One

I was inspecting my socks when they called my name.

It was first-­period gym class, and I’d just realized that my socks were entirely wrong. They were long and pulled up straight to midcalf, while those of every other girl in the room were short, barely visible above their sneakers.

There were obviously unwritten sock protocols. They probably weren’t even new—­most likely I was only catching up three months into my sophomore year. Good at school, bad at life. That could be my slogan. Anna might get a kick out of that, even if she’d pretend to disagree.

“Jess?”

Mrs. Hayes, the school counselor, was standing inside the door of the gym, her hands locked in front of her, her back rigid. The gym teacher, Ms. Turner, stood beside her. Ms. Turner looked strange. It took a second before I realized why—­her face lacked its trademark scowl. Its absence worried me, but what worried me more was that she appeared to be indicating that I should leave class and go with Mrs. Hayes.

“Jess, please come with me,” Mrs. Hayes said.

I got up slowly, to see if Ms. Turner would object. She did not.

Mrs. hayes and I left the gym together and walked through the long, cool hallways. The pea-­green lockers and yellow linoleum floors contributed to the schoolwide symphony of poor color choices. I felt a little nauseous.

Mrs. Hayes kept glancing at me as we walked, as though she suspected I might suddenly make a break for it.

It seemed like she should say something to me, something reassuring, but she said nothing, not even where we were going. I tried to think what this might be about, tried to remember if my parents had mentioned any recent health problems in either set of my grandparents. I didn’t think they had, not beyond the usual. Anna would know, though; Anna paid attention.

We turned a corner and I saw Principal Stevens standing outside her office, looking toward us. As usual, everything about her seemed intentional: her fitted gray blazer, her crisp white shirt, her dark hair, which fell in a straight, glossy bob. She motioned us inside.

My dad sat in her office, slumped in a chair. When he saw me, he jerked upright, as if he’d been pulled by invisible strings. His face was taut and his mouth vibrated at the edges.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Jess,” he said, staring at me. “You should sit down.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I want to stand.”

He closed his eyes. “Jess. Please sit.”

There was a gravity to what he said, a gravity that pulled me into a chair.

“There was an accident, we think, and . . .” His voice faltered and then he started again.

“I’m so sorry. . . .”

More words followed, a stream of them. They didn’t make any sense.

I heard his words individually. Anna. Fell. Bad. Sorry. They didn’t—­couldn’t—­connect with each other. It was as if they were part of a riddle I couldn’t decipher. Fell, bad, Anna, sorry. Sorry, Anna, fell, bad.

Anna.

Bad.

Fell.

Sorry.

Eventually, they slotted together. And I knew he was wrong. He was wrong because it couldn’t be true. I would have known. I would have known from the moment I woke up, from the second it happened.

“You’re wrong,” I said, rising from my chair.

He began to stand up. “Jess . . .”

“No,” I said, as calmly as I could. “You’re wrong. I’d know if anything happened to her. She’ll be in class right now. You’ll see.”

He opened his mouth again, but I didn’t hear what he had to say.

the cool air of the hallway felt good on my skin. The office had been way too warm. The thermostat must have been broken or set incorrectly. Such overheating was careless, environmentally irresponsible. It couldn’t be good for the principal either, or for the crispness of her shirts.

A hum started in my brain: Anna, bad, fell—­

No, everything was fine. We would laugh about this later, and everything would be fine. Completely fine.

Anna would be in history right now. I’d go there and she’d be at her desk. I walked faster, trying to outpace the hum in my brain.

I was almost running by the time I reached the classroom. I looked through the window in the door, knowing it had all been some bizarre mistake, knowing I’d see her there, sitting with one hand cupped under her chin, staring at the trees outside.

I searched for her among the sea of faces in the room.

I went through them all. Once, twice. Three times.

She wasn’t there.

There was only an empty desk.

Oh.

There had been no mistake. It was true, true after all.

Anna, my sister, my twin, was dead.

Oh.