by M A Gelsey
“Fuck you, Fred,” Javi said. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
Fred gave a scornful laugh. “Jealous? Of what?”
“She is pretty fuckin’ hot,” Herman pointed out. “If she threw herself at me I’d fuck her too.”
“You’d fuck anyone who’d have you, Herman.” Fred said with a snort.
Herman grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
There was a moment’s pause, then all three of them cracked up.
“Look man, do whatever you want,” Fred said to Javi. “Just hope her husband doesn’t find out.”
Javi nodded, belatedly remembering that Fred’s parents had split up when he was young after his mother repeatedly cheated on his father. She had moved to Belize and Fred only saw her once a year, if that. That has nothing to do with this, he told himself, almost believing it.
“Are you gonna fuck her again?” Herman asked eagerly.
Javi shrugged. “If I’m lucky.”
Herman hooted with laughter, and even Fred cracked a smile.
“Can I have Stella now that you have Imogen?” Herman asked.
“Sure,” Javi said sarcastically. “All you’ll have to do is get rid of Kato Barre.”
“Ah fuck. I forgot about Kato,” Herman said, heaving a theatrical sigh.
Fred rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.”
“One of you has to wingman for me now,” Herman said. “I can’t be the only virgin when we graduate.”
“Somehow I doubt Imogen has any friends looking for an awkward eighteen-year-old ginger to fuck,” Javi said. “Maybe Violet does, eh Fred?”
“Excuse me, I take issue with the word awkward,” Herman said, mouth twitching in amusement. “But I can’t argue with the rest of that description.”
Fred heaved a great sigh. “I guess I can ask her.”
“Bonus points if she’s blonde like Stella,” said Herman. “But really —”
“ — you’ll take what you can get,” finished Fred.
Javi’s phone started vibrating and he jumped up and fished it out of his pocket, swiping a finger across the touch screen to answer without even bothering to check who was calling.
“Hello?” he asked, hoping against hope it was her.
“Hi Javi, Arthur Blair here.”
Javi suppressed a groan. He’d forgotten all about Arthur Blair. “Oh, ok. Hi,” Javi said in as polite a voice as he could manage, shaking his head in response to Herman’s mouthed question about whether he was speaking to Imogen.
“I wanted to confirm our interview for tomorrow afternoon. Where should I meet you?” Arthur Blair got right to business.
“Oh . . .” Javi’s mind was a blank. He still hadn’t told his parents about Arthur Blair and the thought of doing so now when they were already on such rocky terms made his stomach twist into knots. He also wanted to steer clear of anyone from school he might run into. “There’s a coffee place on the corner of Main Street and Blossom Hill Boulevard. It’s called House of Sumatra.” It was a bit of a trek, but Javi was banking on Fred giving him a ride in exchange for a latte and a piece of gingerbread.
“I’ll be there. How’s 4 p.m.?”
“That works,” Javi said, already dreading it.
He hung up and turned to Fred. “I need a favor.”
When Javi got home that night, he wasn’t sure what to say to his parents, if anything. He knew he’d have to broach the subject before the following weekend, when he was supposed to fly to New York City for the photo shoot. He’d only visited once before — years ago, with his parents — and the idea of losing himself once more in the anonymous crush was highly appealing.
Javi found his father in his study, a small but cozy room with old books lining the walls on shelves and cluttering every available surface except for a small area in the center of the desk where he kept his computer. His father was leaning back in his massive chair — the only place to sit in the room — with his bare feet perched on the edge of the desk and his head bent over his tablet. Javi had never met anyone who loved to read more than his father.
When he stepped tentatively into the room, Javi’s father looked up with a warm smile, and the words Javi had been planning to say to him stuck in his throat.
“What are you reading?” Javi asked instead.
“A Feast for Crows,” his father replied.
“Haven’t you read that like twenty times already?” Javi asked with a half-smile. His father reread the entirety of A Song of Ice and Fire every other year it seemed.
“Never gets old.” His father laid down the tablet. “I learn something new each time.”
Javi had always considered his father’s practice of rereading all his favorite books so many times he’d probably memorized them endearingly eccentric. But he hadn’t come to talk about books.
“I was thinking I’d spend next weekend at Stanford,” he blurted out. “Fred’s neighbor is a junior there. He said I can stay with him. Fred is going too, he can drive me.”
His father’s surprise was evident on his face. “I thought you wanted to go somewhere else.”
“Figured I should give it a bit more consideration,” Javi lied. “Just to be sure.”
It was obvious that his father was trying to hide his enthusiasm for this idea. “Very wise, son. Don’t worry about your mother, I’ll tell her. And we can all talk about it more when you get back.”
“Okay,” Javi said. He turned to go, worried his father would see through the lie if he stayed.
“Javi,” his father said, stopping him at the door. “I’ll be proud of you no matter what you decide. Your mother as well. You know that, right?”
Javi’s throat felt too constricted to answer, so he just nodded, and ducked out of the study. Back upstairs in his room, Javi paced incessantly, his mind a confused jumble; Arthur Blair, the lie he’d told his father, his mother’s continued silent treatment, and his college decision all battled for his attention. Every couple of minutes, Imogen’s naked body interrupted his thoughts. He felt himself start to grow hard whenever this happened, and it took all of his effort to wrench his mind back to the problems at hand.
He was seized by the desire to do something — all this thinking was making Javi’s head hurt. Impulsively, he sat down at his computer and logged onto his email. He found the message from Georgetown, congratulating him on his acceptance. Without giving himself time to reconsider, he clicked the ‘submit deposit’ link and filled in his bank account information — he had just enough saved up from various birthdays and Christmases over the years to cover the amount. He submitted the non-refundable deposit with a thrill of nerves mingled with a surge of defiance, then slammed the laptop shut and threw himself down on the bed to think about Imogen again and jerk off.
Javi approached the House of Sumatra with trepidation the next afternoon while attempting to feign cool indifference. The second he walked through the door, a man in his late twenties stood up and waved. Arthur Blair had reddish hair with an awkward goatee and a pale, pointy face. He was the sort of man who could stand to lose twenty pounds — at least. When Javi reached his table in the back, Blair stuck out his hand for Javi to shake. His palm was slightly sweaty, and he stared at Javi a little too avidly as they sat down.
“So good to finally meet you, Javi. We have so much to discuss. Would you mind if I record our conversation? To ensure I quote you accurately, of course.” Blair patted his phone for emphasis.
“Uh, sure,” Javi said, not feeling sure at all.
“Excellent, excellent. Can I get you something to drink? To eat? Coffee? Biscotti?” Blair’s voice was a rapid staccato, making Javi more tense by the minute.
“Uh . . . a mocha I guess. Extra chocolate,” Javi said.
Blair sprung up from his seat the instant Javi finished speaking, and bustled over to the barista to place their orders. Javi drummed his fingers on the table awkwardly, and tried to pretend he wasn’t regretting his rash decision to participate in the in
terview. In what seemed like no time at all, Blair returned with two large mugs. He placed the mocha in front of Javi and kept the black coffee for himself. Not sure what to do, Javi took a sip of his mocha. Even though he always ordered it with extra chocolate, today it tasted too sweet, and Javi placed it down on the table with a thunk.
“Is it okay?” Blair asked.
Javi nodded, but Blair barely seemed interested, focusing instead on firing up the phone app that would record their conversation. Silently, Javi reminded himself to think before he spoke. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself any more than necessary.
“Shall we get started?” Blair was plainly trying to conceal his eagerness, but Javi could see it anyway. He nodded again, and Blair’s face spasmed into a grin before he managed to return to a more professional demeanor. “I’ll just dive right in then, shall I?”
“Sure,” Javi said. Let the interrogation begin.
34: EDGAR PRIME
The Clone Advocacy Network profile was published the day of Edgar Prime’s return flight from Zurich. Dr. Midas was more subdued than usual. Edgar Prime had watched him saying goodbye to Dr. Yang that morning by the hotel elevators. From a distance, it had almost looked like an argument — yet still nothing that hadn’t happened a hundred times before.
Edgar Prime was in a good mood. Not only had Arthur Blair delivered on his promised article publicizing the work CAN was doing, but Edgar Prime had plans to meet up with Noela and Luken once they were all back in the city. And of course he’d also see Hugo soon, a thought that made Edgar Prime’s stomach flutter no matter how many times he told himself to get a grip.
Patrice and Dr. Midas both slept for most of the flight, and Edgar Prime used the time to catch up on his political theory homework. When the plane landed at JFK airport, Edgar Prime’s phone began buzzing, and he saw three texts from Celeste and one from Hugo inviting him to Celeste’s apartment for drinks later that night. There was also an email from Arthur Blair asking whether he’d be free on Thursday for the interview.
Edgar Prime quickly typed a response to Hugo — ‘yes!’ — then a slightly longer message to Arthur Blair with his Thursday class schedule and availability. Nobody spoke much in the limo back to Manhattan, and Edgar Prime sighed with relief when he was dropped off on the curb outside his dorm. An hour later he was greeted at Celeste’s door by a scream — she threw her arms around him, spilling champagne down his back from the bottle she clutched in one hand.
“Good to see you too, Celeste,” Edgar Prime said with a grin. She laughed and closed the door behind him, before handing him the bottle of champagne. As was often the case, the apartment seemed mostly full of random people Edgar Prime had never met before. The air was smoky and smelled like pot, and there was a pleasant cacophony of voices intermixed with trance music. Edgar Prime took a swig of champagne while weaving through the dancing crowd with Celeste, and some of the liquid bubbled down his chin and dripped onto the floor. Celeste didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.
“More!” she said, giggling. They reached one of the two couches crammed into the living room, where George and Blake sat side by side. Edgar Prime was amused to note that George had his arm around Blake — apparently they’d reconciled while he was gone.
“We started early,” explained George with a nod to the empty beer bottles strewn across the coffee table. “How’s it going, man?”
“Not bad,” Edgar Prime replied. He took another long swig of the champagne. “How’re you doing, Blake?”
“Better than Hugo,” she said, pointing. Edgar Prime felt a rush of mingled joy and nerves as he turned to look. There was a tall boy beside Hugo with bronze skin, black hair and startlingly blue eyes, standing closer than Edgar Prime would have liked. They seemed to be having a disagreement, but the room was too loud for Edgar Prime to hear what was being discussed.
“Who’s that?” Edgar Prime asked, not taking his eyes from the boy’s chiseled features.
“Hugo’s ex,” Blake said. “They broke up six months ago, but I guess it’s complicated.”
Edgar Prime didn’t say anything, glaring at Hugo’s offensively handsome companion with increasing dislike.
“He’s an asshole,” Celeste said in a matter-of-fact voice. “But Hugo told me they were going to try to be friends.” She rolled her eyes and added sarcastically, “Wonder how that’s going?”
Edgar Prime forced a laugh, and wrenched his eyes away from Hugo. He knew he had no right to be jealous, but he had to fight the sudden impulse to pull the Abercrombie model away from Hugo and break his perfectly sculpted nose. Instead, Edgar Prime hit the bottle, finishing off Celeste’s champagne in a surprisingly short amount of time. This was followed by several rounds of tequila shots, accompanied by salt and lime. By the time Hugo made his way over to them, Edgar Prime was halfway through burping the ABCs. His laughter soured when he saw that Hugo’s pretty ex had followed and was waiting to be introduced.
“Ed, how was your trip?” Hugo asked, as though he didn’t have a wraith standing beside him.
“Oh, excellent,” Edgar Prime said in a louder and more disdainful voice than he’d intended. Hugo’s ex pursed his lips in disapproval, and Edgar Prime sneered at him in return. Hugo caught the ex’s eye, frowned and shook his head slightly. Reluctantly it seemed, the ex’s face smoothed out into a more neutral expression.
“Ed, this is Gerard Pierson,” Hugo mumbled, barely meeting Edgar Prime’s eyes.
Edgar Prime grunted in response and gave a tiny jerk of his head that a forgiving person might have termed a nod of acknowledgement.
“So you’re the clone,” pretty Gerard drawled.
To Edgar Prime’s disgust, Gerard had a deep, sexily posh British accent. Edgar Prime wasn’t sure if he wanted to howl with insane laughter or puke at the revelation that in fact there was no contest between him and his ‘competition’. A few girls who were standing nearby turned at the sound of Gerard’s voice and eyed him with interest. He winked at them, clearly enjoying the attention.
“Shut up Gerard,” Celeste snapped.
“Why should I, Celeste?” Gerard retorted.
“Your puss face pisses me off. Time for it to relocate.” Celeste dismissed him with a wave. Hugo looked uncomfortable but didn’t defend Gerard, something that gave Edgar Prime a savage pleasure.
Gerard glared at Celeste for another few seconds before turning to Hugo. “Let’s go,” he said.
Hugo appeared torn. “I dunno . . .” he trailed off.
“Celeste doesn’t want me here, so I’m gonna leave. Are you coming or not?” Edgar Prime waited with baited breath. Hugo was staring into Gerard’s ridiculously blue eyes. He gave a small nod, and Gerard looked triumphant.
“Laters, children,” he spat.
“See you guys,” muttered Hugo. He followed Gerard out, wedging their way through the crowd to the door. Edgar Prime noticed he wasn’t the only person frowning at their retreating backs.
“Pathetic,” Celeste said. “What a little cunt Gerard is.”
“Hugo doesn’t think he’s a cunt,” Edgar Prime said in a dazed voice. He felt like a beetle that had just been stomped on.
“He does,” Celeste said. “He knows Gerard’s a cunt. Hugo’s just weak when it comes to puss-face Gerard. He was his first love and all that bullshit.”
Edgar Prime suddenly realized he desperately had to pee. He stood up and was so dizzy he nearly fell over, using Celeste’s shoulder to prop himself up again. “Whoa there,” she said, chuckling. He stumbled over to the bathroom infinitely grateful that there was no line. He slammed the door shut and turned the lock, fumbling with the zipper on his pants. Finally free of them, he groaned in relief, not concerned about the stray droplets of urine that sprayed onto the seat due to his unsteady aim. Afterwards he clumsily flushed and washed his hands, staring at his reflection in what looked to him like a funhouse mirror. I’m not drunk, he told himself. Even then he knew it was a lie.
When Edgar Prime ope
ned the door, he found Celeste standing outside blocking his path. She stepped inside and closed the door again behind her, turning the lock with a click.
“Celeste, what —” his question was interrupted by her lips on his. Vaguely a part of his mind protested — she wasn’t who he wanted, not really — but damn if her warm, wet tongue didn’t feel good. He let her push him roughly against a wall, grateful for the additional support, and she pressed her body against his. He felt her unbutton and unzip his pants and reach her hand inside his boxers.
Someone pounded on the door and he and Celeste both froze, staring at each other. “Use the other bathroom!” yelled Celeste and amidst the grumbling from the other side of the door, they both cracked up. It occurred to Edgar Prime that never in a thousand years had he thought he’d laugh so hard while a girl’s hand grasped his erect penis. The laughter subsided and they resumed their making out, with more urgency this time. Celeste pushed his boxers down to his mid-thigh and squeezed his ass with her free hand.
A condom came from somewhere, and she slid it over him as though she’d done it a hundred times before. Edgar Prime stared down at her hand feeling as though he was in a dream about to be slapped awake. An instant later the feeling passed, or didn’t matter. She yanked her jeans and thong down and bent over the sink, reaching back to deftly guide him inside her and his brain melted. He moved in and out of her clumsily, watching their distorted images in the funhouse mirror and embracing the blankness of his mind — the only thing that existed was the building sensation in his body, but he couldn’t quite find release. He didn’t have a clear sense of how long it went on for, but after awhile Edgar Prime stopped, panting in frustration.
“What’s wrong?” Celeste asked him.
He shook his head and slowly pulled out of her. Time seemed to skip a few beats — the next thing Edgar Prime knew he was bent over the toilet, vomiting up all the champagne and tequila he’d drunk while Celeste stood over him watching. He hadn’t even bothered to pull his pants up, and the tiled floor pressed into his bare knees uncomfortably. Afterwards he managed to stand and zip himself up without falling over. He stared at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror, and accepted the mouthwash Celeste handed him without comment. She left the bathroom first, and he had to resist the urge to smash his head against the wall.