Chapter 1

After my sister drowned that summer, my mom lost her mind.

She set a rule: on odd-numbered days, I was Maya. On even-numbered days, I was Lily.

When I was playing Lily, I had to wear a pair of red Mary Jane shoes, two sizes too small, and dance ballet in the living room, even if my toes bled.

When I was playing myself, I could only eat stale, hard bread, because Maya was a sinner who didn't deserve meat.

I endured it for three years, until she smashed the art supplies I'd secretly saved up for, declaring that Lily wasn't grown up yet, so no one was allowed to draw.

That's when I finally snapped. I smashed Lily's favorite music box.

It was almost eleven at night when my mom forced me to put on those red shoes.

Today was the second, an even-numbered day.

I was Lily.

Lily loved to dance, and Lily had a pair of red Mary Jane shoes.

But Lily was only eight when she died.

I was seventeen this year.

Those tiny shoes, probably a child's size eight or ten, didn't fit my feet at all.

"Put them on." My mom sat on the couch, holding a clothes hanger, her eyes fixed on me.

I gritted my teeth, curling my toes, and painfully crammed my feet inside.

The heel of the shoe dug into my ankle, breaking the skin.

"Not on right. Do it again."

The clothes hanger whipped my calf, leaving a red mark.

I didn't flinch.

I pulled my foot out, took a deep breath, and shoved it back in with force.

This time, my toe bones made a soft clicking sound, and the shoes finally slipped on.

It hurt.

An excruciating pain.

"Dance." My mom pressed the play button on the boombox.

The music of "Swan Lake" filled the cramped living room.

I rose onto my tiptoes and began to twirl around the room.

The floor was hard, and the soles of the red shoes were even harder.

With every turn, my toes felt like they were being pricked by needles.

Blood trickled down my heels, soaking into my white socks, turning dark red.

My mom watched me, a satisfied smile on her face.

"Lily dances so beautifully," she murmured to herself. "Lily will be a great dancer someday."

I bit my lip, twirling silently.

Three years.

Every even-numbered day for three years, I had to dance in this living room.

Sometimes for half an hour, sometimes for two hours.

I couldn't stop until my mom got tired of watching and fell asleep.

Today, she was full of energy.

She watched me dance for a full hour.

Just as I was about to collapse, she suddenly stood up.

She walked towards my desk.

My heart sank.

In the desk drawer were the art supplies I'd secretly saved up for.

On odd-numbered days, I was Maya.

Maya loved to draw.

But my mom wouldn't let me.

She'd say Lily wasn't grown up yet, Lily hadn't learned to draw, so why should Maya get to?

She pulled open the drawer.

"Mom!" I stopped dancing, ignoring the pain in my feet, and lunged towards her.

Too late.

She had already taken out the paints.

"What is this?" She turned, looking at me coldly.

"Mom, that's my---"

"I asked you, what is this?!" Her voice suddenly rose, sharp and grating.

"Paints."

"Who told you to buy them?"

"I saved my own money..."

"Lily doesn't draw!" she shrieked hysterically, slamming the box of paints onto the floor.

The plastic box shattered.

Colorful paints splattered out, staining the floor.

Still not appeased, she picked up my sketchbook, and with a ripping sound, tore it in half.

It was a half-filled sketchbook.

Inside were drawings of the sky, of flying birds, of a world without Lily and without a crazy mom.

Now, it was all destroyed.

She threw the torn pieces of paper in my face.

"I told you, Lily isn't grown up yet, no one is allowed to draw!"

The edge of a paper piece grazed my cheek, a small sting.

I looked at the mess on the floor, at the vivid colors and shredded paper.

The last thread in my heart suddenly snapped.

I didn't cry.

I turned and walked towards the TV stand.

On the TV stand sat a pink music box.

My mom had bought it for Lily on her eighth birthday.

Lily loved that music box the most.

My mom polished it every day, not allowing even a speck of dust.

I walked over and picked up the music box.

My mom froze.

"What are you doing?" Her voice trembled slightly.

"Lily doesn't draw," I said, looking at her, enunciating each word. "And Lily won't listen to music boxes anymore."

I raised the music box and slammed it onto the floor.

Bang!

Its plastic shell shattered into pieces.

The little ballerina doll inside popped out, its mainspring broken, emitting a grating metallic screech.

The living room fell into a deathly silence.

Only the boombox continued to play "Swan Lake."

My mom stared blankly at the fragments on the floor.

Her face was as white as paper.

I thought she would hit me.

I thought she would beat me half to death with the clothes hanger.

I was ready for it.

But she didn't.

She slowly crouched down, picking up the little doll with a broken leg.

Her hands trembled violently.

"Mom." I gasped, shouting out the words I'd held in for three years: "Lily is dead! She died three years ago! Drowned in the pool! If you hadn't been so busy playing cards and hadn't watched her, how would she have fallen in?!"

She flinched.

The broken doll in her hand dropped to the floor.

She looked up at me.

Her eyes filled with fear, despair, and disbelief.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

I looked at her coldly.

"I was the one who found her by the pool. I was the one who pulled her out. Her body was bloated and ice-cold."

"It wasn't my fault."

"It was never my fault."

"You killed her."

I took off the red shoes and threw them at her feet.

"I don't want to be Lily anymore."

I turned and walked back to my room, locking the door behind me.

That night, there was no sound from the living room.

No crying, no shouting, nothing.

The next morning, I pushed open my bedroom door.

The living room was spotlessly clean.

The paint stains were gone, the shredded paper was gone, and the music box fragments were gone.

The red shoes were neatly placed on the shoe rack.

My mom wasn't in the living room.

I walked to the TV stand.

On the wall, where Lily's photo used to hang, there was a white piece of paper.

On it, a cold, diagonal tally mark was drawn with a black marker.

Beside it was a line of text.

The handwriting was neat, the ink pressed deeply into the paper.

"Maya, from today on, you are Lily every day."