“No!” Chloe interrupted, her voice cracking with a deep, irrational, long-festering hatred.

She stepped toward me, her perfectly manicured finger aimed at my face. “You always do this! You always act like some fragile, broken little bird so Mom and Dad will coddle you and ignore me! You’ve weaponized this ‘mystery illness’ of yours our entire lives.”

She stepped closer, the floral scent of her expensive perfume overpowering the sterile, medicinal smell of the heavy burn creams I applied every morning.

“I know what you’re doing,” Chloe hissed, her eyes narrowing into cruel, resentful slits. “You just want everyone to ask, ‘Oh, what’s wrong with Maya?

Why is poor Maya wearing a sweater?’ You’re going to put this bikini on, and you’re going to show everyone there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re going to prove you’re just a freak who wants attention. If you don’t wear it… you’re dead to me.”

I looked at my sister’s furious, beautiful face. It was a face biologically identical to my own. We shared the same almond-shaped hazel eyes, the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark, wavy hair. But from the neck down, we were two entirely different species. She was pristine. I was a monster.