I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, my hair still wet after a shower. The same brown hair, the same hazel eyes, the same long face looked back at me. I brushed my hair, parting it on the side as usual, and quickly scrubbed my toothbrush around my orthodontics-filled mouth. Today I had nothing special planned - just lounging around the house, pretending to do school.
As I braided my hair, my thoughts wandered. I spied, out of the corner of my eye, something on the mirror, in the lowest corner, partly hidden by the organic, scent-free soap dispenser. I held my thick braid with one hand and picked at it with the other, certain that it was a piece of dirt. With my fingernail, I found a crevice in the glass, separating the spot from the rest of the dusty mirror. I tied off the braid, moved the soap, and got a little closer, my glasses tapping the mirror gently. I found it wasn’t just a piece of dirt. It seemed to be something etched into the glass; some sort of symbol. A cube, maybe? Or some letters? A signature? It was too tiny to tell. How had I not noticed it before?
My curiosity wearing off, I left the bathroom to go to my room across the hall. Clumsily laid out with a mix of old and new furniture, my room is my haven. I don’t mind when I’m told to go to my room (not like that happens often), seeing that my books and papers are there to provide nearly endless sources of entertainment and imagination.
I plopped on my bed to read, and did for a couple chapters. But I wasn’t really paying attention. The mirror nagged me. The spot or symbol or whatever, I felt like I needed to dig a little deeper. It seemed familiar, somehow, but I couldn’t place it. It was on the tip of my tongue, and yet…
I re-entered the bathroom with my goal in mind. For the next ten minutes, I picked and prodded, alternately sitting on the edge of the tub, thinking, and poking at it with anything I could get my hands on. All my ideas spent, I gave up, and settled for one last poke, with my bare fingertip this time. The circular crevice of the etching slid easily into the glass without a sound. Leaping back in surprise, I… nothing happened.
I looked at my reflection once again. Something felt wrong. After shrugging it off, I started to leave the room. A flash of color caught my eye in the reflection: an orange towel, draped over the rack. I glanced behind me at the blue towel hanging there. Back and forth I went, like I was watching a game of ping-pong. I saw my reflection. She looked me in the eyes. Her face was strange, but not quite a stranger’s face. We weren’t wearing the same outfit. I was hallucinating. Was this because I hadn’t eaten yet, or because of my inability to sleep the night before? The next thing I knew was that my reflection was climbing onto the counter. This odd exchange reminded me of Peter Pan, and his rogue shadow. Wendy, I knew, had to sew it back on for it to behave. Well, this wasn’t my shadow, but something just as eerie.
A shimmery noise (sorry, that’s the best way to explain it. It was a mixture of a summer’s breeze, a lullaby, plus an ambient crowd noise) and a hand rushing out of the mirror made my pulse race. I backed away, but quickly the rest of her body, identical to mine, followed. She climbed off the counter, shut the door, and grabbed my arm. She didn’t seem shaken by her journey through the mirror.
The first thing I noticed about her, besides her appearance, was the smell. Dirt and leaves scented the air, along with campfire. Mud stained the legs of her jeans and berries stained her hoodie. Her hair was matted and greasy, two things that I loathe to see in myself and others.
She drew a Swiss Army knife from the kangaroo pocket in her hoodie and flicked out a serrated blade with her dirty thumbnail. Holding up the knife, she spat, “Don’t make a sound. Come with me or you won’t see your pinkies again.” Since everything about her was just like me, shouldn’t her voice be, too? Did I really sound that whiny? I guess I hear myself differently than everyone else does. I wish I don’t sound so whiny.
She must have mistook my silence for disagreement, because she threatened me again, pointing the blade under my chin. I did not want to have an experience with that knife. I didn’t think she would use it, but I had no way to tell. “Okay, but put the knife down.” I squeaked. “Why? And who are you? Are you me, or am I you, or do I need to go eat something? I -”
“I said, no talking!” Outwardly, she was gruff and unfeeling, but I could see something in her glasses-framed eyes. Regret, maybe? Sadness, definitely. Yanking on my arm, she pulled me up onto the counter and went first into the shining surface of the mirror. I tried to get out, but she held me tightly. Was this some sort of twisted joke? A dream, perhaps? When will I wake up?
As I stepped headfirst into the mirror, the shimmery noise engulfed me. Bright light forced me to close my eyes, and wind from all sides blew up my shirt. All of it lasted only a second or two. The breeze reminded me of walking out of the frozen produce section at Costco, actually. As soon as I climbed off the counter, I caught a glimpse of my bathroom, now unoccupied. Mom would flip her lid when she saw I wasn’t there.
I looked at the other girl. Physically, we were identical. She possibly could be a little thinner than me, but it was hard to tell for sure. Doubt overcame me. I turned to her. “I want answers. What am I doing here? Who are you? What did we just go through? How did you know about this?”
She turned away in reply. Classic teenager response. Now it was my turn to get physical. I pushed her up against the closed door and demanded answers for the third time. Her strength was equally matched by mine, but since I had the advantage, she got nowhere. Apparently, she was just as lazy as I was, because we both stopped after a minute to catch our breaths. This time, she pushed me against the door, forcing me backwards and shoving me into the tub. Before I could untangle myself from the shower curtain, she had thrown a ceramic soap bottle holder at the mirror, shattered it, and ran out of the room.
As I got up, I caught a glimpse of her stuffing things into a backpack, and called to her, but she ran downstairs without a second glance, slamming the front door behind her. There was nothing I could do now. “Hello?” I called. No one answered. A strange feeling that I was being watched caused the hair on my arms to stand up. I shivered. I thought it was weird, especially since Dad works from home and my brothers and I are homeschooled, but dismissed it. Rarely was I home alone, but I treasured every minute of the quiet time.
I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch to look for that person. No movement in the cul-de-sac betrayed her movement. I stepped back inside. I can’t chase after her, I feel like I need to stay here.
My stomach rumbled, giving me an immediate goal: find food. My hunger overrode the strange feeling I had. Normally, our pantry was stocked with fruits and veggies, baking supplies, countertop appliances, extra pots and pans, paper towels, packaged breakfast items like oatmeal and Cheerios… like a normal pantry, I guess, but very organic, healthy, major allergen free. Our fridge and freezer are the exact same way. If you were coming to my house to find junk food, you’re going to be disappointed. Trader Joe’s is literally my mom’s best friend.
This pantry is exactly the opposite. All the prepackaged, sugary, chemical-packed “food” items you can think of were in there - not that I’m complaining. However, these items would only be in here over Mom’s dead body. What had changed? I immediately grabbed a couple cinnamon-brown sugar Pop Tarts and ate them straight from the package, which was downed with a glass of cold milk. I put a couple frozen waffles into the toaster and, when they were cooked, drowned them in maple-flavored sugar and devoured them with another tall glass of milk. Finding the silverware and glasses were surprisingly difficult - someone must have reorganized.
After swallowing the last bite, my stomach started growling, and I burped. Loudly. Like, teenage-brother-who-just-guzzled-a-liter-of-soda loud. And I know what that sounds like. Another burp came up, with the same effect. That was when the cramps kicked in. My stomach roiled at the intrusion of all the sugar and dairy and other foods it was definitely not used to. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, grimacing in pain. The agony continued for a good 20 minutes or so until I rushed to the bathroom and everything came back up. It had been a long time since I’d puked, and it was not a pleasant experience. I rinsed out my mouth and drank a little water to soothe my burning throat. I needed food, still. I found an apple, diced it and consumed it greedily. I had learned my lesson.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
A knock on the door, swiftly followed by a ringing of the doorbell startled me. “I’m home!” A grumpy woman’s voice, muffled through the door, reached my ears. “Let me in, Taylor.”
So the girl who pulled me through had the same name as me. My recurring question sparked through my mind again: “Am I you? Are you me? Are we the same person? Or is this an elaborate joke or a dream?”
The woman’s lithe body was crowned with a lump of unkempt dark blonde hair and accompanied with a pair of dull blue eyes on a moon-shaped face. She seemed young in the way she walked, but she looked much older. I disliked her immediately. If the other me had a reason to flee this place in so much haste, I certainly had a reason to, also. So I was on my guard.
After setting down her groceries, she circled me like a buzzard around a carcass. She didn’t seem angry, more like frustrated and tired. “Honey, I told you to take a shower when I left. Just washing your hair isn’t going to cut it.”
“I took a shower just this morning!” I quickly said, following her around the corner. I needed an adult to help me straighten all this out. “If you could call it this morning. It was in the other bathroom. Through the… mirror thingy.”
She gave me a look that told me to be quiet. Is she going to say anything, or just stare at me like I’m crazy? “Use soap and be sure to scrub like your life depends on it.” Did she even hear me?
The shards of broken mirror and soap dispenser were in the twin sinks and scattered across the floor. I wrapped my hand in a towel and scooped them to the side. I ran the hot water and undressed. By the time I got in, a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t open it!” I quickly said, not wanting her to see the broken glass.
“Okay, that’s enough hot water for you. Get out right now.” She just did not stop. No wonder the other Taylor ran off. I toweled off and walked into my room with its walk in closet (tinier than you might think, but useful).
Everything was so eerie. My room was identically laid out, but with different furniture. And my miniature bookcase was missing, the one I got as a gift when I was six. The hanging clothes were a similar style to mine, though not the same. I pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants and wrapped my hair in the towel.
A thought struck me: where were my brothers? Ordinarily, they were constantly underfoot. In this strange place, I had seen neither hide nor hair of them. The door to the room next to mine was mostly closed. A sign, decorated with soccer ball stickers, on the door proclaimed, “The Princess Palace.” Okay, no boys here. It creaked softly as I stepped inside. The walls, painted whitish when my brothers occupied it, were a pale pink, as was the bedspread. Pink with… soccer balls? A little girl must live here. Five or six, probably. A huge dollhouse was pushed against the far wall, and gauzy curtains framed the window facing out to the cul-de-sac. Soccer posters hung crookedly on the walls. A hamster ran in its wheel in an expansive cage. The color scheme disgusted me. Give me a dark green or sky blue, even a light yellow, and I would never choose pink.
I dared not to go into the master bedroom. Who knows what I would find there, with this strange woman occupying it.
There was one bedroom downstairs, however. I crept down, skipping the creaky step, not wanting to incur the wrath of the woman on the couch. Thankfully, she was absorbed in whatever she was doing on her phone. I slipped into the fourth bedroom, painted turquoise. Probably a teenage girl, cemented by the basket of nail polish on the desk. So this woman had three girls living with her. And I was stuck in the middle.
I debated how to find out more without arousing suspicion. Should I even ask, or just go with the flow and find out slowly?
I wanted answers. I slid onto the leather couch and turned on the TV, trying to act casual. I asked her what she wanted to watch (I preferred to read, but I needed the distraction of the TV to make her reveal what I was doing here). As the theme music started, I popped the question: “Where is everyone?”
“Oh, you know, just the normal for a Friday afternoon; Chelsea’s practicing with the cheerleading squad and Mandy is at the after-school soccer camp that she’s been so excited about for so long. And,” she sighed, “Donovan is at work, as usual. You know, I’m getting hungry. You want a grilled cheese?”
“Sure,” I said. She seemed to change subjects from her husband pretty quickly, but I thought nothing of it. The food sounded really good, actually. I longed for a good crispy grilled cheese sandwich. The apple hadn’t done much to quell my hunger, and my stomach roiled. But as I watched her microwave the processed cheese squares onto the white bread, my appetite left. I felt queasy at ingesting that junk, but I tried to be polite and hide it. “Come on, let’s sit at the table,” she beckoned, two sandwiches in her hands.
I picked at my food as she devoured hers in a most unladylike way. Something stopped her, and pain filled her eyes. She told me in a soft voice, “I’m so sorry, Taylor.”
I didn’t reply, instead focusing on my sandwich. Sorry about what?
“I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary of your family’s, um, passing. If you want to go visit them at the graveyard later today, I can take you.”
My family’s death? They were very much alive. “My family’s not dead,” I blurted, which she mistook for denial. She came around the table and hugged me awkwardly, pinning my arms to my side so I couldn’t hug her back. Not that I would, but still.
“I know it’s hard for you to accept. I know we’ve had a rough year, but I hope you can see that I care about you. Not as a foster parent, but as a mom. I hope you feel the same way.”
Foster parent? I must’ve gotten adopted. None of my family could take me? Or any of my parent’s friends? Any of them would be acceptable, rather than this stranger.
Someone knocked at the door impatiently. “That must be Chelsea and her friends. They come here every week after practice.” Please, no. Not a bunch of impossibly thin, makeup encrusted, cheerleader seniors. How would they react when they saw me, just a nerdy sophomore, wearing no makeup, nearly the complete opposite of them? I rushed upstairs, barely making it to the landing when the door opened and the excited squeals of the five girls rose up: “Hello again, Carmen!” So her name was Carmen. Good to know.
“Nice to see you again.”
“May I use your bathroom, Carmen?”
“It smells good in here! What did you make?”
“Hey, Mom. Do you have any extra exfoliating brushes? We want to do mani-pedis on each other.”
I peeked over the half-wall. One of the tall, thin girls looked just like Carmen. I assumed that it was Chelsea, and set to work identifying the others, which was easy because of the next conversation, in which Carmen attempts to answer everyone at the same time: “Hello, Emmica! It’s nice to see you too, Zahra. Sure, Miriam; go right ahead. Oh, it’s nothing, Lucy. I just made grilled cheese for Taylor and I. Chelsea, I should have some extra in my bathroom, in a box under my sink. Taylor? Where are you? You want to have mani-pedis with these fine ladies?”
I did not answer. That would be my worst nightmare. I liked getting a manicure, but not really pedicures, and not with a bunch of older girls.
Carmen walked softly up the stairs and sat next to me on the landing. Though she tried to be quiet, I knew her words were echoing across the vaulted ceilings and the girls could hear us. “Taylor, honey, why don’t you want to paint your nails with them? It’ll be a good bonding experience.”
I looked away, which she assumed to be acquiescence. She stood up and dragged me downstairs with her, planting me right in the doorway. I felt vulnerable and exposed. ‘Here’s me, the poor orphaned girl who was adopted by your best friend’s parents! Feel sorry for me, and, while you’re at it, paint my fingernails and ugly toenails! Also, stare at me awkwardly because I can’t carry on a conversation!’
I seated myself on the bed, took off my socks, and rolled up my pant legs to prepare for the treatment. I picked the color out of a rainbow of polishes in the plastic tub; an electric blue. I just wanted it to be over with as quickly as possible.
Finally, as I got settled, the conversation resumed. Who was dating who, who had a crush on who, who broke up with who, the boys they thought were cute. Gossip has never been my thing. I prefer to mind my own business, thank you very much. The smell of the polish was nearly intoxicating, so Lucy cracked the window open. Someone started playing music that I would never listen to, and the torture began with them scrubbing half my skin off of my feet.