The incident with the history report had been a bitter pill, but Carol had swallowed it, convinced it was an isolated incident. Her focus shifted to a new, thrilling prospect: a fully sponsored spot at the prestigious Golden Dragon Karate Camp for the entire summer. Mr. Miller, her sensei, had personally vouched for her, securing the scholarship after witnessing her unwavering dedication and talent. Carol had spent weeks poring over the camp brochure, dreaming of advanced katas and sparring techniques, a summer defined by discipline and growth, far from the suffocating atmosphere of home.
Meanwhile, a different kind of crisis brewed for Amy. Her grades, always mediocre despite Carol's covert assistance, had finally caught up with her. She had failed two core subjects and, to her horror, was required to attend summer school to pass to the next grade. The news shattered Amy's plans for a glamorous summer arts program, a prestigious ballet intensive she had been boasting about for months. The contrast was stark: Carol, the overlooked twin, had earned an incredible, free opportunity, while Amy, the golden child, faced public academic humiliation and a summer confined to a classroom.
One afternoon, Amy found Carol in her room, hunched over a complex programming problem. Amy's face was blotchy, tears streaming. "It's not fair!" she wailed, collapsing onto Carol's rug. "You get to go to some stupid camp, and I have to go to summer school! My life is ruined!" Carol, despite her own excitement, felt a familiar pang of sympathy. "I can help you study, Amy," she offered, genuinely. "We can go over everything before summer school starts."
Amy scrambled up, her eyes flashing with a sudden, chilling cunning. "No!" she spat, her voice laced with venom. "You always get everything! Why should you get to go to your stupid camp when I'm stuck here?" Before Carol could react, Amy snatched Carol's camp brochure, crumpled it, and stormed out. Carol, confused but not yet alarmed, picked up the mangled paper.
The next morning, the phone rang. It was Mr. Miller. His voice, usually calm and steady, held a note of bewildered disappointment. "Carol, I'm so sorry, but the camp director just called. They said you called last night to cancel your spot. Is everything alright?"
The world tilted. "Cancel? No! I didn't call anyone!" Carol's voice rose, a frantic edge to it.
"But they said you confirmed it was you, and that you had a change of plans," Mr. Miller insisted, clearly perplexed. "They've already given your scholarship to another student. I'm truly sorry, Carol."
The phone slipped from Carol's numb fingers. Her gaze landed on the crumpled camp brochure, then darted to Amy's room, where faint music drifted from behind the closed door. A cold, hard certainty settled in her gut. Amy. It had to be Amy. The betrayal was a physical blow, stealing her breath, leaving her gasping for air in a world suddenly devoid of trust. She stumbled into the living room, tears finally erupting, a raw, guttural sob tearing from her chest. "Amy cancelled my camp!" she choked out to her mother, who was casually flipping through a magazine.
Sarah's eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before settling into a familiar dismissiveness. "Don't be dramatic, Carol. Amy wouldn't do something like that." But the way she avoided Carol's gaze, the slight shift in her posture, spoke volumes.
When Robert came home that weekend, Carol, still inconsolable, finally managed to stammer out the truth. Robert's face, usually passive, contorted with a rare, furious anger. He confronted Sarah, his voice rising, accusing her of enabling Amy, of fostering such cruel jealousy. Sarah, defensive and indignant, retaliated, blaming Carol for being "too sensitive" and Amy for being "misunderstood." The argument escalated, a bitter, vicious exchange that ended with Robert slamming the door, leaving for work earlier than planned, promising to take on extra shifts, anything to escape the suffocating tension. His departure left Carol feeling abandoned, the anger at her mother and sister now tinged with a deep resentment towards her father for his constant retreat.
The following Monday, Sarah, her face set in a hard line, called Carol into the study. "Amy simply cannot fail summer school," she stated, as if it were a decree from on high. "It would ruin her record, her chances for the arts program next year. You two are identical. You're going to summer school in her place."
Carol stared, aghast. "What? No! I can't!"
"You will," Sarah said, her voice chillingly calm. "You're smart. You'll pass. And Amy will stay home and 'study' here. This is for the family, Carol. You're the bigger person. And you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?"
Heartbroken, furious, and utterly defeated, Carol found herself walking into the unfamiliar halls of summer school, pretending to be Amy. For a few days, it worked. Carol, with her sharp mind, easily aced the quizzes, baffling Amy's usual teachers. But Carol's quiet intensity, her focused gaze, her genuine interest in the material, were starkly different from Amy's flighty, attention-seeking demeanor.
One humid Thursday afternoon, the heat clung to the summer school classroom like a second skin. Carol—masquerading as Amy—sat in her usual spot near the window, the golden light streaking across her borrowed name tag. Today's lesson was poetry, a unit Amy had once described as "useless and boring." But Carol couldn't help herself. When Mrs. Albright read aloud a Sylvia Plath poem—dense, sharp-edged, and painfully beautiful—something in it struck deep. When the class was asked to write a short response, Carol's hand moved instinctively, her words flowing with raw clarity.
When she turned in her paper, Mrs. Albright barely glanced at it—at first. Then her eyes lingered. Slowly, she read it again. Her brow creased, not with confusion, but with curiosity. Her gaze lifted, landing on Carol with the precision of a scalpel.
"Stay a moment after class, Amy," she said mildly.
Carol's heart thudded. She nodded, carefully schooling her expression.
The bell rang, and the other students poured out in lazy, summer-dazed clumps. Mrs. Albright shut the classroom door gently, turning back with a thoughtful tilt of her head.
"That response," she said, tapping Carol's paper, "was exquisite. Unflinching, thoughtful. A voice I haven't heard in this room before." She paused. "Tell me, what changed?"
Carol swallowed. "I've been… trying harder."
"Hmm." Mrs. Albright moved closer, resting against the edge of her desk. Her eyes weren't suspicious—just knowing. "You quoted Rainer Maria Rilke. In German. Correctly."
Carol froze. Her mind raced. Amy would never—had never—read Rilke. Carol barely remembered mentioning him once to Aunt Clara.
Mrs. Albright studied her, her voice lowering. "I once had a sister, too. Older. Brilliant. Outshone me in everything. Until I realized we were not in the same race."
Carol blinked, surprised.
"You don't have to say anything," Mrs. Albright added gently. "But if you ever want someone to listen—to you, not your reflection—my door is open. Names don't always tell the truth, Carol."
The name landed with a thud, soft but undeniable.
Carol stood still, trembling. No denial came. No admission either. Just a stunned silence, thick with shock and something else—relief, maybe, or the beginning of it.
Mrs. Albright smiled, faint but firm. "Go on now. But think about what you want your story to be."
As Carol stepped out into the hallway, her heart pounded—but not from fear alone. For the first time in weeks, someone had looked past Amy's shadow and seen her. Really seen her.
The truth, once discovered, erupted into a full-blown scandal. The school administration was furious. The Johnson name, once synonymous with Amy's pageant wins, was now tainted by deceit. Amy, publicly shamed, lost her coveted spot in the summer arts program for good and was forced to attend summer school herself, physically, every day.
The backlash at home was brutal. Sarah and Amy, humiliated and enraged, turned their fury squarely on Carol. "You ruined everything!" Amy shrieked, tears of self-pity streaming down her face. Sarah's words were colder, sharper, cutting deeper than any physical blow. "You just couldn't do one thing for your sister, could you, Carol? You always have to make things difficult." Carol, now truly alone, looked at her mother's accusatory face, at Amy's tear-streaked, resentful gaze, and then at the empty space where her father should have been. The protective love she once held for Amy had evaporated, replaced by a searing resentment for both her mother and sister, and a bitter, burning anger at her father for his perpetual absence and inaction. The twin bond was not just shattered; it was incinerated, leaving only ashes and a fierce, new determination to escape.