My sandals smack the pavement, noisy in the quiet residential streets, until small convenience stores and restaurants bloom toward the city center. A thrill courses through me with each pump of my arms. Faster and faster, like adrenaline spurts in my limbs. The sun sets, and a breeze sweeps through the roundabout square. A yellow cab idles by the curb, and I’m panting like a dog when I come to a stop beside it. The driver rolls down his window to fully look at me. He hesitates to say hello, peering behind me for a pursuer, as I slip into the back seat. My heart swells, feeling the satisfaction of making tangible headway, on my own terms—on our terms—and like I finally have a grasp on next steps. Disregarding the declarations of outsiders who believed Angela would do this or Angela did that leaves me feeling empowered, and in control in ways I haven’t experienced in years.

Even as Valentin’s expression of surprise, locking eyes with me as he exited the building, lingers in my mind. And it registers the object he was taking care to conceal was a pair of shiny steel scissors.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Once a year, we went to the San Diego Zoo as a family. Always in the summer and with a battery of antics. Angela and I would stand next to the monkey enclosure and groom each other while miming finding tasty bugs in each other’s hair until a small crowd formed around us. Then I would get shy, and Angela would bow.

Things changed between us after that day on the beach. We lost the implicit trust that we shared as children; I never fully let my guard down with her again. By the time we went to college, long gone were our hammy bits and the comedic routines we both got such a kick out of. I began to feel that we were strangers; I didn’t recognize the fluctuations in Angela’s emotions, which dipped and peaked wildly. Reactions to mistakes in school or to hard words from our parents were twice the level I felt was appropriate. Everything was heightened for her. My therapist, Dr. Poucer, symbolized the undoing of our bond, according to Angela, even though our parents had always appreciated therapy and had sent us to a psychotherapist when we were fourteen to ensure we each had our own identities and were having our individual needs met. In Angela’s mind, she, as my twin, was supposed to be my source of comfort and understanding—not the therapist.

Her feelings weren’t unfounded. I did need an outlet I could confess everything to. An impartial ear to my twin worries, the pressures of twin for the win being our sister slogan, urging togetherness for success.