Marissa: I’ve never loved my sister. Our mother always got our names mixed up. I don’t understand how. It’s her fault for making them rhyme. We used to know another set of rhyming twins, Preston and Weston. No kidding. My grandmother wanted us to grow up and marry them. Fat chance of that. They got us mixed up, too. The idiots. Melissa’s hair is short, mine is long. My eyes are brown, hers are green. It didn’t stop as we got older. No one got it right at school either. “But you look like a Melissa,” they’d say. What does a “Melissa” look like? Honestly. And then they’d laugh. And she’d laugh. It’s a wet laugh, thick. Like siphoning snot. Her voice makes me itch. And she talks. She talks. Not much of it makes sense anymore. We share a room, we always have. It’s starting to smell. She’s recently decided to stop showering. I don’t know why. When we’re together, and we always are, people think it’s me. That I’m the smelly one. It’s Melissa. Melissa. And I’m not her.