I Died So My Genius Brother Could Win
Juniper Marlow · Completed · 6.1k Words
Introduction
Me? I'm the kid who doesn't need to be seen.
The night before Nationals, I told my mom my stomach hurt so bad I could barely stand. She said I was making trouble. Dad told me to take a painkiller and tough it out. Then they loaded up the car and drove two hundred miles to watch Soren skate.
They didn't come home until Sunday night. By then, I'd been dead for over a day.
I called her. Again and again. She had her phone on airplane mode.
Now I'm a ghost, drifting behind their car on the highway home. They're laughing, complaining I didn't even text Soren a congratulations.
I wonder what their faces will look like when they walk through that door.
Chapter 1
My brother Soren is a figure skating prodigy. Every dollar in this house, every hour, every ounce of attention — it all belongs to him.
And I'm the one who doesn't need to be seen.
Our fridge has always been split into two worlds. Soren's shelf is packed with organic beef and imported salmon. Mine has whatever discount cereal is about to expire. He gets a private physical therapist at two hundred dollars an hour. I wear Mom's hand-me-downs.
I've never brought any of this up. Nobody in this house wants to hear me complain.
Mom likes to say that a family blessed with a talent like Soren's should count it as a gift from God, and everyone else should step aside to make room.
The pain started on Thursday night.
At first it was just a dull ache around my belly button. I figured it was what I got for eating nothing but bargain-bin cereal three days in a row. I curled up on my old bed — the one with the busted springs — and tried to ride it out. There's no heating in the attic, so I pulled the blanket tight around me and waited for it to pass.
"Wren! Where did you put Soren's backup skates?" Mom's voice shot up from downstairs, mixed with the sound of a suitcase zipper being yanked open.
I pressed my hand against my stomach and dragged myself out of bed. My forehead was slick with cold sweat, and every step sent something twisting through my lower right side.
"Storage closet under the stairs."
I gripped the railing and inched my way down to the first floor. The living room was a mess — gear everywhere for Soren's trip to Nationals tomorrow. Soren, fifteen years old, was sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone. His therapist had just left.
"You look awful. Don't get Soren sick — he's skating his short program tomorrow." Mom didn't even glance up. She was sliding his three-thousand-dollar custom skates into a velvet bag.
"Mom, my stomach really hurts." I leaned against the wall, my T-shirt soaked through with cold sweat. "I think I need to go to the ER."
Mom stopped what she was doing and turned to look at me. There was no worry in her eyes. Just irritation.
"The ER? Do you have any idea what that costs? Soren's choreographer just raised her rates again this month. Wren, you're seventeen. Can you please not make trouble right when your brother needs us the most?"
"No, Mom, this time it's different—"
I doubled over. My stomach heaved and I dry-heaved before I could stop it.
"That's enough." Dad walked in through the front door, car keys in hand, fresh from filling up the tank. He looked worn out. "Wren, listen to your mother. Stop trying to make everything about you. Tomorrow is the biggest day of your brother's life — he's going for a spot on the national team. Take a couple of painkillers and tough it out."
Soren looked up with a frown. "Can you seriously not do this right now?"
I looked at the three of them. All they could see was the gold medal and the ice. None of them noticed my white lips or my legs shaking under me.
Tomorrow was also my eighteenth birthday. In this family, that wasn't something worth mentioning.
Last month, the letter from the state art exhibition arrived at the house. I'd been selected. Mom tossed the envelope on top of Soren's gear pile, and nobody had opened it since.
I didn't say any of this out loud.
"Okay."
I clenched my jaw, turned around, and dragged myself back up to the attic, one step at a time.
"Good luck tomorrow, Soren."
"We're leaving first thing in the morning. Won't be back until Sunday night. There's frozen food in the freezer — figure it out yourself." Mom called this up from downstairs, and then the door slammed shut.
They didn't leave me a single dollar.
I curled up on the bed. The pain was zeroing in on my lower right side now, each wave sharper than the last. I fished out two expired painkillers, swallowed them dry, and closed my eyes in the dark.
Downstairs, the engine turned over. The car pulled out of the driveway, the sound fading until there was nothing left to hear.
The whole house was empty except for me. They wouldn't be back until Sunday night.
Just tough it out. It'll pass. That's what Dad said.
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