Identical

It had been ages since I got a good night’s rest. I rolled out of the covers as if I were in a laundry detergent commercial, arms stretched above my head and a smile on my face. Just for good measure, I dove back down into the plethora of fluffy pillows around me. Today would be a good day.

When Mrs. Leonard greeted me with a smoothie, I couldn’t help but grimace at the shade of green. I did not work as hard as I did to drink smoothies that tasted of grass. A pitiful excuse for breakfast. “I’ll eat some biscuits and gravy instead,” I announced. Mrs. Leonard greeted my request with furrowed eyebrows.

With the smoothie discarded and a proper breakfast enjoyed, I made my way to the dance studio. The house was monstrously big, almost too big, but after years of feeling confined, it was equal parts refreshing and unsettling. The house reeked of decadence. Tall ceilings and the best hardwood floors money could buy.

I frowned at the freshly waxed floors of the studio. Dancing would be even harder today, but no matter, I was determined. My dance shoes were a smidge too tight, squeezing the blisters that had popped up on my pinky toe several days ago. I was hoping the shoes would stretch, but the material was taut. Resistant.

I bit out a snarky remark at the choreographer when they were late. Irritation was never far away these days. The opening night of the tour was four days away, and each day that passed made me more anxious. The Rolling Stones had dubbed it the biggest tour of the year. It had been five years since the last tour. Fans were restless and excited. I was doubting my ability to pull it off and this bitch of a choreographer kept looking at me with disdain. I wanted to spit at her, but instead I forced a fake smile and repeated her steps with neither grace nor ease.

We practiced till the sun was high in the sky and my lungs burned from exhaustion. My pinky toe was in agony, so I dismissed the choreographer for the day, eager to move on to vocal rehearsal. Thoughts of lunch occupied my mind as I released my feet from their prison, not realizing at first the blood that coated my hands, leaking out from the nailbed of my toes.

The blood was sticky and heavy, weighing me down on the spot. I looked over to the rag across the room, eager to clean myself, but it felt miles away. The distance only grew as my heart rate picked up. I saw the increased rise and fall of my chest from my peripheral vision as black spots enveloped the rest. I didn’t know why there was so much blood. It felt like it was seeping into the floorboards, dripping down into the foundation. I was disgusted. I was scared.

“Ms. Wolfe, are you ready for lunch?” came the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Leonard, pulling me from my panic.

“Not yet, one sec!” I yelled. It was enough to jolt me from my stupor. I grabbed the cloth, cleaned up myself and the bloody footprints on the floor and slammed the studio door behind me.

Mrs. Leonard had prepared a salad for lunch. More greens. More fodder for my unsatisfied tastebuds. I was daydreaming about the crowds of fans soon to greet me when she interrupted my ponderings. “There’s a detective here to see you.”

I didn’t gasp, but I instinctively clutched at my stomach. I hated authorities, always had, and my disdain had only amplified with time. I nodded and waited for some grubby officer to step into the kitchen.

“Ms. Wolfe, I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I have some distressing news,” he said with a tone of seriousness I tried not to chafe at. He sounded like the type of man who practiced his speeches on the patrol ride over. “Your sister has gone missing. It seems she somehow got out of the facility where she was staying.”

I blinked rapidly, unsure of how to respond, so instead I opted for information gathering. “How long has it been since she was reported missing?”

“Three days, miss. Apparently, she was rather agitated leading up to the escape. The attendants are worried she may be a danger to herself.”

I scrubbed my hands over my face and asked if there was anything he needed from me at this time. He said there was nothing to be done, but he would notify me as soon as he knew more. Mrs. Leonard saw the officer out and I ran to the bathroom to throw up my salad. Three days. It didn’t seem like they knew much, which was all the more nerve-wracking. Knowledge was power. Knowledge allowed you to make decisions.

Momma always said, “Understanding is influence.” Which was, of course, followed up with, “It’s a shame you have neither, unlike your sister.” Her thick southern accent carried throughout the house while her harsh words cut into my skin. Skin, she was always criticizing. In the winter, too pale. In the summer, too tan. Never mind, my sister would never get the same treatment. I could never do anything right. Unlike your sister. The phrase that haunted me endlessly.

I dissociated through the rest of the rehearsals as I picked over the conversation with the officer. I analyzed his tone for answers to the questions that gnawed at me. I rearranged his words to find meaning, only to come up empty-handed. I hated waiting. I had spent so much time waiting. Years of waiting. Years of agony. I didn’t want to wait for some stranger to give me answers to some riddle I didn’t want solved. I hated thinking about my sister. I hated talking about her, too. I couldn’t quite hate her, it’s hard to hate someone who looks so much like you. I was glad I didn’t look like Momma.

I just wanted to be on stage. With my fans. With people who would love me. I didn’t want to think about the officer and what was to come. I just wanted to be performing in front of an adoring crowd, crying out for me. Momma once told me, “You’ll never be a star. You don’t have what it takes. Unlike your sister.” This tour would prove her wrong. I would go around the world and dazzle tens of thousands of fans each night, and then I would spit on her grave. I would sing and dance on her grave too. Maybe even do the whole routine. It would be glorious and I would finally feel vindicated. I knew I would.

I went to bed with a pit in my stomach and dreamt of Momma and my sister laughing at me. The pillows felt suffocating in the morning. Mrs. Leonard angered me when she tried to push back at my request for waffles. I tried not to snap, but I threw the glass in my hand at the wall when she told me we didn’t have syrup. Was it too much to ask for the simple pleasures in life? “I’m sorry, it’s just the nerves of the tour. Only three days,” I mumbled and walked to the piano to play off some of my anger.

I picked up Shostakovich sheet music and let myself get lost in the music. I was and had always been an accomplished pianist. Momma used to hit my fingers with a stick when I messed up. While Momma never complimented me, I sometimes caught a half smile when she evaluated me. My sister still bullied me, though, favoring singing and dancing lessons instead. Both Momma and her agreed it would be more practical for a career.

I didn’t play for long. I needed to practice the choreography and perfect the a cappella section of the concert. I needed to be perfect for the crowds. But the small break kept the thoughts of the officer and his investigation out of my head for as long as I stroked the ivory keys.

The next two days leading up to opening night were exhausting and painful. It was hard to keep my eyes open after night after night of restless sleep. I almost relented and asked the stand-by tour physician for sleep medicine, but I was so tired from being on meds. I hated being groggy. Real fatigue was better than drugged fatigue. The makeup artist was frustrated with how much they had to do to cover up the bags under my eyes, so I threatened to fire her until she decided it was wise to keep her comments to herself.

Adrenaline pumped through me on opening night, and thoughts of my sister were replaced with echoes of Momma. “You’ll never be enough,” rang through me as the manager tried to give me a pep talk. When I had a moment alone, I slapped my face and refocused on myself in the mirror. I looked beautiful, almost unrecognizable. My blonde hair was curled. Blue eyeline made my brown eyes pop and my lips were the correct amount of pouty. While no amount of practice could ever make me feel fully prepared, I was confident enough that I could pull it off.

I clenched my fist before the under-stage elevator brought me up. My headpiece made it hard to hear everything clearly but I could feel the rumbling of the crowd. Their cheers and cries for me. It melted away my anxiety. I lusted for their praise. Their attention. Their love. When I rose to the stage, I had to hold back the tears that bubbled up to the surface. They were all so beautiful and they were screaming with joy because they saw me. Momma was wrong.

I sang the opening number without any trouble and connected with the thousands of fans on what felt like a cosmic level. I’m sure they felt it too. I looked out at the adoring crowd and told the biggest lie of my life, “Hey hey everyone! I’m Lola Wolfe and I’m so excited to be here with you tonight!”

I was buzzing by the time I skipped off stage after the encore. I had delivered what the fans were looking for. We had shared a beautiful connection. I was a star. I was their star. We would never forget each other.

I caught a glimpse of horror on the manager’s face and looked behind me, expecting to see something going on. When I found nothing of note, I realized their reaction was directed at me. Confusion and fear flooded through me. I was good on stage, I knew I was. Their reaction didn’t make sense. I hit every single note. I didn’t mess up a single dance move. They were wrong. When I evaluated the rest of my crew, I found similar states of distress.

Before I ask what was going on, I saw the officer from several days ago. He walked up to me, four other officers flanking him and in a commanding voice, said, “Genevieve Wolfe, you are under arrest for the murder of your sister, Lola Wolfe. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

I tried to run back on stage, back to the people who loved me. Who believed me. Who cared about me. An officer grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the only dream I ever cared about. I wailed and kicked and cried. I was a star. I was always going to be a star. Momma was wrong.