Chapter 1My brother posted online yesterday. "$1,000 for Plain Jane. $10,000 for the princess. THAT'S FAIR." My so-called bestie commented: "Facts."
Oh, I'M the Plain Jane.
They're packed for New York—my sister's shopping sprees, my brother's backslaps, my parents' endless credit card swipes.
Me? The afterthought. The one they leave at home while they hit the mall.
They don't know I'm ranked #3 in the state. They DON'T ask. They NEVER ask.
One minute left on the deadline. I deleted every East Coast school. Punched in Miami. Twelve hundred miles south. Didn't look back.
"Community college is fine, sweetie. We'll take care of you."
Yeah. Thanks.
Tonight they're throwing HER a party. Cameras. Reporters. The whole production.
They have no idea the "failure" they left behind is the one everyone came to see.
Let them cry on live TV.
I'm not their daughter anymore—I'm their KARMA. And I'm just getting started.
--
Three mornings after early-action decisions dropped, I was scrolling when a post stopped me cold.
[Both daughters got into NYC schools—how do I split living expenses FAIRLY?]
Comments flooded in. Everyone said the same thing: Equal, obviously.
Then my brother chimed in.
"Older one's a total plain Jane—wouldn't know what to do with cash if it bit her. Younger one? Stunning. High-maintenance. One Sephora run? Three grand easy."
"$1,000 for Plain Jane. $10,000 for the princess. THAT'S fair."
My so-called bestie from back in the day liked it and added: "Facts. We'll be watching the hot one anyway."
I laughed so hard my eyes watered.
They're all set—off to their shiny dreams in the city that never sleeps.
Me? The leftover. The afterthought.
"Serafina, sweetheart! Come get some fruit!"
My mother's voice cut through the static in my head.
She was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a platter of sliced peaches, all warm smiles and golden afternoon light.
"Hey, even if those scores weren't what you hoped, don't lock yourself in that room all day."
I slammed my laptop shut and walked past her.
She handed the ripest, juiciest peach slice to my sister Ginevra, then glanced at me with that soft, pitying look she'd perfected over the years.
"Listen, even if you end up at a community college or taking a gap year... we're not going to judge. We've got you covered."
My phone was still glowing on the counter. The message from the State Board hadn't dimmed.
[Serafina Castiglione, SAT: 1580/1600. State Rank: #3.]
I flipped it face-down on the granite.
"Yeah. Thanks."
My father and brother Lorenzo were hunched over a massive college guide spread across the dining table, laser-focused on Ginevra's future like it was a business acquisition.
"Ginevra crushed it—1380! That's solid for any good state school. You thinking NYC or maybe Boston?"
Lorenzo practically vibrated with enthusiasm.
"NYC, obviously. Alistair's there."
Ginevra melted into my mother's arms, all princess energy, giggling about dorm shopping.
Not one person—not a single one—turned to me and asked:
"So what'd you get?"
My father snapped the guide shut, beaming.
"Alright, applications can wait. Right now?"
"Our girl deserves a celebration. Mall trip, ladies! Grab whatever you want. Dad's credit card is on fire. Go get changed!"
Something flickered in my chest—a tiny, stupid hope.
It'd been years since I got that kind of invite.
Not since Ginevra got mono in eighth grade and they helicoptered around her for six months straight.
"Okay."
I practically sprinted to my room.
White blouse. A swipe of gloss. Brushed my hair out.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, heart knocking against my ribs.
Maybe they haven't completely written me off.
I pulled open my door.
Empty living room. Dead quiet.
Their shoes? Gone.
I just... stood there.
My phone buzzed.
Ginevra's Instagram story from three minutes ago.
[Squad goals! Family mall run for my grad gift! ]
The photo showed all four of them in the Range Rover. My father driving. Lorenzo riding shotgun. My mother and Ginevra giggling in the backseat.
Every single one of them grinning.
That five-seater?
It never had room for me in the first place.
My fingers shook as I hit dial.
"Mm? Serafina, what's wrong?"
Mall noise in the background. Pop music blasting through some speaker system.
"You guys... left?"
My voice cracked clean in half.
"Oh shoot—totally forgot to tell you!"
My mother sounded breezy as hell, like she'd just remembered she left a window open.
"You were holed up in there forever. Figured you didn't want to deal with the heat and the crowds."
"Just chill at home with the AC. There's fresh berries in the fridge."
Didn't even ask.
Just decided for me.
"Mommy! Can I get Ben & Jerry's?!"
Ginevra's baby voice sliced through the line.
"Of course, angel! Two scoops, whatever flavor you want!"
My mother laughed, light and easy, then waved me off like a fly.
"Anyway, gotta run, hon. We're helping your sister pick out a bag for graduation."
Click.
Dial tone.
Done.
One phone call that proved I never mattered.
They wanted their princess?
Let them have her.
Chapter 2
I peeled off that white blouse and tossed it onto the chair. The lip gloss came off with a tissue, smearing pink across the cotton like a tiny bruise.
Same story. Different day.
When we were kids playing Sardines in that old brownstone? I was always the one hiding alone.
Lorenzo and Ginevra would cram themselves into the master closet together, whispering and giggling, while I crouched in the freezing attic storage room counting to a hundred.
When I finally called out "Ready or not!" and went hunting, they were gone.
I tore through every room. Nothing.
Turns out they'd snuck out the back door to get ice cream from the truck on the corner.
Came back with sticky faces and empty cups, laughing at how long I'd searched.
Guess some things never change.
I yanked open my nightstand drawer and pulled out an old leather-bound album.
The first few pages were all baby me, maybe two—my father lifting me over his head, my mother pressing a kiss to my cheek, Lorenzo making goofy faces behind the camera.
One Christmas, my grandmother's sister Marie mentioned something I'd never heard before.
"Serafina, your brother was obsessed with you as a baby! Some cousin said you looked too olive-skinned, and he actually chased that kid down the block screaming."
They used to see me.
Then Ginevra came home from the hospital.
And I turned invisible overnight.
She's got that whole porcelain-doll thing going—pale skin, blonde ringlets, big blue eyes.
I'm... not that. Sharp features. Too tall, too lean.
Family gatherings were always the same script.
"Oh my god, Ginevra's like a little princess!" Then they'd notice me lurking in the corner and scramble: "And this one's so sweet."
Sweet. Undemanding. Low-maintenance.
My label for eighteen solid years.
A knock cut through the quiet.
I shoved the album back in the drawer and crossed to the door.
Alistair Winthrop stood there in a crisp white tee and tailored chinos, that easy smile splitting his face. He was holding a pair of white pastry boxes.
"Hey! Guess what I snagged." He waved the boxes. "Macarons from Ladurée. One box for each of you."
I glanced down at the boxes. Both identical—assorted colors, obviously loaded with sugar and cream.
"Cool."
Didn't reach for them.
"Come on, take one. I got yours specially." He pushed a box into my hands and brushed past me into the living room.
"Where's Ginevra? She's not picking up."
"Mall. With everyone."
I set the box on the console table.
He blinked. "Oh, a shopping trip. That explains it. You didn't want to go?"
So casual. Like I'd had a vote.
I stared at the macaron box. My stomach turned.
Freshman year. Alistair sat in front of me in AP European History. He offered me a sour gummy worm once, and I told him I hated candy.
His eyes went wide. "Wait, for real? A girl who doesn't like sugar? That's a first."
After that, it was always dark chocolate.
When he grabbed coffee for our study group, he'd text the barista: "Zero syrup. She'll murder me if it's sweet."
Three years of knowing me.
Three years, erased.
Now he only saw Ginevra.
Princess Ginevra. Sugar-loving, pink-wearing, spotlight-hogging Ginevra.
First time he came to the house, he caught her in the kitchen wearing a frilly dress, eating strawberry shortcake.
On his way out: "Dude, your sister's adorable. Nothing like you."
"I totally get why your brother's obsessed. Honestly, I'd probably—"
I thought he was kidding.
He wasn't.
That "joke" became the template for every single choice he made after.
"You gonna eat that?"
He'd dropped onto the couch, already scrolling through his phone. Probably texting her.
"Yeah."
I untied the string, popped open the box, picked a bright pink one, and bit into it.
Sweet.
Sickeningly sweet.
"So, college plans?" He kept scrolling, grinning at his screen.
"Ginevra's thinking finance or maybe comms. I've been helping her research programs up in the city."
"What about you? Your mom mentioned maybe a gap year, right? That's cool. Honestly, lots of people do it now."
"We'll all be in New York anyway. I'll take you guys out on weekends."
I swallowed that nauseating sweetness and walked to the desk, flipping open my laptop. Logged into the Common App portal.
All those NYC schools stared back at me.
Cursor hovered.
Delete Princeton. Delete UPenn. Delete Duke.
First choice search bar.
University of Miami.
1,200 miles south.
Click. Save. Submit.
Alistair looked up from his phone. "Which NYC school are you thinking?"
I closed the laptop and held his gaze.
"Doesn't matter."
Chapter 3
Evening. Keys jingled in the lock.
My mother Cressida, father Massimo, brother Lorenzo, and sister Ginevra spilled through the front door, arms loaded with shopping bags from every designer store on Fifth Avenue.
Ginevra twirled in the middle of the foyer, showing off a white silk slip dress. She was clinging to Alistair's hand.
"How do I look? Daddy bought this for my graduation dinner!"
Alistair's eyes lit up. "Incredible. Fits you perfectly."
My mother dug through one of the bags and pulled out a cream-colored canvas tote with a small logo embossed on the side.
Tossed it at me like she was feeding a duck.
"Serafina, thought you could use this for your notebooks."
I caught it. Free swag from some brand event she'd attended. Probably cost them nothing.
"Thanks."
"See? You're so low-maintenance." My father patted my shoulder like I was a well-behaved dog.
"Not like Ginevra—always wanting new things, costing a fortune. But you? Never ask for anything. Such an easy kid."
I stood there, fingers gripping the cheap canvas.
They never asked: "Serafina, is there anything you want?"
Just assumed Ginevra deserved everything while I'd take their table scraps and smile about it.
Ginevra noticed my silence. Grabbed my mother's arm, suddenly playing the concerned sister.
"Mom, did I spend too much? She looks upset."
She turned to me, laying on the guilt thick, shoving bags at my chest.
"Take all of this! I don't need it! Mom and Dad gave me eighty thousand for my trust fund. Lorenzo sent twenty thousand for my apartment deposit."
"I'm totally set. You can have everything!"
The room went dead silent.
My father's hand froze mid-air. Lorenzo's face drained white.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Nobody told me.
"Serafina, it's not like that." Lorenzo jumped in, stammering.
"I'm broke right now from that Hamptons property deal. Next month when I close, I'll send you something solid. Promise."
"Exactly, sweetheart." My mother rushed to cover. "Our CD account matures next month. I'll give you a nice check then. We'd never play favorites!"
They scrambled to explain. Like I'd caught them stealing from me.
I looked at their panicked faces.
Almost laughed.
"Forget it."
"Serafina, don't be mad at them."
Ginevra bit her lower lip. Her eyes drifted across the room and landed on my nightstand. The antique jewelry box with the inlaid mother-of-pearl.
"What if we trade? All these clothes for that jewelry box? I've always loved it."
That box was the last thing my grandmother Nonna gave me.
I was eleven. My parents took Ginevra to Paris for a fashion week thing. Left me at Nonna's house in New Jersey for two weeks.
It rained the entire time.
Nonna walked me through the farmer's market, bought me that box from an antique vendor with money she'd saved from selling her homemade limoncello.
She touched my hair. "Whatever Ginevra gets, Serafina, you get too. Remember that."
When I wanted to give up—on everything, on all of them—I'd open that box. Feel like Nonna was still here.
My mother jumped in.
"Serafina, if she wants it, just give it to her. When you're in New York, I'll buy you a nicer one. Something modern."
Alistair added his two cents.
"Yeah, you never ask for anything. Don't be weird about it. I'll get you a Bose speaker for your dorm. Way better than some old box."
One after another. Deciding for me.
Trading a freebie tote and empty promises for the only thing that ever mattered.
"Okay."
I walked over. Picked up the jewelry box. Handed it to Ginevra.
She grabbed it, grinning wide. "Oh my god, thank you so much!"
"Who's hungry?" Alistair pushed Ginevra toward the dining room. "I ordered from Carbone. Let's eat."
Everyone followed, laughing and chattering.
I turned around.
Walked back to my room.
Locked the door.
Pulled out my phone and opened Poshmark.
Started listing everything that still tied me to this house.
The designer knockoffs they'd given me. The unworn gifts. The clothes I'd never asked for.
I'd be gone before they finished their pasta.
They just didn't know it yet.
