Chapter One

Nora

Seventeen years ago, I killed my brother. Not on purpose. I didn’t smother him with a pillow or crack him over the head with a lamp. Nevertheless, the thought of what he might have been if not for me is like a smudge in the corner of my glasses. No matter how many times I spit and wipe, it won’t go away.

Here are the facts: we were twins, not identical as people sometimes ask because that’s impossible when one of you is a girl, the other a boy. Fraternal is the word you’re looking for. Dizygotic, if you want to get scientific. Two separate eggs fertilized by two separate sperm, sharing the same fifty percent of DNA as other siblings. For nine full months we grew together in our mother’s womb. I, however, was the strong one.

I, Nora Thomas, emerged at the stroke of midnight, no doubt bawling my eyes out and demanding Mom’s attention. Eight minutes later, Nick arrived—his single, solitary heartbeat faint, then forever stilled.

Nick and Nora are characters from an old detective novel my father’s father read to him. My parents liked the sound of our names together. They fit like a pair of comfortable wool socks. Once, when I sat with my mother in a wide upholstered chair with my velcroed sneakers swinging high above the floor, I asked her if she wished Nick had been the one to live. I imagined his ghost on her other side, his tiny hand resting in her lap.

“Oh, sweetheart!” she replied. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it. Yes, we loved your brother. But we will always, always love you.” An unbearable look of anguish crossed her face as she pressed her lips to the top of my head. It made me wonder how often she thought of him. Had she bought him clothes, a blue outfit to match my pink one? Had she planned on teaching him to play piano? Would we have had a sibling Mitzvah?

These are questions I still have but can no longer ask. My parents, avid outdoor adventurers, vanished in a crystal blue crevasse three years ago on a Denali expedition. Their bodies were never found. In my darker moments I’ve wondered if they could have escaped but saw Nick waving in the distance and chose to stay with him.

That’s in the past. I’ve had to move on.

Like now, as I prepare for my big day at the Alaska State Legislature in Juneau. I let out a carefully controlled breath, leave the safe spot in my mind, and turn my focus to the list of twice rolled items in my suitcase. Underwear, check. Nightshirt, check. Extra wool socks, check. A simple black dress and low heels for the semiformal dinner with legislators tonight, check. (In case you’re wondering, I’m not a dress-wearing kind of girl, but Gran says it’s required.) Hairbrush, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, lotion, toothbrush—check. A clean shirt for tomorrow’s plane ride back, check. Check. Check. Check. Everything’s present and accounted for. I’m all about a good checklist as my second-grade teacher used to say.

I zip my grandmother’s nylon carry-on as she pokes her head inside my bedroom, the room she used to call her den.

“Toothpaste, Nora? An extra pair of glasses in case the ones you’re wearing break?”

My self-diagnosed OCD kicks in. I know I’ve got them, but I’ve got to look. Unzip. “All good.” Re-zip.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?”

“Thanks, Gran. Amber’s parents are picking me up.”

“Amber,” she grumbles at my ex-girlfriend’s name. “All right then, if you’re sure. Have a good time, and be careful.”

“I will.”

Gran’s a worrier like me, sometimes worse. Will the plane experience engine failure and crash into the Gulf of Alaska? Will some sketchy guy across the aisle slip a roofie in my drink? I get it, really I do, but you can’t prepare for every contingency. We both know that. How can a sixty-seven-year-old widow battling breast cancer take on the responsibility of caring for a fourteen-year-old girl?

I was an ungrateful mess when I first arrived at her little bungalow on the southeast side of Anchorage. Gran lives on a budget, and I missed the things I had before.

One day, when I was being particularly insufferable, she sat me down and said, “Get used to it, Nora. You can’t replace your family with stuff. All you can do is be your best and be proud of who you are.”

I wanted to argue. “But a lot of kids my age—”

“Have even less than you do. Just listen to yourself. You’re better than that.”

Naturally, she was right. So, now I focus on being at the top of my class and one of only two North Anchorage High School students invited to spend a day at the state capitol. Gran still has that effect on me, encouraging me to work my hardest and not feel sorry for myself. I’d call myself a work in progress.

Three, two, one…

“Tell Mr. Abbott to watch his speed on Minnesota,” she mutters, turning toward her tiny kitchen, big enough for only one small dining table and a couple of straight-back chairs. “There was a story about a horrible accident on the news last night. Cyclist versus truck.”

And there it is. Her ever-present fear that tragedy lurks around every corner. I kiss her wrinkled cheek. “See you tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’m counting on it.”

I step outside the house with its peeling yellow paint and rusty, banged-up gutters into a yard surrounded by a twelve-inch picket fence and newly emerging daffodils. Green leaves poke through the rich black soil like a baby’s little fingers. A spring chill fills the air, and the acrid smell of burning firewood from our neighbors’ chimney drifts over.

Amber and her folks pull up to the curb a minute later. Her father pops the trunk so I can drop my scuffed-up bag alongside their nicer ones, then I hop into the back seat next to the first love of my life.

Amber Abbott has sleek, auburn hair cut in a stylish bob and a round, unblemished face. She’s impossibly pretty, like a picture in a magazine. But what I really, truly hate is how smart she is. Together, we’re always first and second in our class. We trade back and forth on a regular basis. One month it’s me, the next her. This month’s totally her.

I buckle my seat belt, and she barely glances up.

“Hey.” Her thumbs tap the keyboard on her phone. It’s a safe bet she’s messaging her new girlfriend, a senior taking first-year algebra, again. I’d say she lacks good taste in girlfriends, but that would be dissing myself.

I give her a noncommittal chin lift that she likely doesn’t see. We’ve spoken less than a dozen words to one another in the last few weeks, which is going to make it super awkward sharing a hotel room tonight.

Mr. Abbott gives a friendly wave to Gran watching from a window and sets the car in motion. Mrs. Abbott fills the conversation void with all the great things to see and do in Juneau. The Macaulay Salmon Hatchery. The Last Chance Mining Museum. The Alaska State Museum.

Amber rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Mother? It’s friggin’ Juneau, not D.C.”

Mrs. Abbott looks embarrassed. She offers me a quick, over-the-shoulder smile and says, “I’m looking forward to the trip, that’s all.”

“Like I said, Juneau. And you do understand you’re chaperones, not high school students, right?”

Mrs. Abbott opens her mouth.

“Let her be, Sue. Amber’s nervous about the session.” Mr. Abbott pats his wife’s plump knee. She snaps her jaw with an audible click and takes to studying a colorful trifold pamphlet in her lap. Anything to keep Amber happy, I suppose.

It bugs me the way they cater to her. More so now that we’re not together anymore, but it’s always been this way. What does Amber have to be nervous about? Neither of us will have to speak. We’ll probably shake a couple of legislators’ hands, maybe say a few words to thank them for representing our interests. They’re voting on increased student funding this afternoon, something every Alaska teacher and student alive has got to be on board with. We’ll write our reports when we get back to school. Today is about soaking up the political experience.

As usual, the Abbotts are dressed to the nines. Amber’s rocking tight, mustard-colored Chinos and a purple blazer over a short-sleeved cotton shirt. She’s dressed the outfit up with a multicolored, cashmere scarf that pulls the outfit together in a way I wish I could but can’t. Mr. Abbott wears a fancy three-piece suit and tie. Mrs. Abbott has on a shimmering red blouse, silk pants, and shiny shoes with just the right amount of heel for walking around Juneau, a pedestrian-friendly town, I’ve read. Me? I’ve got on a pair of J.C. Penney’s khakis and an off-white button-down Oxford with a mysterious blue stain on the collar. Fifty percent off—thank you, little round stain.

The rest of the way to the airport, Mr. Abbott fills the time by quizzing me about Gran’s ongoing health issues. She’s two years into remission and upbeat about the future because that’s just the way she is, content about important things. I’d love to be more like her instead of the messy headspace that I am. When we board the plane, I’m actually relieved to discover my seat is in the last row before the restroom between a woman with a crying baby and a skinny old guy who’s already fast asleep and snoring. When the heck did he board? At least this way I won’t have to talk to Amber and go on pretending that she didn’t hurt my feelings when, the day after spring break, she told me she was in love with someone else. Said math whiz senior.

No surprise, the Abbotts have upgraded to first class. Amber gives me a sympathetic look as she heads to the front. “Oooh, Nora. Back row.” Then she has to go and spoil it by adding, “Sucks to be you.”

Did I say a dozen words? Now we’re up to twenty.