Chapter 4

I wake up as Sophie, and I can already hear Mia moving around in her room.

The gray comforter is twisted around my long legs, and my hand—Sophie's hand, with its squared-off nails and the faint callus on the palm from volleyball—finds my phone. Six forty-two. The house is still mostly dark, but there's a creak from down the hall. Mia. She gets up early to draw before school, always has. The countdown on the whiteboard says eleven days now. I crack my knuckles without thinking, and the sound is loud in the quiet. Time to go soft.

I know what I want. Sophie is sharp and lean and fast, and I've had a day of being her. I've felt her thighs flex and her shoulders square. But Mia is a different animal entirely—small, soft, dreamy, the one who talks to herself while she sketches and cries when Sophie snaps. I want that. I want to know what it's like to be the one everyone overlooks, the one whose art is always on the fridge but whose name gets called last.

I get up quietly. Sophie's legs are long and the floor is cold under my bare feet. I pull on the gray sleep shorts and a tank, no bra. Sophie's chest doesn't need one this early. I open my door a crack. The hallway is dim, and Mia's door is open a few inches, her lamp already on—she's sitting at her desk with a sketchbook open, her back to me, strawberry-blonde waves half clipped back. She's wearing a pale pink sleep shirt and little cotton shorts, and her feet don't quite touch the floor.

I step out and cross the hall. I don't bother to hide. She's too focused to hear me. When I reach her door, I push it open a little more. "Mia."

She turns. Her blue-gray eyes go wide for a second, then soften. "Sophie? What are you doing up?"

I move closer, casual. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I heard you." I sit on the edge of her bed, and she looks at me, confused but not suspicious. Her small hand rests on the sketchbook, a pencil between her fingers. I reach out and brush my fingers over her wrist—skin to skin, the contact light, her skin cool from sitting still.

"I wanted to—" I start, and then I focus. I will it.

The world goes white.

It's the same electric yank I've felt three times now, but sharper somehow, like being threaded through a smaller hole. Sophie's body is big and solid and then it's gone, and I flood into Mia in a rush of softness and cold air and the smell of lavender and pencil shavings. My chest rises with a quick breath—the first breath tastes like sleep and lavender and the dry warmth of her lamp. I'm shorter. The floor is closer. My shoulders are narrow, my arms small, my thighs soft under the cotton shorts. My chest has a small, light weight—budding breasts, barely there, and the absence of Sophie's firm, teardrop mass is a shock.

I open my eyes. Sophie is standing in front of me, her hand still on my wrist. But her hand relaxes. Her eyes blink once, then she looks at me with that knowing tilt. She's me now—a clone, in Sophie's body, with Sophie's memories and my core.

"Morning," she says, in Sophie's voice, but the dry edge is softer now. "Go draw."

I nod. "Yeah." My voice comes out high and breathy, Mia's voice, and it's like a bell ringing somewhere in my throat.

Sophie drops my wrist and goes back across the hall, closing her door. I hear the soft click. I'm alone in Mia's room.

The room is peach and warm from the south-facing window, and the fairy lights are still on from when she woke up. The desk is crowded with sketchbooks and colored pencils, and there's a half-finished fox painting propped on the small easel by the window. The air smells like lavender and paper. I sit still for a second, just breathing in Mia's body. My chest. My small, soft chest. My hands—Mia's hands—rest on my thighs, and I look down at them. They're small, with a silver charm bracelet on one wrist and a faint smudge of graphite on the thumb. I touch the star charm. It's cool.

I stand up. The floor is closer than I'm used to, and I'm lighter. Mia's height is only 5'2", and everything feels lower—the desk, the mirror, the door handle. I walk to the mirror over the dresser. The girl looking back has strawberry-blonde waves and blue-gray eyes and a light dusting of freckles. She has a dimple on her right cheek, but she's not smiling yet. I smile. The dimple appears. I touch it with one finger. I'm the cute one now.

The door is still open a crack. I close it and turn the little lock. The click is soft, and I lean against it for a second, feeling Mia's heartbeat flutter in my chest. She's easily startled, this body. The heart races faster than Sophie's did. I can feel it in my throat.

I need to shower and dress for school. Mia's routine: Tuesday, so art club after school. I remember—I know—that she likes to pick out her clothes the night before, but she forgot last night because she was drawing. So I go to the closet.

Mia's closet is a jumble of pastels and soft fabrics. The doors are open, and I can see the flowy skirts and embroidered blouses and the peach smocked dress hanging in the back. I pull out what feels right: a white peasant blouse with tiny flowers at the neckline, a flowy mint green midi skirt, and a soft cream camisole. I lay them on the bed and strip out of the sleep shirt and shorts.

Naked, I catch myself in the mirror again. Mia's body. My body now. She's short and soft and not quite finished. The shoulders are narrow and delicate, the waist gently defined, the hips softly curved. The belly is soft and slightly rounded, not flat like Sophie's, not toned. The legs are short and slim with soft thighs. And the chest—the budding breasts sit high and round, small, the nipples a soft pink. I touch them. They're firmer than I expected, but small, like two little handfuls. The sensation is different—sharper, maybe, because the skin is new and sensitive. I cup them, and a small shiver runs through me. Holy shit. I'm thirteen.

I don't stay in front of the mirror long. I have to get ready. I pick up the white cotton panties with the tiny pink bow and step into them. They're soft and a little loose at the hips. Then the camisole, cream and thin, settles over my chest. The bra—a pale pink training bra with no underwire—is so light I could forget it, but I hook it on anyway because Mia would. The blouse goes over my head, airy and soft, and I tuck it into the mint green skirt. The skirt swishes when I move, the tiered hem brushing my knees. I sit on the bed to pull on the ankle socks, then step into the canvas sneakers. The bracelet goes on my left wrist, and I clip a small flower clip into my hair, pulling back one side.

I turn to the mirror. A thirteen-year-old girl in a white blouse and mint skirt, her hair half clipped back, a silver star charm glinting at her wrist. She's sweet. She's soft. She's me.

I say it out loud, just to hear Mia's voice. "Oh my gosh." It comes out high and a little breathless, exactly like hers. I laugh—a small, airy sound—and the dimple shows.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like coffee and toast. Denise is at the counter, stirring eggs. Chloe is at the table with a cup of tea, her dark blonde hair loose. Sophie comes down a minute after me, in her gray hoodie, cracking her knuckles. Lily is the last one down, barefoot, wearing a pink nightgown and dragging a stuffed bunny.

"Morning, Mia," Denise says, and the warmth in her voice is familiar and soft. "Sleep okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, Mom." The word comes naturally. Mia's whole body knows to call her Mom. "I was drawing before school."

"That's good, sweetheart." She sets a plate of eggs in front of me, and I feel Mia's affection for her settle in my chest—warm, a little worried, the usual. But underneath it, the small fear that she's too busy. I don't say anything. I just eat.

Chloe smiles at me across the table. "You look cute today."

I duck my head, feeling Mia's shy pleasure. "Thanks."

Sophie glances at me, and there's something in her eyes—a flash of the clone, knowing, but she doesn't say anything about last night. Instead, she says, "Mia, did you borrow my silver hoops again? I can't find them."

I feel Mia's stomach drop. "I—I think I put them back. On your desk."

"You think." Sophie's voice is dry, and Mia's sensitivity flares. The eggs suddenly taste like nothing. I look down. "I'll look for them after school."

Sophie shrugs. "Whatever. Just ask next time."

The exchange is small, but I feel the sting of it in Mia's chest—the hurt, the way her throat tightens. She wants to be seen as considerate, and instead Sophie makes her feel like a thief. I don't say anything else. Lily starts talking about her play, and the attention shifts, but the hurt sits there, small and hot.

I grab my small canvas backpack with the embroidered flowers, check that my sketchbook is inside, and head for the door. "Bye, Mom. Bye, everyone."

"Have a good day, sweetheart," Denise calls.

The walk to the bus stop is short. The morning is gray and cool, and the air smells like wet grass. My skirt swishes around my knees with each step, and I'm aware of the shorter stride—Mia's legs don't cover ground the way Sophie's did. I pass a neighbor's hedge and a sprinkler ticking against a fence. The bus stop has a few other kids from Maplewood Middle, and I stand a little apart, like Mia would, hugging my backpack straps.

On the bus, I find a seat next to a girl with dark braids. I don't talk. I look out the window and let Mia's dreamy, drifting attention carry me. The town goes by in gray and green. I doodle on the fog of the window with my fingertip—a small star, a spiral. She'd do that. I'm doing it. Same thing.

Maplewood Middle School is a low, sprawling building with pale brick and a cracked front walk. I walk through the front doors and the smell of floor wax and old paper hits me. I know this place. Mia has been here for two years. I know the locker combination, the shortcut to the art room, the teachers' names. I go to my locker and spin the dial without thinking.

First period is English. I take Mia's seat in the back by the window, and I pull out a notebook and a pencil. The teacher drones about sentence structure, and I let Mia's body settle. My feet don't quite reach the floor, and I tuck one ankle behind the other. I draw little flowers in the margin of my notes, and I catch myself murmuring under my breath—not words, just soft sounds, a habit I didn't know I had until it came out. She talks to herself when she draws. Now I do too. The boy next to me glances over, and I smile quickly, ducking my head.

At lunch, I find Zoe.

Zoe Carter is small, even smaller than Mia, with shoulder-length brown hair pinned back with a clip and a quiet, thoughtful face. She's already sitting at our usual table in the corner of the cafeteria, a brown paper bag in front of her. When she sees me, she lifts a hand in a small wave. I slide into the seat across from her.

"Hey, Mia." Her voice is soft and a little tired. "I didn't see you on the bus."

"I sat up front," I say. "With the braids girl."

Zoe nods. She unwraps a sandwich, but she doesn't eat right away. She's staring at the table, her forehead creased. I know that look—Zoe gets like this when something's wrong.

"You okay?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I have a math test next period, and I didn't study. Like, at all." She picks at the bread. "I was up late trying to finish my piece for the showcase, and now I'm freaking out."

I feel Mia's empathy surge—warm, immediate. "You'll be okay. You always do better than you think."

Zoe smiles a little, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I don't know. I keep thinking about the art program. If I don't get into the honors track, then what's the point of all this?" She gestures at the cafeteria, but she means the portfolio, the showcase, the whole thing.

"I know," I say, and I do. Mia's own portfolio is due May 10th, and she hasn't finished the fox painting. She—I—haven't even started the second piece. The thought makes my stomach clench. "I'm not ready either. I keep drawing and then tearing it out."

Zoe looks at me then, really looks. "But your fox is so good. Mrs. Calloway said it was one of the best."

"She said it was promising." I hear Mia's exact emphasis, the way she'd repeat the word back, uncertain. "Promising isn't enough."

Zoe reaches across the table and taps my hand. The touch is light, friendly, and Mia's body relaxes into it. "We'll both finish. We can work on them together at art club today."

I nod. "Okay."

Lunch ends too soon. I have math, which Mia hates, and then science. The day passes in a blur of worksheets and bells, and I feel Mia's attention drifting out the window, toward the gray sky and the bare trees. I do what she'd do—doodle in the margins, answer in a soft voice when called on, get lost in my own head. By the time the last bell rings, I'm genuinely eager for art club.

Art club meets in room 14, the art room at the end of the hall. The room smells like clay and tempera paint and the faint sweetness of pastels. Big windows line one wall, and the light is soft and gray. There are easels and stools and a long counter with brushes in jars. Mia's favorite spot is by the window, and I go there automatically.

Zoe is already there, setting out her watercolors. She's quiet again, but the tension from lunch has eased a little. Mrs. Calloway, the art teacher, moves around the room, checking on people. She stops by my easel and looks at the fox painting.

"Mia, this is coming along beautifully," she says. "Have you thought about the second piece for your portfolio?"

I bite my lip. "Maybe a landscape? Or a portrait of my sister?"

Mrs. Calloway nods. "Either would work. Just make sure it shows range." She moves on.

I stand at the easel, looking at the fox. It's a watercolor with colored pencil details, a fox curled in a forest, leaves stippled around it. I finished the fox itself, but the background is only half done. I pick up a brush and start on the leaves, and as I work, I start to murmur again—small sounds, then half-words. "No, not that green. More yellow. There."

Zoe glances over and smiles. "You always talk to yourself when you paint."

I laugh, a little startled. "Do I?"

"Always." She dips her brush in water. "It's cute. You sound like you're having a conversation with the painting."

The comment lands warm in my chest. Zoe sees Mia as sweet, a little odd, in a good way. She has no idea that the person talking to the painting is a nineteen-year-old man who's spent the last three days living as her best friend's mom, her best friend's sister, and now her best friend. The gap is sharp and bright, and I have to look down to hide the smile.

We work for another hour. The light outside dims, and the room grows quieter. Zoe finishes a small watercolor—a row of houses with red roofs—and holds it up. "What do you think?"

"It's really good," I say. "The shadows under the eaves are perfect."

Zoe beams. "Thanks." She sets it down and starts cleaning her brushes. "You want to walk to the bus together?"

"Sure."

We pack up and walk out into the cool afternoon. The light is pale and low, and my shadow stretches out in front of me, shorter than Sophie's shadow was, softer around the edges. Zoe walks close, our shoulders almost brushing, and Mia's body fits into the rhythm easily. I'm one of them—a girl with a canvas backpack, going home from art club. The ordinariness of it is the point.

At the bus shelter, I catch my reflection in the glass. A girl with wavy strawberry hair and a peach cardigan over her white blouse, a mint skirt, canvas sneakers. Her face is soft and serious, with that little dimple hovering at the corner of her mouth. She looks like a sweet, shy artist. No one would ever guess that inside her is a man who has already been her mother, her older sister, and her other sister. I meet my own eyes in the glass and feel a small, warm curl of satisfaction—the gap between what everyone sees and what I know. Zoe is beside me, checking her phone, and I say, "You want to come over later?"

Zoe glances up. "I can't. I have to study. But tomorrow?"

"Okay."

We part ways at the bus stop. Zoe waves and heads the other direction. I get on the bus alone and find a seat near the back. The vibration hums through Mia's soft thighs, and I let her body sink into the seat. I'm thirteen. I'm in middle school. I just painted a fox and walked home with my best friend. The thought is absurd and warm.

At home, the kitchen is already smelling like something baking. Denise is at the counter, and Sophie is at the table with a granola bar, scrolling her phone. Chloe isn't home yet. Lily is on the floor, coloring.

I set my backpack by the stairs. "Mom, I'm home."

"Hi, sweetheart." Denise doesn't look up from the oven. "How was art club?"

"Good." I hesitate. "Mrs. Calloway said my fox is coming along beautifully."

"That's wonderful, Mia." She turns then, and her smile is warm and tired. "I'm proud of you."

The words should feel good, and they do, but there's a twist underneath—Mia always worries she's a burden, that Denise is too busy for her. I feel it in the way I stand in the doorway, not quite entering. "Thanks."

Sophie looks up. "Hey, Mia. Did you find my hoops?"

I freeze. The hurt from this morning resurfaces, sharp and immediate. "I didn't have time yet. I'll look after dinner."

"Seriously?" Sophie's voice hardens, and I can hear the clone's awareness in the edge—but it's also Sophie's frustration. "You borrowed them without asking, and now you can't even spend two minutes looking?"

I feel Mia's lip tremble. "I'm sorry. I thought I put them back."

"You always think you put things back." Sophie stands up, and even though she's my clone, I feel Mia's smallness in the face of her height. "And then they're gone for a week, or you 'forgot' them at Zoe's, or—"

"Sophie." Denise's voice is sharp. "That's enough."

I look down. My hands are shaking a little. The tears are right there, hot behind my eyes, and I hate how easily they come. Mia's whole body reacts before I can stop it—the trembling lip, the wet eyes, the hot flush in my cheeks. "I'll find them," I whisper. "I promise."

Sophie sighs, and the fight goes out of her. "Fine. Just—whatever." She sits back down and cracks her knuckles.

I turn and go up the stairs. In my room, I close the door and lean against it. The tears spill then, not because I'm sad—I'm not, not really—but because Mia's body does this. It cries when it's scolded. I let it. I'm a thirteen-year-old girl who just got snapped at by her older sister, and the crying is part of the experience. This is what it feels like to be Mia. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and go to Sophie's room.

The hoops are on Sophie's desk, right where I—where Mia—put them. I pick them up and carry them back to Sophie's doorway. "Found them."

Sophie looks up from her phone. "Thanks." Her voice is softer now. "Sorry I snapped."

I shrug, but inside Mia's chest, the hurt eases a little. "It's okay."

Dinner is quieter than usual. Chloe comes home late and joins us, smelling like coffee. We eat pasta and talk about the day. Lily keeps interrupting—she has to tell everyone about her play solo, and she does, twice, until Denise gently redirects her. When I try to tell Denise about my portfolio idea, Lily pipes up again.

"Mommy, I drew a picture of the play today. Do you want to see it?"

Denise smiles at Lily. "After dinner, sweetheart."

I feel the now-familiar pinch—Mia's feeling of being overlooked, of Lily always grabbing the attention. It's not jealousy, exactly. It's more like being invisible in plain sight. I push my fork around my plate and don't finish my sentence.

But then Lily turns to me. "Mia, will you help me practice my lines? You're good at remembering words."

I look at her. Her face is bright and earnest, with the gap in her teeth. The protectiveness rises—warm, immediate. "Okay. After dinner."

Lily beams. "Yay!"

After dinner, I sit with Lily on the couch and help her run her lines. She stumbles on the third one, and I prompt her, my voice soft and patient. She grins and throws her arms around me. "You're the best sister."

I hug her back, and the rivalry from earlier feels small and far away. She's eight. She just wants attention. I get it.

Later, I finally get a private moment. The house settles into its evening quiet—Sophie in her room with music, Denise doing dishes, Chloe at the table with her laptop. I go to my room and close the door. The lock clicks, soft and final.

The fairy lights are still on, casting a warm, peach glow over the room. The walls are covered with drawings, and the small easel holds the fox painting. The room smells like lavender and paper, and the south-facing window is dark now, the curtains still open to the night.

I stand in the middle of the room and take a breath. Mia's body. My body now. I'm alone. No one is watching.

I go to the closet and start with the clothes.

The closet is small and crowded, and I pull things out one by one. The peach smocked dress with tiny daisies—sentimental, worn to the spring dance. I hold it up. It's soft and light and would hit just above my knees. I lay it on the bed. The mint green skater dress—favorite. The tiered skirts, the embroidered tops, the longline cardigans. I pick up a soft gray graphic tee and a flowy floral skirt—go-to casual. I try on the mint skater dress first, pulling it over my head. The fabric settles over my small chest and soft hips, and I turn in the mirror. The dress is cute and girlish, and I look—I look thirteen. The dimple shows when I smile.

I take the dress off and try the peach smocked dress. It's a little too sweet, all daisies and smocking, but it fits perfectly, and the soft cotton feels nice against my skin. I catch myself doing a small twirl, just to see the skirt flare. Mia would do that. So I do.

Then I undress to my underwear and look at my body in the mirror again.

The contrasts are everywhere. Sophie was tall and lean, with firm, teardrop breasts and a flat stomach and long, toned legs. Chloe was delicate and small, with a narrow waist and light, high-set breasts. Denise was soft and full, her belly rounded, her hips wide, her breasts heavy. Mia is none of those. She's short—5'2"—and soft all over. Her belly has a gentle roundness, not fat, just soft, the body of someone still growing. Her hips curve only slightly. Her legs are short and smooth, with soft thighs that press together when she stands. Her breasts are small and budding, round and high-set, still figuring out their shape. Her skin is fair with pink undertones and a light dusting of freckles across her nose and shoulders.

I touch my belly. It yields. I press my palm flat, and the skin is warm and soft. I trace the curve of my hip, the smallness of my waist. I cup my breasts. They're barely a handful, and the nipples are soft pink and sensitive. A small shiver goes through me.

I'm inside a body that hasn't finished becoming itself. That's what this is. I'm not just shorter or softer—I'm younger. The world fits differently. The bed is lower. The desk is closer. The mirror hangs at a height where I can see my whole self without stepping back.

I go back to the closet and try on a longline cardigan over nothing, just to feel the soft knit against my bare shoulders. Then I put on my pajamas—a lavender cotton sleep set, soft shorts and a tiny camisole. The fabric is cool and light. I sit on the bed and brush my hair in the little mirror, watching the strawberry waves fall over my shoulders. The silver charm bracelet catches the fairy lights.

I should work on my portfolio. The fox painting is still unfinished, and the second piece needs to be started. But the bed is soft, and the fairy lights are warm, and Mia's body is tired from the day. I'll work on it tomorrow. For now, I just want to lie here and be her.

I turn off the fairy lights, but the room doesn't go fully dark—the streetlamp outside filters through the curtains. I lie down on the twin bed, the white iron frame creaking softly. The quilt is mint and peach, and it smells like lavender. My small chest rises and falls under the camisole. My legs are smooth against the sheets.

I can hear the house settling—Sophie's music faint through the wall, the clink of dishes downstairs, Denise's footsteps. They're all me, in their own bodies, living their own hours. I'm the youngest now. The soft one. The one who draws foxes and talks to herself and cries when her sister snaps.

I close my eyes. The pillow is soft, and my hair spreads over it. The fairy lights are off, but the streetlamp casts a pale glow across the wall, and I can see the outline of the fox painting on the easel.

I'm Mia. I'm thirteen. I'm an artist.

I fall asleep.