By the time the last-period bell shrieked through Lincoln High in the suburbs of Los Angeles, California, Cara Myers had already decided that today officially ranked as The Worst Day Ever.

Her math test was bleeding red ink.

C. Again.

The paper lay faceup on her desk, a big looping C in the corner with a frowny face the teacher must have added just for fun. Next to her, a boy in a Lakers hoodie casually flipped his test over so no one would see the bright blue A stamped on top.

“Ugh,” Cara muttered under her breath, trying to fold the page in half before anyone could look.

Too late.

Annie Kim, the girl who had practically been born holding a calculator, leaned back in her chair just enough to peek.

“What’d you get?” Annie asked, pen balanced between perfect nails the color of neon bubblegum.

Cara forced a laugh. “Better than last time.”

Annie’s smile tilted, sharp. “You got a C again, didn’t you?”

Before Cara could answer, the classroom speakers buzzed, and the teacher’s phone dinged on the desk. Mrs. Watson glanced at the screen and brightened.

“Oh, speaking of tests,” she said, raising her voice. “Everyone, I want to give a shout-out to one of our seniors. Madison Myers just scored the highest grade in the entire school on the AP Calculus practice exam. The district emailed me about it.”

The room filled instantly with low whistles and impressed murmurs.

“She’s your sister, right?” the kid in the Lakers hoodie asked, turning toward Cara. “Dang. Genetics did you dirty.”

There it was.

That familiar hot prickle behind her eyes. Madison this. Madison that. Madison the genius. Madison the business owner. Madison the girl with the perfect everything.

Cara shoved the test paper into her backpack like it might bite her.

“Remember,” Mrs. Watson went on, “grades are just a snapshot. You can always improve. All right, that’s it for today. Don’t forget the homework, pages eighty-one and eighty-two. And good job, everyone.”

Cara practically sprinted out of the room.

The hallway smelled like cheap body spray and cafeteria pizza, lockers slamming in waves. At her locker, she jammed the combination the way she wished she could jab at her own stupid, average brain.

A familiar voice floated toward her, low and easy.

“I like your nails.”

Of course.

Bryce Carter had somehow materialized out of thin air, leaning against the lockers across from hers like he was posing for an American Eagle ad. Brown hair, easy grin, hoodie that probably cost more than her entire closet.

For one electrifying second, Cara’s heart leaped—until she realized he wasn’t talking to her.

He was looking over her shoulder.

“Thanks,” Madison said, closing her own locker a few doors down. Her nails were a soft almond pink, glossy and perfect, wrapped around a stack of textbooks and a laptop she carried like it weighed nothing.

Cara pressed her lips together.

“Looks good,” Bryce added. “You, uh… look good.”

Maddie laughed, breezy and light. “They were on sale. Etsy hack.”

Of course they were. Madison probably got half the internet’s nail polish wholesale through some secret genius deal.

Cara slammed her locker door shut a little too hard. The metal clang echoed down the hall.

Madison glanced over, eyebrows raised. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Cara snapped. “Just ecstatic to be living in your shadow.”

“Cara,” Maddie said quietly, but Bryce was already saying something about winter formal and how he hoped the DJ would actually be decent this year.

Cara didn’t wait to hear the rest.

She turned on her heel and marched toward the exit, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Outside, the California sun hit her in the face like a spotlight, bright and unforgiving. Lincoln High’s parking lot was a lineup of dusty sedans, ancient minivans, and exactly three truly nice cars.

One of them was hers.

Well. Sort of.

The glossy white BMW sat at the edge of the lot, shining like a spaceship among dented Toyotas and faded Fords. It wasn’t actually hers, not technically. It belonged to Madison.

Because of course it did.

Cara still remembered the day it showed up in their driveway, bow and everything.

“You got her a BMW?” she’d blurted back then, voice cracking.

Her mom had looked up from the paperwork, dark hair falling from her messy bun. “Sweetie, I didn’t buy it,” she’d said. “She bought it.”

“Yeah, right.”

But it was true. Madison had pulled up her phone, opened her Etsy app, and started rattling off numbers that looked like fake lottery winnings.

“I’ve been saving for two years,” Maddie had said, almost shy about it. “The custom bandanas, the tote bags, the digital downloads… it adds up. I found a good deal from a guy in Orange County.”

Cara had wanted to be happy for her. Really, she had.

But all she could think was: That’s my dream car. That’s my California freeway fantasy. That should have been me.

Now, watching Madison toss her backpack into the BMW’s back seat like it was no big deal, Cara felt that old jealousy rise like a wave.

“Shotgun,” Madison called. “You coming?”

Cara walked slower, kicking at a crack in the pavement.

Their mom was waiting at home, apron tied around her waist, the smell of garlic and soy sauce filling their small kitchen. Their house wasn’t fancy. It was a regular two-story in a regular California neighborhood—cracked driveway, front yard full of jacaranda blossoms in the spring, neighbors who argued loudly about the Dodgers on their front porch.

“Hi, baby,” Mom said as Cara came in. “How was school?”

“Fine,” Cara mumbled, dumping her backpack by the door.

Madison breezed in behind her, sunlight clinging to her like an aura.

“Guess who destroyed her calc practice?” she said, kissing Mom’s cheek.

Mom’s eyes lit up. “They emailed? Let me see.”

She held up the phone. An email from the district sat open, full of glowing words like outstanding and top percentile.

Mom turned and pinched Madison’s cheeks like she was five again. “My genius girl. You keep this up, Stanford’s going to be fighting with UCLA for you.”

Cara grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted the cap a little too hard.

Mom noticed. She always did.

“How’d your math test go, baby?” she asked gently.

Cara shrugged. “I passed.”

“That’s good,” Mom said, and she meant it. “We can look at it later. Maybe Maddie can help you study.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, I’d be happy to,” Madison said. “It’s basic algebra. Once you see the pattern—”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words came out sharper than she intended. Silence settled over the kitchen, heavy and awkward.

Mom turned back to the stove. “Dinner in ten,” she said quietly.

Upstairs, Cara slammed her bedroom door and flopped onto her bed. Her room looked like a thrift store exploded: posters and postcards taped to the walls, a hat rack overflowing with baseball caps in every color, fairy lights tangled over the headboard.

The hats were her thing. Her one thing. She loved them—designing them, drawing little logos in her notebook, imagining people wearing them at Dodgers games and L.A. street festivals. But they weren’t real. They lived only on paper and in the crowded corners of her brain.

Unlike Madison’s business, where everything was polished and packaged in aesthetically pleasing beige envelopes.

On the desk, Cara’s phone lit up.

BRYCE: hey, did you get your test back?

She stared at the message so long the screen dimmed.

Then, without answering, she chucked the phone onto her pillow and pulled her hat down over her eyes.

The next day at school, the rumor spread like wildfire: Bryce was going to ask someone to winter formal.

“Do you think it’s Madison?” whispered Tara, Cara’s best friend, as they stood by the vending machines.

“He barely even knows her,” Cara said, even though she’d literally watched them talking the day before.

Tara gave her a look. “Have you seen the way he stares when she walks into chem?”

Cara threw her head back and groaned. “I hate this school.”

“You don’t,” Tara said. “You just hate feeling invisible. There’s a difference.”

“Same thing,” Cara muttered.

On the far side of the courtyard, Madison was leaning against a picnic table, talking to—of course—Bryce. He looked nervous, tugging at the strings of his hoodie. Madison was talking with her hands, animated, like she was coaching him.

Oh my god.

Cara’s stomach dropped.

“Look at them,” she said, heat crawling up her neck. “She’s probably giving him pointers on how to ask her out.”

Or… what if she isn’t, a small rational voice tried to say. What if—

“I gotta go,” Cara blurted.

She stormed into the nearest bathroom and grabbed the edge of the sink, breathing hard. Her reflection stared back: messy hair, crooked hat, C-minus energy.

The door creaked. Madison slipped inside, shutting it gently behind her.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Cara shot back. “Too busy planning your perfect formal entrance with Bryce?”

Maddie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you with him,” Cara snapped. “Out there. Coaching him like you’re his dating manager. You know I like him and you still—”

“Whoa, Cara.” Madison held up her hands. “You’ve got this all wrong. He asked me for help.”

“Yeah. To ask you.”

“To ask you,” Madison said slowly, as if she were explaining fractions to a toddler. “He literally said, ‘You’re her sister, right? I really like her, but I don’t know what to say.’”

Cara’s brain froze.

“What?”

Madison’s expression softened. “He wants to ask you to winter formal. He was freaking out that he’d sound weird. I told him to just be honest and not make it a big thing in front of everyone.”

Cara’s cheeks burned so hot she thought they might catch fire.

“Oh,” she whispered. “I… didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Madison said gently. “Because instead of asking me, you decided to assume the worst and hide in a bathroom.”

Outside, the bell rang, muffled through the tile and concrete.

“Look,” Madison sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I get it.”

“You do?” Cara asked, doubtful.

“Yeah,” Madison said. “Do you think it’s easy being ‘the smart one’ all the time? Everyone expects I’ll nail every test, be perfect with customers, never mess up an order. If I get anything less than an A, people look at me like the world ended. It’s exhausting, Cara. You have no idea.”

Cara blinked. The idea that Madison was exhausted by success had literally never crossed her mind.

“Mom and Dad talk about you like you can do anything,” Cara said, voice small.

“Mom and Dad love us both,” Madison replied. “They just show it differently. And you could do anything too, if you’d stop pretending you don’t care.”

Cara looked down at her hands. Her nails were bare, bitten. Her hat brim was fraying where she’d picked at it.

“Sisters aren’t supposed to compete,” Maddie said softly. “They’re supposed to help each other. At least, that’s what Mom always says.”

Cara thought of Mom’s words at the kitchen table last night: Sisters don’t hurt each other. They help each other.

It had sounded cheesy then. Now, it stung.

The bathroom door swung open again and a freshman darted in, froze at the sight of the sisters, mumbled “sorry,” and ducked into a stall.

Maddie gave a little half-smile. “We can keep fighting if you want,” she said. “But I’d rather help you.”

“Help me with what?” Cara asked.

“Everything,” Maddie said. “Your math. Your hair. Your hat sketches—don’t think I haven’t seen those. They’re really good, you know.”

Cara squinted at her. “You’ve looked at my notebook?”

“I live across the hall,” Madison said, rolling her eyes. “You leave it on your desk like a billboard. Your logo ideas? The little palm tree with the wave? That would sell like crazy. You could easily start your own shop.”

“Right,” Cara said skeptically. “Because anyone cares about hats when they can buy your perfect stuff.”

Madison shrugged. “Not everyone wants pastel aesthetic tote bags, you know. Some people want Dodgers-blue caps with hand-drawn art. You’re different. That’s good. You just have to decide you’re worth betting on.”

Cara swallowed.

“Why are you being so nice?” she finally asked.

Madison’s gaze softened. “Because I’m your sister. And because I remember what it felt like when Mom used to compare me to everybody else. I don’t want to be that for you.”

Cara’s throat ached. Guilt and relief tangled in her chest.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Maybe… maybe I want your help. A little.”

Madison grinned. “There she is.”

That afternoon, their living room looked like a craft store had exploded.

Blank hats in black, tan, and faded denim were spread across the coffee table. Paint pens, embroidery thread, Mom’s old sewing machine—every creative tool in the house had been dragged out.

Mom stood in the doorway with a dish towel in her hands, eyebrows raised. “What is happening in my living room?”

“We’re starting a business,” Madison said, eyes sparkling.

“You’re what?”

“Cara’s hat line,” Madison explained. “We’re going to put them on Depop and Etsy. And TikTok, obviously. She’ll actually do the designs. I’ll help with the boring backend stuff so she doesn’t accidentally ship a hat to Ohio without postage.”

Cara held up her first test piece, hands shaking. The hat was black, with a tiny white palm tree embroidered on the side and the word “West” stitched in her own messy handwriting across the front.

“It’s just an idea,” she said quickly. “It’s probably stupid—”

Mom crossed the room in three steps and took the cap gently from her. She turned it in her hands, running a thumb over the letters.

“It’s not stupid,” Mom said, voice thick. “It’s beautiful.”

Cara stared. “You really think so?”

Mom looked up, eyes shining. “I think I raised two incredibly creative daughters,” she said. “And I think… I may need to learn how to make more room in my heart for both of you at the same time.”

She reached out, pulling both girls into a flour-dusted hug.

“Also,” Mom added, “if you’re going to run a mini factory in my living room, I’m putting you both on dish duty for life.”

They laughed into her shoulder.

The next weeks blurred into a new kind of chaos.

Afternoons turned into evenings at the dining table, textbooks pushed aside so Cara could draw logo variations. Madison showed her how to set up an Etsy shop, how to take photos against a plain white wall, how to write descriptions that didn’t sound like a twelve-year-old’s diary entry.

They filmed TikToks: behind-the-scenes clips of Cara painting, quick cuts of her turning an old Dodgers cap into something streetwear-worthy. Madison edited late into the night, her fingers flying over her laptop keys.

The first order came in three days after they launched.

“Someone in Ohio just bought the palm tree one,” Madison squealed, nearly knocking over her iced coffee.

Cara stared at the notification. Her heart soared.

“Someone actually bought it,” she whispered. “Like, with real money.”

“That’s how buying works, yes,” Madison said, laughing. “Get used to it. This is just the beginning.”

Orders trickled, then poured.

A girl in Texas ordered two matching caps for her and her best friend. A guy in New York bought one “for his girlfriend who loves Cali.” A YouTube skating vlogger with fifty thousand subscribers DM’d Cara asking if she could design a custom hat for his channel.

“You’re kidding,” Cara said, rereading the message for the fifth time.

“Answer him!” Madison said, nudging her. “Say yes and ask about his timeline and budget.”

“Budget,” Cara echoed faintly, tasting the word like a foreign food.

Homework still existed, of course. Mrs. Watson still handed back math quizzes, and Cara’s grades slowly crept upward under Madison’s relentless tutoring.

One night, as they sat at the kitchen table surrounded by fractions and radicals, Cara slammed her pencil down.

“I can’t do this,” she groaned. “My brain is full. It’s like trying to stuff another hoodie in a suitcase that’s already zipped.”

“You’ve got this,” Madison said. “You just don’t like it yet.”

“I hate it.”

“You hated sewing, too.”

Cara opened her mouth to argue, then remembered pricking her finger five times in a row as she tried to embroider her first palm tree.

“Okay, fine,” she grumbled. “What’s the trick again?”

“Isolate x,” Madison said patiently. “Life and math are the same. Figure out what you need, move everything else to the other side.”

Cara snorted. “Did you just give me a motivational quote using algebra?”

“Maybe.”

Winter formal crept closer, string lights and glittery posters appearing on every hallway wall. “Tickets on sale NOW!” the announcements blared every morning.

Bryce started popping up more often, too.

He waited outside math class, walking with Cara and Madison to the parking lot. He messaged Cara stupid memes at midnight. He liked every single one of her hat posts, even the early ones with bad lighting.

On a rainy Thursday, he finally did it.

They were standing by the front steps under the sagging school awning, trying not to get soaked while Madison hunted for her car keys.

“So,” Bryce said, bouncing on his heels. “Um. I had a question.”

Cara froze.

“Yeah?” she managed.

“Winter formal’s coming up,” he said. “And I was wondering if you’d, uh, want to go. With me. Like together. As… you know. Us.”

Off to the side, Madison looked up just in time to see Cara’s face. She gave the tiniest nod, like a secret signal.

Cara’s heart slammed into her ribs hard enough she worried it might bruise.

“Yes,” she blurted. “I mean—yeah. That would be… cool.”

“Cool,” Bryce repeated, relief flooding his features. “Okay. Cool. I mean, I’ll get tickets. And maybe we can take pictures at the Santa Monica pier beforehand or something? I heard the sunset’s insane in winter.”

“Yeah,” Cara said again, dizzy from how quickly her life was shifting.

As they drove home in the BMW, rain streaking across the windshield, Cara clutched the seatbelt like it was tethering her to Earth.

“I cannot believe that just happened,” she said.

“I can,” Madison replied, eyes on the road. “You’ve always been the cool one.”

Cara laughed. “You’re impossible.”

The night of winter formal, Los Angeles decided to pretend it was New York. The air had a crisp bite, as close to cold as Southern California usually got, palm trees swaying under a clear glitter-dusted sky.

In her room, Cara stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized herself.

Madison had transformed her.

Her hair, usually hidden under a cap, fell in soft waves, the color deepened slightly with a drugstore gloss that somehow made her eyes look greener. Her dress was simple, satin the color of midnight, with thin straps and a skirt that flared when she spun.

On her head sat a cap.

Not just any cap—one of her own. Black, with a tiny silver palm tree on the side and the word “West” stitched in careful metallic thread. It should have looked out of place with a dress.

Somehow, it didn’t.

“Okay, you’re going to make every girl in that gym furious,” Madison said from the doorway, hand on her heart. “In a good way.”

Cara turned, nerves bubbling. “Do I look ridiculous?”

“You look like yourself,” Mom said, stepping into the room behind Madison. Her voice held that wobble that meant tears were somewhere close. “The best version of you.”

Cara swallowed. “Mom…”

“I know I haven’t always gotten this right,” Mom said, coming over to adjust the strap of her dress. “Comparing you girls, pushing you so hard. I thought I was doing what parents in America were supposed to do—grades, college, all that. Sometimes I forgot you needed space to grow into your own person, not a copy of your sister.”

Cara’s eyes stung.

“You’re not just ‘Madison’s sister,’” Mom said softly. “You’re Cara Myers. Artist. Business owner. Future hat empire CEO.”

“Future hat empire,” Madison echoed, grinning. “I like the sound of that.”

“That reminds me,” Cara said, suddenly nervous for a new reason. “I have a surprise.”

She reached under her desk and pulled out a small envelope, handing it to Mom.

“What’s this?” Mom asked.

“Open it.”

Inside was a printed check and a screenshot of a bank transfer.

“Cara…” Mom breathed. “This is…”

“Half the profits from the last month,” Cara said quickly. “I wanted to pay you back. For rides, for food, for everything while the shop was just starting. For letting us turn the house into a factory.”

Mom’s eyes filled. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Cara said. “But I want to.”

“And this?” Mom asked, holding up the screenshot.

Cara smiled. “That’s for the driver outside.”

Madison’s jaw dropped. “You got a driver?”

“What?” Cara said, shrugging. “Just for tonight. I thought it’d be fun. And I didn’t want any glitter in your BMW.”

Madison laughed. “You’re unreal.”

The doorbell chimed downstairs.

“That’s him,” Cara said, suddenly breathless.

They all went down together.

Bryce stood on the porch in a slightly wrinkled suit, hair carefully styled and still somehow falling into his eyes. His jaw literally dropped when he saw her.

“Whoa,” he said. “You look… wow.”

“Thanks,” Cara said, cheeks burning.

“And the hat,” he added, grinning. “That’s one of your designs, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Limited edition.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I want one.”

“You’re not getting this one,” she teased.

“I can buy my own,” he said. “Support small business. That’s what they tell us in economics, right?”

Behind them, the driver cleared his throat politely.

“Your car is ready, Miss Myers,” he said.

It sounded ridiculous. Cara loved it.

She turned to Mom and Madison, suddenly reluctant to step out into this new, glittering version of her life.

Mom pulled her into a hug. “Go,” she whispered. “Dance. Be sixteen. The world will still be here tomorrow.”

Madison hugged her next, whispering in her ear, “Text me if your hat gets more compliments than your dress. Actually, never mind. I already know it will.”

Cara laughed, the sound bubbling up lighter than it had in months.

Out on the street, the black car waited under the orange glow of the streetlight. As she slid into the back seat next to Bryce, her hat brim brushed the ceiling.

She didn’t take it off.

As they pulled away from the curb, heading toward a high school gym in Southern California filled with cheap fairy lights and big dreams, Cara looked back through the rear window.

Her mom stood on the porch, arm around Madison, both of them waving.

For the first time in a long time, Cara didn’t feel like the second-best Myers sister, or the girl with the wrong grades, or the hat-obsessed nobody.

She felt like herself.

A girl from a regular American neighborhood, in a regular American public school, who had finally figured out that the secret wasn’t being the best.

It was having people who believed you were enough, even when you weren’t perfect.

It was having a sister who could have been your rival, but chose to be your teammate.

It was taking the one thing you loved—drawing on hats—and daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, it could turn into your future.

“Hey,” Bryce said softly, nudging her knee with his. “You okay?”

Cara smiled, watching the L.A. lights blur by outside her window.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I’m better than okay.”

She pulled out her phone, opened Instagram, and snapped a quick selfie: the cap, the dress, the shy half-smile.

Caption:

“Being a sister isn’t about competing. It’s about helping each other shine. 💫🧢 #WestSide #HatGirl”

Within seconds, the likes started rolling in.

But for once, she didn’t keep refreshing to see the number.

She just leaned back, laced her fingers with Bryce’s, and let herself enjoy the ride.