I could put up with the cleaning, the clipping, the painting. But this? This was unacceptable. I stared at myself in the mirror. They had decided to give me, like an old doll, a makeover. My hair was done up and braided in a strange way, the makeup they caked on my face was itchy, and the lash-lengthening mascara was getting all over my glasses every time I blinked. My lips were cherry-red and my eyelids were painted peacock blue. Still, I tried to be polite, and keep a grimace (smile, I mean) on my face.

After an eternity, Chelsea dropped off her friends and only Carmen and I were home. “Taylor, baby!” What was this with the pet names? Honey? Baby? “I’m going to pick up Amanda from the school. I’ll be back in a little while. Be good, okay? Don’t go outside, don’t open the door for strangers, yadda yadda. Bye!”

As I removed the makeup and kept the hairstyle, I heard her car start and leave. Now was the time to find out what in the world I was doing here. I bounded up the stairs and into my room, to where I knew my other self’s journal/scrapbook would be hidden. I eagerly devoured it, until October 16 of last year. Only eight words were written: Though this little book is so full of tragedy, this is the worst of all: today my family, on their way home from the bowling alley, died in a car accident.

I could see where the paper was warped in several circular places, indicating tears had fallen there. The rest of the notebook was sparsely written in, except for the semi-monthly rant about how she hated this family, hated their pretend kindnesses, hated how they thought they knew how she felt. I felt bad for this “other” me, but I didn’t mourn for her family. After all, mine was still alive and well across the mirror.

I imagined myself in her place. Family dead, living with people who made her want to run away, leaving me as a replacement. I felt bad about reading another’s private writings, but she was me, and I was her, sort of. I would’ve felt the same way; now I just felt bad. I slipped the journal back where it came from, trying to leave it exactly how it was before.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I grabbed a book off the shelves and sat in the corner of my/her room, hiding behind the bookshelf. Just as I settled down, the doorbell rang again. “Sorry, sweetheart! I forgot my keys again - can you believe it?” Came the muffled statement/question from through the door.

Again with the nicknames. I got tired of it the first time. I put my book on the ground, not bothering to search for a bookmark, and jogged downstairs to let them in.

As the door swung open, one thing struck me: this girl is serious about soccer. Decked out in cleats, a uniform complete with shin guards, holding a grass-stained ball, there stood Amanda. She glared at me hatefully. I guessed that my other self and her did not get along. She possessed the same nondescript brownish hair as her mother, but had chestnut eyes instead of blue.

She brushed past me, tore off her cleats, and ran upstairs. What’s her problem? What did the other Taylor do to her?

Carmen guided me to the couch and wrapped her arms around me. I wanted to shrink away but I endured. She whispered in my ear: “Taylor, I know our relationship this past year has been kind of rocky, but I hope that we turned over a new leaf today. I know you’ve been driven to run away in the past, but I hope that’s behind us. I love you like my own daughter, and I care about you. I know that you carry a pain with you every day, about your family, and I want you to know that you can tell me everything. I am here for you.”

Wow. If only the other me could’ve heard that. I choked up. Even though the words weren’t really meant for me, the mental and emotional impact of the events today caught up with me. I tried to think that she didn’t mean it, like it was all smoke and mirrors to make my other self stop running away. I tried to stop the waterfall out of my eyes. Her arms grounded me, calmed me. I took a few shuddering breaths and let my tears flow.