Becky was never a good step sister. She stole your remote, broke your things, lost her transportation card, hung out with people ten years older than her, drank alcohol in the basketball courts, and caused your parents general grief.
This… is not Becky.
Becca, because this is not Becky, is just like Becky in the way she smiles, the way she laughs, the way she speaks. It’s Becky’s voice who tells you that she’s having trouble in class, it’s Becky’s shrug that doesn’t mind you borrowing her walkman, it’s Becky’s fist that connects with your bully’s face.
This is not Becky.
You call her Becca, and your parents take it as a sign that you two are finally getting along.
You are, but that’s because this is not Becky.
Becca doesn’t know that Becky is allergic to strawberries. She finds out the hard way and you ask if you should call 9-1-1.
“No hospital,” Becca says sharply, even though red blotches are popping up all over her skin.
“You’re allergic.” You watch Becca stumble into the bathroom and induce vomiting. You tried to tell her it was too late for that, but. Well.
Becky wouldn’t have listened to you either. This is the most Becky thing Becca has done since she body-snatched your good-for-nothing sibling.
Becca lives through her terrible experience.
She still, however, knows nothing about Becky.
She ignores Becky’s friends. Doesn’t even acknowledge Connor-the-Sexy-Senior, and pays incredible amounts of attention in class.
Becca’s grades improve. Your parents pat each other on the back.
You catch Becky licking the scented candle.
“You can’t eat that,” you say, slowly.
“Smells good,” Becca says, to cover her ass.
“It’s not food.” You really want to ask where Becca came from. She keeps weird hours, she eats everything on her plate instead of just the carbs, and she never complains about waking up early for school. She hasn’t asked for the walkman in weeks.
Your parents self-congratulate on how well she’s turned herself around.
Becca isn’t perfect. She isn’t very nice, she isn’t even remotely supportive. She tells you right in front of your parents that your poster board looks like it was made by a preschooler.
But she doesn’t argue when you tell her to fuck off.
Becca gets her own remote. She never steals your things. She uses her transportation card, and she doesn’t hang out with older kids who want to touch her weirdly. She stops drinking, and your parents don’t question why she doesn’t need refills on shampoo or why she doesn’t want to go shopping.
When she goes to the doctor with your step father, he waits in the waiting room for her, and when she comes out the doctor looks dazed, but pronounces her healthy.
You have the most sane and easy couple months of your life.
Then it’s winter break.
Becca knocks before she comes into your room.
“I don’t think I can fake this,” she admits. “Who is Aunt Jan?”
“My Dad’s great aunt.” You beckon Becca into the kitchen, point to the holiday card on the fridge. “Aunt Jan.”
“Aunt Jan,” she repeats.
“Aunt Linda.”
“Aunt Linda.”
Three aunts, two uncles, six cousins.
You study them together.
“Alex is gay but won’t admit it,” Becca says as you point to your most closeted cousin. Your finger moves across the family portrait. “Aunt Jan is super old, but we’re supposed to be delicate about mentioning it because-” you point to Aunt Jan’s daughter Sam. “-Sam will start crying.”
“Yes,” you confirm, proud. “I think you can do this.”
It suddenly occurs to you that “Becky” being so sensitive might trip some people up. They may question what’s going on and suddenly you’re afraid. Afraid of losing Becca.
“Make someone cry. Or at least say something disappointing,” you blurt out before you can help yourself, “at least once. At dinner.”
“But your Mom is so excited to have an easy holiday for once,” Becca frowns.
“Yeah but I don’t want anyone to know you’re-”
You stare at each other.
“Reformed?” Becca tries, but it sounds fake even to her. You nod anyway.
“I promise I haven’t hurt the real one,” Becca says slowly, “but you… you’ve known for a while.”
Of course you knew. You knew the moment Becca let you have shotgun on the way to school. You knew the moment she ignored Connor-the-hot-Senior. You knew when she knocked on your door.
You knew, because your life was slightly less miserable.
“You can’t make me go back,” Becca says quietly. “No one can prove anything.”
She has a good point!
“Why do you look so happy?” Becca scowls, crosses her arms. Glares at you with no heat.
It’s so nice not to be hated by someone you live with. It’s even nicer not to hate them back. You stand up. Approach Becca with a grin.
“How about this,” you gesture between the two of you. “I’ll keep making sure you can pass as Becky, and you keep up the good work not causing problems.”
“Deal.” Becca holds a hand out to you, and the two of you shake. It’s the most camaraderie you’ve ever had with Becky, and that’s because this isn’t her.
“Do you want to see?”
You don’t know what she’s talking about.
“What I really look like.” Becca tilts her head, almost birdlike, as she offers.
“Will I stay sane if I see your true form?” You frown.
She frowns back, offended. “Why would seeing my true form make you insane?!”
“Well, if you’re an angel or something.”
“Oh my dog,” she says in disbelief. “Who hurt you?!”
Becky did. But she’s not there.
“I’ll show you. I’m just… another life form.” She rolls her eyes, reaches to the back of her head, pulls her hair like she’s removing a wig.
There’s no flash of light, there’s no exploding release of power, just the slow peeling of her scalp, horrible but fascinating.
Spines pop out the back of her head, the same color as her hair.
You’re pretty sure it’s gross.
You can’t tear your eyes away.
“I’m an alien,” she says as she releases the skinsuit from around her ears.
And right as the door to your room opens.
Your mother stands in the doorway, her question on her lips.
Becca’s skin suit is half off her head.
Your mother stares.
You stare.
Becca stays still, like your Mom’s vision is based on movement.
“We’re just playing, Mom,” you say into the terrible silence.
You can’t tell what your Mom sees on the back of Becca’s head. It doesn’t matter.
“I… didn’t see anything,” your Mom says slowly, speculatively. “You kids… have fun playing.” She takes a step back out of your doorway. Nearly trips over her own feet. Then she staggers back and turns around, stumbling into the stairwell to go back downstairs.
You both hear her stop on the landing.
“Dinner in twenty minutes,” she says, thoughtfully, consideringly.
“Thanks Mom,” you say, as Becca slides her skinsuit back on over her ears. Closes it up in the back over her spines.
“Wow,” Becca says slowly.
“Yeah we really hated Becky.” You don’t laugh, but it’s close. You’re a nervous laugh-er. She looks at you. You look at her.
She laughs nervously.
“Welcome to the family, officially I guess,” you say.
“Thanks,” Becca says, and you see real kinship in her eyes for the first time.