Deviation

by Heather Hildenbrand

  I take my time stretching, breathing in the crisp, fresh air before beginning my jog. The warmth of the sun far to my left chases away the morning chill. Winter is fast giving way to spring. I look forward to the extreme heat of summer. I’ve never felt anything like the warmth of sunlight. Obadiah says it’s annoying, sweating all the time in the party jackets he’s made to wear. I am curious to know what he means about such a discomfort.

  Overhead, the sky is a clear baby blue with tiny white clouds dotting the distance. I stare at them wistfully, wishing I could see them from a different angle than the confines of Rogen Tower. Somewhere without the watchful Alton hovering nearby. For the millionth time I wish I was Authentic. Not that it did Raven Rogen—the real Raven—any good either.

  What went wrong so many times that Titus continued to discard Ravens and try again?

  My run is pleasantly exhausting. By the time I’m finished, I’ve gone the equivalent of five miles and my muscles are tired enough that it numbs my thoughts. I walk the track a few more times to cool off and then stretch beside the railing.

  Alton is distracted by whatever the voice on his radio is saying so I wander up to the next level. It is more of a crow’s nest, a viewing area with a railing lining three of the four sides. If I lean a little, I can just make out the street far below me. Cars creep along, as small as ants.

  A particularly large one pulls to the sidewalk in front of the building. A driver with a bright red hat and a dark coat gets out and holds open the passenger door. I can’t see the face of the man who steps out but I know instinctively it is Titus. There is no mistaking so much power contained in such a small stature. The sun glints off his head and it would be funny if the sight of him didn’t make me sour. If he’s already home for the day, I’m glad I’m leaving, even if it is with Taylor.

  An hour later, I am showered and dressed in a black ruffle skirt and a red pinstriped blouse Maria laid out. I wiggle my feet inside the stiff red heels and try to sit still while Maria finishes blow drying my white-blond hair. It is the exact color of the wheat field Linc showed me once. Back then, he didn’t know me. And he’d already been angry at me for keeping my secret. He’d already wanted me to let him in. Now, I am aching to do so with the information I have and there’s no opportunity. Not with Alton so diligently hovering.

  My phone beeps. I manage to snag it without pulling my hair out underneath Maria’s tight grip.

  It’s a message from Obadiah. Good luck today. If it gets difficult have a drink or seven.

  Seven. Funny. I don’t respond to his play on the number, though. Thanks. Call you later.

  The orphans say ‘don’t be discouraged.’

  I smile and my spirits lift.

  Taylor is annoyingly punctual. When Alton insists on riding with us, Taylor rolls her eyes and protests along with me. Her cutting remark about needing a babysitter with more of a personality makes me giggle. I feel only a little guilty for my shallowness before I realize the obstacle Alton presents against any other destination but shopping. Titus appears and puts a stop to all of our arguing and I opt for leaving quickly with an unwanted guard rather than stay and hash anything out with Titus.

  “Ugh, it’s crowded today,” Taylor remarks as our car pulls to the curb in front of a crowded sidewalk. Taylor’s driver gets out and walks around to open our door. “I hate when there’s all these bodies pressing on me. It makes me feel gross,” she adds.

  I mutter something I hope she takes as agreement and climb out. As soon as I am on my feet, the sun’s rays penetrate my layers. I remove my hat and gloves, shuffling aside as Taylor climbs out behind me. I shake my hair and toss the unwanted clothing back inside the car.

  “What are you doing?” Taylor asks.

  “I can’t breathe with all that crap on,” I say.

  “You’ll be recognized,” she says.

  I blink back at her and then my eyes catch on Alton lurking beside us. I hook my thumb at him and say, “That’s what he’s for.”

  “If you say so.” She turns from the car, hat and gloves still intact, and scans the storefronts. I do the same, glad she didn’t mention my still-healing bruises that peek out from underneath my blouse.

  There is a small crowd gathered not far from us. I strain to see what it is they’re huddled around, but there are too many people in the way. Beside us, Alton’s radio crackles. Linc’s voice buzzing about too many pedestrians. He’s here somewhere. I pause to scan the street behind us but I can’t spot him.

  “Can we pick a direction, ladies?” Alton asks.

  Taylor glares at him and turns to me. “Let’s go this way. Jorge Estrada has a new plum accessory collection I want to check out.”

  “Plum?” I say.

  “The story I heard is Jorge bumped his knee and when he saw the bruise, he decided the color was too amazing and he designed his whole line around it.” She shrugs as if the entire thing makes perfect sense.

  Right. I want to tell her if bruises were inspiration, I’d be a fashion queen. But I just shake my head, not doubting her story for a second after the outlandish clothing I’ve seen. “That guy is crazy,” I mutter.

  “He’s genius,” Taylor says as if the two words are interchangeable.

  I fall into step beside her and somehow, the crowd parts as we approach. I keep my eyes forward, trying to look haughty and over-privileged, but every once in a while I zero in on someone as they jump sideways to allow us to pass.

  “You’re too conspicuous,” Taylor says. “You should’ve left your jacket on.”

  “At least they’re getting out of the way.”

  “Good point.”

  One boy, a couple of years younger than me, is caught up trying to wrangle his dog and doesn’t move in time. Rather than go around him, Taylor halts and waits, hands on her hips. When the boy still doesn’t see her or move aside, she clears her throat. “Excuse me,” she snaps.

  He looks up and away, does a double-take. When he looks back again, his eyes widen. “You’re … Sorry,” he mumbles, scrambling clear.

  Taylor’s eyes narrow. “No, you’re sorry.”

  We walk on.

  I almost miss Jorge’s shop. It’s sandwiched between an expensive-looking suit shop with only the letter A to display its name and a bakery with cupcakes shaped to look like pigs displayed in the window. There is nothing different or eye-catching about Jorge’s storefront. For a second, I think maybe the shop is slightly less over-the-top than the fashion show I attended. Then I see the single display case in the narrow window.

  It is a headless mannequin whose waist thins to the size of a toothpick. Draped over the flesh-colored torso is a dress. I think. It’s transparent and made of bubbles. I stare, wondering if they’re fragile enough to pop if I touch them. I sort of want to touch them. My gaze eventually catches on the lower half of the ensemble. In place of legs someone has wedged some sort of white Styrofoam. I’m unsure if this is supposed to be tights or a fashion statement announcing pale is beautiful.

  “Ooooh,” Taylor breathes. She stares at the bubble dress with a dreamy look. I bite back a smile as I try to picture her in something like that. “Isn’t it amazing?” she asks finally.

  “What sort of underwear do you wear with it?” I ask before I can catch myself.

  Taylor slants a look at me and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You’re an oddity sometimes,” she says.

  “I think when you’re as rich as I am, they call it eccentric,” I say and Taylor laughs.

  “Touche.” She grabs my arm. “Oh, I’ve missed your wit. Let’s go shop, darling.”

  She steps up to the door and waits. On cue, Alton appears, opening the door for us to pass inside before bringing up the rear.

  Inside, the air is heavy with a cloying musk that gives me an instant headache. Speakers belt out music that is all treble and whined vocals. The décor is sparse; the main focus is on the outlandish clothes and ornately decorated shelving along the back wall that holds all sorts of a
ccessories.

  I do a full circle around a rack of scarves made from stitched-together washcloths. Alton bumps me as he rounds a tall shelf stocked with wigs. I jump back.

  “Sorry,” I mutter before I can stop the word.

  He nods and moves away, still watching and circling but with a wider berth. I scowl to myself, hating every second he shadows me. I think of Obadiah and Morton and the others. How will I ever see them again with Alton and me attached at the hip? And what good can I possibly do now, even “undercover” as Morton puts it, if I have Alton watching every move I make?

  My shoulders are heavy as I follow Taylor through the racks. The only bright spot in the entire outing is that I hear Linc’s voice on Alton’s radio every so often as he checks in from the shadowed periphery somewhere outside. The squawks and static drown out Taylor’s rambling as she details the saga of some Senator who was caught doodling his secretary. I catch myself before asking her to describe “doodling.”. The meaning is clear from her vivid descriptions.

  Every so often, I murmur a response to show I’m at least pretending to listen. After a few minutes, I stop doing even that and she drones on, wandering racks. She doesn’t seem to notice as I fall farther behind.

  “Raven, ohmygod you have to see this!” Taylor gushes. “Come here.”

  I follow the sound of her voice and find her captivated by a small display of the highest heels I’ve ever seen. Still, I don’t quite understand the draw until I’m up close. The sole is a see-through platform that’s been hollowed out. Inside is a tiny goldfish swimming in the plum-tinted water.

  “Isn’t it just beyond?” Taylor says, grinning.

  “Beyond what?”

  “Beyond everything! God, I swear Jorge is a genius. What will he think of next?” she says, still captivated by the tiny fish wiggling its fins inside the thick casing.

  “And that,” says a voice stuck somewhere between masculine and feminine, “is the question of the century.”

  A man appears from behind a single red drape obscuring the room behind it. Egleston Hawthorne, Jorge’s assistant. His jacket is tight on his scrawny arms and his shadow of a mustache has been dyed bright blond. It looks like a slug is lying across his upper lip. I try not to stare.

  “Egleston,” Taylor gushes, walking forward and air-kissing both his cheeks. Her plastic smile rivals his and I wonder if I poked at them, would they pop like the bubble dress in the window.

  “Darling,” he says, returning her air kisses and then fastening his icy blue eyes on me. “Miss Raven Rogen,” he says as if my name alone holds the key to his life’s happiness.

  “Darling,” I say, turning off my brain and turning on the auto-pilot snark that is my character. We air kiss and then I step back because Raven Rogen doesn’t allow the help inside her bubble, even if he is worthy of an air kiss. “The shop looks fantastic.” I nod at Taylor and speak for us both. “We love the plum.”

  “Of course you do. It’s so very beyond,” he says, drawing out the o sound. “Is there something specific I can find for you lovelies?”

  “Your newest leather and most expensive purse,” Taylor says without hesitation.

  Egleston blinks. “Well, well. We know what we want, don’t we? Any particular color on the leather?”

  “Plum, of course,” Taylor says.

  “Well, of course. Only the latest for my favorite girls. Wait here.”

  Egleston disappears behind the velvet curtain but returns before either of us can move a muscle. “This,” he says, producing a shiny purple bag with a flourish, “is the latest and most daring thing. Straight from Manila. It will cost you more than three seasons of Botox.”

  “Oh, not for me,” Taylor says when he tries to hand her the bag. “It’s for Raven. I’m buying,” she adds with a wink.

  “Oh, a gift for the bestie?” Egleston smiles. “You’re such a giver, darling.”

  I try not to choke. “Taylor, I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think,” she interrupts. “Just hold the bag. Touch the bag. Love the bag. She needs retail therapy in the worst way,” she adds to Egleston.

  He clucks his tongue at me sympathetically. “Oh, honey, is it a boy?”

  “Isn’t it always?” Taylor says.

  “You know I can hear you,” I say wryly.

  “Just smell the bag,” Taylor says, waving me off. “You’ll feel better.”

  I give her a look but she’s obviously serious and waits for me to comply. Tentatively, I raise the bag to my face and inhale. If soft was a scent, this would be it. It’s more a feeling than anything else, smooth and heady and luxurious. And I know this is the part of me that matches her. “Mmm,” I can’t help but murmur.

  Taylor giggles and Egleston claps. “I told you,” Taylor says. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Oh, and this leather is just it. Highest quality. And lined with the softest available goat’s hide, so … two-fer! Win!”

  “Oh, perfect. We’ll take it,” Taylor says.

  Egleston claps. “Spectacular. Jorge will be so pleased to hear that Raven Rogen will be sporting his creation.”

  I tune out as Taylor and Egleston discuss the social implications of the purse she is buying me. Across the shop, Alton is whispering fervently into his radio. His brows are drawn and his mouth is pinched. Either I’m too far away to hear or he’s turned off the speaker function. All I see are his lips moving and the worry in his expression. Something isn’t right.

  I tap my foot while Taylor chit-chats. The urge to walk over and ask him what’s wrong is strong but I know he wouldn’t tell me if I did. Alton isn’t Linc. And he isn’t my friend. I have to remind myself I’m in a world where even fellow Imitations are enemies.

  I don’t realize my feet have moved but by the time Taylor finishes paying, I’m already halfway to the door. Halfway to Alton. “Wait for me,” Taylor calls, hurrying to catch up.

  Alton straightens and abruptly slides his radio back onto the clip on his belt. I curse Taylor for her loudness and try to read Alton’s frown. I don’t have to wait long. He meets me at the door and, instead of letting me pass through, he opens it and follows me out with a firm grip on my elbow.

  “What’s going on?” I ask at the same time I hear Taylor behind me making a noise of indignation.

  “What the hell is your problem? The door almost closed on me,” she snaps.

  Alton doesn’t acknowledge her as he scans the crowded street. I do the same. No one seems out of place. Alton continues to stand and watch, as if he’s waiting for something. “What’s going on?” I repeat.

  “A threat has been identified. You’re leaving,” Alton says.

  I open my mouth—to argue, to demand, to whine—but Alton’s grip suddenly clenches against my arm and he pulls up, causing my elbow to dangle awkwardly above my shoulder. “Let go of me,” I snap.

  Beside me, Taylor screeches. “What do you think you’re doing, putting your hands on her? I will have your job.”

  “My job is to protect Miss Rogen,” he says. “Not follow you around the upper west side while you play dress up.” A black car pulls into traffic from the alley. Oncoming cars brake hard to avoid it and horns sound. A few pedestrians pause to study the scene but most keep moving without breaking pace. I know from riding on Linc’s motorcycle crazy drivers aren’t that much of an oddity. It isn’t until the tires screech to a stop that I realize it’s my—the Rogen family’s—car.

  “We’re leaving?” I ask

  “You’re leaving. I’m securing the area,” he says.

  “Aren’t you supposed to come everywhere with me?” I ask, unable to help the sarcasm in my reminder.

  “I’m supposed to keep you alive,” he snaps. “Now, shut up and let me do my job.”

  I am about to argue, mostly because I don’t want to do anything Alton tells me, but Alton is already dragging me to the curb where the car waits. The back passenger door opens from within. No one gets out. I barely manage to keep up as
Alton propels me forward.

  I land in a heap, half on the seat and half on the floorboard. My new purse catches on the edge of the jamb and I barely pull it inside with me before Alton slams the door shut.

  The car lurches forward and I’m thrown back with the momentum, finally dropping the bag in favor of keeping myself upright. I straighten and twist, catching a glimpse through the back window of a red-faced Taylor, her hands gesturing wildly as she fusses at Alton. He is already moving around her when we take a hard corner and they disappear.

  “Ven?”

  It’s not the sound of my name spoken but the voice speaking it that has me whirling back to face the car’s interior. “Linc?” I say, my heart pounding.

  Linc shifts from his position in the far corner and slides onto the seat next to me.

  “What are you doing here? What’s the threat?” I ask.

  His expression is off somehow. It takes me a few blinks to realize he’s smiling. It’s not the appropriate response in a dangerous situation, not even for someone as confident as him. “There’s no threat,” he says and scoots closer.

  “What? But Alton said—”

  “I made it up.”

  I stare at him, putting pieces together. “You …. made it up,” I repeat. He nods. “Why?”

  “The orphans were getting antsy,” he says, and then his smile slips and he adds, “I was getting antsy.”

  “It’s been a day,” I say wryly.

  “It’s been a really long day.”

  A radio chips and Linc detaches it from his hip, talks into it, responding to Alton as if he’s whisking me away to safety. They exchange a few words; Alton gives the directive to take me home. Linc agrees and tosses the radio aside. He pulls out his remote tracker, the one that matches my scrambler, and punches buttons.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Masking you.” He punches a few more buttons, then tosses that aside as well.

  I’m not sure what to say or how he’s done it, but I’m grateful to be away from Alton and Taylor. Linc slides his arms around me, one hand smoothing my hair away from my face. His expression is tender and sweet, his eyes soft on mine. He leans closer. I wait, my mouth already tingling in anticipation. It’s been too long since our lips connected. I lean to meet him, impatient for his kisses.