doesn’t like me. Jamie proposed this switching plan with that in mind. Jamie wanted to put three thousand miles between us again. Jamie left because of me.

I throw the brush on the bathroom counter, trying not to tear up. “You’re a jerk, Jamie.”

She drops her head into her hands. “Surprise.”

I walk out of the bathroom, stripping off my glitter-covered clothes so I can pull on the glitter-covered clothes on the bed that match Jamie’s.

“I asked my big questions to Dad in the car on the way here, and it was not fun,” I call from the bed.

Jamie sounds deflated. “What a coincidence, I asked my big question last night and it was super not fun as well.”

“This is going to be a lot.”

“It’s going to be a shit show,” Jamie corrects from the bathroom.

80. Angst and Confrontation

SIRI

September 8, Tuesday

Nevada

Jamie and I look as close to twins as we ever have. Matching makeup. Matching outfits. Matching cheekbones, matching eyes. Hers are bloodshot.

The scar on her forehead looks a little less fresh than last week. It’s a thin inch-long curved pink line leading down to her brow.

You would think I’d be more crushed by what she said to me forty minutes ago, but I’m not. Because I’m finally starting to understand her. The blurry aloof cartoon that is Jamie Federov is finally coming into focus.

It’s 3:55 p.m.

Five minutes till my greedy, selfish, abandoning jerk-and-a-half father returns to our hotel room. Jamie and I spent the last twenty minutes stiffly rehearsing and choreographing an outline of what we’re going to say. We’re sitting across from each other on the inner edges of the beds. Jamie’s scribbling in her retreat notebook.

“It’s three fifty-five,” I tell her.