Chapter 1

The day I found the family portrait of the three of them, I was in the bathroom washing my sister's socks.

My wet palm slid across the photo. The date was fresh. Yesterday.

The girl in it had fair, pretty skin. Not a single mark of disfigurement.

After my sister was disfigured, our family had never taken another photo. By silent agreement she'd become the invisible one, the one you didn't show off.

Mom and Dad had tipped the scales of their love all onto my side. The nicer clothes, the expensive shoes—whatever I wanted, they never said no.

Under all those years of being ignored, my sister developed depression. Her wrists were covered in scars of different depths.

I saw it, and I chose to stay by her side and give her whatever she wanted.

The day she lost her competition, she climbed onto the roof, and I handed over the competition slot I'd spent three months preparing for.

The day she failed to win a graduate-school recommendation spot, she swallowed pills, and I gave her the recommendation spot I'd worked so hard to earn.

Six years. One surrender after another.

Until the voice came from the bedroom:

"Mom, faking depression works so well. This time I want Connie's study-abroad exchange spot!"

01.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Mom grabbed my hand, all tenderness.

"You silly girl, why are you washing your sister's socks?"

"You'll freeze your hands raw. It breaks my heart!"

My bitter smile froze on my face. Slowly I drew my hand back out of hers.

I looked down at the wad of pink socks in the basin, the bubbles bursting one by one.

I'd heard words like these thousands of times.

Hearing them now, all I felt was sick.

After my sister was accidentally scalded and disfigured, Mom and Dad pinned the whole family's hopes on me.

Growing up, my closet was full of new clothes, complete sets of study guides.

Every kind of prep class, private tutoring from top teachers—all arranged for me.

Even the room with the best light in the house went to me. My sister had to squeeze into the cramped little back bedroom.

She could only wear the shoes I'd worn out, take the clothes I didn't want.

Mom and Dad gave me all their love, except in one thing. Photos.

Every year on my birthday I'd suggest the family take a photo to remember it by.

But Mom always shot it down, saying my sister's face was ruined.

More than once I told them not to be like that.

But Mom would only smile: "Your sister's stuck like this for life."

"You're different, sweetheart. Food, fun, whatever you want, I'll give it to you."

The day my sister first cut herself, her whole face was smeared with tears as she demanded of me:

"Why do you get to enter the competition? But the moment it's my turn, Mom won't spend a cent!"

"I hate you!"

My chest clenched, and to steady her I handed over the competition slot I'd worked so hard to get.

The day she swallowed pills the second time, she stared at me with hollow eyes and asked:

"You're better than me at everything. I'm the useless one."

I held her body as it went limp, aching, and gave up the recommendation spot I'd fought for over four years.

The day she went to the roof the third time, she stood at the edge in despair, like a puppet with no soul left in it.

"Connie, I can't hold on anymore. This family, I don't want it."

That day I got a call from my advisor. He told me I'd been given the one and only spot to study abroad on exchange for a year.

I stood on the roof with the phone, the hard wind stinging my eyes.

For years I hadn't slept a single good night, terrified that the moment I closed my eyes, my sister would jump off the top of the building.

To make her life a little better, I worked day and night, bought her name-brand clothes and name-brand shoes.

I even promised her:

"It's okay. Whatever Mom and Dad favored me with, your sister will make it up to you."

Then the hand cream was held out in front of me, and Mom frowned.

"Connie, don't wash her socks again. She's a grown woman."

"And don't forget to put on hand cream."

I pushed down the ache churning inside me and nodded.

Before I saw those family portraits—how hard you must have worked to fool me all these years.

I finished washing my hands and came out to find the family already gathered around the table, eating.

Seeing my eyes land straight on the spicy grilled fish on the table,

Mom rubbed her hands and explained:

"The chili peppers your aunt brought over were about to go bad if we didn't eat them. What a waste, on this one!"

As she said it, Mom pinched my sister hard.

My sister can't stand a meal without heat. But I'm allergic to chili peppers.

My sister clutched my hand tight.

"Connie, don't take it to heart. Mom loves you most. Next time—"

Before she finished, I turned my head, slipped my hand free, and said quietly:

"No need. I've got plans with a friend."

My sister burst into tears in an instant.

"Connie, are you angry? I won't eat it, all right?"

"If you leave, Mom's going to blame me again!"

Mom turned and tied on her apron.

"Connie, don't be angry. I'll make you something new! It's just one fish!"

Even Dad planted himself in front of me.

"Connie, if you don't come to the table today, none of us are eating!"

In the middle of the argument came a sharp crack—a cup shattering on the floor.

A stab of pain shot through my skin, and a huge blister rose up in an instant.