Between the Lives - By Jessica Shirvington Page 0,5

just in different packaging.

I wanted this not to be my life.

I wanted this – whatever it was that made me this two-lives person – not to be the definition of who I am.

I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘And you can’t do anything about that,’ I scolded myself, letting out a resigned breath.

I stumbled into my squash-court-sized bathroom where I threw up again, then went straight back to bed and tried in vain to get a few hours’ sleep.

It was useless.

Thoughts raced through my mind. I had to force myself not to jump up and start pacing. This changed nothing, I reminded myself. This was just one more thing that fit into the overflowing basket of weird that was my life.

I focused on the upside; for once I had been given a getout-of-jail-free card. It was a welcome relief that I wasn’t going to have to throw myself down the stairs in a few hours.

Take it! Be happy. At least the dress will look pretty tonight.

At 7 a.m. I gave up on sleep and had a long hot shower. By the time I emerged, I felt more like myself again. Well, this me anyway – the one I needed to be in this world. But just to be sure, I moved slowly. Allowed myself a little extra time. Normally I wouldn’t stand for it – pathetic lingering – but today I took in my surroundings. My huge four-poster bed, with its pink silk bedding and pillows piled high. I walked past it, my toes sinking into the plush cream carpet, letting my hand glide over the heavily lacquered walnut frame on my way to the large French doors. I pulled back the cream curtains, carefully tying them with the sash bow at the wall, and opened the doors to my small Georgian balcony.

Home. Everything just as it should be.

I took a deep breath, letting in the suburban Wellesley air. It was one of the best things about this place, the clean air. It was different in every way from Roxbury – thinner, sharper, and the smell: newly cut grass under the sun. I loved the smell. Today would be a typical June Massachusetts day – hot, and probably a flash storm in the afternoon.

I’d just closed my eyes to soak it in when a high-pitched car horn made me almost jump out of my skin.

I looked down to the driveway. My eldest brother, Ryan, was standing by his retro convertible Porsche, one foot in, one foot out.

‘If you want a lift, hurry up. I’ve got to get back to college,’ he said, looking up at me like he wished he could just get in the car and go. But at Thursday night dinner with Dad, he’d ordered Ryan to drive me to school this morning since my little Audi was at the garage getting new tyres. As far as Ryan was concerned, he paid his family dues by turning up at the house a few days a month. That, and that alone, apparently entitled him to the more than generous allowance he pissed away at Harvard while half-assing his way through business school.

‘Hello! Earth to Sabine! You’re not even dressed,’ he said, exasperated.

I gave him a delicate middle finger and a blatantly fake smile. ‘Guess you’ll just have to wait, Ry. I’ll be down as fast as I can manage.’ As soon as I spun my back to him, my smile faded. I was being a bitch. I’m not sure exactly when it was that Ryan and I slipped into this type of role-play, but at some point it had become the norm. All part of living up to Wellesley expectations.

I got dressed and did my hair. When I was finished I surveyed myself in the full-length mirror approvingly. Simple yet chic. A high-waisted plaid skirt in shades of blue finishing just above the knee, paired with a cap-sleeved white silk top and grey wedges. After a quick brush and a touch of lip-gloss, I grabbed my Balenciaga bag and headed down the marble stairs to the foyer where my mother was waiting.

She watched me take the last few steps and then waited while I finished reading a text from Miriam that had me smirking. When I gave her my full attention, she smiled. ‘Make sure you remind your friends that there will be no drinking tonight at the party.’ She was in a cream suit and caramel flats, every detail purposely chosen: the natural flattering makeup, the hair in a