“I didn’t mean to punch him, exactly,” I remind him.
“Well, he told me what happened with Lacey. What she said about your sister.”
I shrug, trying to roll away the anxiety that’s tensing up my shoulders. I don’t really want to relive yesterday any more than I have to.
Jaxon mimics my motion. “I just think that’s really cool, what you did.”
“What, punching people?”
He laughs. “No. Standing up for your sister like that. I feel like you do that a lot, don’t you?”
Now I think I know where he’s really going with this: back to four years ago, right after the new Violet first started school. Or descended on the school more like, in a swoop of gale-force winds striking through the halls, drawing stares the way a tornado draws debris and dust. She wasn’t the first clone to assimilate into Haven High School, no. There were dozens who came before her, and dozens more after, but she easily made the loudest entrance. Most slipped quietly, gently into their life, seamlessly carrying on the one they had replaced. And Violet started out doing that too. True, there had always been that quiet, smoldering chaos surrounding the first Violet—our grandmother had warned my parents about it—but just as the first Violet had always done, for the most part her clone kept it perfectly in check. There was something wild there, you could tell; but you could only see it in certain lighting, or maybe in quick glimpses out of the corner of your eye.
By the end of that first summer, though, I feel like something must have short-circuited in her brain. Whatever code or file she had that reminded her she was supposed to control that wild part got rewritten somehow, and she’s spent practically every day since transforming into someone I recognize a little less every day.
Maybe because of all that, it took less than a month for Lacey and her minions to start bullying her. Because Violet wasn’t just a clone. She was a weird clone. Different. Unstable. She was unpredictable, and she didn’t care what others thought about anything she said or did. She didn’t care about acting like the one she’d replaced. If she had been born a natural human, then maybe people would have just called it a phase. Maybe they would have just called her weird—like they do that senior girl who dyes her hair a different neon color every week—and left it at that. People change. They do strange things, but so what?
But I never heard anyone, except maybe my mother, suggest Violet was going through a phase. Mostly they repeated the things Lacey said, claiming in frightened whispers that my sister was a prime example of a Huxley experiment gone wrong. And then they stood back, or looked the other way, when she was bullied—even when Lacey and her friends used to take Violet’s food at lunch, claiming that she wasn’t a real person, or even a proper copy of a person, so she didn’t need to eat, did she?
But of course, I stood up for her back then, too. Which resulted in them bullying me and taking my food instead, because if I starved to death, I could just be replaced—and then I could become a freak just like her. One big happy family of freaks.
Jaxon knows all about these incidents, because he’s the one who ended up getting them to finally leave me alone. He even tried to give me his lunch on a few of those days when mine ended up getting “accidentally” knocked on the floor. I was too embarrassed to take it.
And I’m embarrassed now, just thinking about it.
“You and your sister are close?” Jaxon asks. Except it sounds more like a statement than a question. And I don’t know why, but for some reason that bugs me a little.
“We’re sisters,” I answer, voice calm and calculated. “Family. Which is why I had to stand up for her.”
He considers my words for a second. “Had to? Or wanted to?”
What the hell kind of a question is that?
“Why does it matter?” I ask with a frown. “Can we just drop it? Talk about something normal? Like school or sports or philosophy, or—”
“Philosophy?” He cuts me a sidelong glance.
“Okay, maybe not philosophy. But something else. Anything.” Except Violet.
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Just curious.”
I sink back against the seat and close my eyes for a second. “Yeah, you and the rest of the world,” I mutter.
“Well, let’s focus on where we’re going, then. And maybe on what we’re going to do about those guys.”
“What guys?” My eyes flash open, and I follow Jaxon’s gaze to the rearview mirror. There are three trucks behind us. The one in front is close enough that I can see the tiny silver torch—one of the many symbols the CCA proudly uses—swinging above the dash. I curse under my breath.
I wonder how long it will be before one of them reports that I’m not at school?
How suspicious will they decide that makes me? They’re going to accuse me of trying to hide, and my hands start to shake at the thought of being caught, of being dragged in for more police questioning. I grab the corner of the seat, trying to steady them, while my lips silently recite lines from Much Ado About Nothing; it’s a nervous habit I’ve developed, performing plays and songs in my mind when I want to slip away from the moment I’ve found myself in. It normally calms me down. Today it doesn’t seem to be working, though, and I’ve made it through almost all of act five, scene two, before Jaxon interrupts.
“Geez. Are they always this persistent?”
“Some days it’s worse than others.”
He’s quiet for a minute. Then, “All right. They are entirely too close to my car, and it’s stressing me out.” His fingers fly across the buttons on the side of the steering column. “I’m going to lose them.”
“What? How?”
“You wearing your seat belt?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Good.”
There’s a high-pitched ding, and all the display screens across the dash glow blue for a second. Jaxon’s hand falls to the gearshift between us. He jerks it back, over, and up, and a split second later the car rockets forward. The momentum throws me back and all but takes my breath away.
“Holy crap,” I manage to gasp.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I should have warned you; the gasoline engine has a lot more get-up than anything electric. Which is why they’re never going to catch us.” I can hear the smile in his voice. I’m not looking at it, though, because there is no way I’m taking my eyes off the road. He’s going to hit something, weaving in and out of lanes like this. A car. A person. A building. And whatever it ends up being, I don’t want it to catch me by surprise.
He manages to surprise me anyway, though, when he reaches over and lays his hand over mine. My heart skips several beats, and when it picks up again it’s pounding even faster than before.
“You okay?” he asks. “You . . . um, you look a little pale.”
My eyes leave the road for a fraction of a second. “Why are you looking at me?” I breathe. “The road . . . Watch the road. . . .”
“I am—” He swerves wildly, just barely missing a car that starts to pull out in front of us. “See?”
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“Not today.” He takes a sharp left, cutting off a woman on a mach bike as he turns into a huge concrete parking garage. He twists and turns through the garage, still going entirely too fast until we reach the lowest level, where he parks in the farthest, darkest corner.
He could have parked anywhere, really, because there are almost no other cars in here. I’m not even sure what building the garage is attached to, but the fact that it’s concrete instead of steel—and the fact that it has parking spaces for so many cars—tells me that it’s old.
“What are we doing in here?” I ask.
He cuts the engine. “The car stands out too much, and everyone’s seen you get in and out of it now. I think it’d be better if we made the rest of our escape on foot.”
“You’re coming with me?” I ask.
He’s already halfway out the door, and he ducks back under the frame to answer. “Hey, if you get t
o skip school, then I do too.”
“I’m not actually skipping school, you know. I sort of don’t have a choice.” I’d go if I could, just to keep people from talking.
“Besides,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken, “you owe me a date.”
* * *
Once we’re outside, this corner seems even darker. In the distance I can see stretches of sky through the rows of parking decks; it looks like it’s clouding over. The only light we really have comes from the white safety lamps lining the ceiling—and half of those are burnt out or flickering halfheartedly.
I hug my arms tightly against myself and try to keep my focus straight ahead. It’s useless, though, because I can feel Jaxon watching me. Refusing to ignore me, just like he always has. I would find it annoying, maybe, except for the way his eyes light up whenever our gazes catch; it’s as though he’s seeing me for the first time, every time, and that somehow makes my heart race and leaves me feeling completely at ease all at once. He just has that effect on me in general, actually; it’s like I know I should feel anxious, like I should keep blocking him out. And with anybody else, that’s exactly what I would do. It would be safer that way. Easier. There’s something about Jaxon that won’t let me be nervous, though—or at least not as nervous as I normally am.
I think I actually want to trust him.
Problem is, I’m so used to not trusting people that I don’t really know how to do it. I slow for a few steps without meaning to, while my mind tries to make sense of this strange new sensation settling over me. Jaxon glances back and gives me a look that’s half-amused, half-concerned.
“You all right?”
Then suddenly I’m moving, one foot in front of the other. And I think, Maybe that’s how you do it. Maybe you just keep walking and hope that the stone casing you’re in cracks—and that something more trusting, something more brave, works its way free.
I catch up to Jaxon, and we walk in silence for a few steps before I find the courage to speak. “I can see why you chose this spot for our date,” I say. “It’s incredibly romantic.”
“Isn’t it? I really think that damp, mildew scent adds to the ambience of this place.”
“Definitely. The flickering lamps remind me of candlelight.”
“I knew you were the romantic type.” He darts over to a nearby concrete column; there are weeds sprouting up through the cracks at its base, and he swipes a handful of them, jogs back and offers them to me. “Which is why I got you flowers,” he says.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” I take the bunch from him and arrange it into a makeshift bouquet. Among the green clover are two puffy white flowers with reddish pink centers. I pick at their tiny petals, pulling out the ones that have started to brown. I’m surprised anything—even just weeds—has managed to grow this far down, with nothing but the dim artificial light. Life can be persistent when it wants to be, I guess.
I look up from my bouquet just in time to see a gray truck hurtle around the corner.
I don’t think twice. I just grab Jaxon’s arm and jerk him behind the nearest column. “Those CCA guys . . . ,” I whisper.
“No way they saw us come in here. . . . I was a mile ahead of them,” Jaxon says. “Maybe they’re just looking around. Maybe they don’t know we’re here.”
“They’ll see your car,” I say, “And you’re right—they’re going to know it’s the one I left in. This is going to be all over the news. . . . I should have just told my parents what happened. I should have—”
“Elevator,” he says suddenly, nodding to the right. “It’s just around the corner up there; we can take it to the street level and lose them, but we’ll have to be fast. As soon as they turn into the next row . . . and . . . now!”
I’ve never run so fast in my life. My hair whips in my face. My feet pound against the sloped ground. I fly around the corner, so close behind Jaxon that it’s a miracle we don’t end up tripping over each other.
And there are the elevators, just like he said.
We reach them and he slams his hand against the access panel. The doors slide open almost instantaneously, and we half run, half tumble inside.
I lean against the far wall while Jaxon swipes his fingers over the control screen.
“Close, close, close,” he chants at the doors. They finally do, and I tilt my head back, shut my eyes in relief, and try to get my breathing back to normal. My body continues to thrum with nervous excitement, though, and suddenly I find myself fighting the strange urge to laugh. At me, at him, at this elevator, this moment—it just all seems so surreal.
And then I look at Jaxon, who’s still messing with the controls, and I stop fighting. I just laugh at the craziness of it all. He turns at the sound of it, watching me with a bemused smile until I start laughing so hard that my balance actually sways a little; he catches me, steadies me with his hands around my waist.
“You okay?” he asks, almost laughing himself now.
“I’m sorry. I just . . . this is crazy. And god, I am so dead. When my parents find out about this, when this ends up in the news . . .”
“Maybe it won’t.”
“I admire your optimism, but . . .” I look up so he can see the sarcasm in my smile, and it’s then that I notice exactly how close he is to me. My giggling fit ends abruptly. “But I, um, I’m just . . .”
He’s so close that he’s making it difficult for me to form any sort of rational thoughts. He must realize it too; because he makes what looks like a concentrated effort to take a step back from me, and to pull his fingertips away from where they’d settled against my hips.
“But I’m glad you knew this elevator was here,” I say, filling the silence with words before it has a chance to become any more awkward. “So at least we didn’t have to deal with those guys right now.”
“Yeah.”
There’s something off about the tone of his voice. Without saying anything else, he moves back to the control panels near the door and starts inputting commands. He’s quiet for a long time, until I can’t help but ask, “Is something wrong?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how this works.”
“Need some help?” I offer. “I’m pretty good with computers and stuff.”
“No,” he says, too quickly. Then in a calmer voice he says, “No. I mean, I think I’ve got it now.”
I shrug and lean back against the metal wall, which is cool and refreshing against my heat-flushed skin. The elevator shifts into motion a few seconds later. It’s a lot jerkier than most of the ones in newer buildings around the city, and it makes my stomach flip uncomfortable. I stare at a bright red button on the wall next to Jaxon, try to concentrate on its stillness, to pretend we aren’t moving and that I’m not about to be sick. My gaze is torn from it, though, when Jaxon finally turns back around to face me.
He looks . . . strange. His smile is gone. If I didn’t know better, looking at him now I’d believe he’d never smiled a day in his life. An edgy, tingling feeling creeps up the back of my neck and over my scalp.
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” I ask, straightening up again. He nods. The elevator shudders to a stop. I hear voices outside, and the breath I managed to catch gets away from me again. I keep listening, hoping to hear the hum of traffic, too, or at least the sound of footsteps hurrying past, or of birds calling or dogs barking. Sounds of the city. I’ve never wanted that barrage of noise so badly as I want it now.
Something isn’t right.
The doors open.
There’s no city. There’s no sunlight. There’s only a giant room lined with computers and desks and swarming with people. And everything—from those computers to the clothing the people wear to the information boards across the wall—all have the same three letters blazing across them: CCA.
CHAPTER FIVE
Truth
This can’t be right.
Jaxon can’t be CCA.
He was it. The. Only. One. The only one who’s never looked at me like I h
ad some sort of disease. The only person who’s ever stood up for me. How could he have been pretending all these years?
“Okay—I can explain this.” Jaxon’s eyes are pleading with mine, but I only meet them for a fraction of second before we’re interrupted. Two men and a woman file into the elevator between us; the woman taps away at a silver palm computer while one of the men grabs me by the arm. My gaze darts to the close door button, and then to the one labeled G, which I assume stands for garage level. And for one desperate moment, I think about diving for those buttons. But even if I could somehow fight everyone off and make it back to the parking deck, then what would I do? Walk home? Straight through who knows how many more CCA and news trucks that are probably nearby, looking for me?
Cooperating may be an even worse idea, but before I can make up my mind either way, the man holding my arm gives me a rough shove. The other two crowd closer to me, and I’m marched from the elevator without a word from any of them.
“Guys, come on,” I hear Jaxon say. “I can take her myself. This isn’t necessary.”
My heels dig instinctively into the floor. Take me where, exactly? What are they planning on doing with me?
“Vice President Voss’s orders,” says the computer woman. I’m so stunned that it takes a second for the name to register in my brain. Voss? As in Samantha Voss? She has relatives who are CCA?
It shouldn’t come as much of a shock, I guess. Like I said, the Vosses I know have never been especially shy when it comes to voicing their opinions about the cloning movement—or my sister.
Still, though . . . vice president? They never seemed that passionate about it. Of course, maybe they just didn’t want their cover blown. It’s not as if I’ve ever known any other CCA members to flaunt their titles in public; I didn’t even know they had titles—and I never would have expected anything like this base, filled with what looks like a ridiculous amount of people and technology for what I always just assumed was another protest group. A more organized, more persistently annoying than most protest group, yes.
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