The Pretenders

by Rebecca Hanover

  “Maybe we’re not trying to get them to leave.” Harlowe shrugs, gunning the accelerator. “Maybe we want to teach them a lesson.”

  I have to get out of this car. I can’t stand the thought of Harlowe torturing my friends. Hurting them, even emotionally. And there’s no way I’m sitting here, her captive for who knows how long, while she leads me farther and farther away from school.

  Screw her, I think, watching the highway speed past us and thinking of my dad, praying that he won’t ground me for life for what I’m about to do. It’s the one thing Harlowe won’t expect. But she doesn’t know what I went through last year. She doesn’t know what I faced on that island. And how much I care about my friends.

  And besides. It’s also the only way out.

  I open the door.

  The asphalt of the highway greets me in a rush. We must be going at least fifty miles an hour. But it’s too late. I’m doing this.

  “Thanks for the ride, Harlowe,” I say, my voice biting, and then I leap from the moving car.

  The ground meets me all at once, and I try to remember to roll, like I’ve seen people do in videos. I think I do it—I manage to protect my head and neck, anyway—but hitting the pavement feels like it takes minutes, not seconds, and on impact, I feel broken and singed. I’m sure some skin has been ripped off of me in chunks.

  I hear Harlowe’s Volvo speed off. Panting, my cheek resting on the rough asphalt, my heart beating a million miles a minute, I take stock of my body. The pain is crippling, roiling through me in waves. Gingerly, I inspect the damage. My jeans are torn at both knees, and my wrists feel sprained when I move them, likely from bracing myself with my hands when I first hit the road. There are a few deep scrapes visible through the tears in my jeans, but they don’t look nearly as bad as I thought they would. My hands are intact. Nothing feels particularly broken. And the pain that, moments ago, was all-consuming is already starting to dissipate, perhaps from shock or adrenaline. I might need pharmas once my body realizes what happened to it. But I’ll deal with that later, back on campus. I can get my cuts mended by the school nurse. One on my right knee looks particularly gnarly. I hope I don’t need stitches.

  I hear the sound of screeching. Curious, I sit up. I’m able to do that, at least, which strikes me as a good sign—I can’t be that hurt if I can move my body to a sitting position. And then I see it: Harlowe’s Volvo. Making a U-turn in the middle of the road and racing back toward me.

  I brace myself, then press my tender palms to the ground, giving myself leverage so I can straighten my legs and stand up.

  Harlowe’s stopped the Volvo inches from me, on the shoulder of the road. The driver’s-side door opens, and she gets out, not even bothering to shut her car door.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks shaken.

  “I think I’m hurt,” I say, furrowing my brow. “My leg, it feels broken.” I take a halting step toward Harlowe and the car, almost keeling over. Harlowe reaches out a hand to steady me, and that’s when I push her out of my way.

  Harlowe falls backward, and in that moment I’m able to slip through the open car door, slam it closed behind me, and start the ignition. I see the look of shock on her face and remember, in the nick of time, to hit the lock button on the door—before she can follow me in.

  I click in my seat belt before reaching for a lever to my right and putting the car into what I hope is drive. Then I look down at the pedals, take in a giant breath, and press my foot to the accelerator. At least, I think it’s the gas and not the brake…

  I’m zooming forward. At the last second, I remember to put my hands on the wheel, and I grip it like a vise as the car lurches forward at top speed. Panicking, I lift my foot off the accelerator, and the car slows and comes to a near stop.

  “Dash!” I yell at my wrist. “Help! Please tell me you know how to drive a car…”

  I spot Harlowe in my rearview mirror, racing toward me on foot. I press my foot to the accelerator again, jerkily. The car begins lurching forward.

  “Emmaline, pull over at once.”

  “Not happening.” I grimace. “I have to get back to campus. Harlowe’s done something to Maude and the others and I have to find them.”

  I see Harlowe far behind me, a speck in the distance. She’s stopped running and stands there in the road.

  “Dash! Some help here?” I groan.

  “According to Google, you must keep a car length of distance between you and the next vehicle at all times.”

  “Dash, that’s not even remotely helpful! What do I do, right now?”

  “All right. Stay calm—”

  “I said, something helpful!”

  “You know how to brake, I assume? It’s the pedal to the left of the accelerator.”

  I try pressing on it and feel the car immediately slow down, eventually coming to a stop…right in the middle of the road. A car is approaching behind me, its headlights bright yellow in my rearview mirror. The car comes to a stop and honks.

  “Give me a second.” I grit my teeth, removing my foot from the brake and placing it gingerly on the accelerator—too fast and too hard. Now we’re gunning forward again…

  “Tell me how to get back to campus. Now!” I screech as I hurtle toward the next light. It’s green. “I’m going way too fast. Dammit, Dash, I can’t tell how hard to press—”

  “Turn left! Turn left!” Dash barks at me.

  “Left?” I squeal, sucking in a breath as I spin the wheel that way.

  But I’ve turned it way too hard, and too far, and now the car’s careening far too quickly, out of my control. It’s fish-tailing, and for a split second I think I’m toast. But I manage to jerk the wheel and steer myself back the other way. And just in time too—as soon as I clear the intersection, another car races past me, inches from where I had been only seconds earlier. I hear a long, protracted honk and know I narrowly missed crashing.

  “Jesus, Dash, I need more help from you.” But then I notice something unsettling. The car that first honked at me earlier? It’s behind me. Close behind me. “Dash? Is Harlowe in the car behind me?”

  “I’m sorry, Emmaline, I don’t have that information.”

  I’m sure of it, though. From my rearview mirror, I think I can see her silver hair gleaming from the back seat. She must have called a cab as soon as I stranded her, and she’s been following me ever since.

  “Turn right at this stop sign. Stop first!” Dash barks.

  “Nope,” I say through gritted teeth as I speed through several stop signs, following Dash’s directions and trying to lose Harlowe’s car. But no luck; she’s still there, right on my tail. I’m getting the hang of the pedals, even if I have no idea what any of the rest of the knobs and buttons do. I’m about to fly through a crosswalk when I spot a woman in all black, stepping right into my path across the wide white lines. I swing the wheel violently to the left, managing to avoid hitting her…

  Then I hear a voice. Not Dash’s. A different voice. One that sounds far off. Distant. And yet, I can make it out clearly, every word. Like someone’s talking softly nearby.

  What the hell does she think she’s doing?

  “Dash?” I whisper, feeling like I’ve lost my mind. My eyes are glued to the road, and I’m relieved to see that I’m at the outskirts of the Darkwood campus. But I must be imagining things. Because that sounded like a female voice.

  “Emmaline, this entire escapade has been highly inadvisable.”

  “Spare me the lectures, Dash! It’s not like you’re responsible for me.” My eyes flit to my rearview mirror. Harlowe’s still following me!

  She’s clearly never driven in her life. What’s wrong with her? Why’s she so worried about those friends of hers? What made her love clones so much, anyway?

  My stomach drops as I steer the c
ar up the brush and through the woods, the last mile until main campus. That sounds like…like Harlowe’s voice. But how…how am I hearing it?

  “Dash, I’m not… Are my vitals… Are they normal?” I ask in a strained voice.

  “You’re experiencing a spike in adrenaline,” he offers. “That’s obvious. Why?”

  Because I’m hearing voices?! I want to shout.

  At least she’ll never guess the pump house. That creepy old building is the last place anyone in their right mind would look…

  The pump house? It would make sense. It’s this dilapidated old building near Hades Point that used to house the school’s water system, before Darkwood was outfitted with modern plumbing. It’s full of creaky old machinery, and students never go there. But am I going completely off the deep end? Did I really hear Harlowe’s thoughts? What had Gravelle said to me in his email? That I have “incomparable mental agility”?

  Is that what this is? Some way in which I can hear the thoughts happening in another person’s mind?

  “So you’re not, um, hearing anything, anyone, besides us. Are you, Dash?”

  “No, Emmaline, we’re the only ones here.” He sounds concerned. If only he knew.

  She’ll go right back to her dorm and try to call the clones. Then she’ll search for her friends all night, and I won’t tip her off to look in the pump house till the morning.

  My palms are sweaty, and I take them off the wheel to rub them on my jeans. I can barely handle what’s happening to me right now. But I don’t feel dizzy or sick. My head feels clear. Like I’ve woken up for the day after a blissful night of uninterrupted sleep. Must be all that adrenaline…

  In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of the rip at my right knee, and I take my eyes off the wheel to glance down. For a second, I think I’m seeing things. The cut I saw earlier, visible through the jagged hole in my jeans—it’s become scabbed. The way it should look days after it first appeared. Not thirty minutes later.

  Reeling, I tear my eyes away from my knee and look back at the road, focusing on the fact that we’re almost there, and I need to get to the pump house. Now. But I can’t let Harlowe know I’m onto her.

  “Dash, does the dirt road up there lead to the pump house? The old abandoned building by Hades Point?”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “No reason,” I mutter as I yank the wheel unpredictably to the right. We veer off the paved path and onto a rocky, uneven dirt lane that probably hasn’t seen a car on it in years. Especially not a vintage clunker without four-wheel drive. But it’s worked. I’ve lost Harlowe. In the rearview mirror, I see her car whooshing past, continuing on the paved path. She’s taking the long route.

  “Almost there!” I shriek as we hit a particularly large bump. This path, for all its rockiness, is going to get us there a lot faster. All we need to do is get past this next—“Dash!” I shriek as I lose control of the wheel and the car skids down a slope with the pump house as its final destination. I spot the old building in front of us, looming like a sore thumb in the distance. We’re going so much faster than I intended. We’re going to crash—

  I slam on the brakes seconds before we plow right into the building, stopping short of it by only a few feet.

  Pulse in my throat, I take a moment behind the wheel to process what just happened. All is quiet, except for the pounding in my ears. I let out a breath. We did it. I did it. My hands are shaking, and I’m sure if Dash had a body, he’d be sweating right now.

  There’s no time to waste. I tear out of the car and race toward the door. Harlowe doesn’t know I read her thoughts—or whatever the hell that was—so this extra time, before she arrives, is critical. Even if she did guess where I’m headed, it’ll take her at least a few more minutes to get here. Reaching the front double doors, I wrench them open.

  Inside the dilapidated building are my friends—Maude, Theodora, and Pippa. They are seated in three metal chairs, and each one of them is handcuffed to a chair leg by the wrist. They look groggy, like they’ve woken up from a disorienting nap.

  Standing in front of them are Ivy and Graham.

  “We weren’t expecting you yet,” Graham says, sizing me up. “But whatever. You’re just in time for the show.”

  The Hazing

  I take a step toward my friends. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Maude shifts in her chair, trying to move her arm, but she meets with resistance. It’s the handcuff, shackling her wrist to her chair leg. Frustrated, she tries yanking it, but nothing happens.

  “Where are we?” Pippa asks, surveying our whereabouts skeptically.

  I don’t blame her for being freaked. This place is ancient and intimidating.

  “The pump house,” I answer her, about to move to help her with the cuffs when Graham steps right in my path. Something glints in his hand. It’s a large kitchen knife, the kind you use to chop vegetables.

  “What are you planning on doing with that?” I ask, contempt in my voice.

  “I’m not sure you want to know,” Graham says.

  The double doors clang open, and in rushes Harlowe. Panting, she looks murderous.

  “How’d you do it? Figure out we were here? You!” She spins on Ivy and Graham. “You told her where we were meeting,” she accuses her friends. She snatches the knife out of Graham’s hand. I shiver involuntarily. Is she for real? First the car, now a knife? She’s even bolder than Madison was last year. Or maybe she’s more unhinged.

  “Of course we didn’t tell her,” Ivy pipes up. She’s petite, with jet-black hair and white, straight teeth. “We would never.”

  “Then how’d you know to come here?” Harlowe turns to look at me. “And if you say you guessed it, I won’t believe you.”

  I don’t answer her. There’s no way I’m telling her that I read her mind. Instead, I shrug. “What’s it matter how I figured it out? I’m here now. And I’m not playing your little game anymore.”

  “Emma,” Maude warns. She’s gradually becoming alert but still looks groggy.

  I hear the sound of wheels rolling over the hard-packed dirt floor. I turn to see Ivy pushing a fourth chair over toward my friends and settling it beside Pippa. In the dim light, I can’t make out who it is at first. Then I hear Pippa gasp.

  “Levi?” she asks, still sounding dazed.

  My heart leaps to my throat.

  Is it? For one millisecond, I let myself believe, even though I know it can’t be. Levi’s back on Castor Island. Not here. Still, the idea that he could be here, in this room, and I might have some slim chance of seeing him again, so soon…now, even…

  I rush to the chair and see that it’s not Levi—of course it isn’t. It’s Ollie. And he’s passed out like the others were. Only he’s still unconscious.

  “What did you do to him?” I demand, placing a hand at his wrist, feeling that he has a pulse. I note the up-and-down motion of his chest and feel a flood of relief that he’s alive, just not awake.

  I spin to face Harlowe, not caring about the knife she wields, or anything else. I’m enraged.

  “You dragged Ollie here too? He’s not even in the Nine—”

  “Someone had to stand in for Levi, since he’s currently…indisposed.” Harlowe shrugs. “Ollie seemed like the obvious choice of a replacement. Right, guys?”

  Ivy nods. Graham shrugs.

  I feel a burning sensation in my throat and swallow it back. Her words hurt, but I can’t let them get to me. That’s exactly what she wants. She’s been playing me all night, luring me out to her car, threatening to take me miles away from Darkwood’s campus. I can’t figure out why she didn’t just drug me too, along with my friends—except that she knew that long car ride would be worse torture for me than being locked up here, with Maude, Thea, and Pippa.

  And Ollie. She set him up as an extra-special treat for me. She probably couldn’t w
ait for me to get here and see him in that chair, couldn’t wait to witness the blind hope in my eyes when I thought, for a split second, he might be Levi…

  “You weren’t supposed to be here for hours, after we drove around half the night,” Harlowe notes as she paces in a circle, running a finger absentmindedly down the sharp edge of the knife. “I suppose we’ll have to speed up the evening’s agenda. Graham?”

  He takes the cue, scuttling off to follow orders while Ivy walks over and slaps Ollie humorlessly on the cheek, more than once.

  “Get your hands off him—” I make a move to shove Ivy away from Ollie, feeling more protective of him than ever. Then he opens his eyes and groggily looks around.

  “Emma?” he asks, confusion in his voice. “What’s going on? Where are we?”

  Before I can answer, the dim light in the room is unplugged, or turned off, and we’re all plunged into absolute darkness.

  “Now,” Harlowe commands. Before I know what’s happening, a holographic slideshow begins playing on the opposite wall, which is bare except for a few pipes and wires, serving as a giant, flat screen.

  “What—”

  “Sh,” Harlowe hushes me. “Watch first. Ask later. Actually, ask never. This should be completely self-explanatory.”

  The first photo in the sequence is one of Pru’s family, and I instantly feel myself tensing up at the sight of the image. It’s Pru, as an eight- or nine-year-old, blowing out the candles on a unicorn birthday cake. Her mother stands behind her, looking young, her skin glowing and healthy, and I know this picture was taken before the cancer ravaged her body. That photo fades, and a new image takes its place: a picture of a beaming Madison standing up on a stage while her father is sworn in as vice president. Madison’s about ten and wears a white dress and a pink coat. Her mother, Bianca Huxley, stands stiffly behind her, resting a hand on Madison’s shoulder.

  The next photos come quickly: A happy Pru graduating from middle school, her parents smiling beside her. A photo of young Madison hunting for Easter eggs on the White House lawn. And then, in quick succession, the salacious headlines about Damian Leroy’s arrest and subsequent prison sentence. News stories about his family, including one article that features a close-up of Tessa’s stricken face as a reporter accosts her with questions about her dad. She holds her hand up, like she’s trying to shield her face from the paparazzi.