I watch the stars until I see the lights of a tiny airport in the distance. Then I begin to panic. If she manages to force me onto that plane, that’s it. I’ll be gone.
The car drives straight out onto the tarmac where a jet awaits, door open, stairs down. I consider running. Heart beating like a sledgehammer, skin on fire, I feel like I could sprint to the moon.
The moment we stop, I yank at the handle. But the door’s locked. The driver climbs out, goes to open Thompson’s door, and I scramble over his seat, out his door. Feet on the pavement, I go. He reaches for me, gets the hem of my shirt, and I spin, screaming, fighting with everything in me as his arms circle my waist, as he lifts me off the ground and around toward the plane. Which is when I see them.
A line of flashing red and blue lights.
The sirens swell as they near. I begin to sob.
LUCILLE
It happens in flashes of red and blue. Running footsteps and incoherent shouts. Police cars circle the plane. Staff sprint out from the terminal. Officers yell at Thompson and the man who is holding Lucy to show their hands.
She sees me through the crowd and we race for each other, slamming together. Matching tears on identical faces.
Then, the news vans. The one tipped off by Mitch and the others that caught whiffs, chasing Isobel’s leaks or news of a kidnapping on the police scanner, and followed along. Cameras and questions are aimed our way. But not because the stolen girl—Lucille Harper—has been miraculously saved.
But because there are two of us.
Lucy and Lucille Harper, different yet exactly the same.
LUCY
“How many today?” Lucille asks.
“Six news crews, twelve abomination picketers, eight miracles, and that guy who sells sandwiches.”
She joins me at the window of the former guest room, now my new bedroom. We look through the half-closed blinds, her re-dyed brown head beside my pink one. “We should put out chairs and sell tickets.”
“Put on a show?”
“Recite Hamlet or something.”
“Like you didn’t forget every syllable of that monologue the second after you performed it in lit last year.”
“True.” She nudges my arm. “Come on. Everybody’s downstairs.”
I hesitate. Three and a half weeks, and the daily crowd’s finally starting to wane. Week one, we had to enlist the Lakewood Police Department for help managing it all. They were clogging up the whole street. Lucille and I couldn’t leave the house for days. Mom and Dad talked about moving. The second week we spent at Dad’s, because at least there we had the cushion of the lobby, like a moat. But then reporters and a few fanatics slipped through, made it all the way upstairs, and scared the absolute shit out of us by banging on the door one day while Dad was still at work. So, we’re back here. And now Mom and Dad take turns staying with us while a police cruiser camps out at the curb.
I won’t say it’s easy. We’ve all had to change our numbers at least four times each. There are extra locks on all the doors now, and a state-of-the-art security system on top of that. Lucille and I finally gave in and did a morning show last week, hoping it’d calm some of the fervor. The camera crew set up in the living room and we did the whole Look, she’s a living, breathing, feeling person thing. But I’m not sure if it made it better or worse. They asked some fluffy stuff, some funny stuff, then some stuff that made my skin crawl, and finally made Mom shout that they could “shut the fuck up and get out.” The clip of her went super viral within the day.
It’s like because I was made as a commodity, I should expect to be one still. Everyone thinks they’re owed a peek under the hood. Nothing’s off-limits. And, well…I guess I still struggle sometimes to remember I’m more than parts.
It’s not all bad. Like, before my Life2 phone quit working, about a week after all the shit hit all the fans, I got a text from a blocked number, and when I opened it found a picture of Isobel with her brother. In it they both look so damn happy I immediately started to cry.
I also think it’s pretty great that Thompson ended up being wrong. Not about all of it (she nailed the devil, miracle, protests, and debates stuff), but there’s no line at Life2 because there’s no door. Isobel and her brother’s bug ended up doxxing the whole lot of them, and with nowhere to hide, the Board and the president, an old white guy (of course), are having to answer a shitload of questions about a whole mess of dubious ethics and legit crimes. They immediately threw Thompson under the bus, which was unnecessary, since she was arrested for kidnapping at the scene, but it looks like she’ll end up with plenty of company. Plus, most of the doctors have flipped and are assisting the investigation—first Adebayo and Kim, then the rest. But it’s hard to say what will stick, since the laws are unclear or nonexistent.
News crews have been all over the Life2 facility, so Lucille and I got to see the aftermath of the doomsday failsafe, which was, honestly, pretty rad. Whatever switch Isobel managed to flip caused Cindy to self-destruct, most likely with fire, as evidenced by the burn patterns on the walls, then a sprinkler system coated the whole thing in a kind of expanding foam that dried as hard as concrete. Isobel made it to the Mimeo machine, too. That was harder to watch, because Lucille and I could both imagine how she must’ve felt while she smashed as much of it as she could to pieces.
There’s something comforting about knowing it’s all gone. And something unsettling knowing there are other branches out there, undiscovered, maybe under different names, with their own Thompsons and teams still pushing forward. Then a feeling of flat confusion in the middle, which is where I sit most of the time. I can’t regret my life, but do I think they should make more of us?
The short answer is no.
The longer answer is that I hope they’ll use all they’ve learned for actual good. But none of us think that’ll be the end.
“Luce!” Lucille calls up the stairs.
“Coming!” I turn away from the window and head downstairs, pausing in the kitchen. I can hear them down in the basement. Cass, Bode, Marco, Lucille. They’re laughing.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom says from the counter, where she sits with a book and cup of tea. I cross over to her. She opens her arms to pull me in for a hug.
“Love you,” I say into her hair.
“Love you, too.”
And I think, It’s worth it. All of it. Every mess. And the good stuff, too. This feeling, laughter downstairs and the press of my mom’s love.
I’m worth it. We both are.
Book two! How did this happen?? Well, with a lot of help.
First, to my agent: Melissa Edwards, over five years and now two books in, I still feel so lucky to have you in my corner. You’re fabulous. Thank you.
To my editor: Kelly Delaney. What do I say here that won’t feel insufficient? Half Life became the book that it is today because of you. I’m pretty sure you understood this book’s heart before I did, and your thoughtful feedback and encouragement pushed me to find that heart, too. This was a true collaboration, and I am incredibly proud of how it turned out. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To everyone at Knopf BFYR and Penguin Random House: Jessie Sayward Bright and Angela Carlino for the gorgeous cover art and design, thank you! It’s more perfect than I dared hope for. Iris Broudy, Artie Bennett, and Alison Kolani, thank you for your careful attention and polish. Thank you to Emily Bamford for all you did for me and Immoral Code. Sarah, thank you so much for your insights. And a huge thank-you to everyone else who has had a hand in bringing my debut and now Half Life into the world.
To new friends: Debut year is a wild thing. Highs and lows, messy expectations, and a lifelong dream achieved. And through it all, I was lucky enough to meet some incredible people. Erin and Jenn, thank you for chats with 100-plus notifications and for being your endlessly brilliant and lovely sel
ves. Gita, getting to know you has been a joy, and I appreciate your kindness and support more than you know. Sara, our rambling emails and chats never fail to brighten my day. I swear we will have that cup of tea soon. Gabriel and Heather, it was so wonderful to meet you, and I cannot wait till we get to see each other again. Rebecca, I’m so glad we met and am thankful for your friendship! Hooray for clones! To everyone in the Novel19s and especially Class 2k19 (Nikki, Gail, Quinn, Sarah, Leah, Victoria, Keena, Kara, Claire, RuthAnne, Tiana, Alex, Katy, Naomi, Jessica, Jennifer, Erin), thank you! These groups were like, to use an eye-roll-inducing cliché, oases in the desert. Corny, but true! You’re amazing, and I feel so lucky to have found you all.
Kelly: You are a gift. Words can’t convey how grateful I am for your friendship. Meeting you has been one of the absolute best things to come out of this experience. Your insight, support, enthusiasm, commiseration, encouragement—it’s all priceless. You’re a wonderful person and friend. LOVE YOU, LADY!
Mandy: My fabulous friend! You are such a kind and generous and deeply genuine person, and I am lucky to know you. You are a bright spot in my life. Thank you for everything. I am a better person for knowing you. (Please read this and imagine it as basically a heart-filled glitter bomb. Not the, erm, other kind. HA.)
Stacey and the ladies of Oula: Your class felt like salvation this past year. It was a year filled with new stresses and digging up old insecurities while I worked on this book, and dancing it out with you, surrounded by such strong and supportive women, was an outlet and a balm. Thank you.
To my family: Thank you for your unfailing belief in me. Even when I falter, you don’t. Words are my livelihood, but I can’t properly express how much that means to me. Erik, thank you for being there for me through every high and every low. You and Owen mean everything to me. I love you both as big as the universe.
Thank you to every single person who gave Immoral Code a chance and showed my debut some love. To Shaun David Hutchinson, Caleb Roehrig, Brenda Rufener, Lianne Oelke, Rachel Lynn Solomon, Jared Reck, and Sarah Porter, thank you so much for reading my book and liking it enough to lend your words and support.
And finally, a note to my readers: In so many ways, Half Life is a book about self-acceptance, especially for young women, but really, for anyone who’s ever worried that you were failing to meet expectations. It’s a book that forced me to dredge up and work through so many of the doubts I have about myself, ones I’ve clung to since I was a teen. Lucille’s worries mirror many of my own, most potently her fear that no matter what she does, she will always come up short. Life gives us so many opportunities to feel inadequate, it questions our value and challenges our worth. Too often, we end up chasing expectations, jumping hurdles that grow higher with every pass, aiming for a finish line that inches ever farther out of reach. But as Lucille and Lucy learn, external acceptance pales in comparison to the feeling of finally accepting and loving yourself.
Rebecca Vanderhorst
LILLIAN CLARK is the author of Immoral Code, which the Bulletin called “gleefully engrossing.” A graduate of the University of Wyoming, she grew up riding horses, climbing trees, and going on grand imaginary adventures in the small-town West. She’s worked as a lifeguard, a camp counselor, and a Zamboni driver, but found her eternal love as a bookseller at an independent bookstore. Now living in Teton Valley, Idaho, with her husband, son, and two giant dogs, she spends her time reading almost anything and writing books for teens.
LILLIANJCLARK.COM
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