Chapter 3: Masks and Motives

“Hey, bro, the SATs are almost here. Why are you still slacking off? Go study!”

The words snapped me back to the present. I turned to see my brother leaning against the back porch, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. He was always watching.

He was there, just as I remembered—same wiry build, same too-bright smile. He shook a chipped mug filled with sweet tea, the kind I used to love when summer days stretched on forever. Some things never changed.

He lifted the mug in a mock toast, sunlight glinting off the rim. The scent of mint and sugar drifted over, but it only made my stomach churn. I couldn’t enjoy it anymore.

Sunlight fell on his sharp features. The curve of his mouth was exactly as I remembered from my past life.

His smile was practiced, the kind that could charm a teacher or disarm a neighbor. I saw right through it now. I wasn’t fooled.

Back then, I thought this was his way of showing he cared. I thought it was the bond of family.

I remembered all those times I’d leaned on him, trusted him. The memory burned, raw and humiliating. Never again.

Until that fatal brick after the test, when his mask was completely ripped away.

The image of that brick flashed before my eyes, quick as lightning. I flinched, but forced myself to stand tall. He wouldn’t see me break.

I clenched my fists until my nails nearly pierced my palms, but forced a smile. “Okay.”

My voice came out steady, almost cheerful. I could play this game too. Two could play at pretending.

But just as I turned around, hurried footsteps came from behind.

There was a thud on the porch boards—he was right behind me, closer than I’d realized. My heart skipped.

“Hey, where’s the lucky pendant I gave you?!”

His tone was too casual, but his eyes were laser-focused, scanning my neck. He was hunting for a clue.

My steps faltered. My heart skipped a beat. Was he onto me?

I felt a cold sweat break out along my spine. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of us. Every muscle tensed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him staring intently at the pigsty, his knuckles white.

He gripped the mug so hard I thought it might shatter. His gaze was sharp, almost hungry. He wanted that pendant back.

His stare was a scalpel, like he wanted to cut me open and read what was inside. I fought not to shudder.

I forced myself to stay calm and touched my neck. “Huh? Must’ve dropped it by accident.”

I shrugged, trying to look sheepish. “Guess I’m just clumsy.”

My brother hurried over to the pigsty, bent to grab the chain, and wiped the mud off it.

He crouched low, careful not to get his sneakers too dirty, and fished the pendant from the muck. He wiped it with the hem of his shirt, face twisted in concentration.

His palm was stained with pig manure, but he kept rubbing the pendant’s surface until it gleamed, pressing so hard it looked like he might bend the metal.

He looked almost desperate, as if scrubbing it clean could erase what had happened. Like he could undo my rebellion.

“Bro, did you drop it while feeding the pigs?”

He dangled the pendant in front of me, voice syrupy-sweet, but his eyes were cold. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

I reached out to take it, but as soon as I touched the chain, he grabbed my wrist.

His grip was stronger than I remembered. For a second, our eyes locked—his smile never wavered.

He wore that innocent smile of his, but there was a darkness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

It was like staring into a well at midnight—nothing but shadows and secrets.

“Bro, don’t lose it again. I saved up my allowance a long time to buy this for you. It’s for good luck—ace the test, top scores.”

He squeezed my wrist, just enough to make his point. The words sounded sincere, but I could hear the threat underneath. I knew what he was really saying.

I heard Mom’s knife thumping on the cutting board, smelled Dad’s tobacco drifting through the screen door.

The familiar clatter of knives and the sweet, acrid scent of pipe smoke drifted through the screen door. It was the soundtrack of my childhood—or so I’d thought. Now it felt like background noise to a nightmare.

Suddenly, I realized that, right now, the whole family’s attention was on us.

I caught the faintest movement—a shadow at the window, the scrape of a chair. They were watching, every move under a microscope. I felt trapped.

So all those times I felt watched—the clatter of plates, eyes peeking through cracked doors—hadn’t stopped since I got the lucky pendant three years ago.

The memory hit me: every odd glance, every whispered conversation. It all made sense now. I was never alone. Never, not for a second.

“Look at you two, always so close.” My foster mother poked her head out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. “Evan, hurry up and go study. Your brother even wiped your desk until it shone.”

She smiled, but her eyes flicked to the pendant, cold and calculating. The flour on her hands couldn’t hide the sharpness in her gaze. She was always watching.

Her eyes swept over the lucky pendant, and the curve of her mouth reminded me of the way she’d piled meatloaf into my bowl in my last life—her smile tight, her eyes never quite warm. It was all for show.

I swallowed the nausea churning in my stomach, turned, and walked toward the main room.

My throat burned, but I kept my face blank. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me crack. Not now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother squatting by the pigsty, rubbing his muddy hands on his jeans over and over, each time silently venting his anger.

He stared at the ground, jaw clenched, grinding the mud into the denim. I could almost feel the heat of his frustration radiating off him. Let him stew.

When I pushed open the door, that familiar musty smell hit me.

The room was dim and close, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something sweet—maybe last night’s pie, left out on the counter. It was the kind of place that remembered everything. But none of those memories were real.

Certificates from past years hung on the wall, but now they felt like mocking charms.

Each frame seemed to sneer, "Look how far you've come, for nothing." I wanted to tear them all down.

New review books were spread across the desk. I opened my math workbook, and a slip of paper fell out.

The paper was creased and faded, my brother’s handwriting looping across the lines. My stomach twisted. My hands shook as I picked it up.

“Bro, you have to go see the world for me.”

The words hit me like a sucker punch. Once, they’d meant everything. Now, they felt like a death sentence.

In my last life, that sentence moved me to tears.

I’d read it over and over, believing I was carrying all their hopes. I’d been so blind. How could I have missed the truth?

Now…

Now, I saw it for what it was—a manipulation. I crumpled the note in my fist, rage simmering under my skin. I wanted to scream.

They really would stop at nothing to get what they wanted!

They’d use me up and toss me aside, all for a shot at something better. I was disposable.