By Evening, my mother locked my bedroom door. From the inside. She locked herself, me, and Mia's entire closet in Mia room and said, "We don't have much time. You have to become her by Monday." Mia's closet had arrived in three big suitcases. Her mother had packed everything while Mia was sleeping in the hospital her uniforms, her cheerleading jacket, her makeup, her perfume, her shoes. The room smelled like expensive vanilla, not like me. "Mia never wears grey," Mom said, looking at my hoodie with disgust. She picked it up with two fingers and threw it into the trash bag. "She wears navy, white, pink, cream. She straightens her hair every morning. She doesn't wear glasses. And she never, ever stutters." "I don't stutter," I mumbled. "You do when you're nervous," Mom snapped. "So don't be nervous. Mia is never nervous. Mia is confident." She pulled out a navy pleated skirt. "Try this." I had never worn a skirt that short in my life. At school, Mia's skirts always made the
Última actualización : 2026-10-07 Leer más