The Competing Sister

Christie's POV

"Christie! For heavens’ sake, are you still standing there in those ugly trousers?"

I stopped at the base of the grand staircase, clutching my medical bag.

My mother was standing near a massive floral arrangement, obsessively adjusting the tilt of a white rose. She didn't look at me; she looked at my reflection in the hallway mirror with a pinched expression.

My mother, Diane, was hosting the Equinox Ball, an event she had talked about for six months as if it were a royal coronation.

"I have a double shift at the lab, Mom. I was just coming down to grab some water before I headed out," I said quietly.

She finally turned, her silk robe billowing around her. She walked toward me, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. She stopped a foot away, her eyes raking over my faded denim and the simple cotton shirt I had ironed myself.

"Water can wait. The caterers are confused about the seating chart in the West Wing, and the florist forgot the extra boutonnieres for the staff. Go and handle them. I cannot be everywhere at once while I’m trying to ensure this family maintains its standing."

"I really need to get to the lab," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

"The culture samples won't wait, and I—"

"The lab," she repeated, her voice dropping into a tone of mock sympathy.

"Always that dark, cramped little room with the smelling salts and the dead things. Don’t you ever get tired of playing doctor, Christie? It’s been a year since that little news segment, and honestly, the novelty has worn off for everyone in our circle. No one cares about tumors at a dinner party."

I felt the familiar sting in my chest.

"It’s not a play, Mom. I’m saving lives. You know I wasn't on the news for nothing, I found a cure that actually—"

"You found a way to make yourself look exhausted and drab," she interrupted, waving a hand as if brushing away a fly.

"Look at you. You look like the help. It’s no wonder I have to tell people Anna is my only child when we are out. At least she understands the effort it takes to belong to the elite. She doesn't embarrass me by looking like she just crawled out of a basement."

She stepped closer, poking a finger toward my shoulder.

"Go upstairs. Anna has a rack of dresses she’s decided are too ‘last season’ for her. Pick one. Put it on. I am commanding you to be present tonight. I won't have the neighbors whispering that my own daughter is a shut-in who can't afford a comb."

"I don't want Anna’s hand-me-downs," I whispered.

"Then you’re being difficult for the sake of it," Diane sighed, already turning back to her flowers. "Go. Now. Before I decide that your laboratory budget is better spent on a new therapist for your social anxiety."

I walked up the stairs, my legs feeling heavy. The higher I went, the louder the music became. Anna was in her suite, the doors wide open, surrounded by three different seamstresses and a mountain of clothes.

"Oh, look who it is," Anna called out without turning from her vanity mirror.

"The local celebrity has graced us with her presence. Did you run out of beakers to wash, and salts to smell, Christie?"

I stood in the doorway.

"Mom sent me. She wants me to take one of your old dresses for tonight."

Anna laughed and then she stood up, twirling in a gold-sequined gown that probably cost more than my entire university tuition. She looked like a goddess, and she knew it. She walked over to a rack in the corner and pulled out a lime-green dress with far too many ruffles.

"Try this one," she said, tossing it toward me. It landed in a heap at my feet.

"It didn't fit my waist quite right—it’s a bit too small for someone with a real figure, so it should hang perfectly on you since you’re so... straight-edged."

I didn't pick it up.

"I prefer to appear simple, Anna. I’m not interested in being a centerpiece."

"Simple is a nice word for it," Anna said, leaning against her bedpost and inspecting her manicure.

"I saw your interview on the local health channel last night. That sweater you wore was charming. It reminded me of the rugs Richard keeps in the mudroom for the dogs. Do you actually try to look that way, or is it a natural talent?"

"I was focused on the data, not the wardrobe," I said.

"Clearly. But that’s the difference between us, isn't it? I understand that in this world, people look at you before they listen to you. And right now, no one is looking at you, Christie. They’re looking past you. Even Dad doesn't see you when he’s home, does he? He sees a scholarship student living in his guest room."

"I am his daughter too," I said, though the words felt hollow.

"In a legal sense, I suppose," Anna shrugged.

"But you’re a competition that doesn't exist. You’re working so hard to find cures for people who don't even know your name, while I’m ensuring this family’s legacy stays intact. You can keep your lab. I’ll keep the inheritance and the respect. Now, take the dress and leave. I have a makeup artist arriving in ten minutes, and your energy is depressing the staff."

I turned and left the room, the sound of her snickering following me down the hall.