I find him hanging in his bedroom. It must have been difficult for him to hang himself from the ceiling, because his body is so close to the ground that at first I thought he was just standing there. He looks like he’s still alive because the window is open and the rope is making his body sway in the breeze, just a little, like he’s breathing.

He’s not, though, and I have to get the hell out of the room because it’s too creepy seeing your twin hanging there, swaying in the breeze. This is probably what it feels like to look at yourself dead, and it’s freaking me out.

The first thing to do is search for a suicide note, because that would be typical Nathan. Sure enough, I find it on the kitchen counter. That was pretty nice of him; he left a note on the counter so Mom and Dad wouldn’t freak when they walked into his room and saw their son all dead and dangling from the ceiling. I probably would’ve seen it first, too, except I was too excited and I didn’t really think about it; I just wanted to get to his room to see if he’d actually done it.

The note itself is typical mushy Nathan garbage. It’s all, “Don’t blame yourselves,” and “I’m so sorry,” and all that half-assed sentimental cop-out bullshit. I can’t respect anyone’s decision to kill themselves, and especially not Nathan’s, because the guy had it so damn good. Captain of the football team, straight-A’s, president of student council, hot girlfriend, accepted all over the place at any school he wanted. Everybody loves him. Well, they loved him, anyway. He would’ve been homecoming king for sure. That’s what my best friend Jake told me, that everyone wanted my brother to be homecoming king. Natalie would’ve been queen, probably. Jake said there was even a campaign going on, already, but Nathan didn’t know and even if he did he wouldn’t have tried to win. Besides being perfect and smart and athletic and lucky, Nathan was humble, too.

The little shit.

Okay, well, the suicide note’s going to have to go. I rip it in half, and then into quarters, and then into eighths, and I keep ripping and ripping until its confetti. Funeral confetti. Then I turn the faucet on full blast and run the pieces down the garbage disposal, just for good measure.

Next is the hard part. Mom and Dad saw us at breakfast, so they knew what Nathan and I were wearing. This means that we have to trade clothes, which isn’t so bad for Nathan because he’s dead. But I have to wear a dead guy’s clothes, and that’s creepy. I shudder when I put his shirt on. It’s a polo, too. Makes me feel kind of strangled.

Now that that’s done, I’m basically ready. The only thing I get a little hung up on is the replacement note, because suicide notes aren’t really my thing. But I jot one down, just a couple sentences, to keep up appearances. Who knows? Maybe, deep down, I’m really a sentimental kind of guy.

I’m sorry. It was too much. Don’t blame yourselves.

Love,

Morgan

—

It’s the best funeral I’ve ever been to.

It’s a funny thing to say, sure, but everyone wonders, right? “Would anyone care if I died?” “Who would show up to my funeral?” “Would people cry?” And suddenly all these questions are being answered for me.

Actually, the answers are a little surprising. There are a lot of classmates that I remember giving me shit all the time, even back in grade school, when they stole my lunch. There’s even a few of the guys who always called me a fag in gym. And some of my teachers are here, the same ones who just last week chewed me for “not applying myself” and “slacking off.” And skipping. Sometimes I’d skip. But that was “Morgan.” I’m “Nathan” now.

Natalie’s here. I’d always hoped Natalie would come to my funeral, although there’s this little irritating though in the back of my brain that she’s probably only there to support “Nathan,” not because she cares that “Morgan” is gone or anything. Jake’s here, too. He’s crying. I feel kind of bad, but what can I do? “Morgan” isn’t coming back just because one person misses him a little.

I also feel guilty about my parents. How could I not? I do have a conscience. But suicide makes everyone unhappy. My school’s going to be pissed. It kind of ruins home coming, a little, which is only two weeks away. Maybe they’ll have forgotten me by then. Or maybe they’ll make a speech about me. That’d be a riot.

It’s hard not to laugh when the priest reads my eulogy.

—

During the next two weeks, people give me a lot of space. Nathan’s friends don’t really know how to deal with “my” death, and even Natalie’s a little weird. But it’s fine. They’ll only be like that until I’m over my brother’s death, and I plan to be over it as soon as it’s socially appropriate to be over it. Keeping up appearance and all that. Even my teachers are cutting me some slack with the grades, but with Harvard or Princeton or Stanford or whichever Ivy League school I want in the future, it’s easier to do homework. I don’t do half bad, either.

The only real problem is football. I’ve never been great at football – probably why I was always a second-string wide receiver. But not Nathan, and since I’m Nathan, as far as they know, I have to pick it up a little. I’ve thrown another pass straight over Ken Mosley’s head when Coach blunders over. I know it’s Coach even from behind, because he always has this cloud of spearmint around him, even if he’s not chewing gum. Mosley doesn’t complain about the pass, but Coach is concerned.

“Listen, Nate.” Coach always called Nathan “Nate.” “Listen,” he starts again, but he can’t really figure out what he’s going to say, or how he’s going to say it. He stumbles a little over a few of the words, and then gives up. “Keep at it,” he says vaguely, and then he heads over to scream at Luke Garman for awhile. Coach is a real character.

I pitch another one to Mosley. It touches down a good fifteen yard in front of him.

The drive home is pretty nice because it means I can finally listen to what I want. Nathan liked country, and only country, and that’s been the hardest part of being him. I can’t stand country. When I’m in front of other people I’ll play a little for show. But on my own, I listen to whatever I want. Even rap. Nathan hated rap.

Mom’s car is in the driveway when I pull up to the curb. I find her in the kitchen, looking for her purse. “Hey, sweetie,” she says, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “How was school?”

“Okay. I think they’re going to retire Morgan’s number.”

Mom puts her hand up to her mouth and presses the back of her fingers against it. She does this whenever she’s being emotional. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s… that’s…”

“That’s nice of them,” I offer, and she takes my lifeline gratefully.

“Yes. It’s really nice of them.”

I can see her beginning to tear up, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Are you and Dad coming to the game on Friday?”

“Of course,” she assures me, resuming the hunt for her purse. “Wouldn’t miss it. Oh, and you’ve got a dentist appointment on Thursday.”

My stomach suddenly gets all cold and tight. Panic. The dentist will know. The records won’t match up and they’ll know I’m not Nathan. Shit.

“Alright,” I say. It’s not that big of a deal. I mean, I can just say I went or something. And I’m almost out of high school, anyway. I’ll just get a new dentist and tell them my old one lost my records. That sounds pretty believable. Probably it happens all the time. For now, I’ll just blow it off and hope my parents don’t notice.