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got a job designing costumes for a new production of The Magic Flute . The problem was, the production was in Italy.
    So this summer Della was staying with us. She’d been here for two days, and I was still getting used to it. It was hard to believe we shared a room until we were eight. I guess a lot can change in four years.
    Della handed me a roll of paper towels, one eyebrow raised artfully. You could have seen it from the stalls. It said, You made this mess . You clean it up .
    Della is the older twin.
    I started to sop up the milk while Della went upstairs to change. We’re fraternal twins, so we don’t look that much alike. Della has honey-blonde hair that she styles so it bounces when she walks, like a little floating exclamation mark making all of her actions more dramatic. I’m blonde too, but it’s the gingery variety. I wash my hair withwhatever shampoo Dad has left in the shower and put it back in a braid while it’s still wet. If I didn’t know we were twins, I wouldn’t believe we were even related.
    As I scrubbed the floor, I could hear Della banging around my room. I’m not a neat freak, but I like to know where my things are. Della didn’t have that problem. Her idea of unpacking was dumping her suitcase into the drawers I’d emptied out for her and asking me if I knew where she’d left her shoes. I think Mom still puts away Della’s clean clothes.
    â€˜Alice,’ Della called down the stairs. Her voice was crystal clear, even through the closed door. My sister knew how to project. ‘Where are my socks?’
    â€˜Top drawer on the right,’ I yelled back.
    It was going to be a long summer.

I ’d got the worst of the mess cleaned up by the time Dad came home. Della had come back downstairs and was sitting cross-legged on our brown corduroy couch doing deep-breathing exercises. Dad looked at us both and smiled.
    â€˜My two favourite girls together!’ He paused, savouring the moment. I think Dad wished Della came to stay with us more often, but he wasn’t the one who had to share a room with her. Dad put the takeaway bag on the counter and began unpacking the food.
    He’d gone to Pho Hoa, the Vietnamese restaurant up the street. The hot, tangy smell of lime juice and chillies began to fill the room. Dad’s glasses fogged over from the steam.
    â€˜Smells great,’ I said. ‘What level did you get?’
    Dad and I had been building up our spice tolerance since the beginning of the year. I laid out three bowls at the end of the counter.
    â€˜Level four. Prepare yourself.’
    Della scrunched up her nose and looked worried.
    â€˜Uh, Dad,’ I said, checking the bag to see if there was another container. ‘Did you get a mild one for Della?’
    Dad’s face fell. ‘Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. Do you want me to go out and get you another one? It’s just up the road.’
    â€˜No. It’s fine,’ Della said quickly. ‘We have spicy food in New York too . . .’
    Maybe , I thought, but Dad and I had been working up to level four for months now.
    I took a sip, the hot, sour soup burning all the way down the back of my throat. I could feel my sinuses clearing. It was just what I needed after the air conditioning at the Delgado place.
    â€˜So, Della.’ Dad took a mouthful and then wiggled the empty spoon at my sister. ‘Any luck with the casting agent?’
    Della smiled. ‘There’s an open audition at the Walnut Street Theatre tomorrow. They’re doing Annie .’
    I saw the flame in Della’s eyes go from ember to bonfire. Annie was The Big One, the Hamlet of twelve-year-old theatre girls. She took a triumphant spoonful of soup and immediately started to cough and splutter.
    Level four was definitely not for beginners.
    I got up to get her a glass of milk, but then I remembered there was no milk. Not any more. Instead, I handed