This week’s opening was sparked by the rather odd title: “Truth or Nemesis.” And for a teenage girl, who’s a better nemesis than her sister … her twin sister?

I yanked my bedroom door open and came face-to-face with my evil twin, Phoebe.

Okay. You’re right. Phe isn’t really evil, but she is my twin. My fraternal twin.

People who don’t know us would never guess that we’re even sisters, let alone twins. But the fact of the matter is that we were womb-mates for nine months. We have the same mother and father and the same birthday. We’ve shared everything from diapers to prom dresses. In short, we’re twins.

Phoebe is tall and willowy and so blonde that her hair and eyebrows are nearly white. She takes after our very Scandinavian father.

I’m a few inches shorter, nicely rounded (in all the right places, I might add) and my hair is dark enough to quality as midnight, if that weren’t actually a shade of blue, and so curly it’s nearly impossible to comb. You guessed it; I take after our Irish-to-the-bone mother.

So of course, when we were born, one fair and one dark, our parents named us Phoebe and Melanie. Phoebe means “light,” while Melanie means “dark.”

At least they steered clear of Snow White and Rose Red. (Thank God!)

Anyway, back to my bedroom door. I yanked it open, ready to storm down the hall and beat on Phe’s door until she admitted her crimes.

Evidently, she had the same thought.

“What do you want?” I growled, straightening to my full five-foot-two inches in a vain attempt to match her five-foot-six.

She gave me her best ice-queen stare and pushed a forefinger into my chest. “How dare you accuse me of cheating,” she said, her voice cold and brittle with rage. “I’m a straight-A student. I don’t need to cheat to earn a place on the college bowl team!”

“Oh!” I said, my cheeks heating and undoubtedly flaming to red. “And I do? I’ll have you know I have the highest marks in the school in physics and history. You want to compare grades? Let’s go talk to Mom.”

Phoebe turned and flounced toward the kitchen, her straight blonde hair swinging below her shoulders like a sheet of silk. I clenched my jaw and followed. I hated following her. Anywhere. Even to see Mom.

And we needed Mom to settle this. For some unknown parental reason, Mom and Dad had forbidden us to compare report cards. Ever. Phoebe brought her marks home and discussed them with our parents. In private. I did the same. Neither of us had any idea what the other’s grade point average was, and frankly, neither of us cared.

Until now.

Until someone (I suspected Phoebe; she suspected me) had posted an accusation of cheating on our favorite social media site. Someone said that a certain untwinly twin girl had been cheating on her tests all year just to earn a highly coveted seat on our school’s college bowl team.

I wonder what the girls will discover? About each other, and (more importantly) about themselves?