by Ryan Schow
I’m really worried for Bridget.
Headmistress Sylvia Klein is a late forty-something brunette with the skin of a thirty-something bombshell and the kind of body that might look alright in a two piece at the beach. She dresses a little too conservative for me, like maybe she’s stuck contemplating last decade’s style, and still trying to make that work. Um, hello, Ms. Klein, the 2010’s are calling…
We all sit down and Headmistress Klein gives us the blow-by-blow of yesterday’s food fight according to various students’ accounts, and then she says, “Now I want your sides of the story.”
Cameron speaks up right away, saying she was minding her own business when Bridget attacked her. Julie says the same thing.
Headmistress Klein, her face actually wrinkling with disgust, looks at Bridget and says, “How is this possible?” Apparently Bridget’s never been in trouble before.
Eyes downcast, her eye shadow deep and dark and sexy, Bridget says, “It’s true.”
And that’s it. She doesn’t even bother to defend herself. There’s no way this is going to play out this way, so I speak on her behalf.
“Bridget was upset by something I told her.”
I glance over at Cameron. She’s glaring at me, pouring buckets of hatred into those two narrowed eyes, slowly shaking her head back and forth. A warning. As attractive as she could be, Cameron is so terribly ugly to me right now. And her black eye doesn’t help.
“I told Bridget how Cameron and Julie gouged the words ‘Disgusting Pig’ into the side of my Range Rover. How it’s so deep entire body panels might have to be replaced.”
The horror that overtakes Headmistress Klein’s face is something to behold. She swings her head around to the two girls and says, “Is this true?”
Julie and Cameron look down, suddenly rendered mute. Suddenly rendered helpless. I am filled with untold amounts of joy at the sight of their shame.
“Can I have them arrested for what they did?” I ask. Headmistress Klein says I can. She says vandalism is a misdemeanor offense. That the Placer County Sheriff’s Department takes that kind of thing very seriously. “What about harassment in other forms, Headmistress Klein? Like say, combining all your friends’ vomit in one giant bag and leaving it disguised as a gift at another student’s dorm room door. Is that also something they could be arrested for?”
Headmistress Klein is speechless.
“And how about Facebook bullying? The FBI is investigating formal complaints, I hear. You know, with all the taunting that’s been leading to suicides these days.”
I look pointedly at Cameron. The dig hits her like acid flung in her face. Apparently the rumors are true.
“Is this the kind of school that will cooperate with the authorities in prosecuting this kind of behavior?” I ask. “Because that’s something my father will want to know when I discuss this with him later this evening.”
I wonder if I’m laying it on too thick, but the way Cameron and Julie are sinking lower and lower into their chairs, and the way Headmistress Klein seems to grow older with disgust, I milk the moment for all it’s worth.
Headmistress Klein looks at Julie and Cameron and says, “You all puked in a bag?” She can’t even say the rest. It’s too much even for her.
“Or maybe, what might be best, Headmistress Klein,” I add, “is if their parents pay for the damage done to my car and the harassing stops. Permanently.”
“What about the assault?” Julie says. “I might need stitches.”
“What assault?” I say.
“The—” Cameron starts to protest, but then she gets it.
“I don’t press charges against you, you don’t seek retribution against Bridget and all this stops for good between us.”
Headmistress Klein looks us over, mouth slightly open, hopeful.
“Fine,” Julie says.
“Fine,” Cameron says.
We all look at each other, and though no one is smiling and everyone still seems on edge, Headmistress Klein says, “It’s settled then. No one will press charges and the feud between you will stop. I am, however, going to make note of the incident in your student files and you two are going to arrange payment for Miss Van Duyn’s car to be repaired within the week.”
We all nod in agreement.
“And if there is anything else, if I even so much as hear a peep about harassment again, I’m turning this matter over to the authorities.”
We all say, “Yes, Headmistress Klein,” then turn and break for the door. As Cameron is walking past me, she shoulder bumps me and mutters the word, “Bitch.” I shove her in the back and say, “Bring it on, Popeye.” My newfound confidence is both thrilling to me and startling to everyone else.
When Cameron and Julie are out of earshot, Bridget says, “Popeye?”
I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. “Looking at that black eye,” I say, my grin becoming a satisfied smile, “Popeye just came to mind.”
“Genius,” she says. “Thanks for having my back in there. You didn’t have to do that.”
“That’s what friends do for each other.”
“I know. But after last night, after we lied to you, I wasn’t sure if you still wanted us as friends.”
“Of course, I do, dummy,” I say.
4
During third period Branding and Media Relations, I sit next to Brayden who says hello like he’s excited to see me. In the past, the only thing he’s ever been excited about is hacking and talking to the non-triplets. I say a hesitant hello, suddenly embarrassed by my lack of modesty last night. Now he’s looking at me funny. I force what is certainly an awkward looking smile, doing my best to swallow my nervousness.
Suddenly my throat is dry. We’re talking Mohave Desert dry.
Just when I think no boy has ever seen me naked and I should be embarrassed, I recall the paparazzi and how they photographed me poolside when I was fourteen and horribly ugly. How many hands did those uncensored pictures go through before someone decided to cover my troll tits with mismatched stars? Dozens, I’m certain. At least with Brayden my boobs looked better, more balanced, perkier. Pretty soon me and Brayden are chatting like nothing happened and I’ve got to say, being friends with him feels good.
With the exception of Damien not being in attendance, the rest of the day goes so well I completely forget about the police report in my backpack until sixth period Psychology. With a few minutes to spare, I skim the report. My eyes catch at the line reading: Body never found.
What? How do you say someone’s dead if there’s no body?
I scan the report more thoroughly. That’s when I see it: “….enough blood found at the scene of the crime to indicate loss of life.”
Loss of life. Even without a body?
Wow.
No wonder Kaitlyn’s mother reacted the way she did. Her daughter’s body was never found. Inside I feel horrible knowing she has gone this long without closure. And even worse knowing Georgia walked into her home looking exactly like her dead/missing daughter.
At my appointment with Dr. Gerhard, I casually ask him how many other students have undergone this procedure and he says he takes doctor/patient confidentiality very serious. I say, “Is that why Bridget, Victoria and Georgia look the same? Because they went through what I’m going through?”
His voice turns serpentine, so low and wicked I feel it in the cold, hard shivers racing up my spine. “You are not to discuss your treatments with anyone outside of this office. Not with them, not with anyone.”
I recoil. So Gerhard has a sharp edge.
“I haven’t,” I say in not much more than a whisper. “But all three of them have identical birthmarks on their legs. Now I have one, too. In the exact same place. I saw them in the locker room showers. That’s why I’m asking.”
The revelation unwinds him. He runs his hand through his hair, draws a morbid breath, then releases it in a slow, measured sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Do they know you have one as well? The
mark?”
“No,” I lie.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Let me see it.”
By now I’m used to taking down my pants for others. I show him the mark and he looks consternated by the sight of it. “It isn’t supposed to be there, is it?”
“No,” he says with a frown. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. “I thought that I corrected that.”
“Will I look like them?” I ask. Inside I’m conflicted. I want to hear him say yes because they are so beautiful, and his confirmation will guarantee I will one day be beautiful too, but the other half of me wants to look unique. I don’t want to be a twin, or a quintuplet, as it were.
“You’re not supposed to look like them. But with this mark showing up, it gives me deep concern. We’ll need to stop the treatments while I—”
“No! I mean, no, it’s alright. I’ll hide the mark.”
“It’s just for a few days,” he says. “I’ll send for you when it’s okay to resume treatment. Until then, don’t take your pills. No matter what. The shots and pills work together, so taking a pill without the shot would prove devastating, maybe even lethal. In fact, you should drop them off with Nurse Arabelle this evening.”
I wonder if I can slip four or five pills to Julie Satan and friends. I wonder what would happen, if Gerhard would even know. “Okay,” I say. Of course he would know.
Talk about ending the day on a major downer.
5
Being able to go a full night without feeling like I’ve spent half of it in the ninth circle of hell is a dream I don’t want to wake up from. Then again, I have nothing new to wake up to and this is disappointing. Not perkier boobs, not a bubblier butt, not a shrinking waist. It’s funny how the anticipation of these changes gave some promise to the day.
Logically I should be crashing right now. Spiraling into a depression. That would be me. But I’m not spiraling into anything as much as I feel “even” throughout the day. Not up, and not down; neither manic nor morose. A girl can get used to this!
Of course, when I see Theresa Prichard snap a photo of me walking through the hallway between second and third period on the sly, all that sunshine turns to dismal skies with a promise of rain. Why is Theresa taking pictures? Inside, I worry. I fret. Lord knows, I look different, a lot thinner, but fortunately no one’s said anything about it, other than Brayden. How long can I go before drawing suspicion? Are people already suspicious?
I’d be stupid to think otherwise.
Perhaps that’s another reason Gerhard demanded a break—the changes are occurring too quickly. Plus, he’s got problems with the non-triplets, and with Kaitlyn looking just like them.
During the first three periods, I don’t catch so much as a glimpse of Damien. Where the hell is he?! I’m not a fan of his crappy attitude, but I miss looking at him, even though he’s mad at me. I’m also concerned about his parents. About him. Did I say I miss looking at him?
Guh!
Lunch goes just like lunch always goes, except without fist fights and food wars and Brayden ogling Bridget. He isn’t ogling any of them and I start to wonder what’s wrong. The more I look at him, the more I want to know what thoughts are slinking around in that big brain of his.
Walking with me to fourth period, he says, “Do you think I’m dense?”
“Uh, no.”
He says, “About the other night. You know”—and he whispers—“me being upset like I was?”
I stop and look at him, aghast. He’s worried I think less of him because he broke down the other night.
“You telling me those things about yourself, especially them being so personal, it only made me like you more, Brayden.”
“It did?”
“You go around school and you think you know people, but you don’t really know people because they’re scared of being vulnerable, scared to show an honest emotion, or divulge parts of themselves they’ve kept hidden from everyone. You told me your defining tragedy, and it made me feel…I don’t know…closer to you.”
“Like in a romantic way?” he says.
“No, butthole. Like in an intimate way, but not sexual. You know? More like what best friends would do for each other.”
“If we’re such good friends,” he asks, “then maybe you can tell me what happened with you. Why you went from a cool exhibitionist to practically freaking out.”
Great, I knew this was coming.
“I thought I was okay with you, you know, seeing my…girls, but”—and this is where I lie to protect Gerhard’s experiment and my father’s gigantic investment—“maybe I got caught up in the moment. My behavior was impulsive. A moment of weakness.”
“I won’t say anything,” he says. “I just appreciated that you trusted me. Impulsive or not.”
I stare at him, bewildered. “I’m liking this new you,” I say, impressed. “You’re not the jerk you pretend to be.”
“Yeah, well now you know.”
In fourth period I’m pleasantly surprised when Damien rolls into class. He looks at me, a look of defeat dulling his eyes, or maybe he’s just wiped out. I want to look at him, to absorb his substantial beauty, but most everything that leaves his mouth is somehow tortured or cruel. With all his brooding, his constant ups and downs, I decide Damien just isn’t safe to talk to.
Taking my seat, I tell myself not to look at him. Too late. I look up. He’s staring at me.
He says, “We need to talk.”
His matter-of-fact tone has my insides squirming. The voice in the back of my head says whatever he wants to talk about, it isn’t good. The way Georgia and I ruined his mother, there’s a good chance he’ll tell me how much he hates me. How much I left his family destroyed.
After class, I usually meet Brayden in the hallway to walk halfway to PE together. Today I tell him Damien wants to talk to me and he fires me a look that looks like…oh, God…jealousy?
I hope not!
Sullen, he says, “Fine. I’ll see you in Psychology,” but he isn’t sweet or sensitive. He’s back to being the jerk. I swear, boys are so stupid sometimes.
Damien is suddenly there, beside me. Startled, I say, “How’s your mother?”
“Wrecked. Sedated. My father is talking about committing her again.” The coiling in my abdomen rolls into nausea. I’m thinking, here it comes. Then he says, “Tell me what you know about my step-sister.”
“Some things,” I say. “Not much, really. Stuff you probably already know.”
“Enlighten me,” he says, impatient. The way he looks, any minute that fatigue of his will turn to anger unless I cooperate. I’m terrified of what will happen when I actually tell him what I know. If I tell him everything. I can’t exactly admit I had Brayden hack into police files, or that Gerhard is changing me into someone else and did the same to Kaitlyn a couple of years ago. Or can I? Time to dip my toes in the pool…
“The Kaitlyn from two years ago looked nothing like the Kaitlyn of four years ago. And the multi-million dollar treatments—along with the steep tuition fees—well…your parents aren’t exactly paying for any of it. In fact, they never paid a dime.”
His freaking jaw hit the floor. “How do you know that?”
“Good investigative journalism. If you were smart, you’d be quiet and let me finish what I’m saying.” Holy cow, did I just say that?
“Fine,” he says, his eyes cold, the muscles along his jaw flicking. “Finish.”
“The Kaitlyn of two years ago looks almost identical to the Georgia, Victoria and Bridget of today, who also look nothing like they did when they arrived two years ago.”
“When they started looking like Kaitlyn,” Damien says, “I started asking questions. Then I received a note saying if I didn’t shut my mouth and focus on school, I’d be back in some low-rent private school, or worse, public school. So I shut my mouth, focused on school. I have shut my mouth about your friends, about Kaitlyn, and now I’m shutting my mouth about you and how you’re changing, too.”
; A cold sweat grips me. I swallow an impossibly large lump in my throat. “What do you mean? I’m not changing.”
“Bullshit, Savannah. You were a pimple on a dog’s ass when you got here. Now you’re a lot thinner and halfway to almost beautiful in what? A few weeks? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Everyone’s noticed. Jesus Christ, Savannah, have you even seen Facebook? Theresa’s page has a whole spread on you.”
My insides are chilling while the outside of me now burns beneath a smokeless fire. “I haven’t, no.”
“You should.”
A big part of me tries acting like I don’t care, but I’m a horrible actor and my curiosity is an infection with no cure. Even worse, I’m embarrassed.
“It’s exercise and a strict diet,” I hear myself saying. “Nothing more.”
“Pretty soon you’ll be a clone, too, and this cycle will continue.” A few people pass him in the hall, so he leans in and lowers his voice so only I can hear. “I need to know what’s going on. I need to find Kaitlyn’s body. I have to know what happened or her mother is going to go to a mental hospital for a long time. And maybe me, too.”
“You care a lot about Kaitlyn,” I reply. I always wondered what it would be like to have siblings. So many times I dreamt of it, wondering if they would be the happiness missing in my life, the hole neither Margaret nor my father could fill. At least I would have someone to talk to, to be honest with.
“I care about her a lot,” he says. “I…I love her.”
“How long were you guys step-brother and sister?”
He straightens up with the question, and I can see in his eyes even before he says it that it’s been a long time. The thing in his eyes isn’t something I know in the eyes of my parents, or really anyone: it is love. Genuine, unconditional love.
“Since we were kids,” he says, his eyes misting over. “I was in first grade.” A tear rolls loose and he quickly brushes it away, offended by its run. If I liked him before, I think I might be falling in love with him now. My God, how can I not be in love with him? He’s a boy-God for heaven’s sake!