It's Not You.. It's Me

***Maeve Thorne***

My thumb swipes up the glass screen, scanning the fresh search results for any shred of hope. Blackwood Groups of Trade. The bold lettering catches my eye immediately, promising a high-paying corporate sanctuary. I tap the link and read the details. Eight vacancies. Under the strict requirements, the text demands either an Engineering degree in the IT field or an MBA in Finance and Management. Preference goes to the higher degree.

*Perfecto.*

A brilliant, devious spark ignites in my chest. Maddox holds a top-tier degree with a pristine GPA and an A1 grade overall. I can just borrow his flawless credentials to snag a lucrative corporate role. We are twins. We share the same face, the same nose, the same stubborn jawline. The only real difference is his toned muscle mass, which makes me look like a skinny twig standing next to him.

Right now, survival and securing an income matter more than ethics. I need to make my own money. I need to claim my independence before my mother ships me off to marry some stale businessman. Besides, my dear brother is halfway across the world enjoying a European vacation. He will never find out I hijacked his academic identity. And even if he does return early and catch me in a suit, he can forgive his baby sister who was born one minute late, right?

I bite my lower lip. There is one massive hurdle glaring at me from his digital ID copy. *Male.*

For a fleeting second, I wish I had a twin sister instead of a brother. Faking her life would be an absolute breeze. I could slip into her dresses, go on dates with her boyfriend, and neither of them would suspect a thing. I pause, narrowing my eyes at the blank wall. Actually, thank God I do not have a twin sister. She would probably steal my boyfriend, and I would be the clueless one left in the dark.

I push up from the cold floor and pace toward the living room wall, where a framed photo of Maddox hangs. My eyebrows inch up as I really study my brother's features for the first time. We share the same canvas. I can raid his wardrobe for the right clothes, maybe steal a blazer or two. I can use my makeup arsenal to contour a sharper jawline and paint on the subtle shadow of a fake beard. I just need to buy the right pair of men's shoes to give me a little extra height.

But two glaring feminine traits threaten to ruin this masterpiece. My little boobs and my hip-length hair.

I pull up my ultimate teacher on my phone screen. *YouTube.*

I type in a quick search for gender presentation and click the first tutorial. A person on the screen explains the mechanics of hiding a feminine chest. I nod along, absorbing every step. I need to wrap my chest tight with a binding cloth to compress the tissue, forcing it to look flatter than it already is. Over that bandage, I will throw on a thick wife-beater tank top and button up a stiff dress shirt. The layers will mask any remaining curves, turning my chest flat like a paved road.

*Done.*

My fingers drift up to touch the bright blue strands cascading down my back. I cannot afford a high-quality wig. Fake hair that looks realistic costs upwards of five hundred dollars, and my bank account currently holds dust. If I had that kind of cash, I would not be plotting corporate identity theft in my living room.

Only one option remains.

I close my eyes, dragging a deep breath into my lungs to steady the frantic thumping against my ribs.

*I can do this.*

*It is just hair.*

*It will grow back.*

*Focus on the money.*

*Freedom.*

I drag my feet into the bathroom and flick on the harsh fluorescent lights. I stare into the mirror. It has not even been a full week since I spent hours bleaching and dyeing these strands a vibrant, electric blue. The color and texture made me feel fierce, like some exotic species straight out of Pandora. An Avatar Princess.

I open the vanity drawer. My fingers wrap around the cold metal handles of the hair cutting scissors. I pull them out, dividing my long, thick blue hair into two even sections and bringing them forward to drape over my shoulders. The ends brush right against my belly button.

A sharp ache tightens my throat. I wanted long hair since the fifth grade. I still remember the afternoon Maddox took a pair of craft scissors and snipped off one of my pigtails while I slept, retaliation for breaking his video game console. I woke up and cried so hard it felt like he had chopped off one of my actual limbs. He is such an ass.

Everyone always complimented my long hair. I loved the length so much I refused to even trim the dead ends for the past six months. I never imagined I would stand in front of a mirror, ready to butcher it myself.

A hot tear escapes the corner of my eye. I grab the left section of my hair, bunching the thick strands into my fist for the very last time.

*I love you.*

*But it is not you.*

*It is me.*

*It is my fight.*

I am sorry you got caught in the middle of this mess. You have always been good to me, except during the humid monsoon season and those weird static days in winter.

*I am sorry.*

*Forgive me.*

My chest heaves. This feels exactly like a tragic breakup. My long thick hair, you will be missed.

I squeeze the scissors, positioning the open blades right below my earlobe. My hand shakes miserably, making the metal rattle against my jaw, but I keep cutting. The sharp, mechanical chopping sound echoes in the small tiled bathroom, adding extra momentum to my tears. I feel them rolling hot and fast down my cheeks to drip off my chin.

I watch the thick blue chunks detach and fall freely. They drift from my shoulders down to my bare feet like heavy, vibrant feathers. Is time running slow?

A heavy lump swells in my throat, making it impossible to gulp down my saliva. I blink through the blur of wetness and look up at the mirror. The jagged, uneven edge of my remaining hair mocks me. A few severed blue strands stick to my wet cheeks, making me cry harder.

For all these years, I took care of them like my babies. Now I am cutting my babies.

I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, bringing the scissors to the right side. I endure the same torture again, severing the remaining strands and watching the rest of my pride fall to the bathroom tiles.

*Forgive me.*

I drop the scissors into the sink. I crouch down on the cold floor and begin gathering the fallen blue hair into a pile. I grab a plastic grocery bag from under the sink and stuff the severed locks inside as I wipe the salty tears off my face.

Even if they died, they will still be useful to me. I will sell them online to buy those men's shoes I need.

I tie the plastic bag into a tight knot. It is too late to turn back now. I stare at my jagged reflection, taking in the red eyes and the harsh, chopped length. I am ready to step into my brother's life.

I am ready to become Maddox.

*I am ready to be nerdy!*