She goes by Colleen these days, because someone has to: she's Colleen Kelly now, the toughest, fittest, physical trainer in the Twin Cities, so devoted to her job that she goes nine to nine on a regular basis, hitting the machines or the track between appointments. Her friends call her Co, and then they wonder why she starts crying again. Colleen's tough, but there are always tears in her eyes: tears of frustration, tears of grief, tears of anger. Colleen's hard to break, all sinewy and muscle and a drive that doesn't stop, but she shows her weakness once every year, when the Mystics visit the Lynx.

She slipped through the cracks, escaped through a loophole, but the groundwork was already laid for her to disappear; her parents know they never had identical twin daughters, and so she has no home to return to. A well-placed friend set her up with this new old identity, and now she haunts Minnesota like her sister's ghost.

Because she used to have a mirror image that wasn't a reflection, used to finish someone else's sentences, used to know someone better than she knew herself. She used to have a sister, and that's what she tells everyone. Used to, because there's nothing left of Coco but her name and number- they didn't even bother changing that, and the last woman who knows what Coco was short for feels the insult like a knife through her heart, and all her venting on the gym apparatus just doesn't release her rage.

Colleen keeps her friends close, but only so close, and that won't ever change. She misses her sister too much to trust anyone that way. She can't not be alone, not when her sister is not her sister. The walls around her heart are high, and grow higher with every gum-cracking, arrogant ponytail that swaggers into her gym and won't shut up about how wonderful it is the Lynx have seen the light when it comes to the Gophers; those are the days when she adds the extra weight, ups the speed, does the extra reps, and bites back her anger. Colleen remembers Minnesota basketball the way it used to be, but really, she's not surprised at what it's become.

Sometimes she wonders why she even bothers going to the game every year. There's nothing left of her sister, not even the tear at the corner of her eye- all of them are strangers, even the ones she knew. And it's a risk; she could be found and all too easily disappeared, resurfacing as a dark-skinned Dreamgirl, or irony of ironies, even the Mystics' latest pickup off the waiver wire. Sometimes she wonders if that would have been an easier fate than the memories she can't do anything with but remember. Even that becomes harder as the years pass by; it seems like her recollection grows foggier, less distinct, every time she walks out of the Target Center.

But every time she forgets, she looks in the mirror, looks her reflection in the eye, and sees there the determination and grit of her sister, and she doesn't forget for long.