the funny part: Once upon a time, Eileen had been someone Claire wanted to be. When Claire had been fourteen and Eileen fifteen, Claire had thought her sister was the most beautiful person on earth. More gorgeous than any Instagram model she followed. Claire’s theory was that Eileen simply didn’t try. She didn’t contour or pluck her brows. She went to school barefaced, showing her prominent nose, sharp cheeks, and piercing eyes—all features Claire herself didn’t have. Eileen’s hair had been long back then, past her waist, and she’d only worn jeans and tees, but she’d made them look effortlessly elegant.
And then there was her artwork. Paper brushed with bold watercolors—aquamarine and sage, gold and violet. Eileen had drawn portraits of girls with wistful gazes and purple hair. She’d drawn sunsets over apocalyptic worlds and done still lifes of trivial subjects, from crumpled-up candy wrappers to ripped tea bags. She’d been good. Her teachers had said so. In high school she’d begun to submit to contests and exhibits. A painting called The Unholy Trinity had even been featured in Eugene’s Register-Guard.
Then Eileen had stopped.
She’d cut her hair and begun to line her eyes, and she’d told Claire one night in late October, two years ago, that she didn’t want to share a room anymore. And Mom, distracted as always, had granted Eileen permission to clear out the garage and make it her drafty, concrete home.
That had been the beginning of the fights. The beginning of the end.
Claire knew the timeline very well. She just didn’t know why Eileen had quit painting, or why she’d lost the light in her eyes. So when she’d seen that light tonight, she’d decided to confess. Only, first, she was asking for a confession from Eileen.
“I just stopped,” Eileen said.
“No,” said Claire. “That isn’t it. What made you stop?”
“Nothing.”
“It can’t be nothing.”
“It can. I used to like art, and then I stopped. Simple as that.”
“You didn’t like art, Leenie; you breathed it. You were brilliant.”
“Stop fucking saying that. I hate when you’re fake nice.”
“I’M NOT BEING FAKE NICE. I HAVEN’T BEEN NICE AT ALL.”
Claire hadn’t meant to shout, or for this to go wrong. Maybe, on reflection, there wasn’t a good approach. Maybe that was an excuse for her to avoid saying the skeletal truth. She clenched her jaw, a part of her desperate to keep it in. As she did, she could see the light fading, bit by bit, from Eileen’s eyes.
“Harper Everly,” said Claire, and when Eileen derisively snorted, Claire talked louder, to shut her up. “She has this thing she calls the ‘Selfless Act Challenge.’ What you’re supposed to do is, you choose someone you know who has potential but isn’t living up to it. You encourage them somehow. You write them a note or tell them how proud you are, or you do something for them that they don’t have enough faith to do for themselves.”
Eileen said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I took your paintings. A few of them. I made copies and put them in a portfolio. It wasn’t hard. I filled out an application, and I sent it to this arts program in Eugene. It’s called the Myrtle Waugh Fellowship—this chance to work with local artists, program expenses paid for the full year. I sent your application the same time I sent mine to Yale. And you got past the first round of applicants. They want to interview you in person next. I’ve known for a week, but I didn’t tell you because …”
Claire didn’t voice the because. That was still too difficult to say. She hadn’t told Eileen because it was too cosmically unfair that Claire would do a good turn for her Settler sister, and Eileen would be the one to succeed. Eileen over Claire, the most intentional Exceller. It wasn’t right, how Eileen’s golden moment had come the same day as Claire’s rejection. And as the days had passed, reality had only seemed more unjust, and Claire had kept on not telling Eileen.
Until now.
“I did that behind your back,” Claire said, “and then I didn’t let you know. I think … I didn’t want you to be happy. Not if I couldn’t be too.”
There wasn’t a real expression on Eileen’s face. She breathed and blinked and offered nothing else.
Claire wasn’t waiting for a thank-you. What she’d done was messed up—invading Eileen’s privacy, sending art without her consent. And Claire wasn’t pretending she’d done all that out of the goodness of her heart. She’d done