Chapter 12
12
I drop the phone with a yip.
Fiona’s caller screen flashes in the dim hotel room.
Should I pick up?
I should, just to clarify the situation.
What if I pick up and she realizes I’m not Chloe?
But if I don’t pick up, isn’t that even more suspicious?
I lunge for the phone and answer before I can think myself into any more circles.
“H-hello?”
“What the hell?” Her high-pitched voice blasts into my eardrum. I flinch and turn down the volume. “What took you so long? I told you it’s an emergency. We really need to make a statement. Is it really because your twin, like, died? If that’s why, we should make a social post to clarify. I’ve drafted something in my notes for you.” My phone dings, probably a text from her.
This is good. Fiona hasn’t caught on yet.
“Hello? Earth to Chloe!”
“R-right. Yeah. Uh, I’ll take a look at what you sent over.”
There’s a beat.
“So… did she die or not? Your twin.”
My mouth dries, heart hammering. “She did.”
Another person I lied to. Another nail in Julie’s coffin. I’ve dived into the deep end and there’s no way out. It’s sink or swim.
She sighs. “I’m sorry, Chloe. That seriously sucks. Like, literally sucks so much. That’s actually, like, legit so sad.”
I have trouble telling whether she’s actually sad or not.
“But honestly, like, RIP or whatever, I’m just kinda surprised. I thought you went no-contact after that video. What was she doing in your apartment?”
I gulp. “It’s kind of a long story.”
She doesn’t say anything, waiting for said long story.
I make something up. Try to be convincing. “W-we weren’t talking for a while. But, uh, y’know, Julie’s always been a leech.”
“Totally.”
Okay. That hurt.
“She showed up unannounced,” I continue. “I think… since it was our parents’ death anniversary, she wanted my support.” They died on a bright and hot summer morning. Not in the blustery winter. I’m hoping Fiona doesn’t know this detail.
“You never told me it was your parents’ death anniversary.”
Ugh. “Yeah. I mean, y’know, I try to move on from it.” Which is true. People say grief gets easier, but it never does. I’m haunted by what could have been if they were alive. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this fucked-up situation, and maybe Chloe and I would be close, like real sisters. “If I keep thinking back on it, I’ll never be able to heal. It’s kind of like picking at old scars.”
“Oh! Yes! That’s a fantastic line!” The sound of her nails clicking on her screen. “I’m sending over a new statement draft.” My phone dings. “I think you’ll like it. It incorporates what you said earlier. Also, like, I know a grandma isn’t the same as a twin or whatever, but I remember when my granny passed away, I was, like, legit, so, so, so sad, and the one thing that helped me was getting back to work. Like, grinding through the day.” She laughs. All nasal. “Anyway. Can you give me a temperature check on the event for tomorrow?”
“Event?”
“For Bella Marie’s brand launch? We had RSVP’d before you decided to take a break, so we’re still on the list. I totally understand if you need time to grieve, but there’s going to be, like, so many people there to network with. But of course, no pressure. Bella Marie will totally understand.”
Bella Marie. There’s no way it’s that Bella Marie, right?
I put Fiona on speakerphone and search for her on Instagram. Her name, @bellamarie , pops up as soon as I type “B,” since we’re following each other.
Bella Marie Melniburg has thirty-two million followers on Instagram alone. I recognize her immediately. Her pale, almost transparent skin, lithe body, and blond, almost white hair. She has big blue eyes and plump lips, a perfect little nose, and the slightest tooth gap. The sight of her makes me gulp, sends a swirl into my stomach. Embarrassing memories I shoved into the dusty corners of my mind suddenly resurface. I had a small obsession with her back in middle school when she was huge on Tumblr. She occupied every “girl” niche from fashion to ED to travel. You couldn’t scroll for more than ten seconds without her pale, stick-thin body popping up on your home feed. (I reblogged every picture.) At thirteen, Bella Marie was scouted at Wimbledon. By her late teens, she walked for Prada, Fendi, Dior, and had features in Vogue, Allure , and every teen girl’s Pinterest board. But that’s just the tip of the Bella Marie iceberg. She isn’t just a model and an it-girl. She’s basically royalty. Her father was a Russian oligarch, and her mother is a famous French aristocrat gymnast-turned-model-turned-film-star. Her mother succumbed to an addiction after her husband died and has been stuck in rehab since. Sometimes this detail seems made up, a perfectly shaped stain in Bella Marie’s otherwise flawless life to make her seem more real. One thing is for certain: Bella Marie is rich. Old-money rich. Like she’d pay fifty dollars for a single banana without a blink, rich. She’s always flying in private jets with a rotation of blond models or six-pack athlete boyfriends. One night in Paris, the next in Bali, a rosy little sunburn on the bridge of her perfect nose.
She has it all.
I wanted her, and I wanted to be her.
“Chl—I was invited to Bella Marie’s event?”
“Uhhh. Yeah? All the Belladonnas are going.”
Belladonnas ? I want to ask more, but I fear it might arouse suspicion. “Right. My sister’s death is scrambling my brain.”
“Aw. Sad… But what’s the vibes? Do you think you can make it? If not, I need to get in contact with Bella Marie’s assistant to let her know.”
I think about it. It’s Bella Marie. Middle-school Julie would freak out. And okay, maybe grown-up Julie is freaking out a little too.
Attending an event right after my twin died is a terrible idea. It will be full of people who knew Chloe. People who could sniff me out as a fake. I’ll be stepping into a tiger’s den dressed as rare sirloin.
But… it’s Bella Marie.
I think about how Chloe would act if I died.
She thought I was a loser. A leech.
She wouldn’t care if I wasted away unless she could make a video out of it.
She’d go.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Perf! I’ll send over the invite again just in case you lost it. Oh, also, how did Julie die?”
“Drug overdose.”
“Figures.”
I hate the way she said it. Figures. I hang up before she can say anything else.