Chapter One
Lucas
Why are you so dirty?
What did I say about touching me when you aren’t clean? Mother’s voice is always so impatient, so full of exasperation. The muscles in my shoulders pull tight, and I start to feel small and pathetic. Don’t try to manipulate me, Lucas!
My feet are encased in the most expensive and scientifically advanced running shoes money can buy, but they can’t do anything to minimize the damage of my fucked-up gait.
Slap, slap. Slap. Slap, slap.
Fool, fool. Fool. Fool, fool.
Even the rhythm’s uneven.
The day after Ava ended what we had, I stop across the street and stare at the closed door that keeps us apart.
You’re toxic.
We’re done.
Ava’s words superimpose on my mother’s, and suddenly the pain in my left leg cuts through me, hovering over my pumping heart.
“Get cleaned up, Lucas.” Mother looks at Elliot, closes her hand around his shoulder and pulls him in for a quick sideways hug. Elliot tries to shrug her off, but she is stronger and prevails.
I ignore her command and hug her on my way to the bathroom. She pulls away, her nose wrinkling. “Lucas, look at my dress now! What have I told you about mud?”
“He’s muddy too!”
“But Elliot didn’t dirty my dress, now did he?”
My perfect twin. Lovable and worthy…and somehow I’m not. Never was.
There’s something fundamentally wrong with me that goes beyond DNA—something in my soul, perhaps. Or maybe in the way atoms clustered to form me, or the alignment of the stars when I was separating from my twin in the womb. If Ava had known Elliot, she would’ve sensed the defect in me more clearly and chosen him too. He’s always been the better choice.
My mom often told me that I was the greedy twin, the one who stole all the blood from Elliot, that he lived only because of the best care money could buy. If your father had been poorer, your brother would’ve ended up dead right in my womb!
If I want to keep Ava, I should just whisk her away someplace where nothing and no one can reach us. Why not just…take her? Who’ll know? I promised to abduct her to Paris anyway. The plane can be ready to take off anytime.
All I have to do is kick down Eva’s door. Convince her the test was bullshit, we should be together and that I’ll do everything in my power to prove I want her, not the fucking painting, not helping out my siblings.
I start to take a step, but a sliver of sanity holds me back. She’ll hate me even more if I do that. She’ll despise me, wither away. How can she thrive around something she finds toxic? If I were just a little bit more like Elliot, just slightly less offensive…
Suddenly I can’t bear it anymore. Blood roars in my head, and coherence is no longer possible. I turn and run back to my place as fast as my legs can take me. Not slowing down, I smash open the door and rush all the way to my office. There are the photos of me and my family on the mantel. A rough swipe of my arm brings them crashing down on the hardwood floor, the glass shattering. I grab one that didn’t break and hurl it against a wall, watch the expensive frosted glass frame explode into a million fragments.
In the picture, the ten-year-old versions of Elliot and me are smiling. I have no scars, and we look so alike it’s almost scary.
Wrong.
I rip it in half. Then I grab the left side—the one with me in it—and tear it again. Blood smears the glossy paper, the image of the unlovable, fucked-up child. The greedy one. The clingy one. The one who almost cost his twin his life. The one nobody can ever love.
Vaguely I sense my housekeeper Gail rushing inside. Her old, mottled hands grab at me, and I shrug them away.
“Lucas, stop. What’s wrong? You’ve hurt yoursel—”
“I hate this!” I snarl, tearing the picture one last time before flinging the pieces away.
They flutter and fall, coming to rest on the shard-strewn floor. I run a hand over my face, feel the salty sting of tears and the rough scar on my cheek.
I hate this. I hate this and I hate her and I hate him and most of all I hate myself for hating my twin and tainting all that I touch.
Cleansing
The water runs, hitting the bottom of the white porcelain sink with a hiss. It’s extremely hot, almost scalding the boy’s delicate young skin. He grits his teeth and does not c
omplain. His mother set the temperature, and he dares not adjust it and add to her anger.
His mother is furious, almost disgusted. His hands, after he’s played in the garden for a while, are filthy. Dark grime covers his palms, and some managed to get under his small, neatly trimmed nails.
He breathes harshly through his nose and teeth. He does not understand why his mother is so upset about a little dirt. It’ll come off the dress. All she has to do is give it to the housekeeper. The housekeeper always gets stains out. But Mother is upset that he touched her with his gross, dirty hands at all.
After he’s finished, he shuts the water off and wipes his hands on a clean white towel. Nothing comes off on the pristine, fluffy cotton, now slightly damp. Satisfied, he runs to his mother in the living room.
She sits in a plushy armchair, her slim legs crossed. She’s changed into a new dress—a pretty cream-colored one that makes her look sweet and loving. In her hands is a fancy fashion magazine. His mother loves good clothes.
Maybe that’s why she was upset. She cares about her outfits.
“Are you finished?” she asks, not looking up.
“Uh-huh!” He reaches out for an embrace. Surely, his mother will appreciate how well he’s done.
She pulls back. “Let me see.”
Proudly, he shows his hands, palms up. She leans forward without touching him. Her nose wrinkles as she studies his palms, then has him flip his hands so she can examine the fingernails. After what feels like forever, she slowly straightens. “Lucas, you didn’t wash very well. You see that little spot under your fingernail?” She gestures. “That’s dirt. It shouldn’t be there.”
“Where?” He brings his left hand close and stares as though he can will himself to see what his mother sees.
“Right there. I don’t understand why you can’t see it.” She sighs and goes back to the magazine. “You never see anything.”
The boy returns to the sink. He turns the water on, as hot as it was before. Then he grabs the bar of soap and finger brush and starts all over again.
Chapter Two