Their mother bought it, all of it. She met them at the curb; she scanned their faces and, with only the faintest flicker of confusion, called out, "Sandy! You're back!”
Her gaze hovered between them, uncertain, but then she hugged the Sandy in the borrowed hoodie first, burying her nose in her hair, and said, "You smell like a bus station, sweetie. Come on in!”
Sandy trailed behind, walking behind her own replica, watching her mother favor the wrong version.
"So, how was the retreat? Did you do any, like, soul-searching?” her mother asked.
Theo-as-Sandy shrugged, "It was fine. Rainy and boring. I finished the book you gave me."
"You finished a book?" her mother gasped, mock-offended, "Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?"
They both laughed. If only she knew.
Meanwhile, Sandy herself, the real one, loitered in the doorway, marveling at the ease with which her brother wore her life.
At dinner, the three of them sat at the table and made small talk. Theo fielded every question about the retreat, recounting plausible anecdotes about group hikes and cooking lessons. Sandy barely had to speak; she nodded at the right intervals, chewed her food, and watched as her mother became more and more convinced.
“So, Sandy… Is it weird with your brother looking like you? I had him call you before you got back, so you wouldn’t get too freaked out. My intern’s done an incredible job, hasn’t she?”
Theo-as-Sandy forced a smile, “You’re certainly convincing, ‘Theo’!”
“Thank you. I pride myself," Sandy said automatically.
Their mother nodded, pleased, then poked at her salad, “You know, when I was your age, I would’ve killed for a twin. It’s like you two get to try on each other’s lives, just for a bit! So wonderful to see you getting along.”
“Is it weird being a girl, ‘Theo’?” He dragged out the words, savoring the irony.
“It’s crazy. If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t be able to tell you two apart!” their mother exclaimed, obliviously to the truth.
“But I can tell you’re the real Sandy, of course,” she declared, then, with practiced affection, swung her arm around Theo’s shoulder and drew him in for a side-hug.
Theo tensed—Sandy saw the little involuntary jerk in his neck, the quick intake of breath—but then he relaxed into it, even resting his head briefly against their mother’s.
—
“That was insane!” Sandy pulled Theo aside immediately after dinner, dragging him by the wrist through the narrow, lamp-lit hall until they were alone in the laundry room. The old dryer rattled in the corner.
She pushed the door shut with her heel and turned on Theo, wide-eyed and grinning, “She totally bought it!”
“Most people see what they want to,” he was flushed, high on the performance, but she could see the exhaustion behind his eyes.
They collapsed onto the dryer, knees pressed together, the machine rumbling beneath them. For a moment neither spoke; Sandy traced the lines on her own palm, the little forked scar from childhood, and tried to process the fact that her brother could wear her body so easily.
“You’re not even creeped out?” she blurted, voice low.
Theo shrugged, flexing his new arms, “Why would I be? It’s like… I dunno. Cosplay. Or theater. Or one of those mirror maze funhouses.”
He turned his wrist, studying the perfect replication of capillaries, the subtle shift of knuckles—her knuckles, “Honestly, I kind of love it. Makes me feel powerful.”
She said, “What if we took it further?”
Theo looked up, intrigued. “How far?”
Sandy shrugged, half serious, “What if you were me for, like, a whole weekend? Do all the stuff I hate—church with Mom, piano practice with Gran, the stupid book club. See if anyone notices.”
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