My sister is a genius singer and me, a worthless person without talent

We gathered our things and headed toward the school campus exit. It was three in the afternoon, still relatively early, so we weren't the only ones on our way home. Many students who lived nearby walked, while those who lived farther away took bikes or the subway—like us.

The sun burned my skin, and sweat began trickling down my forehead. This time of year was always a bit hot, even though autumn was just around the corner. But I was praying for winter to arrive soon.

The streets were as busy as usual, and we had already left the academy a while ago, entering the Flowers district.

"Sorry for dragging you all the way here without asking, Alex," I said, telling him he could adopt a relaxed attitude around us.

Truthfully, I had to force him—and also make him drop that medieval way of speaking. There was no need for him to call us "Lord" or anything like that. Just our names would do. I started doing the same because, otherwise, you could never build a relationship of trust.

"Don't worry, Lord… I mean, Lucas. I'm grateful you included me in your team."

He sounded happy, but I felt bad for him—he'd have to endure the whole trip home. Of course, I wasn't a terrible host, so I wouldn't make him go back alone.

What, is he my girlfriend now? I laughed at my own thoughts.

"Do you live far, Alex?"

"Not too far. My apartment is about 20 minutes away by subway."

Not surprising. The subway connected the entire city, even a run-down district like Flowers.

Adjacent to Flowers were wealthier districts—some more luxurious than others—but most were exquisitely designed, bearing no resemblance to the chaos of Flowers.

Flowers was surrounded by better-off districts. Honestly, it was the only "horrible" district in the city.

For the concept of an "elegant" district to exist, there had to be its opposite—something outsiders could compare it to. Unfortunately, my sister and I had ended up on this side of the tracks. Not that I was complaining. It wouldn't do any good.

"So Emilia's the only one who lives far, right? You said you could walk to school."

The district where the school was located, Bartolome, was an especially affluent one—home to elites and corporate skyscrapers. Where the carpet in every house or apartment was probably worth more than three months' salary for a worker in Flowers.

"Uh, actually, I just moved a few days ago."

"Yeah, it must be tough going back and forth from here to— Wait, what did you say?"

She had to be bluffing.

"You really think I'd make that trip every day? I'd be exhausted. I asked my uncle if he knew of a nice apartment in a nearby district, and he hooked me up. Plus, it was relatively cheap."

"Uh… how much?"

She leaned in, whispering into my ear.

What she told me left me breathless.

And here I was, killing myself just to make sure these slackers passed their exams so we wouldn't starve.

If things went south, I already had a backup plan: borrow money from a certain mafia boss (Emilia) and then fake my death.

She started showing me photos of her new apartment on her phone.

"Nice, right?"

"Yeah, really nice. And yet you still prefer hanging out in my dump."

"Hey, let me see," Alex said, squeezing between us to look at Emilia's phone.

The first image was a panoramic view from her living room window—an endless city wrapped in faint neon lights, with neighboring buildings so close they almost seemed within reach from the tenth floor. Yet, it didn't feel oppressive.

In the far distance, you could make out a cluster of cancerous-looking buildings. Even through the photo, you could sense an invisible barrier separating that place from the rest of the city.

Flowers.

The next image was of the living room: spacious, with light oil-treated hardwood floors, a white L-shaped sofa with clean lines, and a floating smoked-glass coffee table supported by a single marble block. The lighting, perfectly distributed, came from LED strips embedded along the ceiling edges.

"It's soundproof and thermally insulated," she said as he swiped to another image. "I can play music without bothering anyone."

Next came photos of her kitchen and bedroom, all following that same understated luxury aesthetic.

"You don't have to flex your money on me, you know, Emilia?"

"I'm not flexing anything." Of course, to her, these things were completely natural.

We arrived at the direct antithesis of the photos she'd just shown me.

We stepped inside the house. I had to admit, ever since Emilia started coming over, she'd helped me keep things a bit more organized—even joining me in that exhausting task.

So it wasn't as embarrassing as the first time she'd visited. But it was still a third-rate home.

Yet, Alex didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

"So this is Lord… your house, huh? Can I sit here?"

"Yeah, of course."

At least he was more respectful than that girl, who from day one had acted like this was her lifelong home.

He pointed to the old couch where Emilia usually lounged—a two-seater.

Last Sunday, early in the morning, I was woken up by someone knocking at my door. When I opened it, there she was—with that smug smile, as if she were doing me a favor—standing in front of a massive black truck.

In the back was something covered with a black tarp, hiding its shape, but you could make an educated guess. Turns out, she'd brought a couch—and not just any couch.

When I asked her what the hell it was, she said it was "extra" from her apartment and since it didn't match the "aesthetic" of her other furniture, she decided it'd be better to leave it here than to donate or throw it away.

Looking back, I think she'd already dropped plenty of hints about her move.

Emilia didn't say a word and, without hesitation, sat on the couch she'd brought. It was unlike any I'd ever seen before.

She told me the upholstery was "full-grain aniline-dyed Nobuk leather, hand-dyed in graphite gray with a natural wax finish." She also mentioned that every seam was "perfectly taut, wrinkle-free, hand-stitched with twisted Japanese silk thread, with symmetrical stitches every exact 3mm."

I had no education in couches, so I couldn't appreciate it. A shame it ended up in a place like this.

Once everyone was settled, the meeting began.

"Alright, Alex. What do you think about this exam?"

I had to take the lead.

Right now, we were at a crossroads. The obvious answer—regardless of Ana Abantino's existence—was to pass the exam.

Beating Abantino was a secondary goal, subordinate to aiming for the highest score in the department. 

And here we were, gathered with two top students from Class 1-A. Especially my sister—I had no doubts about her natural talent for composition.

"Well, it's certainly not a very complex exam. As long as all three group members work together, we can aim for extra points in the evaluation rubric. Then, we just have to stick to the theme: 'Beauty in Discord.'"

I took out my phone and checked the email I'd received two weeks ago.

[Evaluation Criteria:]

Originality (20%)

Technical Composition (20%)

Vocal Mastery (20%)

Emotional Impact (20%)

Conceptual Coherence (20%)

Artistic Cohesion (30%)

Working together wasn't as easy as Nowak made it sound. They barely knew each other, let alone worked as a team.

Especially my sister, who had never done anything like this before.

What worried me more was how this "teamwork" would be evaluated. How would the judges even assess it?

Suppose one student took charge of the entire project out of arrogance, while the others did nothing and just showed up on exam day pretending to have contributed.

Things shouldn't be so simple.

As long as we were honest and transparent about it, there shouldn't be a problem.

Next was the mandatory song theme: Beauty in Discord.

It didn't seem like an overused concept. But I wasn't the one to judge whether it was easy or hard to tackle—after all, I was just the brother.

"The important thing is to make a good product," Nowak said. And he was right. If we made something of quality, the rest would follow.

"How did you work with Abantino?" I continued the interrogation.

To my right, my sister was carelessly fiddling with her phone, her over-ear headphones on. Ever since that fateful day we found the tape, she hadn't stopped listening to it day and night.

The only one taking notes was Emilia.

"With Ana? Well, there were just two of us. We didn't need a third member, though a lot of students offered to join forces—some even tried to pay us to let them in."

So they had planned to take the exam as a duo?

"Now that you're gone, what'll happen to her?"

"She's too proud. I doubt she'd consider anyone else worthy of working with her. My guess is she'll take the exam alone."

If true, that gave us an overwhelming 30% advantage in scoring.

But like I said, beating Abantino was secondary. My question was leading somewhere else.

"I meant, what roles did each of you have?"

"Hmm, I handled the lyrics and part of the music. Ana took care of vocals and also helped a lot with the lyrics."

I thought for a moment—just a few brief seconds. Then I stood up and addressed all three of them.

"Alright. Each of you, say what you specialize in."

The first to speak was Alex, the most enthusiastic about teaming up with his idol.

"I can handle instrumental accompaniment with digital instruments and the lyrics."

Next was the show-off.

"I can take care of the lyrics and be a secondary vocalist."

And then, the genius.

She took off her headphones when she noticed everyone staring at her.

"Huh? Me? I sing, I can write lyrics, and I can compose music."

Naturally, the roles were divided right then and there. Those with overlapping tasks would help each other. On stage, the ones facing the judges would be my sister and Emilia.

***

The next thing I knew, the three of them were deep in discussion.

No, actually, it was just Emilia and Alex.

"Yes. This is polished beauty. Not discord. It's supposed to hurt a little, sound imperfect—almost broken."

"That's vague. Discord doesn't mean singing off-key. It doesn't mean making pretty noise without structure. The song needs conflict, but within the harmonic system—not outside it."

Emilia leaned in, pointing at the improvised chord progression on Nowak's sheet of paper.

"Look at this. A minor, D minor, G major. Where's the tension? That's a folk progression, not a soundscape of something broken. We need overlapping modes, asymmetrical entrances, irregular phrasing. Beauty in Discord is a trembling voice over an unresolved measure."

Alex frowned but didn't interrupt. He looked tense, afraid of seeming mediocre in front of his idol.

"And the lyrics can't sound like a perfectly rhymed poem either," she continued. "Some phrases should die halfway, the accents should fall wrong..."

At that moment, both of them turned at the same time and looked at my sister, who had been watching the argument from afar.

"I dunno. We'll think of something."

"Yes, I'm sure with Lord… I mean, Miss Vilcanoba's help, we'll have no trouble harmonizing our ideas and reaching a satisfying conclusion."

They had way too much faith in my sister.