The switch was Judy’s idea.

You were sprawled across the couch, ankle propped up on a pillow, thick brace peeking out under your sweatpants, grumbling for the sixth time that week about how you couldn’t believe that was the game you had to go and break your ankle in.

“I mean it,” you muttered. “I’ve been to like, every volleyball championship. Every single one. Never so much as a sprain. And now I miss two weeks of school and the last test of the year?”

Judy looked up from the armchair, glasses slipping down her nose, knitting needles clicking softly in her lap.

“You could’ve sat still instead of jumping for that block.”

“Don’t start,” you grinned.

But then she paused, fingers stilling on the yarn. A thoughtful look passed over her face.

“…What if I take the test?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re good at math. You just didn’t study. But I’ve been tutoring you all year, and it’s not even a hard exam. I could go in your place.”

You sat up. “Jude, that’s—”

“You took my place for swim tryouts in ninth grade. I haven’t forgotten that.”

“That was different.”

“That was me being terrified of drowning.”

You tried to argue. She raised a hand. The knitting hand. Which meant she was serious.

“Think about it,” she said. “You limp. I don’t. I go in. I take the test. You rest. We graduate. Nobody dies.”

It sounded dumb.

It sounded like something straight out of a teen movie that would absolutely fall apart in five minutes.

So, naturally, you agreed.

---

It actually worked for a few hours.

You stayed home. Studied, just in case. Ate cereal on the couch with your foot up. Judy texted you once to say “Going in now. Wish me luck.”

You laughed. Told her to break a leg.

But around 3:45 p.m., the front door creaked open.

Footsteps. Two sets.

You looked up from the couch.

Ed stood in the entryway, holding a stack of mail and a very unimpressed expression.

Behind him?

Judy.

With a visible limp.

You froze.

So did she.

So did your mom — who stepped in right after Ed, took one look at Judy’s not-so-perfectly-faked limp and the gauze still taped to her heel (she forgot to remove it), and turned very, very slowly toward the both of you.

“Well,” Lorraine said calmly, “Isn’t this fascinating.”

You tried to speak. Judy panicked first.

“I forgot to not limp,” she blurted.

You dropped your head into your hands. “You had one job.”

Ed was already chuckling, shaking his head as he walked toward the kitchen. “You two really thought you could pull that off? We’ve raised you for seventeen years. You think I don’t know the way Judy clears her throat before every sentence and the way you chew on your sleeve when you're nervous?”

You looked up at him. “That’s not fair. You’re, like, a professional demon-hunter. You notice things.”

“And your mother,” Ed added, pointing toward Lorraine, who was now crossing her arms, “noticed the wrong twin was limping before the front door even shut.”

Lorraine didn’t look angry. Just tired. And maybe, underneath it, a little amused.

“Girls,” she said, voice firm but gentle, “if you needed help, you could’ve asked.”