It’s not easy having a twin. Someone who looks like you, thinks like you. Someone who can get inside your head, sticky little fingers poking around even though you ask her nicely to stop.
Jean and I are identical but there’s something different about Jean. You know it right away. Jean is quiet. She doesn’t like to talk to other people. She only talks to me — talks with her eyes, with her mind. I want to talk to other people but Jean won’t let me.
Jean wants me to be just like her. Or Jean wants to be just like me. Does it matter? How can it matter when we look exactly the same, the mirror image of a girl, essentially the same effect as if your vision had doubled and one wasn’t even there at all?
When we were younger everyone thought it was cute, how alike we looked. Mommy and Daddy smiled at us in our matching dresses, holding hands like tiny porcelain dolls, sweet and inseparable. But it’s only cute when you’re little. Get a bit older, keep wearing the matching dresses and holding hands, well — people can’t help but think of those girls from The Shining.
Jean likes the matching dresses. I don’t.
But what I like doesn’t matter because Jean always gets her way. When she doesn’t, or even thinks she might not, Jean throws tantrums. Not the normal kind of tantrums where you kick and cry and demand whatever thing it is you desire. Jean’s tantrums are worse.