Story code: ST-000532
Part 1: Smile Like You Mean It
My stepsister slid my memory box off my side of our shared shelf, set it under her vanity stool like it was clutter, and told me to sit on the edge of my bed and smile for the fundraiser camera like I was lucky to be included. We were in the bedroom we share, half covered in curling-ribbon scraps and a donated-gift basket for the school fundraiser, and she said it in that bright voice she uses when she wants me to help her lie without making it look like lying. “Move your laundry basket out of frame,” Sienna said, already holding up her phone to check the shot. “And don’t make that face. Dana wants one candid in here because it shows how we worked side by side.” I looked at the space where my memory box had been. It was a faded blue photo box with silver stars on the lid. I kept old birthday cards in it, ticket stubs, a bracelet from my grandmother, and a Polaroid strip from the first week after Dana remarried, back when everyone kept saying this room would feel like both of ours soon. I knew exactly where it sat because in this room, if I didn’t keep track of my things, they drifted into Sienna’s version of the story. “You moved my box,” I said. She didn’t look at me. She was fluffing the throw blanket she only used when people were coming over. “It looked messy in the shot.” “It’s on my shelf.” “It’s a box, Avery. Please don’t start. Mr. Lopez is reposting behind-the-scenes stuff all morning.” That was how it always worked. She did something small enough to sound ridiculous when repeated out loud, then acted like I was difficult for noticing it. She crossed to my bed, tilted my chin toward the window, and tucked my hair behind my shoulder with two quick fingers, the same way someone straightens a lamp before guests arrive. “There. Soft smile. Not fake-fake. Grateful.” Grateful. I stayed still because Dana was in the hall carrying garment bags, and if I raised my voice, I would be the one making the morning harder. Sienna stepped back, angled her body toward me, and lifted the phone. Her fundraiser shirt was perfectly pressed. Mine was still folded on the dresser because she had told Dana I could change later, after she got the better photos first. “Ready?” she said. I looked at the phone screen. She had framed it so the donation baskets, her handwritten encouragement cards, and the corner of my bed all fit together. I was just enough in the shot to make it look shared. Not enough to matter on my own. “Smile,” she said through her teeth. So I did, because sometimes the fastest way to survive a moment is to get through it cleanly and remember every detail after. She took three pictures, checked them, and smiled at her own screen. “Perfect. You look normal in the second one.” Then Dana leaned into the doorway. “Girls, ten minutes. Sienna, Mr. Lopez texted. They want you near the welcome banner when we get there. Avery, can you wear the navy cardigan? It looks nice on camera.” Sienna answered before I could. “She will.” Dana disappeared again. I got up and pulled my fundraiser shirt from the dresser. One sleeve had been shoved under Sienna’s makeup bag. She had used half my dresser top for her curl spray, lip gloss, safety pins, and a stack of printed donor cards. My side of the room still existed, but only in outlines. When I reached under the vanity stool for my memory box, Sienna put one foot on the lid. “Leave it there for now,” she said. “Why?” “Because if Dana comes back in and sees you digging through old stuff, she’ll think you’re about to get emotional and derail the day.” I straightened up. “It’s my box.” She gave me a look in the mirror, calm and flat. “And today is not about your box.” I wanted to say today apparently wasn’t about my side of the room, my clothes, or my face either, unless she needed them. Instead I changed in the bathroom because that was easier than doing it in front of her ring light and piles of ribbon. When I came back, she was filming a quick clip by the window. I heard her say, “So grateful for everyone donating and supporting families in our community,” then she stopped recording, frowned, and pointed at me. “Stand by the shelf for one second,” she said. “Just like you’re helping.” “I am helping.” “You know what I mean.” I stood where she wanted. She pressed a folded fundraiser flyer into my hand, adjusted my elbow, and moved a basket so the camera could catch it between us. She made me hold still while she talked to the phone about teamwork. When she posted, her caption read: Early start with my sister getting everything ready together. My sister. Not stepsister. Not Avery. Just a shape beside her sentence. We finally left the room when Dana called again from downstairs. Sienna grabbed her tote bag, then paused in the hall outside our bedroom when her phone buzzed. I was two steps behind her, pulling the door mostly shut, and she didn’t notice I was still there. She answered in the bright voice. “Hi, Mr. Lopez. Yes, we’re almost out the door.” A short silence. Then her tone changed, lower and quicker. “No, do not put Avery on by herself. If she ends up in frame, keep it with me. She doesn’t always know what to say, and I need this to look consistent.” I went still with my hand on the doorknob. She listened again, laughed once like she was smoothing something over, and said, “Exactly. Keep us together, or just use me.” She turned then, saw me in the doorway, and for one second neither of us said anything. She had just.
My stepsister slid my memory box off my side of our shared shelf, set it under her vanity stool like it was clutter, and told me to sit on the edge of my bed and smile for the fundraiser camera like I was lucky to be included. We were in the bedroom we share, half covered in curling-ribbon scraps and a donated-gift basket for the school fundraiser, and she said it in that bright voice she uses when she wants me to help her lie without making it look like lying. “Move your laundry basket out of frame,” Sienna said, already holding up her phone to check the shot. “And don’t make that face. Dana wants one candid in here because it shows how we worked side by side.” I looked at the space where my memory box had been. It was a faded blue photo box with silver stars on the lid. I kept old birthday cards in it, ticket stubs, a bracelet from my grandmother, and a Polaroid strip from the first week after Dana remarried, back when everyone kept saying this room would feel like both of ours soon. I knew exactly where it sat because in this room, if I didn’t keep track of my things, they drifted into Sienna’s version of the story. “You moved my box,” I said. She didn’t look at me. She was fluffing the throw blanket she only used when people were coming over. “It looked messy in the shot.” “It’s on my shelf.” “It’s a box, Avery. Please don’t start. Mr. Lopez is reposting behind-the-scenes stuff all morning.” That was how it always worked. She did something small enough to sound ridiculous when repeated out loud, then acted like I was difficult for noticing it. She crossed to my bed, tilted my chin toward the window, and tucked my hair behind my shoulder with two quick fingers, the same way someone straightens a lamp before guests arrive. “There. Soft smile. Not fake-fake. Grateful.” Grateful. I stayed still because Dana was in the hall carrying garment bags, and if I raised my voice, I would be the one making the morning harder. Sienna stepped back, angled her body toward me, and lifted the phone. Her fundraiser shirt was perfectly pressed. Mine was still folded on the dresser because she had told Dana I could change later, after she got the better photos first. “Ready?” she said. I looked at the phone screen. She had framed it so the donation baskets, her handwritten encouragement cards, and the corner of my bed all fit together. I was just enough in the shot to make it look shared. Not enough to matter on my own. “Smile,” she said through her teeth. So I did, because sometimes the fastest way to survive a moment is to get through it cleanly and remember every detail after. She took three pictures, checked them, and smiled at her own screen. “Perfect. You look normal in the second one.” Then Dana leaned into the doorway. “Girls, ten minutes. Sienna, Mr. Lopez texted. They want you near the welcome banner when we get there. Avery, can you wear the navy cardigan? It looks nice on camera.” Sienna answered before I could. “She will.” Dana disappeared again. I got up and pulled my fundraiser shirt from the dresser. One sleeve had been shoved under Sienna’s makeup bag. She had used half my dresser top for her curl spray, lip gloss, safety pins, and a stack of printed donor cards. My side of the room still existed, but only in outlines. When I reached under the vanity stool for my memory box, Sienna put one foot on the lid. “Leave it there for now,” she said. “Why?” “Because if Dana comes back in and sees you digging through old stuff, she’ll think you’re about to get emotional and derail the day.” I straightened up. “It’s my box.” She gave me a look in the mirror, calm and flat. “And today is not about your box.” I wanted to say today apparently wasn’t about my side of the room, my clothes, or my face either, unless she needed them. Instead I changed in the bathroom because that was easier than doing it in front of her ring light and piles of ribbon. When I came back, she was filming a quick clip by the window. I heard her say, “So grateful for everyone donating and supporting families in our community,” then she stopped recording, frowned, and pointed at me. “Stand by the shelf for one second,” she said. “Just like you’re helping.” “I am helping.” “You know what I mean.” I stood where she wanted. She pressed a folded fundraiser flyer into my hand, adjusted my elbow, and moved a basket so the camera could catch it between us. She made me hold still while she talked to the phone about teamwork. When she posted, her caption read: Early start with my sister getting everything ready together. My sister. Not stepsister. Not Avery. Just a shape beside her sentence. We finally left the room when Dana called again from downstairs. Sienna grabbed her tote bag, then paused in the hall outside our bedroom when her phone buzzed. I was two steps behind her, pulling the door mostly shut, and she didn’t notice I was still there. She answered in the bright voice. “Hi, Mr. Lopez. Yes, we’re almost out the door.” A short silence. Then her tone changed, lower and quicker. “No, do not put Avery on by herself. If she ends up in frame, keep it with me. She doesn’t always know what to say, and I need this to look consistent.” I went still with my hand on the doorknob. She listened again, laughed once like she was smoothing something over, and said, “Exactly. Keep us together, or just use me.” She turned then, saw me in the doorway, and for one second neither of us said anything. She had just.