I study her eyes again. “How do you think we know each other?” I’m breathing heavily now, but I keep rowing. Row. Row. Row. “Is it dance? Do you dance?”

Her weird orange eyebrows furrow. She must have dyed them too. Or maybe she draws them in with a pencil? Her eyes are almost the same gold color as my mom’s.

“How do you not recognize your own fucking sister?!”

10. A Girl Is Sampling Sisterhood

JAMIE

August 29, Saturday Morning

Colorado

Siri scoffs. “I don’t have a sister.”

Ouch. “Wow, hate to break it to you, but you do, it’s me.”

Siri’s rowing like her life depends on it. I reach over and clasp my own hand over an oar. “Can you stop rowing for a second?”

Her hand flashes out and swats my knuckles. “Don’t touch it!”

“Dude, ow.” I reach out again and grab the oar anyway. She re-smacks my hand, but I hold firm. “Damn, you are violent.” I lunge for the second oar with my other arm. This time, I put my hand right over hers.

“Don’t touch me!” She yanks her palm away like she was electrocuted.

I take advantage of the distraction to disengage both oars and put them behind me. Siri glowers like a rabid dog.

She’s sitting perfectly straight, her long, pitch-black braid trailing down to her waist. I know she was young, and it’s been over a decade, but come on. We still look so alike. Being this close is like looking into a warped mirror. Her nose should have grown differently, or her cheekbones should be softer than my harsh ones, but we match. The only exceptional difference is a movie-staresque beauty mark above her lip.

It’s uncomfortably trippy.

“Come on, Siri.” I gesture up and down myself in frustration. “Jamie?! Ringing any bells?!”

I don’t know how Siri could get any paler, it’s already like she’s never seen the light of day, but she does.

After an extended unbearable tense silence, she jerks her head back and forth. “You’re not real,” she hisses.

Excuse me?

My jaw hangs slightly ajar as I try to figure out what the hell to do with that. Siri scrunches her eyes shut and covers her ears. “Jamie is not real.”

“Siri,” I say stupidly.

She keeps her eyes closed. Repeats herself. “Not real, she’s not real.” Her voice gets lower, softer, until she’s speaking to herself, under her breath. Saying the same damn thing. Over. And over and over.

I swallow and glance at the nothing around us. We’re not close to any of the boats, so there’s no one to make nervous sarcastic eye contact with. Is she having some sort of mental break?

“Could you not go full exorcist on me?” I ask.