Chapter 2: The Snake and the Queen

1.

School was always easy for me. If I wanted to be top of the class, I was.

I’d walk into any room, scan the board, and know exactly how to ace every test. Teachers expected more, classmates whispered, but I just kept my head down. Success was the only thing nobody could take from me.

I had my mom’s looks, too.

People always said we looked alike: sharp jaw, cold blue eyes, the kind you spot in a crowd. It got me plenty of attention I didn’t want, and a reputation for being both pretty and untouchable. Sometimes, when I caught my reflection, I saw her smile—a little too icy, never quite mine.

Other than being broke, I was nearly flawless.

My shoes had holes, my backpack was patched with duct tape, and lunch was whatever I could snag from the Kroger clearance rack. But brains and looks? No complaints. Maybe that’s why the rumors stung even more.

Back in middle school, my mom married a rich guy and left me with a debit card.

It was a Saturday morning—sunlight through the blinds, her suitcase already by the door. She handed me the card with a sigh. “This should cover school clothes and food. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.” She didn’t wait for an answer.

"Don’t contact me again. I’ll send you money every year."

She tossed it off like a lifeline, not a goodbye. The words echoed for days. After that, all I got was a yearly deposit—enough to survive, never enough to feel wanted.

She told everyone she was single and hid me like a dirty secret.

On Facebook, she posed in tennis whites, wine glass in hand, always alone. No trace of me. In her new world, I was baggage to be erased.

I didn’t feel anything. I took her card and told everyone I was an orphan.

At school, I played the orphan card—no parents at conferences, no emergency contacts. People pitied me. That was easier than their judgment. Being an orphan sounded tragic, but at least it was my tragedy.

I was born emotionally distant; my mom never liked me.

Even as a kid, I learned to comfort myself. My mom’s hugs were rare, her praise even rarer. Loving her was a test I was destined to fail.

She preferred a daughter who’d call her "Mom" with a sweet smile—even if it was her stepdaughter.

She doted on anyone who played the part—smiling, eager, perfect. With me, she was always distracted. When the new stepdaughter came, her laughter was real, her patience endless. It hurt, though I’d never admit it.

Soon her Facebook filled up with photos of another girl—the stepdaughter from her new husband’s ex.

Every holiday, every birthday, there she was—Madison. Perfect hair, perfect posture, always clinging to my mom. I became a shadow, erased by filters and well-angled selfies.

Her name was Madison—bright, beautiful, and dangerous.

Madison was everything I wasn’t—bubbly, charming, always on. She knew how to work a room. She glowed. People noticed.

My mom half-hugged her, while Madison pouted, her smile brittle and resentful.

That photo still stings: my mom, arms around Madison, both faking it. Madison’s smile was plastic, her eyes sharp. A perfect little family for the world.

For the first time, someone else’s smile stung me.

I wasn’t used to jealousy, but there it was—sharp and sour. Madison had taken the last scraps of love I’d hoped for.

Days blurred together—school, work, homework, sleep. I ate ramen alone, scrolled college forums at midnight, and let the silence swallow me.

My only thrill was seeking out people who could make me feel something.

I’d sit at the back of the bus, watching strangers, wondering what it’d be like to live their lives. Sometimes I’d make classmates laugh or cry—anything to feel alive.

So I moved, bought a tiny apartment in the right school district, and transferred to Madison’s high school.

It was a calculated gamble. I wanted to see if being near her would spark something—jealousy, rivalry, maybe even friendship. I spent my savings on a cramped studio just to walk the same halls. If I couldn’t be loved, maybe I could at least be seen.