Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  I shrug. “Don’t you feel kind of . . . wrong? Like we’re violating—I don’t know—George’s trust or something.”

  “We’re never gonna be here again.” Ian shakes his head. “This is our only shot.”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh.

  We join the line, score a couple of bananas and a chicken salad wrap. By the time we cash out, though, my appetite drops through the floor. Because at a table by the windows, behind a koi-colored beam, sits the doctor’s lunch date. Even back-to, the guy’s mop of dark hair, strong shoulders, and easy manner proclaim the unfathomable.

  And then he turns.

  “Oh my God. I can’t breathe,” I think I say. “Help.”

  Ian clutches my elbow, steadies me so I don’t kiss the polished concrete. “There’s no way . . .” he mumbles.

  But there is.

  The dearly departed George Alfred Brooks, the boy I’ve spent my whole life loving and more than two years mourning, has risen from the dead. And he’s staring right at me with a big ol’ grin.

  * * *

  As it turned out, George wasn’t staring at me; he was staring at his father, Dr. Smullen. As it also turned out, George wasn’t George. He was (or should I say is?) the biological equivalent of George’s clone, a.k.a. his identical twin. His name’s Alex (short for Aleksey, a fact that brings to mind George’s birth name: Anatoly). This I’ve gleaned from a bumpy introduction, wherein the doctor graciously agreed to allow us (meaning Ian, Rosie, Opal, Haley, and me) to dine with him and his son.

  So far it’s not going well, most of us tongue-tied over the resurrection of George’s ghost. “So you’re considering applying to Columbia?” Alex asks me, in a relaxed, congenial tone that’s at odds with the crazed panic I’m feeling.

  Our cover story is that I’m a prospective student and Ian is an anthropology groupie. “Oh, definitely,” I manage to reply, my head bobbing in agreement.

  “It’s really great here,” he tells me, “and I’m not just saying that because my dad’s a teacher.”

  The doctor interjects, “Alex practically grew up in the anthropology department.” With a wry smile, he adds, “I should probably send condolence letters to the faculty for all the skateboard damage he’s inflicted over the years.”

  He’s a skateboarder too? Nuh-uh.

  Out of left field, Haley asks, “Does your mother work here?”

  Is my sister a moron? The last thing we ought to be bringing up is a communist spy. It strikes me that I should appear to be eating my lunch, so I crack open a banana.

  Alex shakes his mahogany curls, which are an inch longer than George’s were ever allowed to grow. “Nah,” he says. “She’s a researcher with the CDC. Doesn’t make it back here too often anymore.”

  I steal a glance at Dr. Smullen’s hand where, sure enough, I spy a thick band of gold on his ring finger, leading me to conclude that Alex is referring to his stepmother.

  An awkward silence is shattered by the squeal of techno music from Rosie’s . . . rear end? She clutches for her pocket, her face flushing. “Sorry.” She quiets the phone and glowers at its screen. I’m about to ask what the problem is when she pops out of her chair. “I’ve gotta take this. Be right back.”

  Alex chomps through his last potato chip (Lay’s Salt & Vinegar) and then does something that wrenches my stomach: with his beautiful (read: elegant but rough around the edges) fingers, he smoothes the chip bag flat, rolls it into a cigar shape and then, like he’s been doing it all his life, twists the package into a perky bowtie knot.

  My jaw drops, nearly allowing a hunk of banana to escape my mouth.

  “That’s so weird,” says Ian, echoing my thoughts in the matter.

  Haley adds, “We know someone who used to do that.” She gives the knot a tap. “Only he was a Funyuns man.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Alex says.

  Dr. Smullen’s complexion goes bleached white. “Would you like me to arrange a tour of the campus?” he asks no one in particular. “I’m sure there’s someone in the admissions office who would be happy to show you around.”

  Rosie slinks up beside us wearing a concerned face. “No, thanks,” she replies. “We’re behind schedule for another . . . engagement. C’mon, guys.” She delivers a round of imperative glares. “It’s getting late.”

  Whatever the subject of that phone call was—and I can only assume it was my mother or father, demanding proof of my and Haley’s continued existence—it must have been a doozy. I owe it to Rosie to back her up. “Maybe some other time?” I suggest, rising with my lunch tray. I smile. “Nice meeting you.”

  Ian gapes incredulously but follows my lead. “I’ll e-mail you about that book,” he tells Dr. Smullen, keeping up the charade.

  Alex stares at me longer than he should, considering we’ve just met. “Good luck with the search,” he tells me about college. “See you around?”

  If I’m lucky, I think. I get a freaky chill, reminding me that George is dead. “Not if I see you first.”

  chapter 11

  We make it all the way back to the Bunny Mobile before Rosie reveals what’s going on. And when she finally does, I have a hard time believing the news.

  For obvious reasons, so does Opal. “What am I . . . ? I don’t know how . . . Who . . . ?” she says, dumbstruck.

  Here’s the sitch: Opal’s mom showed up at a golf tournament in which her estranged husband was a player and proceeded to harass/threaten/assault him. Now she’s in the slammer on a slew of criminal charges, and my dad is on his way to bail her out; meanwhile, we’ve got to zoom back to Milbridge—and pronto.

  “Don’t worry,” says Haley, offering Opal a sisterly hug. “Everything’ll be all right.”

  “Why don’t you guys ride together?” I suggest, effectively ousting Haley from the Love Machine.

  Rosie says, “Fine by me.”

  As easy as that, our travel plans are settled and we strike out on the road again. “That was surreal,” I say to Ian after ten minutes of quiet, time I used to memorize every squeak and hiccup this old van emits.

  “Do you think he knows?”

  “You mean Dr. Smullen?”

  “Or Alex.”

  I pick absently at a piece of loose vinyl on the door. “He must,” I say. “I just don’t get why George was adopted by the Brookses when his real father is so . . .” I give an emotional sigh. “Didn’t you think he was decent?”

  A noncommittal shrug. “He doesn’t seem bad, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And Alex . . .”

  “He’s not George, Cass,” Ian tells me in a tone that hints at frustration? Anger?

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “I’m a big girl,” I assure him. “I can handle myself. Promise.”

  “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea. George would hate it.”

  “Who says I’m thinking?”

  He revs the engine. “I know you.”

  Now he’s an FBI profiler? “Yeah, so?”

  “So I don’t want to see you”—he shoots me a sad glance—“hurt yourself.”

  “Fat chance,” I say, sort of ironically, since I did hurt myself with George. But I’ve learned my lesson.

  “These people could be freaks. Weirdoes,” he cautions. “Maybe even secret agents.”

  I roll my eyes. “Really? Somehow I doubt it.”

  “You heard what old man Rabinski said.”

  “He said Ruth Dawson was a spy,” I remind him. “There was no mention of the doctor being involved.”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.”

  “What about time travel?”

  He’s messing with the wrong girl. “Actually, physicists found a subatomic particle that can travel faster than the speed of light. The neutrino, I think it’s called. And we’ve already got particle accelerators, so . . .”

  “You don’t even know him. Just because he looks l
ike George doesn’t mean . . . anything.”

  “You’re right. Can we talk about something else?” I ask, trying to avoid a pout session (on my part, not his). Otherwise, this is going to be a very long ride. “Do you think Waterslide Village will take you back?”

  When we embarked upon this journey, Ian had only loose permission from a coworker who agreed to pick up his shifts to miss work. “It’s no biggie,” he tells me. “It’s a summer job. They can’t afford to lose people this late in the season.”

  I know how much he needs the money, so I’m planning on raiding my emergency fund when we get home and slipping him a hundred dollars for gas and tolls. “That’s good.” I finish peeling the vinyl away, leaving an off-colored spot in the shape of Africa (or maybe South America, if I tip my head sideways). “I’m gonna miss you, you know,” I find myself saying, a sudden wave of nostalgia washing over me.

  “Nah,” he says with a smile.

  “Yuh-huh.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  Does he think I’m a quitter? “Yuh-huh.”

  “Me too.”

  I want to tell him that I love him, in the good-buddy, big-brother kind of way. But I can’t figure out how. “Don’t go getting all stuck-up once you’re at college,” I say, in a mocking (but joking) voice. “Or I’ll have to drive up there”—or is it down? I really should consult a map—“and whup your arse.”

  He laughs like a deranged hyena. (I’m not sure which idea he finds funnier, the driving or the arse whupping.) Eventually, he calms down enough to promise, “It’s a date.”

  * * *

  Back at the ranch, a.k.a. my house, things are strangely calm, owing to the fact that Mom and Haley are camped out at Opal’s awaiting the arrival of Dad and Mrs. Madden.

  It’s past dinnertime, but after a much-needed bathroom break (Ian must have a bladder the size of Wyoming, considering how he breezed by all those rest areas), I slap together a ham and chess sandwich and devour it in front of the TV.

  I’m about to load a goblet full of mint chocolate chip ice cream when a screech of “BWAAH! BWAAH!” echoes through the house, reminding me of Clive’s existence. “Shoot,” I mumble. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

  I jam the ice cream back into the freezer and head for my room, where I find my bird-friend giddy with excitement over my return.

  “Here, boy,” I say, unlatching his cage and thrusting my arm inside. If Clive could fly right, I’d consider setting him free, because my heart aches at his captivity. But the face-off with a semi that splattered Clive-ina left good ol’ Clivey with a mangled wing that, so far, shows no sign of recovery.

  The bird sure can hop, though. And strut. In fact, if I were a better teacher, odds are he could dance the tango. Or the rumba. Maybe even pull off a can-can.

  He settles on my forearm, and I guide him to freedom, careful not to rattle his brain against the bars. Once he’s happily pacing the window sill, I turn back to the job of refreshing his abode. And there I find a beautiful, healthy-looking feather that is so black and shiny it’s taken on a bluish tint. I pinch its shaft between my thumb and forefinger and give it a twirl, imagining a ball gown covered in the lovely things—overlapping and poufy—with me inside, my hair upswept, swaying in the glow of a harvest moon, George’s warm arms wrapped around my waist, an open smile at his mesmerizing lips.

  This is what I have left of George: illogical fantasies; dreams that will never come true. But now there’s Alex, and I can’t help wondering . . .

  I give Clive a quick glance before slipping across the hall to Haley’s room, where our shared laptop is no doubt drowning in a morass of overdue library books.

  With a few swift tugs, the computer lands in my hands. I spirit it back to my room, cozy up on my bed and flip it open.

  Alex . . .

  Dawson?

  Smullen?

  Or maybe he goes by Aleksey online? That would make finding him so much easier (unless, of course, Aleksey means John in Russian).

  I switch the computer on and wait. And wait some more. The laptop is only six months old, but Haley downloads so much useless junk that it’d take a visit from Steve Jobs himself (which is about as likely as my Cinderella fantasy with George) to restore it to optimal functionality.

  Eventually, the internet gods allow me to pull up Facebook, the destination of choice for amateur and professional sleuths alike. With a few keystrokes—I think I’ll try searching for Aleksey Dawson first—I find . . .

  Absolutely nothing.

  Okay, Aleksey Smullen it is.

  And—dat-da-da-da—it is (though I sort of wish it weren’t, since it’s not the most user-friendly name on the planet).

  Clive has parachuted down from the window and is now nipping at the edge of my comforter. I offer him a hand—literally—boosting him up to join me. “There you go, silly,” I say, stroking the back of his neck. “All better?”

  He gives a head bob of agreement and I go back to my detective work. Right off, I notice a number of unusual things about Aleksey Smullen’s profile.

  First, it’s totally open. Public. Anyone, anywhere in the world, has unfettered access to whatever there is to know about the guy, which strikes me as gutsy at best and, at worst, dopey and naïve.

  Next, I see that Aleksey has an outrageous number of friends. Not just, like, a thousand (I mean, even some of the most popular kids at Milbridge High have cracked that ceiling), but 6,532, to be exact.

  I’m not even sure there are six thousand people in Milbridge, period.

  It’s a New York City thing, I tell myself, hoping it’s true. He’s not a friend whore. La-la-la-la-la (plugging my ears here). He can’t be.

  The other thing that stands out is the odd-yet-appropriate spelling of Aleksey’s nickname. Instead of the traditional A-L-E-X (the way I’ve been spelling it in my head all along), he’s Aleksey A-L-E-K-S Smullen.

  Aleks: a sweet name for a boyfriend, no?

  Speaking of significant others, Aleks lists his relationship status as “It’s Complicated,” which, if nothing else, adds intrigue for those of us with inquiring minds.

  I should send him a message, feel him out, I think. If I do it today, he might remember me. I mean, how many borderline-albino girls could he have met in the past twenty-four hours?

  But what to say (or write, as it were)? Nothing too forward. Or dorky. Definitely no babbling. Or gushing. Just something friendly, but professional. Maybe with a touch of aloofness. And leave George out of it. For now.

  Hmm . . .

  Easier thought than accomplished, I guess. If I start typing, maybe the words will come together on their own.

  Dear George, I tap out. I stare at the screen for a good minute before realizing what I’ve done. With a sigh, I backspace the error into oblivion and begin again.

  Hi, Aleks. My name’s Cassandra (but I suppose you already know that if you’re reading this). Anyway, I was at Columbia today, at lunch, with that group of kids at your table. My friend was talking to your dad about his book. We (you and I) said we might meet on campus sometime.

  We did say that, didn’t we? Or at least something like it?

  Well, anyway, I know we (my friends and I) had to leave pretty quick, so we (you and I) didn’t get to finish our conversation. So, um, I thought I should . . .

  What should I do again? Oh, yeah.

  . . . uh, I thought it would be a good idea if I told you about my college plans, since you seemed interested.

  I swear, he seemed interested. Right? Didn’t he?

  The thing is, I’m only a junior in high school right now (actually, I’m not even that until school starts in a few weeks). And I haven’t technically applied to Columbia yet, but I’m definitely considering it. Very much considering it, in fact. So maybe you can tell me some more about the place, to help me decide for sure. Like, what do you like best about it? Would you go there even if your dad wasn’t a teacher (you must get an employee discount, huh?).

  Am I hitting to
o many topics for an introduction? Maybe I should dial it back a tad.

  I guess my point is that, if you have the time, I wouldn’t mind hearing your opinions on the college search process and what I should be looking for when I start filling out applications. You seem like a smart guy, and I could use your help.

  There. End with a compliment. That’s sure to reel him in. I do want to reel him in, don’t I?

  He’s not George, I hear Ian warning.

  My finger skips across the mouse, threatening to hit send and let nature take its course. I mean, is it my fault that the boy I love is gone and a real, live (and equally nice and good looking) carbon copy has materialized in his place?

  George wouldn’t blame you, I hear my father assuring me. He’d want you to go on with your life and be happy.

  As many times as I’ve been pelted with these sentiments—from my parents and from Mia Garmin, the therapist they hired to counsel me—you’d think they’d have lost their power, dissolved into meaningless gibberish. But the opposite is true. Only now am I sure that George would want me to go on. And he’d want me to do it with a part of him, the closest earthly manifestation of his goodness: Aleks Smullen.

  It’s almost imperceptible, but my finger does a hesitant twitch before nailing the send button. And then I start panicking.

  Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. What am I doing? What if he was just being nice? What if he hates me—or worse, thinks I’m a pathetic dweeb who’s infatuated with him?

  I’ve never had a reason to rescind a Facebook message before, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to do—and furiously so—when a bunch of clomping in the hallway distracts me.

  “Why don’t you girls get some dinner,” Dad’s muffled voice suggests, “before you turn in for the night?”

  You girls? Haley must have company. And turn in for the night? It’s only nine o’clock.

  “Thanks, Mr. McCoy,” Opal replies in a tone that sounds falsely upbeat, even from where I sit.

  I scoop Clive off the bed and return him to his cage, stash that dazzling feather with its not-so-glitzy brethren in a feather-crown that dangles from my cheval mirror. The message I’ve sent Aleks will have to stand, because my ESP is kicking in, insisting my mother is headed my way.