They Gave Her Eight Thousand And Me Eight Hundred And Called It Fair Chapter 02

They Gave Her Eight Thousand And Me Eight Hundred And Called It Fair Chapter 02

I tossed my phone back onto the bed and went quietly to the bathroom to wash the color off my lips.

It was the same when we were kids.

Playing hide-and-seek, I was always the one assigned the role of seeker.

My brother and Grace would hold hands and hide together in the spacious, bright walk-in closet of the master bedroom, leaving me all alone in the dark attic to count.

When I finished counting to a hundred and opened my eyes, I’d search the entire house and find no sign of them.

Only later would I learn they’d long since snuck off behind my back to buy ice cream at the corner store downstairs.

Growing up, it turned out, was exactly the same.

I pulled open my drawer and took out a yellowed old photo album.

In the photos on the first few pages, I was barely two years old. Dad was lifting me up in his arms, Mom was tenderly kissing my cheek, and Sean was making funny faces beside us.

One New Year’s, I once overheard a relative mention:

“Megan, you have no idea how much your brother doted on you when you were little!”

“I just made one comment—said this little girl sure looks dark—and your brother chased me down eight blocks cursing me out!”

Back then, they had cared about me too.

But ever since Grace was born, I became an invisible person.

She was fair-skinned and beautiful—a world apart from me.

When relatives came to visit, they would always gush, “Grace looks just like a little princess!”

When they turned to look at me, all they could force out dryly was: “This kid… seems well-behaved.”

Well-behaved. Sensible. Never fights for anything.

Those were the labels they’d slapped on me, and the cage that had imprisoned me for eighteen years.

Suddenly, a knock on the door pulled my thoughts back.

I put away the album and walked over to open the door.

Evan stood outside, holding two exquisite dessert boxes in his hands.

He was wearing a white athletic T-shirt, his smile so bright it was almost dazzling.

“Megan, guess what I brought?”

He waved the boxes in front of my eyes. “I bought little cakes for both you sisters!”

My gaze dropped downward.

Through the transparent packaging, I could see two identical double cheese lava cakes.

“Thanks.”

I didn’t reach out to take them. I just looked at him calmly.

“Take it, go on. I specially picked that one for you.”

He forcibly shoved one of the boxes into my hand and walked into the living room with the ease of someone who knew this place like home. “Where’s Grace? I sent her a message earlier and she didn’t reply.”

“They went shopping for gifts.”

I set the heavy cake down on the dining table.

Evan blinked, then laughed. “Oh, they went shopping. No wonder. So why didn’t you go? Being lazy again, huh?”

His tone was casual, automatically lumping me into the category of “lazy.”

I stared at that cloyingly sweet cheesecake, a wave of acid reflux churning faintly in my stomach.

Three years ago, when I first met Evan, he sat in the desk in front of me.

Once, he handed me a milk candy. I shook my head and said I hated sweets.

He looked at me with surprise. “A girl who doesn’t like sweets? You’re really something special.”

From then on, what he brought me was always high-percentage dark chocolate.

When he ordered bubble tea for the two of us, he’d always add the default note: “Absolutely no sugar—the princess gets cranky if she drinks anything sweet.”

But in just three short years, he’d forgotten every last bit of it.

All that remained in his eyes was Grace—the one who loved to act spoiled, the one who adored sweets.

Freshman year of high school, Evan came to my house for the first time. He happened to run into Grace in her puff-sleeve princess dress eating strawberry cake.

After we went downstairs, the words slipped out of his mouth: “Your little sister is so cute. She doesn’t look anything like you.”

“No wonder you’re always saying your brother favors her. If I were him, I’d…”

Back then, I thought he was just joking.

Now I finally understood. That joke was the undercurrent behind every single choice he’d made for the past three years.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Evan sat on the sofa. Seeing me staring blankly at the cake, he asked casually.

“I’ll eat it now.”

I tore open the packaging, picked up the fork, and scooped a small bite of cheesecake into my mouth.

It was very sweet.

So sweet it tasted bitter.

“By the way, how are you planning to fill out your college applications?”

Evan was looking down at his phone screen, probably messaging Grace, a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

“Grace says she wants to apply for finance. I helped her look at a few pretty good schools.”

“What about you? Your mom said you might only be able to go to community college. It’s fine—there are plenty of community colleges in New York.”

“When the time comes, the four of us will still be in the same city. On weekends, I’ll take you guys out for good food.”

I swallowed that nauseatingly sweet mouthful. I walked to the coffee table and opened my old laptop.

I logged into the college application system. The list of New York schools that had once filled every slot now looked unbearably glaring.

I moved the mouse.

Delete Columbia. Delete NYU. Delete every New York school.

In the search box for my first-choice school, I calmly typed four words: University of Miami.

Two thousand miles from New York.

Click. Save. Submit.

Evan turned off his phone, looked up at me, and asked casually, “So, which school in New York are you planning to apply to?”

I closed my laptop, turned around, and looked at him.

“We’ll see.”