Dad couldn't argue with that.
By the second half of junior year, we were finally placed in separate classes.
But I had no intention of letting her go.
In the spring semester of junior year, Bridget was elected vice chair of the Student Council Arts Committee.
In my previous life, she'd climbed one careful rung at a time—student elections, the city's Outstanding Student award, scholarships, a top university. Every move landed exactly where it needed to.
Each time Dad praised her, he'd tack on a casual“Thea, you should really learn from your sister.”
I couldn't block her path. The more accomplished she became, the pettier and more jealous I'd look if I tried.
Kill with kindness. That was the sharpest blade.
The day of the election, I arrived at the auditorium a full hour early and claimed the center seat in the front row.
When she took the stage to give her speech, I started clapping first, louder than anyone.
The moment she finished, I was on my feet：“Bridget! Bridget James! That's my sister right there!”
The whole auditorium laughed.
A faint blush crept across her face：“Thank you, sis. And thank you, everyone.”
Unanimous vote.
I was the first one to rush up and throw my arms around her：“I knew you could do it!”
A classmate nearby laughed：“Athena, anyone who didn't know better would think you were the one who won.”
I grinned：“My sister winning makes me happier than if I'd won myself!”
That night, walking home, she said it out of nowhere：“Athena, you don't have to do that every single time.”
“Do what?”
“Every time something happens to me, you make this big show of it.” Her head was down, her voice thin and drifting. “I know you don't mean it.”
I stopped walking and looked at her.
Her face was half lit, half in shadow under the streetlamp, wearing that fragile, pitiable look of hers. Even while saying something like that, she managed to seem completely sincere.
I laughed：“What are you talking about? I'm your sister. If I'm not good to you, who else would I be good to?”
She held my gaze for two full seconds, then turned her head away and said nothing more.
After that, she started avoiding me.
I brought snacks to her classroom door; she had a classmate relay the message that she was “doing homework, bad timing.” I asked her to go shopping on weekends; she said she had tutoring. I left a note on her desk that said “You've got this”; when I got home, the note had been taken away.
She was afraid of me.
That was so much more interesting than being hated.
The thing a person who plays the victim fears most isn't someone meaner than her. It's someone who plays the game better. She could never expose me, because the moment she tried, she'd be admitting she'd been performing all along too.
Senior year, everything blew up.
An ordinary Tuesday. Nothing about it stood out.
During evening study hall, my homeroom teacher pulled me out of class：“Thea, something's happened at home.”
By the time I got to the hospital, Dad was in the emergency room.
Mom sat in a hallway chair, her face blank.
Bridget stood in the corner, clutching her phone.
“Heart attack. He collapsed at home out of nowhere. Your sister called the ambulance.” That was all Mom said.
Tears streaked down Bridget's face：“It's my fault. I kept him up talking too late. He's been so swamped with work lately……”
I watched those tears, and something wrong shot through me like a jolt.
Dad's health had always been decent. High blood pressure, sure, but he took his medication on schedule and never missed a checkup.
In my previous life he'd lived past seventy, traveled to Sanya with Bridget, and came back raving about what a filial daughter she was.
So why, in this life, a sudden heart attack?
I didn't ask.
In front of the doctors and nurses, I gave them exactly the worried, anxious daughter they expected.
I held Bridget's hand and told her, “It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself.” Under my comfort, she only cried harder.
At four in the morning, Dad was out of danger.
The doctor said another half hour and the outcome might have been very different.
Mom let out a long, shaking breath. Her hands were trembling, and there was no color left in her lips.
I told her to go home and rest. She shook her head and said she wasn't tired.
But I noticed her sitting by the bed, the back of her head resting against the chair, eyes closed for a very long time.
I thought she was just tired.
Later I learned what it actually was—the early signs of a subarachnoid hemorrhage.
When I got home, the ashtray on the living room coffee table was full of cigarette butts.
My father had quit smoking five years ago.
