by Kristen Pham
“I told him you’re the only person I’ve met so far who is worth my time,” Harriet says.
“Right back at you. How do you know him?”
“He’s best friends with Mason, the guy you helped. Mase and I grew up in the Lab together,” Harriet says. “When Justus visits, he always brings food and never comments on the smell down there, so everyone likes him.”
Before I can grill her further, our classmates begin packing up and leaving the break room. Elizabeth stops at our table and scrunches her dainty nose at the peanut butter sandwich I’m inhaling, looking for all the world like a snobby Evolved whose parents patented her DNA at birth, instead of a lowlife Throwback like me.
“Eating one peanut butter sandwich isn’t going to make you fat,” Elizabeth says. “But every fat person I know eats peanut butter.”
Ken howls with laughter at her insult, and, for once, a witty comeback escapes me.
“The barking you’re doing isn’t going to turn you into a dog. But every bitch I know barks,” Harriet replies.
I give her a grateful grin for her kick-ass comeback, and Elizabeth scowls at both of us before leaving. It’s surreal, being bullied by Elizabeth the First and having Harriet Tubman come to your rescue.
“What’s your next class?” Harriet asks.
“Remedial Acting with Crew Beaker. You?”
“Same!” she says.
At least a few times a week, I’ll have an ally at my side in class. Did Crew recruit Harriet into his rebellion as well? My curiosity will have to wait until we’re alone.
We head to our Remedial Acting class, which is located in the basement. Downstairs in the bowels of the theater, it’s dimmer, and even cooler than the theater itself. I like it down here, secreted away from the world.
A familiar figure is programming the lighting panel for the theater at the end of the hallway. Justus looks up, and my smile is automatic, but he doesn’t return it. His eyes swing between me, Harriet, and the open door to the only classroom down here. He shuts his eyes, releasing a long breath, and when he opens them, he avoids my gaze. He returns to working the lighting panel as if he didn’t see me.
“He’s ignoring me? Really?”
“You can’t talk with him while he works. You can’t even share glances. He could get fired if someone caught him slacking on the job. There are fifty other Throwbacks who would love his position, so there’s no room for screwups, especially since he isn’t eighteen yet, and his lavaliere and working permit are forged,” Harriet whispers.
Maybe. Or maybe Justus is taking his mysterious and moody act too far.
There’s only one classroom, and it’s much larger than the classrooms upstairs. It even has a tiny stage and a couple dozen seats. It’s completely retro, with no technology embedded in the walls or floor to project sets. The wooden stage is stained with age.
Harriet and I move toward the front of the classroom, and my eyes narrow as I examine my classmates. It’s a very different crowd than the one in my Costumes and Makeup class. Rob and Sal are present, but the other students are a mystery, making me guess that we’re all Historicals. Perhaps that’s why our class is “Remedial” Acting, since we lack the genetic advantages that those cloned from famous actors carry in their DNA.
Elizabeth comes in, laughing with Cesar, Sacagawea, and Joseph. Damn. I’d hoped they were good-looking enough to not be classified with the rest of us Historicals, but I’m wrong.
Beside me, Harriet gives a low bark at the sight of Elizabeth, making me laugh. Elizabeth notices us, but her expression is carefully blank, so as to avoid giving us the satisfaction of a reaction. I may not like her, but she carries herself like a queen. I bet the original Elizabeth scared the shit out of her subjects.
“Welcome, subjects,” Crew thunders from the stage.
He’s grinning at all of us with this Cheshire cat smile that is simultaneously silly and spooky. I wonder what his clone type is. But unlike Lady Cleo, Crew doesn’t bother with introductions.
“Here, you are individuals. Share your clone type if you wish, but it’s your choice to reveal it. You are the first incarnation of you, and we will not judge you on the merits or sins of someone you have never met.”
Part of me wants to stand up and applaud loudly at his words, but the curious side of me wants to stamp my foot in frustration. It would be so cool to know who everyone is cloned from.
“The walls around you are the one safe place to speak freely when you are on school premises. This room is bug-free, and any technology is disabled upon crossing the threshold, so secret taping of anything that is said or done here is impossible.”
My eyes widen. Crew is talking like everyone in this room knows about his real agenda for training at Seattle Secondary.
Next to me, Harriet shifts in her seat.
“He recruited you, too?” I whisper.
“I’m still deciding if I can trust him,” she says.
Crew’s eyes snap to me, and he flashes his Cheshire cat grin again.
“While some of you may enjoy your other classes, I suspect that most of you have impatiently been waiting to learn more about the Throwback rebellion.”
“At last,” Elizabeth says to my surprise. Was Queen Elizabeth as bored as I was in Costumes and Makeup?
“Each of you has been personally recruited by me, and you can trust that your goals are all the same, even if you don’t like each other. I don’t expect a class with as diverse personalities as you have to get along. I hope you don’t. I want you to debate, question, fight, and scheme. I want you to take risks that Macs and Mollys could never dream up. I want you to take back the world.”
We’re in Crew’s thrall, and grins are breaking out on the faces of almost every student. That’s when I notice Nic, the guy who lost his temper when I was kidnapped, leaning against a wall at the back of the room. His eyes narrow when he sees me. Excellent. Another enemy. I’m really racking them up, and it’s only my first day of classes.
“Today we are going to start by reading a classic and discussing how its principles can be applied in our current struggle. Nic, pass out the books,” Crew says. “This is the most important book you will ever read, and if you ingrain it in your mind, you will be unstoppable.”
Nic lifts a box and begins passing out paper books to each student. When he comes to me, I meet his eyes and see the familiar gold sheen. Even now, he’s high. I can’t resist shaking my head, and his hand tenses around the book he’s giving me, likely wishing it were my neck.
Then his expression changes, and the slightest smile twists his mouth. “If you don’t stop being so judgmental, you’ll never lose your virginity, Joan the Maid.”
The story from this morning’s class has already made it to Nic’s ears, and he’s in his second year at Seattle Secondary. For the second time today, I blush, and Nic’s smile turns triumphant.
I snatch my book from Nic’s hands. The title distracts me from our petty argument. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. It’s a text that I’ve heard of, but online it’s behind a strict firewall that only a few are allowed to access. All I know about it is that principles in this book have enabled nations to be overthrown, businesses to thrive, and individuals to rise in power. And now those secrets will be mine, too.
It’s also one of the few times in my life that I’ve held a physical book in my hands. I turn the pages slowly, reverently. The book’s spine is broken, and the cover is worn. It’s obviously been read and reread. Running my fingers over the printed words, goose bumps break out on my arms. Next to me, Harriet lets out a heavy breath, and we look at each other. It’s a new feeling, having someone who shares my reaction to a moment like this.
My eyes pause on the words “Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.” Today a piece of understanding both myself and my enemy is literally in my hands, and I hold my breath as the immensity of that truth takes ahold of me.
I come out of my trance and notice how silent the room
is. It isn’t only Harriet who understands how I feel right now. Every student holds the books like the priceless artifacts they are. Crew is right. I may end up hating some of the people in this room and loving others, but I’ve found my own kind.
Crew is watching us all, his former smile replaced by a calculating stare. He’s sitting on the edge of the stage, leaning forward as his eyes flick from face to face. “Let’s begin.”
Chapter 12
When Crew dismisses us from “Remedial Acting,” we all shuffle out the door slowly, as if the ground beneath our feet has fundamentally shifted and we’re not sure where to step. The other students must feel the same because everyone is very quiet, even Elizabeth and her pals.
We had to leave our copies of The Art of War behind in the classroom because our dorms could be raided by police at any time, and our belongings must always be above reproach.
But the words float behind my eyes, and all I want to do is keep analyzing the text we were debating when our time was up.
“Want to go somewhere and talk?” I ask Harriet. “When Crew recruited me, I thought he was probably a crackpot. But this is a legitimate campaign. We could make real change for Throwbacks in our country.”
“I need time to process all this information, and I have to do that alone,” she says.
“I understand.”
But I don’t. How can Harriet be still? I want to yell, rant, think out loud. But since my only friend needs me-time, I decide to go for a run instead. I return to my room to grab my sneakers and see Sparkle changing outfits.
“Where are you off to?” she asks, eyeing my sneakers.
“Oh, we’re talking now?” I ask, cringing at the bitter undertone in my voice.
It hurt when Sparkle laughed at me along with the rest of our class.
“Be back by ten. It’s curfew, and Throwbacks are only allowed out with a work order,” she says, ignoring my question.
“These rules are ridiculous.”
Sparkle pauses, as though it’s the first time she’s considered that idea. “If you want to get worked up over Throwback injustice, that’s about the last thing you should waste your energy on.”
She leaves, effectively ending the conversation. Time to take out my manic energy by pounding the pavement.
Aimless jogging around Seattle does nothing to settle my mind. Returning to the dorm, I pause at the Little Theater. It’s dark, and the front door is locked. My fists clench. I have to talk to Crew again, to demand answers to questions that won’t wait another minute.
The theater doors are locked, and attempting to jimmy the lock with my hair clip doesn’t get me anywhere.
“That’s a hard way to get in,” a child’s voice says.
Watching me is a boy around eight years old in wrinkled, dirty clothes that are typical of Throwback kids. His brown eyes are round and curious.
“But you know how to get inside, right?”
I love kids, and this one has an open, friendly face.
He cocks his head to the side and matches my smile. “Yeah. Come on.”
He takes off down the street, and I have to run to keep up with him. He stops at the end of a dirty alley and lifts a grate, like Harriet did when she took me to the Lab.
He disappears into the hole with me right behind him.
“Sure you know where you’re going, kid?” I ask, dropping to the ground beside him and turning the torch app on my phone on to provide some light.
“I’m Maverick, not kid,” he informs me. “And I know where to go.”
Trusting the confidence in his voice, I follow.
“I’m Joan.”
His eyes go to my wrist, taking in my lavaliere. “You’re a student at Seattle Secondary?”
“How’d you know?”
“All of you have the same mark on your arm,” he says, pointing to the tattoo of the comedy and tragedy mask on the underside of my wrist.
“Does one of your parents work there?” I ask him.
“My dad does,” he says. “He’s busy.”
I bet. If his dad is a Mac, he’s probably working from dawn to dusk as a janitor or handyman.
“Does your mom know you’re down here?”
“She’s not around,” he replies, and doesn’t say any more about it.
He clenches his jaw shut. I can tell that if I keep questioning him about his parents, he’s going to cry, and he really doesn’t want to.
“So how did you get to be such an expert on finding your way around down here?” I ask instead.
Maverick’s face brightens. “I found the secret passage in the Little Theater, and when I started exploring down here, I found a lot more.”
“Secret passage?”
“You’ll see!” he sings.
He stops in front of a hole in the wall with jagged pieces of wood around the edges. It once must have been a door, but the wood has rotted away.
I’m more grateful than ever for the light from my phone. Maverick scampers expertly around old props and forgotten set pieces. Then he climbs onto a platform and reaches up, pushing open a flap in the ceiling.
He jumps up and launches himself into the opening. When I climb through the opening after him, I see that I’ve come through a trapdoor on the stage Crew stood on today during class.
“I’ve got to say, Mav, I’m impressed.”
He beams up at me.
My phone blinks off, so we must be inside the perimeter of the dead zone in this room. The classroom isn’t entirely dark. A few old-fashioned lamps with flickering bulbs cast a warm glow over the theater. It’s an effort not to growl with disappointment at the sight of the empty room.
“Why’d you want to get in here so bad?” Mav asks.
“You told me a secret, so I’ll tell you one,” I say, remembering how much I loved to be in on secrets when I was his age. “I need to find a man who owes me some answers. But it looks like he’s long gone.”
“He’s probably in the little library,” Mav says with confidence.
“Lead on, Captain,” I say, and he releases a small giggle.
Mav takes me to the corner of the room and pulls back one of the curtains that are draped over all the walls. Behind it is a narrow passage.
My phone is still off, so this must also be a part of the dead zone. But Mav points out any obstacles I can’t make out in the dark, like a pile of old chairs and a rack of ancient, dusty costumes.
We both hear voices at the same time, and Mav slips his little hand in mine. I give it a reassuring squeeze and put my finger to my lips. We both press our backs against the wall and creep forward, toward a dim light at the end of the hall.
The hallway ends, and I sneak a peek around the corner. It’s a small room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with more physical books than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life.
There’s a big table surrounded by chairs, and they aren’t empty. Someone tall is standing up, facing away from me, talking to a bunch of kids that were in my Remedial Acting class today. Nic, Sal, Rob, and Joseph.
An instinct holds me back, along with Mav’s cold fingers in my hand. The person who’s standing turns, and Crew’s eyes meet mine. Now, in the dark, shadowy lighting, I recognize his clone type from my tenth-grade history class. He carries Genghis Khan’s DNA. The original was the brutal emperor of the Mongol Empire, who slaughtered thousands of people, including kids, on his way to greatness.
Mav and I run as if hellhounds are on our heels, even though it doesn’t sound like anyone is following us. We keep running until we’re back in the Lab, next to the ladder that will take us back up to the real world.
“Sorry for leading you into trouble, Mav.”
“Are you kidding? That was the best adventure I’ve ever had!” he shouts, and his merry words echo off the walls.
We part ways at my dorm, and Mav surprises me by throwing his arms around my waist.
“Will I see you again?” he asks.
The desperation in his voice
is familiar. I know what it’s like to be left alone too young.
“You will never escape my clutches now. Mwahahahaha!” I say in my best villain impression, which earns a giggle from Mav.
He takes off down the street. I wish I’d offered him something to eat before he took off.
Quietly, I unlock the unusual door to my room, fully expecting to find Sparkle sound asleep. It’s way past curfew, but she’s sitting in the chair at her desk, crying like her heart’s been broken.
When she sees me, she wipes her eyes, smudging her makeup. She tries to calm her heaving breath.
“Let me help,” I plead, keeping my tone gentle.
I kneel in front of her and take her hand. I’m a pushover when someone is crying.
“All I need is sleep,” she says, pulling her hand back and blowing her nose.
It takes a long time to fall asleep that night as I sift through the events of the day. Even the summer I spent as a volunteer in the emergency room didn’t wake up this part of my soul. There are a thousand interesting questions to consider, and the possibility of making a difference on a huge global scale as a part of Crew’s rebellion. By comparison, helping one person at a time as a doctor feels small and a little duller than the bright, sparkly dream that it used to be.
Paris means freedom and dreams fulfilled. Seattle Secondary offers a new dream, uncertain and dangerous. It will require challenging myself in new ways, and maybe not being the brightest mind in the room. Not to mention trusting a Genghis Khan clone.
But at Seattle Secondary, I feel alive. Awake.
Chapter 13
The next morning, any traces of Sparkle’s sadness the night before are hidden beneath layers of makeup. She sneaks a glance at my tablet and groans.
“What?”
“We share three classes today,” she says.
“What a hardship for you. I’ll be sure to keep our deep friendship a secret from the cool kids.”
“I hate watching the other kids pick on you, but of course I can’t do anything about it,” Sparkle explains, but her pleading doe eyes don’t work on me. “That’s why I don’t want classes together. I don’t want to see you suffer.”
