Chapter 1

I returned from that nightmare boarding school.

Everyone in my family stared at me.

My eyes were cold, my smile was gone, and I was nothing but skin and bones.

They were filled with regret, but I didn't care anymore.

*****

My mom was a bit of a literary girl back in the day. After having two daughters, she wanted to give us names inspired by classic poetry.

Maybe it was because my sister and I looked so different from the very beginning.

She had double eyelids, while I had single ones.

Her skin was delicate, and mine was more of a tan, almost olive shade.

She was small and delicate, but I was born weighing almost nine pounds.

So, she got the name Angela Carter, and I got Rust Carter.

From elementary school all the way through high school, kids twisted my name and called me in a humiliating way for over ten years.

Those were the most fragile years for a girl.

With the way I looked and my body, it was natural that I ended up broken inside.

I still remembered that afternoon.

My mom was sitting in the yard, holding Angela, basking in the sun.

I was hiding behind the door, eavesdropping.

A neighbor came by and said how pretty the three of us looked.

My mom laughed and said, "Angela takes after me, but Rust takes after her dad; she's all big and burly."

Big and burly.

I looked down at my seven-year-old hands.

They were still a kid's hands. How could they be called big and burly?

I shoved my hands deep into my sleeves, as if I could hide them, maybe those words would stop hurting.

Later on, I learned this saying, "Looks come from the heart."

I guessed my heart was too messed up, so I turned out ugly on the outside, too.

Angela was beautiful inside, so of course, she was beautiful outside, too.

That must be the reason.

So I figured if I was good to Angela, maybe I'd get a little prettier, too.

When I was in eighth grade, Angela wanted the Walkman I had saved up for. I skipped breakfast for three months to buy it, and every night I'd secretly listen to tapes, trying to catch up since my foreign language was so bad.

My mom said, "You're the older sister. Why not let Angela have it?"

I said, "Okay."

That night, Angela smashed the Walkman because she didn't like the tapes inside.

My mom said, "Why didn't you get some pop songs? Angela doesn't like listening to this."

I said, "Okay."

Later, Angela got the sunny room facing south, with a desk and plenty of light. My room? It was a storage closet turned into a bedroom, no windows, crammed with junk.

Mom said, "Angela's not as strong as you; she needs the sunlight. You're sturdy, you can handle any room."

I said, "Okay."

Only by saying okay would Mom smile at me.

My dad was a chef, running a small restaurant in town. He was always up before dawn and didn't get home until late at night.

He always carried the smell of cooking oil and smoke, and his hair had the lingering scent of onions and garlic.

I inherited everything from him, unsmooth skin, a stocky build, and even my hair seemed to hold onto that greasy kitchen smell, no matter how much I scrubbed.

Angela, though, was like Mom, delicate, slim, and always fresh and fragrant.

When I was little, Dad would come home from the restaurant with leftovers.

He'd give Angela the portion with more meat, and I'd get the one that was mostly bones.

One time, I picked up a nice piece of meat, but Dad glanced over and said, "Angela's skinny, let her have it."

I handed the meat over to Angela, and she gave me a sweet smile and said, "Thanks, Rust."

Mom ruffled my hair and said, "Rusty, you're so thoughtful."

That was the first time Mom ever said something nice about me, and I was so happy I couldn't sleep a wink that night.

After that, I learned something important.

As long as I was good to Angela, Mom would say something nice about me.

I gave Angela my new clothes, saying, "I don't like wearing new clothes."

I let her have my bed, telling her, "I like sleeping on a hard bed."

When Angela knocked over my homework, I said, "It's fine, I'll rewrite it."

It was fine. I could rewrite it. I could rewrite anything.

Back in middle school, my grades were pretty average, actually, a bit below average.

Angela, though, was always in the top fifty of her grade.

That year, I couldn't get the hang of physics, no matter how hard I tried. I barely scraped by with a C on the final.

Angela, on the other hand, ranked in the top 3 in the whole grade and brought home a certificate.

Mom was over the moon. She stuck the certificate right in the most visible spot in the living room and told everyone who came by, "Angela's so smart. She's definitely going to get into a top school someday."

No one mentioned my C.

During summer break, I wanted to sign up for a physics cram class. A bunch of kids in my class were going, and it cost 20 dollars a session, 200 dollars for ten.

That night, Dad was sitting in the living room, going over the bills. I walked over and stood next to him. "Dad, I want to sign up for a tutoring class."

He looked up. "What kind of class?"

"Physics. I'm not doing so well in physics," I said.

He furrowed his brow but stayed silent.

Mom stepped out of the kitchen. "How much is it?"

"Two hundred dollars," I replied.

Mom glared at me. "Two hundred dollars? That's way too much."

I said, "It's ten sessions. The teacher said I could improve my score by A."

Mom said, "Angela needs to buy some study guides for school, and that costs money, too. If you're struggling with physics, work harder. Do you really need to spend money on tutoring?"

I answered, "I am working hard, but I can't get it."

She added, "That's because you're not smart enough. No amount of tutoring will help someone like you."

I stood there, not knowing what to say.

The next day, I went to the tutor and asked if I could pay 100 dollars upfront and pay the rest later. The tutor said it wasn't possible; I had to pay the full amount all at once.

So I wasn't able to enroll.

After school started, my physics got even worse. I scored a C- on the midterm, fifth from the bottom in the whole class.

The teacher asked for a parent's signature, so I took the test paper home, hesitated for ages, and couldn't bring myself to take it out.

In the end, I signed it myself, using my dad's name.

That was the first time I ever lied.

At the parent-teacher conference, Mom only went to Angela's class. She had Dad go instead.

Dad sat in the very back, still in his oil-stained work clothes, keeping his head down, almost like he didn't want anyone to notice him.

The teacher praised the students who had made progress, but my name never came up.

The teacher called out the ones who had fallen behind, but I wasn't mentioned either.

I sat in the middle, feeling like I was invisible.

Same as at home.

Why was I always so unimportant, no matter where I was?

I was insignificant to everyone.

If I died, would anyone care?

After the meeting, Dad asked me, "How are your grades?"

I said, "They're okay."

He replied, "That's good."

Then he hopped on his scooter and left, with a late-night snack for Angela on the back seat.

My late-night snack?

I never got a late-night snack. It was not like I needed one anyway. I was already overweight.