Julie Chan Is Dead

by Liann Zhang

Here’s the hard truth that Chloe Van Huusen fans fail to realize: she’s far from the pretty little angel she pretends to be. I only had to spend one afternoon with her to come to this conclusion. We were twenty-one during our brief and highly publicized reunion, a whole seventeen years since some drunk driver crushed our parents under his pickup. The state had separated us before we learned to grieve, since the couple that fast-tracked Chloe’s adoption only wanted one kid. I was sent to our aunt, a penny-pinching, foul-mouthed Cantonese woman who uses old Cheeto bags as folders for her tax returns, while my twin was adopted by an affluent white couple in New York City, legally rebranding herself a Van Huusen. She probably lived in a brownstone with Sex and the City–style steps, stomping into cliquey private schools with cashmere plaid skirts and pink feathery pens, while I shared a bunk bed with my cousin, who’d flick my bra strap for fun.