“Does that happen to you a lot with him?”
“No. But when it does, it’s fierce.” Li always brings the nicest chocolates. I can’t do her the dishonor of letting her think I’m better than I am. I admit, “I wasn’t suddenly struck with bitchheart. It always lurks within me.”
“I don’t believe that. Bitchface, maybe. Not bitchheart.” She must know that other deadly sin lurking within my heart—greed—because she opens her purse, retrieves the box of chocolates she must have grabbed on her way out, and opens it. I pick the one that I hope is mocha-flavored, and if it’s something gross, like one with lemon filling (who would do that to the inside of a chocolate?), out of respect for Li Zhang and her uncommon goodness, I’m not going to return it half-eaten to the box.
I take a bite. Mocha! I further admit, “You’re wrong. I was born with bitchheart. Sam got all the good DNA.”
“Maybe bitchheart isn’t so terrible? It will make you a survivor.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to be a survivor. When the apocalypse finally hits, I want to die first.”
“I don’t believe that, either,” says Li. “When the Atlantic Ocean finally pushes past Brooklyn and takes over Manhattan, the Ilsa I know will be standing on top of the Empire State Building, flirting with sailors and throwing everyone life rafts.”
“Doubt it. I’m scared of heights.” We’re on the nineteenth floor of the Stanwyck, although technically it’s the eighteenth floor, since most older Manhattan buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor. Those previous generations sure knew how to build superstition directly into the souls of building residents. Eighteen or nineteen—it’s still many floors beyond my comfort level. Running toward my fears but never overcoming them: That’s how I like it. “I always sit under this trellis because it’s in the center of the roof deck. I feel nauseous if I walk near the edge.”
“Me too!” says Li. “So what are we doing up here, anyway?”
“I like to come up here because access is forbidden to Czarina’s apartment unit. When the Stanwyck went condo years ago, the holdouts who didn’t give up their rent-controlled apartments were denied access to the rooftop.”
“That’s so mean.”
“That’s real estate. Says Czarina.”
“But you have the key to open the door to the rooftop deck. I just saw you use it.”
“Czarina had a fling with the landscaper. He had a copy of the key made for her.”
“Your grandma seems like a real problem solver.”
“What makes you say that?”
“This muumuu. It’s so comfortable, I can’t stand it. I hope I’m not being vain, but I feel like it looks as good on me as it feels.”
“It does. Czarina does wonders with fabrics. She can make any cloth look fashionable and amazing.”
“How come she never went into business for herself? She’s so talented.”
“She did. Years ago. A clothing store with her brother. The business failed. Whatever happened between them was pretty bad. Czarina hasn’t talked to her brother since before Sam and I were born.”
“Ouch.” The silence that follows is Li’s acknowledgment of my fear—of what could happen to me and Sam. That we could become like Czarina and the brother whose name she won’t even speak aloud. Siblings. Partners. Then dead to each other.
Their falling-out wasn’t just over the failed business. It was over who got the rent-controlled Stanwyck apartment that had originally been leased to their grandparents. Czarina won that battle. The price was never seeing or speaking to her brother again.
I say, “Sam and I are nothing alike. I don’t know how we’re siblings, much less twins. I can’t believe I ever shared a womb with him. Even in there, he was probably the one banging around the least, giving Mom the least trouble. I retroactively hate him for that, too.”
The storm left behind wind. It’s chilly up here. The Mary Poppins who is wearing Czarina’s purple muumuu pulls a long shawl out of her purse, hands me one end, and we place it across our shoulders so we’re almost in a huddle. “Why are you so mad at him, Ilsa?”
“I don’t know!” I’m not yelling, but I’m close. My skin is cold but my blood is boiling.
I do kind of know.
I’m mad that he invited Parker. He knows how the sight of Parker hurts me. He knows that Parker moved on, but I didn’t. I hate to accept that in the custody battle for Parker’s friendship, Sam will always win. I hate that Sam should win that custody. I hate that every time I feel like I’ve moved on from my feelings for Parker, I have some reminder of him from Sam—I see a text on Sam’s phone, or hear Sam laughing in another room when they’re hanging out and don’t think I’m around, or Sam bloody invites him to our last dinner party at Czarina’s. It would be so much easier to let go if I didn’t have those constant reminders—and brutal for Sam if he was ever forced to choose between us. Nobody wins. I want to blame Sam, even if I know how unreasonable that is.
I’m mad that Czarina and Mom and Dad love us both the same, but they like him more.
I’m mad that I always have to share a birthday with him.
I’m mad that Sam got piano lessons and I got dance lessons. He’s good enough to get into a world-class music school like Berklee, and I fell flat on my face and gave up. I would never be good enough to pursue my art in a renowned school. Sam could—and chooses not to.
I’m mad that we came from the same womb, but he will always get to live with white male privilege with
