Project Paper Doll

by Stacey Kade

  If I told Jenna about what Zane and I were up to, would she tell Rachel? As much as I wanted to believe she wouldn’t, the truth was, I wasn’t sure. It might be just the “in” Jenna was probably racking her brain for right now.

  I realized belatedly that the beep had sounded several seconds ago, signaling readiness for me to leave a message.

  “Uh, hey, Jenna, it’s Ariane. Again.” I hesitated, not sure what to say but unable to hang up without saying something. “Listen, I know you’re still upset with me. And I wish…” I swallowed hard. “I wish you weren’t. I wish that we saw things the same way, that we saw Rachel the same way.” I heard the hatred bubbling up in my voice when I said Rachel’s name, and clamped down on it. That would not help.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that you may hear some stuff tomorrow.” Lame. “But don’t worry about it. Just ignore it. It’s nothing. I mean, it’s really nothing,” I emphasized, trying to communicate everything I couldn’t actually tell her.

  “So, just call me back when you can, okay? Whenever you want,” I added hastily. “I…I’ll see you later, I guess. Bye.”

  I hung up, feeling both better and worse, and slowly returned to my closet.

  After rummaging all the way to the back, I found a dark-green Henley with three-quarter sleeves. I’d ordered it online but never wore it because it was a little too tight, and the neckline, even with all the buttons buttoned, veered a touch too low in front. Then I dragged out my little plastic step stool—hate being this short—and dug around on a shelf until I found the right pair of jeans.

  The only advantage I had in the fashion department was I was something of connoisseur when it came to denim. After so many years of wearing the cheap, easily found stuff, the discovery of premium fabric had come as a delight. Much like the luxury of having bedding with an actual thread count instead of the bleached hospital-grade sheet and thin cotton blanket I’d had in the lab, expensive jeans—softer, cut better, and longer-lasting—were a treat I would not give up. I’d stumbled across my first pair on a rare trip with Jenna to T.J. Maxx freshman year.

  After that, I was hooked, and I discovered the joys of eBay for finding brands the mall in Brookfield didn’t carry and at a price that my allowance would accept. The best part was, as long as I kept the style pretty generic and wore a shirt long enough to cover up the emblems or designs on the back pockets, people couldn’t tell. I mixed my Seven7s, Rock & Republics, and Sinclairs in with my Target purchases, and no one was the wiser. And I enjoyed the hell out of pulling that secret over on everyone. Strange, socially awkward Ariane Tucker had a jeans collection that would make Cami and Cassi Andrews, if not Rachel, Queen of Fashion herself, weep.

  Hey, I had to have a hobby. There were a lot of hours not filled by school and Dream-Life.

  I recognized a familiar velvety softness beneath my fingertips. These. I freed the pair from the bottom of a precarious stack.

  These were the first of my collection. Lucky Brand. They’d come with a fortune cookie slip in the front pocket. Happiness is in your future.

  Of all the horrible things full-blooded humans could create—bioweapons, global warming, “reality” television—jeans like these were not one of them. Though, my father might not agree if he saw what they normally sold for.

  I hopped down off the step stool with the jeans in hand and set about changing my clothes.

  Once dressed, I approached the dresser mirror for a quick look. A huge static-filled nimbus of pale hair surrounded my head, to my complete unsurprise.

  I sighed. Taming the disaster that was my hair would be another battle, to be taken on momentarily, so I ignored it for now to focus on my apparel choices.

  The jeans, faded and soft, helped create the illusion of curves where I was mostly sharp angles. The dark green color of the shirt made my skin look absurdly pale, but that, frankly, was a better option than the freaky grayish tone I sometimes had. Like the underbelly of a frog. A dead frog. (I longed to have the faintest hint of a tan. Or even a burn. But the sun that I’d yearned to see for so many years didn’t affect me the same way it did full-blooded humans. I turned pink for an hour or two and then right back to white.)

  The neckline of the Henley did scoop a little lower than I was used to, but it was nothing worse than what other girls wore to school on a daily basis. And besides, my chest was one area where the androgynous alien DNA had almost completely won out over the human, so it wasn’t as if there was much to see anyway. Jenna’s mom had once said I had an Audrey Hepburn–type figure, which I looked up, and as far as I could tell was a polite way of saying “flat-chested.”

  In any case, the back of the shirt rose high enough to cover the bandage on my shoulder blade, my one major requirement for clothing. Most shirts weren’t thin enough that the identification mark would show through, but that was not a chance I could take. Hence, the bandage. If someone saw the GTX tattoo, that would be a tough one to explain.

  The helpful countdown in the back of my mind piped up suddenly. Seventeen minutes to go. And I needed to be walking out the door in about ten.

  So, good enough? I gave my outfit one last critical look and wished I felt a little more confident, but there was no time—and honestly, probably no hope—for much more.

  I turned away from the mirror to head for the bathroom—where all manner of hair-taming products with varying degrees of ineffectiveness awaited me—and then stopped.

  I stepped back to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Buried beneath a layer of bland shapeless shirts was a shiny white box. I pulled it out and opened it. An old and battered metal key—strange-looking in that it had prongs on the end instead of the typical ridge and valley pattern of a normal key—lay on a bed of cotton. The key had been polished enough that it gleamed dully around the dents and nicks in its surface. A pale green glass bead was wrapped around the center, and a thin chain with delicate gold links was looped through the opening at the top, where a key ring would have gone if it was a normal key.

  When I’d first opened the box I’d had no idea what the object inside was, and my father had had to explain.

  “It’s a skeleton key. In old houses, one key would open all the doors,” he’d said, keeping his gaze focused on the pancakes on his plate. “A woman at work finds them and turns them into jewelry. It…it made me think of you.”

  A symbol. So I would never be trapped anywhere again. If I’d been close to tears at any point since leaving GTX, it was then.

  Normally I couldn’t wear it. Way too attention-getting on the outside of my shirt and too bulky to hide beneath it. But tonight? Not a problem.

  I slipped the chain over my head, and the key, cool and heavier than I expected, settled against my chest, above my virtually nonexistent cleavage. It felt right and more “me” than almost anything else I owned. I loved it, both for what it was and what it represented.

  If nothing else, tonight’s exercise in insanity would give me the chance to wear it proudly and without fear.

  Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my hair.

  At precisely 6:37, my hair tamed into a ponytail and damp with fruity- and flowery-smelling styling products, I walked out of my house, pausing only to lock the door, my nerves-slick palms slipping on the metal doorknob.

  I stuck my house key into my pocket and headed down the porch steps to the sidewalk, my stomach tight with anxiety. The sun was low, casting everything in a bright gold-and-pink haze. Up and down the street, people were enjoying their evening—taking a walk, bringing groceries into the house, playing with their kids in the yard—but I couldn’t seem to focus on any of it.

  Maybe Zane won’t be there. I found myself oddly relieved and disappointed at the possibility. It would mean I could turn around and go home, as though this night were no different from any other, which would be good. But it would also probably mean that Zane had chickened out and returned to Rachel’s side—if he’d ever left it—likely telling her everything that had trans
pired with him this afternoon. Not good.

  As I walked, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, I tried to decide which would be worse—for him to be there or not. What would be my plan in either case?

  But as it turned out, it wasn’t up to me and my calculations. As soon as I reached the midpoint of the block I could see the back half of a battered dark gray SUV waiting around the corner.

  Crap. He was here. My heart gave an extra-hard thump, and I was torn between hurrying toward him to get the inevitable awkwardness out of the way and fleeing without looking back.

  Suddenly I felt ridiculous and exposed in the clothes I’d picked. I should have just worn what I wore to school. That was normal, predictable, no risk. I hadn’t wanted to give anyone a reason to question Zane and me, but the truth was, they were going to question and gawk and whisper anyway. In my regular clothes I’d have been sure they were talking about the two of us together rather than my wardrobe choices.

  I slowed, biting my lip. Maybe I should go home and change; it would only take a few minutes. But then I’d be late to meet Zane. And the neighbors would see me running back and forth, raising the odds that someone would mention it to my father.

  No, better to proceed. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and moved forward at an even pace—a passable imitation of my normal stride. But I could feel home behind me, pulling at me like a magnet that wasn’t quite strong enough.

  When I turned down Rushmore, I found Zane leaning against the passenger side of the SUV, his head tipped down as he thumbed through something on his phone. He didn’t notice me right away, so I took a second to let myself adjust. Seeing him there made something in me squirm—like one of those dreams where you run into someone where they have no business being, doing things they have no business doing. Except, well, in this case, I supposed, it wasn’t him who was somewhere he shouldn’t be, but me.

  I was relieved to note that he’d changed his clothes as well. He now wore a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up well past his wrists, and darker jeans that looked slightly less like they might fall apart at any second. His dark hair looked a shade or two deeper than normal, damp from a shower maybe, but styled in the usual tousled spiky mess I remembered from class last year instead of hanging, defeated, in his face, as it had been this morning.

  He was attractive, I realized with a bolt that went beyond the theoretical acknowledgment I’d always had of this fact. His face was symmetrical, without any of the uneven features that might have cast him into a less-attractive category—a nose too big or ears too wide. His hands made the phone look small, his thumbs typing adeptly on the screen.

  No wonder Jenna fluttered around him, I thought, shifting uncomfortably, feeling more than ever that I shouldn’t be here.

  But those weren’t the only physical changes I noticed. Something in him had eased. The tension in his shoulders seemed less. I was tempted to drop my guard and listen to his thoughts for a second—if he was relaxed because he’d lured me into some trap, I wasn’t going to be happy.

  But he chose that moment to look up from his phone. “Hey,” he said with obvious relief. He straightened up, letting his hand with the phone fall to his side. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show.” He smiled as if he was pleased to see me.

  “I said I’d be here, so I’m here,” I said stiffly. Somehow it was easier to rebuff that unexpected smile with sharp words. “And you shouldn’t park so close to the fire hydrant.” I tipped my head toward the object in question, which might have been six inches too close to the front of his SUV. In other words, nine and a half feet away instead of ten.

  He nodded slowly, eyeing me as if I might be a little off. “Okaaay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Damn it. Even as the words escaped, I’d known it was the wrong thing to say, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  “You ready?” He tucked his phone into his pocket and pulled open the passenger door.

  Cool air rushed out. I could hear a faint dinging from inside, indicating the keys were in the ignition.

  My heartbeat sped up, and I hesitated. This was wrong, against everything I’d been taught.

  Don’t get into a car with a stranger.

  Never trust anyone.

  The first was from a child-safety coloring book the police department had given out in grade school, and the second was my father’s most important rule. But it was too late for worrying about that; I’d set the wheels in motion. Now it was my job to stay in front of them instead of getting crushed beneath them.

  “Ariane?” Zane prompted, with a frown. I knew better than to draw this level of attention to myself; I should have been correcting my behavior—attempting to laugh it off or explain it away—just as I did whenever I got that reaction from Jenna. I’d strayed too far from “normal” again.

  But right now it felt like too much, too overwhelming.

  “Yeah, all right.” I left the sidewalk, feeling as if I was leaving reality or sanity behind, and climbed up into the SUV.

  Zane pushed the door shut after me, and the sounds of the outside world—lawn mowers and birds—died away.

  My breath caught in my throat, and I wanted to claw at the door to let myself out. I have a hard time with confined spaces under the best of circumstances, and this was definitely not that.

  But if I abandoned this opportunity, I probably wouldn’t get another.

  So I inched away from the door and squeezed my hands together in my lap to keep from reaching for the handle.

  Zane opened his door and slid behind the wheel. “Are you all right?” he asked, and I could hear the concern in his voice. I didn’t want to think about what might have been showing on my face.

  He cranked the engine, and a blast of cold air roared through the vents and against my skin. I felt like I could breathe again.

  I inhaled deeply and breathed out as slowly as I could without being obvious. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice fainter than I would have preferred.

  At least I would be. And soon, I hoped.

  I WAITED FOR ARIANE to get back in control, listening to her breathing slow down while I pretended to concentrate on driving. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than people calling attention to your panic, asking you over and over if you’re all right, watching you as if steam might suddenly pour out of your ears, causing you to deflate into some misshapen heap on the ground.

  I knew because I’d felt that same panic every single time my dad told me with grim determination to go out to the yard “so we can throw the ball around” or made me try out for football.

  I did not ask again if she was okay. It was obvious she wasn’t. And why would she be? A lot of it might have been being in a vehicle after what had happened to her mom, even after all these years, but I was sure the fact that we were heading into one incredibly messed-up situation probably didn’t help.

  “You know, if anything, she’ll be angrier with me than with you,” I offered after a few minutes, trying to think of something reassuring to say. “I’m supposed to be her friend.”

  Ariane looked over at me, her hair a pale fire where it reflected the sunset behind her, and frowned as if she wasn’t sure what I was talking about. Then her expression cleared. “Rachel. Yeah. But that’s also why she’ll end up taking it out on me instead.”

  She didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the idea, which was weird. Especially because I would have thought that was part of what was driving her freak-out.

  I would have asked if she still wanted to go through with it—probably should have—but she was here, and I didn’t want to insult her. And some part of me resisted the idea. This was my chance to solve the puzzle of Ariane Tucker, and I didn’t want to give it up.

  “So…how do you want to do this?” I tapped a nervous rhythm on my leg, half afraid she’d ask me to turn around and take her home when forced to confront details of the tangled web we were weaving. But it had to be asked. We had to be on the same page—no, hell, on the same
line on the same page—to make this work. I had to make Rachel think I was following through on her “suggestion,” all the while pretending to be interested in Ariane. But Ariane had the far tougher job—she had to act like she believed me.

  Funny how this was going to come down to acting skills, but neither of us was in drama. Not so funny, actually. If Ariane couldn’t keep it together in front of Rachel, we were toast. I didn’t want to deal with full-blown histrionics from Rachel tonight. After all, it was one thing to turn the game around on her successfully; another to get caught in the act, midfail.

  Ariane lifted a shoulder, seeming to have regained her equilibrium. “How do you normally do it?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

  “I mean, I can’t be the first person Rachel has ever wanted to punish this way,” she said patiently. “If we know how you usually behave when you’re pretending to like someone, we can go from there.”

  I took my eyes off the road to stare at her, all distant and cool as ice sitting there in the passenger seat. “You think I do this on a regular basis?” I demanded. “For what, fun?”

  “It wouldn’t be out of character for your group of friends,” she pointed out.

  “Well, I don’t, okay? I’m not even doing that this time, am I?” I straightened up behind the wheel, both hands on it in a white-knuckled grip.

  “You don’t have much room to be offended,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You stood there and let her torture Jenna. For all I know, you helped.”

  “First of all,” I snapped, “I didn’t know about the dog collar thing, but I tried to warn you that Rachel would do something. Second, there’s a big difference between actively setting someone up for a prank and not leaping in to save the world every time someone’s feelings are about to get hurt.”

  “Hurt feelings?” she scoffed. “You think that’s what this was about?”