All that lifting and bending and loading is pretty backbreaking. So I’m relieved when I graduate to slicing carrots for the soup. That’s being made in a vat big enough for a water buffalo to take a bath in. Now just my wrist is sore, instead of my entire body. But just when I’m getting good with the big knife, the dinner rush hits full swing, and they need me to help serve.
That’s when I get my first look at the New Hope Soup Kitchen going full speed. The long cafeteria-style tables are packed with diners, mostly men. I expected a rowdier scene, but the place is nearly silent, except for the clink of cutlery. These are hungry people, and eating is serious business. The food line stretches out the door and wraps around the side of the building. My job is ladling out baked beans, one scoop per tray—slop!—and on to the next person.
The quiet feels so unnatural that I start talking: “Best beans in the city . . . Enjoy your dinner . . . Careful, they’re hot . . . Satisfaction guaranteed.”
I start to get answers. People say thank you. They smile. They even find a few words to say to each other. I feel good, like maybe I had something to do with warming up the room, making a difference. It’s funny—in Serenity, our parents were always telling us about helping one another. But we never actually had to do it, because the place was phony and nobody really needed any help. I get it now, though. I finally get it.
The place is a madhouse for about an hour and a half before things quiet down a little. We’re still serving, but there’s no more line, and people have stopped arriving.
That’s why I look up when the door opens, the bell on the knob announcing a new arrival. This one’s not looking for dinner; he’s looking for me.
Malik.
I peer past him and spot the convertible double-parked at the curb, Danny at the wheel and Torque in the passenger seat. Their expressions are alert, like they might have to fight their way out of this neighborhood. Pretty wimpy for a couple of mob guys. I’ve just fed half the zip code, handing out friendliness with my baked beans, and getting nothing but the same in return.
Malik walks right up to the counter. “We’re leaving.”
I glare at him. “You’re leaving. I’m not done yet.”
He starts to walk behind the steam trays, but the manager stops him. “You’re not allowed back here without a hairnet.”
Malik’s face is pure Gus Alabaster. “I’m not putting on any hairnet!” But he advances no farther.
I set down my ladle and come out to confront him. “What do you want, Malik?”
“Look,” he tells me. “The guys are right outside in the car. You’ve made your point. Now it’s time to go.”
I fold my arms across my bean-spattered apron. “And what point is that exactly?”
“I don’t know,” he complains. “You have to be a genius to figure out why you do the things you do! I only said it because maybe there’s a reason besides the fact that you’re nuts!”
I lower my voice. “You’re getting more like these gangsters every day. So I came here to do some good to balance out all your bad.”
He stares at me. “Not another person on earth thinks the way you do. Except maybe Mickey Seven, and she used to blow up buildings.”
“Look who’s talking!” I retort. “You’re going to get yourself arrested and flush everything we’re trying to do down the toilet!”
“Give me a break!” he barks at top volume. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sleeping in the street! I ought to—”
A big guy, pretty tattered, pushes back his chair and interposes his bulk between Malik and me. I think I might have given him an extra half scoop of beans because he seemed really hungry.
“This guy bothering you, sweetheart?”
I’m really tempted to say yes. But Danny and Torque are out of the car and have their faces pressed to the window. If they decide that their boss’s “son” is in danger, things are going to get ugly.
A few of the other diners are noticing too.
“Leave her alone, kid,” someone calls. “She’s nice.”
“Quit hassling the bean lady.”
“If you didn’t come to eat, get out of here.”
“It’s fine, you guys,” I say hastily. To Malik, I whisper. “Please leave before there’s trouble. I’ll take the bus home.”
“We’ll wait for you. Hurry up.”
I’m basically done, but I hang around for another half hour, just to make him sweat. I see him through the window, doing a slow burn. Good.
When I get to the car, Torque asks me, “How was work, honey?” And the two gangsters crack up laughing.
Malik doesn’t think it’s very funny.
At the Alabaster house, Danny wanders off. Malik and I are about to follow him inside when Torque calls us back to the car.
“Let me give you kids a piece of advice,” he drawls, his expression unreadable. “You talk too loud.”
Malik is one of the guys now, so he just laughs. But I can tell he’s worried about where Torque might be going with this.
“You think?” I ask, working to keep my voice steady.
Torque nods lazily. He has these droopy eyelids, so he always seems half-asleep. But the eyes behind them are laser sharp. “Especially around the house. You never know who might be listening.”
“What did you hear?” I rasp.
“Not much,” he replies airily. “Just that you two aren’t who you say you are. And that Bryan here isn’t really Gus’s kid.”
We’ve gotten a lot of nasty shocks since discovering the truth about ourselves and Project Osiris. It’s interesting that, no matter how steadily the bad news keeps on coming, you never get used to it. Malik and I exchange a look of pure terror.
“So,” Torque goes on conversationally, “my question is this: If you’re not the boss’s son, who are you?”
9
TORI PRITEL
So this is Hollywood.
We didn’t learn much about the outside world in Serenity, but they let us have movies and TV. Not the violent stuff, obviously. We weren’t exposed to anything about war or crime or fighting. Still, one of the few things we had in common with the other kids on the planet was that we knew there was a place called Hollywood where all this entertainment came from.
And now Eli and I are right in the heart of it—Bungalow 149, Atomic Studios, Burbank, California. The bungalows are mostly used as offices and crash pads for writers and directors working on projects here. And now two fugitive clones. But we’re the only ones who know about that.
Eli and I lie low at first, which is what Yvonne-Marie Delacroix would probably do. We keep to our hideout, steering clear of the windows for fear of being spotted by studio security. Eventually, though, I have to venture out in search of food. There’s no grocery store, but the studio commissary is huge, and the food is fantastic. Better still, you see actors eating there—the famous and the beautiful (think: Blake Upton!!!). The less successful ones are kind of fun too. You play a game with yourself: What TV show do I know that guy from? Wasn’t she in something I’ve seen?
The only bummer is that Eli can’t share this with me. Security could be searching for a Blake look-alike. So I bring food back to him.
“Will Ferrell was sitting two tables away from me,” I tell Eli, handing him a shrink-wrapped sandwich. “He was having chicken à la king.”
He takes an unenthusiastic bite. “You know how much I care about what Will Ferrell is having for dinner? About as much as I cared about that guy from The Big Bang Theory having a burrito for lunch.”
“Vegetarian burrito,” I amend.
“Tori, you’re killing me,” Eli groans. “I can’t stand being cooped up here. And for what? Blake Upton is never going to listen to us.”
“Sure, he is,” I assure him. “He was in the commissary too. He was checking me out all through dinner.”
He’s alarmed. “He recognized you?”
“Of course he recognized me. And he didn’t call security either.”
&n
bsp; Eli’s eyes narrow. “He didn’t talk to you, did he?”
“Don’t I wish! No, he was on the other side of the room.”
“Because I thought maybe he invited you to his high school prom,” he says sulkily. “And we have to put everything we’re doing on hold while you go dress shopping.”
I stare at him. He’s jealous! Of Blake Upton—who looks so much like him that they could be twins! If our situation wasn’t so awful, I’d laugh in his face.
“There’s no dress shopping and no prom. He recognizes me because he’s thinking about you. I told you—you’re in his head.”
“We can’t wait around for some actor.” Eli points to the computer on the desk. “I was online today, researching Bartholomew Glen. You know where he is right now? Noranda State Penitentiary, about seventy miles north of here. We could pick up the car and be there in barely an hour.”
“But if that turns out to be a dead end, we’ll never get back on studio property,” I reason. “We’ve got to be patient and take one more crack at Blake. Trust me.”
“I looked Blake up too,” Eli informs me. “I think Jupiter High is his first big show, because there isn’t a lot about him. But he has over five hundred thousand followers on Twitter.”
“Twitter? What’s that?”
He takes me to the computer and shows me a web page with an endless procession of thumbnail photographs. They’re all kids, mostly girls (duh), wearing Blake T-shirts, and hugging Blake posters. They’re accompanied by short messages: You’re the best, Blake . . . #1 Actor . . . Blake for president . . . I love you, Blake . . .
As we watch, new postings pop up constantly. “Wow,” I breathe.
“Stop saying that!” he snaps in annoyance.
“These kids worship him!”
“That must be because he’s so gorgeous,” Eli puts in sarcastically.
I ignore that crack. “The occasional one says he’s a jerk, but most are big fans.”
“And every now and then, Mr. Wonderful himself posts an answer. See?” Eli scrolls up to a tweet next to a picture of the actor’s handsome face:
Thanks guys! Glad you enjoy the show! #BestFansEver.
“That means he reads this!” I conclude.
“Some of it, anyway. If you’re famous, you want to know what people think of you.” He looks up at me. “So what?”
An idea is taking shape in my mind. “If you’re sick of being stuck in the house,” I tell him, “tomorrow’s your lucky day.”
When Eli steps into the sun the next morning, he squints like a mole coming out of a burrow. I spent an hour and a half trimming his hair and blow-drying it, and now he’s Blake Upton 100 percent. I defy Blake’s own mother to tell them apart. Amber never agreed with me when I said Eli was really good-looking, but here’s the proof. He’s a dead ringer for a TV star with more than half a million Twitter followers.
It’s at least a mile across the Atomic property to the main gate. The first time one of the golf carts drives by, Eli practically jumps out of his skin. That’s how nervous he is.
We pass soundstages and the commissary, and arrive just in time to see the crowd gathering for the studio tour—which is a big deal at Atomic. Dozens of people are lined up behind velvet ropes waiting for the open-air bus.
“All right, ‘Blake,’” I whisper to Eli. “Do your stuff.”
“I’m really not sure what I’m supposed to—”
Well, I wasn’t cloned from some quiet hermit who didn’t know how to make things happen. I cup my hands to my mouth and squeal at the top of my lungs, “Oh, my God! It’s him! Blake Upton!”
A chorus of answering screams cut the air.
A girl of ten or eleven vaults the rope and makes a bull run at Eli, shrieking all the way. “You’re my favorite actor! Wait till I tell everybody I know . . . !”
That’s all it takes. Pretty soon, Eli is mobbed by an adoring crowd. Cell phone cameras begin clicking. He’s signing autographs.
Oh, please, I think, let him remember to write Blake’s name and not his own.
When the tour bus pulls up, only a few people are still in line. The rest are gathered in the worshipful throng around Eli.
That’s when a familiar figure steps out of the commissary and climbs into a golf cart. It’s the Jupiter High director, Amos. I feel a stab of fear. When that cart loops around to head for the soundstage, Amos is going to see “Blake” signing autographs and posing for selfies. What if he just left Blake at breakfast, or took a phone call from him that he’s stuck in traffic? (I’d bet my life on their resemblance, but nobody can be in two places at once.)
The golf cart is getting closer. In a few seconds, Eli will be in full view.
I sprint for the crowd, blast through to the center, and dive at Eli’s knees. He folds up like a deck chair, crumpling to the ground beside me. His expression is pure shock.
“Oh, Blake,” I holler at him. “Sign my forehead!”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
By the time we struggle to our feet, the golf cart is heading away, Amos’s back to us.
As the girl who wiped out their idol, I’m not too popular among the Blake Upton fans. I get a little rough treatment until the tour guide comes over and hustles his passengers onto the studio bus.
“What was that for?” Eli demands, limping a little as we start away.
“Keep your head down,” I mumble. “Amos almost saw you, but I think the coast is clear.”
We make our way back to Bungalow 149 and pounce on the computer. It’s happening already. Blake’s Twitter feed is going crazy with the people from the studio tour. Their bus can be scarcely half a block from the main gate, and they’re already tweeting their pictures and selfies with Eli: Me with Blake Upton at Atomic Studios . . . BU OMG!! #EvenHotterInPerson . . . He’s so nice! . . . BU signed my arm! #NeverWashAgain . . .
There’s even a picture of Eli with me that must have been taken from the bus. The message reads: Blake’s girlfriend??? #HeCanDoBetter.
(I don’t know whether to laugh or be insulted.)
“How do we know Blake’s even going to see this stuff?” Eli asks uncertainly.
“He’ll see it,” I assure him. “And if he doesn’t, someone’s bound to tell him about it.”
I make sure I’m in the commissary when Blake’s cast and crew break for lunch. As always, he eats with one eye on his phone. Then he puts down his sandwich, and both eyes are on the small screen.
He glances my way, which makes my heart jump a little. I shoot him my most dazzling smile, and he returns to the phone, pale and haunted.
I experience an unexpected pang of sympathy for the guy. It can’t be fun to see pictures of yourself doing things you know you never did.
I go up to the dessert table to get some rhubarb pie. Chris Hemsworth had this yesterday, and he really seemed to enjoy it. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn around to come face-to-face with Blake.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been this close to him. I should be quaking in my sneakers but I’m totally in control. Maybe Yvonne-Marie Delacroix has an internal switch that keeps her all business when a plan is under way. I obviously have one too.
“I hear the rhubarb pie is good,” I tell him in a friendly tone.
He’s obviously shaken. “Forget the pie. We need to talk.”
10
MALIK BRUDER
Consequences. That’s the word Torque uses.
There are consequences when you lie to Gus Alabaster, and tell him you’re his son when you’re not. There are consequences when you don’t watch what you say, and someone like Torque finds out you’re lying. And there are definitely consequences when the Torques of the world realize that they have something on you.
Now he’s got me doing his dirty work, and it has nothing to do with picking up dry cleaning or Chinese food. I’ve taken over his whole job while he sits around playing cards or watching sports on TV. And the great tips I was getting before for doing next to noth
ing? Forget that. Now I’m working for free. If I dare to complain about that, Torque tells me that, by all rights, he should be charging me hush money to remain silent about what he knows.
“You’re a nice kid, but you’ve got a thing or two to learn about how it works,” he lectures me. “I’m keeping a pretty big secret for you. So how it works is you do what I say, and you like it. No—you love it.”
I don’t love it. There’s nothing to love. Basically, I pick up envelopes of money from these store owners who pay us for “protection.” The thing is, it’s really protection from us, because if they don’t pay, we make sure something bad happens to their business. Remember that first time at the dry cleaner’s, when the owner was so scared, and it made me feel like a big man? I don’t feel that way anymore. When I walk into one of those stores, they’re not just scared of me; they hate my guts. When they hand over the envelope, they wish it would explode in my face. And the worst part is I don’t blame them. How would you feel if you built up a business only to have some guy squeeze you for cash every week not to set fire to it, or heave a brick through the window? I’d hate me too.
That’s one way I’m different from Gus. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with being despised, but I can’t stand it. I’m not sure why that is, since we have the same DNA. Maybe it’s this: when I was growing up in Serenity, I always believed my parents loved me. It was a lie, of course. They were scientists; I was their experiment. But once you feel what it is to be loved, it’s pretty hard to have people look at you with loathing.
Gus seems so cool because he has yachts and private jets and houses all over the place. You never really consider that the money to pay for all that comes from having a guy like Torque going door to door, threatening people.
And now, a guy like me.
What makes it even harder to accept is that Gus and I have gotten kind of close. He’s proud of the fact that his “son” gets along with his crew. Even though he’s becoming so weak that he can’t really hold a conversation for very long, he makes sure that I go in to see him at least a couple of times every day. He talks about the future, maybe one day sending me to college. That’s a big deal, because college is super-expensive, and Gus—rich as he is—is famous for being tight fisted with his cash.
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