The room was spare: a single bed, wooden nightstand, and dresser. She had decorated the walls with colorful pictures of Jesus, Mary, and various saints. My favorites shimmered in 3-D, shifting as I walked slowly around them, stepping back and forth to make Jesus’ eyes open and shut. At six years old, I already harbored guilt for liking the Jesus pictures, one, because according to my father they weren’t “artistic,” and two, because even though we weren’t religious, Daddy had told me that “Jews don’t believe in Jesus.” But most of all, I felt guilty because from the very start, I loved Anna more than I loved either of my parents.

I came home from kindergarten one day, surprised to find Anna in my mother’s room, sitting on the red velvet pouf in front of the art deco reproduction vanity, my mother crouched over her.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Hold still,” my mother commanded as Anna turned to look at me. Her hair had been combed loose and swept to one side, spilling shiny and black over her shoulder. Her lips were red, full, and pouty. Her eyes were outlined in black and tilted up at the ends, framed by thick, long, black lashes. Her cheekbones had been sharply accented with blush.

“Look, Jacqueline!” my mother exclaimed. “Isn’t Anna pretty?”

I nodded, awed by the sight of her. She was more beautiful than anybody I had ever seen, a Spanish princess in a fairy tale.

Anna, embarrassed by our attention, shook her head and got up, wiping the pouf as if she had left a dirty mark by sitting there. “Thank you, okay, Missus Merilee. I go fix dinner.” She bowed her head and walked quickly out of the room. Automatically I turned to follow, but my mother grabbed my hand.

“Would you like a makeover, Jacqueline?”

She took a zebra-patterned pillow from her floral bed, put it on the red pouf, and motioned for me to climb aboard. Warily I sat in front of the makeup table. She turned me toward her then took a puffy paintbrush and softly caressed my cheeks, releasing particles of powder that floated up in the air, catching the light. She took one of her lipsticks and dabbed it on my lips, then swept something feathery above my eyes. Excitement bubbled within me. Now I would look just like Anna—Anna with swirls of black hair and cheeks dark and rosy like the cherry wood of a Spanish guitar.