by Kristen Pham
“I’m pretty sure bathrooms in the Middle Ages did not include flushing toilets,” he teases me.
He’s not a Mac. It’s Justus.
My skin prickles with a vague apprehension. Justus doesn’t seem as surprised by this meeting as I am.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Justus’s eyes dart away from mine when he answers, his tone bitter. “Summer job. I can’t be assigned to a training program until my Status is official. You’ll be long gone by then, off to a better and brighter future.”
Before I can snap at him to keep his voice down about my plans for medical school, the guy next to the broken sink slumps over and starts convulsing on the ground.
“Mason!”
Justus drops to his knees and grips Mason’s shoulders. Mason’s eyelids flutter, and I see the bright gold in them. He’s withdrawing from Amp.
“Hold on,” I say, reaching around into my backpack. I take out a chocolate bar and rip it open with my teeth. “We’ve got to make him eat this.”
“He could choke,” Justus replies, panic in his voice.
“He could be paralyzed or worse if we don’t stop the seizure,” I command, already shoving little bites of candy into his mouth. “His blood sugar level is dropping too fast from all the Amp in his system. This will help.”
Justus nods, trying to hold Mason still while I slip the chocolate into his mouth.
I soften my voice and speak gently in Mason’s ear. “Swallow, buddy, swallow. You can do it.”
About halfway through the chocolate bar, Mason stops convulsing.
“Get some water,” I tell Justus without taking my eyes off Mason.
Justus reaches behind him for a water bottle and hands it to me, and I pour some liquid down Mason’s throat. It’s easier to get the rest of the chocolate bar into him after that. His gaze is faraway, but he’s able to chew and swallow without help.
“I’m calling the paramedics,” I say when Mason is curled on the floor, passed out from exhaustion.
“No!” Justus exclaims. “I mean, I’ll take him to the hospital myself.”
“He can’t walk, and in another twenty minutes, the seizures will start again if he doesn’t get treatment.”
Justus shoves his arms under Mason’s shoulders and hauls his friend over his shoulder. “He needs this job. Please, I’ll take care of him. Just keep quiet about this.”
“You’re enabling his addiction by covering for him. But it’s up to you.”
Justus grunts as he carries his friend out of the bathroom. Before he leaves, he turns back, and his green-brown eyes meet my gray ones.
“Thank you, Joan. I owe you. Again.”
“No, you don’t. And neither does Mason. I don’t believe in debts.”
A brief smile flashes across Justus’s face before he gives me a nod and hauls his buddy to the elevator.
Adrenaline is still pumping through my body as I continue down the hall to find my room. The intense satisfaction of using the skills from my internship last summer in the emergency room is blunted by bitterness. Healing was what I was born to do. I shouldn’t have to hide who I am to do it.
The door to my room is unusual. Instead of molded steel or plastic, it’s made of a dark chestnut wood that’s warped with age. Hundreds of initials are etched into the surface, presumably left by previous occupants. The new metal locks stand out in stark contrast. They’re decked out with the latest gadgetry, and entrance requires a thumbprint and retinal scan, like the tablet downstairs.
Inside, the room is tiny and dark. One small window with bars on the outside—to keep creeps out or us in, who knows—lets in a sliver of afternoon sunshine. The glorified closet I’ll be living in for the next year is barely large enough to fit two beds, desks, dressers, and closets.
A stunning blonde girl lounges on her stomach on the bed beneath the window. I instantly recognize that she’s cloned from Marilyn Monroe. Her figure is lush and curvy, and her long eyelashes almost brush her creamy skin. She’s reading something on a ratty old tablet that’s five generations out of date. She glances up, pinning me with her navy-blue eyes.
“Of course I’m rooming with a Historical,” she mumbles, and then returns her gaze to her tablet.
I don’t know what she means by calling me a “Historical,” but clearly it’s not a compliment. She’s probably aware of how gorgeous she is and thinks she can get away with saying whatever she wants.
“I’m Joan, and it’s a joy to meet you, too, sweetheart!”
“I’m Sparkle Mol,” she replies, her eyes still on her tablet. In the Throwback tradition, her last name indicates that she’s the daughter of a Molly clone type. But her first name . . . what was her mother thinking?
Sparkle watches my reaction. “A hundred bucks if you can come up with a comment about my name that I haven’t heard before.”
Sparkle’s clothes are worn at the elbows and knees, and her bedding is dingy. The only decorations on her side of the room are a few pixelated pictures of people who must be her friends.
“Why would I make fun of your name? Your parents chose it, not you,” I finally say.
She puts down her tablet with a sigh to watch me unpack. It’s embarrassing how nice my bedding and clothes are in comparison with hers.
I open a box on my desk with my name on it, and inside are a school-issued tablet and phone that match Sparkle’s. Her eyes widen when I pull out the new tablet my parents gave me for my birthday and compare it with the dented artifact I’m expected to use.
Sparkle runs a tentative finger over the polished surface of my fancy tablet. “You were raised by Evolved parents?”
I nod, shoving my new clothes and pricey tablet into the tiny dresser beside my bed. I had no idea that my lack of a Throwback upbringing would be so noticeable.
“I’d heard that happens sometimes, but you’re the first Throwback I’ve met who got lucky,” she says, envy in her voice.
“Lucky? I got the shock of my life on my eighteenth birthday when I found out my DNA was cloned, and now I have no idea of the Throwback laws I’m supposed to know by heart, or even the culture of my own people!”
“God, even your attitude toward life is so Evolved,” she says with a groan. “I’m sure growing up with a full belly, fancy clothes, and the latest technology was a real hardship.”
I ignore her jab. “Do Throwbacks have any theories about how Strand chooses who gets Evolved parents?”
“Nope. But life is about to really change for you now,” Sparkle says.
I kick off my Harley boots and sit on my bed, facing her. “Enlighten me, O Wise One.”
“You’re a pretty girl, and I’m sure you had lots of friends in high school. Even if you were an unpopular loser, you had more status when everyone thought you were Evolved than you do now. At this school, it’s my turn to earn a little respect, and rooming with you won’t help me.”
My first impression was right, scuffed shoes or not. Total snob.
“Let me guess. You’re a Marilyn, and you don’t deign to consort with lowly clone types.”
Sparkle narrows her eyes. “Everyone knows Historicals are one-hit wonders, if they’re lucky.”
“Historicals?” I ask, allowing my curiosity to overrule my pride.
Sparkle laughs, not a tinkling giggle like the Marilyns in vids, but a brittle bark. “Your original was some famous nonactor, right? Joan . . . are you cloned after the one who was the first person on Mars?”
“Joan Buckland? No. Joan of Arc,” I correct her.
Sparkle raises a questioning eyebrow, so I explain.
“She was a super-religious girl who believed that God and other saints were visiting her to tell her how to defeat the English army, who were trying to conquer France. She fought in a bunch of battles and won them all, until her lucky streak ran out and she was captured. The English convicted her of heresy and sentenced her to death when she was just nineteen. They burned her at the stake.”
Joan of Arc’s story is pretty damn impressive to 99 percent of the population, but Sparkle’s expression remains bored.
“Fabulous. Every year, there are a few of you Historical Throwbacks, cloned from famous nonactors because the Evolved get a kick out of seeing a movie about Abraham Lincoln, for example, starring his perfect clone. I’m sure there’s a director or two who will be willing to make a film on the life of Joan of Arc, if you’re a halfway decent actress. But how many parts like that come along in a lifetime, especially since she died young? You’ll age out of any roles in ten years, at best,” Sparkle says.
“Whereas you’re a classic beauty who can be in lots of different movies. And here I thought we were in this together, since we’re all Throwbacks.”
Sparkle’s clone type might make her eligible for more roles than me, but she also has more competition. There’s a new Marilyn cloned every few years, but only one other Joan of Arc has ever been made, as far as I know. That clone, Jo Macson, was a pretty famous vid star born fifty years ago, proving that “Historicals” can be successful. But I keep that anecdote to myself.
“Not all Throwbacks are created equal,” Sparkle says with a sniff.
“The future looks pretty bleak for me,” I say, dramatically collapsing on my bed with the back of my hand pressed to my forehead in mock tragedy.
Sparkle’s voice gets louder. “Great, Joan, you don’t give a crap! But some of us want to make something of ourselves. I made it into the best Throwback acting program in the country, and I’m a Marilyn. With hard work and luck, I could be a real star. I’ll never go without meals again or have to swindle old men out of their pocket change so my sister can replace her shoes.”
My heart lurches in my chest at her words. I know what it’s like to be hungry, but maybe Sparkle knows what it’s like to be starving. It’s hard to be mad at her after that.
“I hope you get your big break,” I say, and Sparkle’s face freezes with surprise. “I’ll stay out of your way, if that’s what you need.”
“Good,” she says, settling back on her bed. “No offense, but I need to network with the best at this school, especially anyone who can help me get a role later on.”
“Why associate with rabble like me when there are Bruce Lees and John Lennons to pal around with?”
“There’s a John Lennon in our class?!” Sparkle shrieks. “Wait’ll I tell Sunshine!”
Sparkle ignores my peal of laughter and rapidly begins texting Sunshine, whom I’m guessing is her sister by the sound of her name.
My school-issued phone and tablet both start dinging on my desk, indicating an urgent communication. Sparkle’s cracked tablet is beeping, too, and we both check the message.
Report to the Little Theater for orientation.
It’s from the headmaster of the school, Dr. Julius Hunter. Let the show begin.
Chapter 9
A flood of students from the dorms heads outside, presumably to the “Little Theater,” so I knock the dirt off my boots and join the herd.
We walk a couple of blocks and approach another old building with an empty marquis sign. The large wooden doors have elaborate brass handles, but they’re old and turning green with age. This theater might have been fancy once upon a time, but now it’s dilapidated enough that the Evolved have turned it over to the Throwbacks.
Thinking that the inside will be equally dilapidated, I’m awestruck at my first glimpse of the theater’s lobby. Everything is covered in paneled wood with a golden finish, hand-polished to perfection. The classic beauty of the theater outshines even the flashy Evolved playhouses I visited as a kid with my parents.
There’s the faintest smell of popcorn in the air, and all of the students are openmouthed as they check out the old box office, where physical tickets were sold back in the day. We go through another set of doors into the “Little Theater” itself. Why is it called “little” when it easily seats two thousand people? It’s dark and several degrees cooler than the lobby.
There is a hushed expectation in the air that calls out to the same part of me that loved the debate team, especially championship matches with a full room of people watching. The wide stage at the other end of the room is equipped with the latest technology, integrating floors, walls, and ceilings with the latest end to end holographic 3-D panels that project any setting a director can dream up.
Right now, the stage is set to be medieval France, judging by the flags flying from the rough stone buildings lining a cobbled street. The shadow of a guillotine looms in the distance. The sight makes me shiver, thinking of how those stones had run red with blood during the Reign of Terror.
Students fill the front rows of plush chairs that allow you to adjust your comfort settings for softness, angle, and height. There are about fifty students in my class, and about two-thirds of them are cloned from easily recognizable actors or historical figures.
Music lilts from the surround-sound speakers, and my eyes shift to the stage. I sit up straighter in my seat when I recognize Crew’s bulky physique as he struts down the street of the set. Behind him is a tall, imposing man who is so thin he could be mistaken for a skeleton. Every hair on his graying head is perfectly placed, and then slathered with gel so that it won’t move.
The skeletal man approaches the podium and steeples his long, pale fingers. “Welcome, class. I am your headmaster, Dr. Hunter. I will have silence.”
The students stop whispering. My breath catches at the sight of the headmaster’s bare left wrist. He’s Evolved.
“Tomorrow your training in the theater arts will begin. Doubtless, you all harbor dreams of fame and fortune though you know that such a path is unlikely. However, the world also needs acting teachers, stagehands, hostesses at restaurants, and entertainment for parties. If you all remain focused and obedient to the rules of this institution, you will find yourself employed according to your skills in two years’ time.
“This school will not tolerate disorderly conduct of any kind, including meetings of more than three students without an Evolved monitor present, run-ins with police, or staying out past curfew.”
Curfew? Memories of Addie hustling out of our house to make it home before ten o’clock come back to me. That rule applies to me, too, now. Before today, I’d never considered it as anything more than a nuisance. Now, it’s yet another reminder that I’m only a step above a house pet in the eyes of the Evolved.
“If you follow the rules and heed my direction, you will discover that you are indeed lucky to be singled out from your more common brethren and given the opportunity to breathe the same air as those whose Status exceeds your own.”
Oh, barf.
“Now, allow me to present the acting chair of the Seattle Secondary School, Crew Beaker.” The headmaster steps aside but remains on stage as Crew comes forward.
Crew’s shrewd eyes scan the crowd, and he flashes one toothy smile to the students when the headmaster is looking in the other direction, like all of us are in on a joke that only Throwbacks would understand.
“Thank you, Dr. Hunter, for your words. They ground us and remind us of our place.”
The headmaster nods approvingly at Crew’s humble words.
“There are many other acting programs in this country for Throwbacks, but you have landed in the best one. Here you will find opportunities to grow as actors and individuals and explore avenues you have never dreamed of.”
The headmaster’s smile has disappeared, but Crew has our attention. How many of the students guess the subtext of his words? For the first time, I consider the possibility that many of my classmates were also personally recruited to this program by Crew, like I was. In spite of my plans to go to medical school in two months, the adventure and purpose that Crew promises is tempting.
“Tomorrow your journey begins. You will find your schedules, some basic instructions, and a comprehensive collection of rules on your personal tablets. All students must read and comply with these rules, and you will be tested on them to ma
ke sure you have absorbed the gravity of the restrictions placed upon you.”
Dr. Hunter is nodding again, as if his favorite monkey is dancing just as he should, but there is a fire in Crew’s eyes that makes me wonder if his reminder of the orders we must follow is not to urge us toward obedience, but rather to make us squirm under the rules that bind us.
“I look forward to meeting you individually tomorrow. Dismissed,” Crew says, and he and the headmaster walk off the stage.
The glare of overhead lighting spreads across the theater, making everyone blink. Left on our own, all of us students eye each other warily, like we’re a bunch of beta fish, ready to eat each other if it means our own survival. Who can I trust here? I’m over this uptight acting bullshit, and it’s yet to begin.
Someone puts her hand on my shoulder, and I turn. Harriet watches me, sizing me up. She must approve of my disgusted expression because she gives me the tiniest of smiles.
“Uplifting orientation,” she says, making me grin back at her.
“This program is going to be all kinds of fun. How about we start targeting the most famous clone types so we can advance our social standing?”
“I have a better idea,” she says. “How about I show you the upside of being a Throwback? It’s not all misery.”
Her offer takes me by surprise, but I immediately nod. I think I made a friend, and it’s only my first day.
“Good. In the mood for a party?” she asks.
Harriet navigates the streets of Seattle with an easy intimacy that makes me feel like a tourist in my hometown. I know the major streets and bus routes, and, of course, every coffee shop in the city, but she knows every alley, every pothole, every corner—all the stuff that never makes it onto a map.
As we slow down behind a dog walker with six dogs, Harriet says, “I’m cloned from Harriet Tubman.”
“Your surrogate mom kept your clone name, too, like mine. What the hell were they thinking?” I ask with a sympathetic wince.
