Rising From My Sister's Shadow

Debbie shot back at once, puffing up with indignation:

“Fine, then I won't dance at all! I'll give the lead back to my sister!"

The whole flirty back-and-forth turned my stomach.

Within ten minutes, Michael came racing to the bottom of our dorm building, two iced lattes in hand.

Debbie ran straight down, poked a finger at his chest with a coy little pout, and scolded him for deciding things on his own.

Michael hunched his shoulders and coaxed her, his whole face begging for forgiveness.

Then he turned his head and saw me standing at the top of the stairs.

“Audrey, you heard all that, right? It's just one dance. You're the older sister. You wouldn't be that stingy, would you?"

I clenched my fists and said in a low voice:

“It's my original choreography. I'm going to make that clear to the advisor."

The words were barely out of my mouth when my mother, who'd come specially to bring Debbie soup, rushed over from the side.

She raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face.

“How dare you!"

“All we're asking is that you back your sister up as a dancer, help out backstage, and that's too much for you? If you dare go ruin this, I'll march right into the department and tell them my own daughter is an ungrateful little snake!"

I couldn't get out a single word.

In the end I just went numb and followed them to the rehearsal room.

That dance studio had once been the one Michael set up for me. He'd said it was mine, mine alone.

But now, standing at the door, I found the keypad code had been changed.

Through the window I could see the place crammed with Debbie's personal things.

The nameplate on the door that used to read "Audrey" had been torn off, clean.

In its place was a selfie of Debbie flashing a peace sign.

Backstage at the welcome gala, the noise was deafening.

Michael and Debbie stood at the makeup mirror, heads together, laughing as they ran through the routine one last time.

One moment he was handing her warm water, the next he was crouching down to fix the hem of her skirt, gentle and attentive as a perfect boyfriend.

And I'd been assigned to a corner like some odd-job hire, sorting the props the backup dancers were about to use.

The whole scene was too much to look at, so I tugged my cap low and pretended I wasn't there.

“Audrey."

Michael suddenly turned around and asked, offhand:

“Why don't you change too and go up as a backup dancer?"

Before I could open my mouth, Debbie jumped in, thrilled:

“Yes, do it! I want to see you in that backless dancer costume. You'd look amazing!"

Michael's eyes rested on me for a second.

Then he turned and went to the wardrobe rack, pulling out that costume with its pitiful scrap of fabric.

“Go put it on."

He held the costume out to me, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I stared hard at it, and the skin on my back seemed to start burning.

There, I carried a scar from high school, from the time I took a metal bar for him against a pack of thugs.

It coiled across my whole back like an ugly centipede.

Michael knew about it.

He'd once held me and sworn he'd protect me his whole life, that he'd never let anyone see the parts of me that weren't perfect.

And now, over one careless line from Debbie.

He was going to put my ugliest wound on display with his own hands.

I looked at this man in front of me, with the same eyes and brow I remembered, and yet so strange to me that he made me cold.

Something stung behind my nose.

I looked at the dancer costume and let out one bleak little laugh.

I took it, tore it in two with everything I had, and hurled it into the trash.

When I turned back, I saw Michael lifting a necklace from a velvet box, fastening it gently around Debbie's neck, then bending down to press a fond kiss to her hair.

That necklace. Countless times he'd pointed at it in the jewelry store window and told me it would be my gift for our third anniversary.

So it turned out that was another lie too.

“Wow, Michael, you and your girlfriend really are a perfect match!"

The class president from the next class over came over, genuinely admiring.

He glanced at me in my corner and asked Michael, curious:

“Is she the stagehand you hired? Pretty hardworking."

The air froze instantly.

Someone quickly filled him in on who I was, and the president just stood there, mortified, at a loss.

Michael's and Debbie's faces went very ugly too.

But I was the one who spoke, mocking myself, letting everyone off the hook:

“You're not wrong. The two of them really do make the better pair."