I make a face. So sue me. I was six years old and clearly had a lot to learn.

“Did I ever cheat on a test?” I ask.

“Seventh grade. Mrs. Miller’s class. You went to turn in a history quiz and saw that the test on top had a different answer. Panicked, you changed yours, but karma isn’t kind. Turned out, your original answer was the right one after all.”

My cheeks flush. Four years ago and the shame still rises in my chest. I was all emotion that day. All fear and self-doubt. The monster was so big, there wasn’t room for anything else.

I take a deep breath. One more question. I almost don’t want to ask. But I have to know, once and for all, if she’s me.

“What’s the worst thing I’ve ever done?” I whisper. “The thing I’ll never confess to, as long as I live?”

She laughs so hard that my brain seems to vibrate. But unlike her earlier amusement, soaked with nostalgia, this laughter has no real mirth. “Oh, Alice. You’re so…idealistic.” She says the word like it’s a sour candy. “I’ll answer the question, but I gotta warn you.” Her voice lowers. Thickens. “You’ll do much worse before you become me.”

I wrap my arms around myself, yearning to dive into the comforting sand dunes of the Arabian desert.

“Let’s see. The worst thing you’ve ever done…Alice, at seventeen…” she says slowly. “Okay. At seventeen you were the Goodiest Two-shoes who ever lived.”

Derision lives in the space between her words. Gone is her light teasing. Gone is the warm remembrance. She’s angry with me. At herself, at this young age. But why? What did I do? More importantly: What will I do?

“Last year, Archie was being recruited to attend college a year ahead of schedule,” she says. “By Harvard, MIT, Cal Tech. They all wanted him, and they wanted to lock him down early. You were the messenger between Dad and Archie. Most days, Dad couldn’t even bother to talk to you, but that didn’t stop you from inserting yourself. You took it upon yourself to act as mediator.”

I close my eyes. I know all this, of course. Still, each word slices at my heart. Every sentence stings like a thousand paper cuts.

“But you lied. You told Archie that Dad wouldn’t let him graduate early. Then you told Dad that Archie preferred to stay home another year, when the truth is, Archie can’t wait to leave. Dad would’ve burst with pride—he did the same thing, after all—but you cut off your brother’s dreams without a second thought.”