by Kristen Pham
“Joan . . . of Arc?” she guesses.
“You got it. It could be worse. My roommate is a Marilyn named Sparkle.”
We both laugh.
She stops at a street corner near a run-down bakery that no Evolved would ever set foot in and kneels down.
“What are you doing?” I ask, glancing up and down the street to make sure no potential muggers are nearby.
Harriet scans the street as well. “Move fast.”
She lifts up the grate in the road and begins rapidly climbing down a ladder that disappears into the darkness. I follow, slamming the grate shut behind me, more intrigued than scared.
We descend about thirty feet into a dark tunnel. When we get to the bottom, I turn on the torch app on my phone to cast some light. We’re in an octagonal room lined with ancient stones that are streaked with dirt and mold. Passageways lead from every wall, hinting at a honeycomb of tunnels underneath the city. It’s a setting straight out of a classic mystery book. My eyes must be bugging out because Harriet’s lips are twitching like she’s repressing a smile.
“Never been to the Lab?” she asks.
“Never even knew it existed, and I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“They used to call it Seattle Underground, but since it was condemned and Throwbacks took it over, we call it the Labyrinth, because it’s a maze of connected tunnels and rooms down here. The Seattle we know was built on top of Old Seattle, and this is what’s left of it.”
“This is crazy,” I say, but with awe.
“This is home.” Harriet shrugs.
“You lived down here?”
Harriet slept in this dark, dank hole without climate control or food and drink dispensers? What if there are rats?
“My surrogate mom is a Molly with a shack in White Center, but we fought constantly. By the time I was thirteen, I left and lived down here with the rest of the Throwback rejects. I’m sure it’s a dungeon to you, but it was a haven to me.”
“How many people live down here?”
“Somewhere between twenty and thirty at any given time. But about fifteen of us were all minors, and we stuck together and found deserted parts of the tunnel where we’d be out of the way.”
“Is that where we’re going now?”
Harriet shakes her head. “I’ll show you that part of the Lab when I know you better. If the Evolved police or child services found my friends, they’d be driven out.”
“Where to then?”
Harriet jerks her thumb behind her and heads east—at least I think it’s east—down a tunnel. It forks after a couple of blocks, and Harriet leads me down another tunnel, this one lined with stones instead of dirt. I even see doors on the sides of the tunnel with writing in an ancient font.
“This is the basement level of a few of the buildings that are still standing aboveground,” Harriet explains.
We walk quickly, and the faint sound of music and laughter reaches us. As we get closer, a glow is visible farther down the tunnel. By the time we reach the light, the music is blaring.
The tunnel widens into a room about half the size of a football field. It’s empty of furniture, except a table with a DJ spinning tracks, the music booming out of large speakers. It’s like a picture out of a history book, back when all concerts were live.
The room is crammed with bodies. Macs, Mollys, and other common clone types mingle. There’s an easy, friendly vibe that’s probably aided by the alcohol I smell on everyone’s breath.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Throwbacks so natural and relaxed. It’s a shock, thinking back to encounters with Throwback teachers, servants, and even other students, how reserved and careful they always were with me, when I was considered Evolved. Wasn’t that a function of Throwback culture?
Clearly, no.
Away from the Evolved, Throwbacks laugh loudly, gesture wildly, and shout warm greetings at each other.
“Not what you expected?” Harriet asks.
“I have a lot of unconscious prejudices to let go of—even though I’m a Throwback myself.”
“Admitting you have a problem is the first step in solving it,” Harriet says with mock gravity, which earns her a punch in the shoulder.
The beat of the music changes to a deep bass that thunders so hard it’s a miracle that the Lab doesn’t crumble down around us. Gradually, everyone stops talking, and a mass of people move in sync with the sound. Feet stomp the ground, fists pump in the air, and everyone dances, including Harriet and me.
You’d think the sweaty bodies crammed together would be claustrophobic, but it’s not. It’s thrilling, and I give myself over to the music and the energy and the sweat, like everyone else. These are my people; this is my home.
“Look who’s watching you,” Harriet shouts over the blare of the music a while later.
I follow her gaze to where the DJ is spinning. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that clings to his body, and his cheeks are flushed. He moves with efficient grace, changing records with ease and seamlessly blending the beats of the songs.
“He’s gorgeous,” I say to Harriet, loving the idea that this passionate, skilled DJ was checking me out.
My eyes widen when said hot DJ looks up, and his unforgettable eyes meet mine. In the back of my mind, I’d noticed that Justus is good-looking, of course. But tonight, spinning records, I register just how hot he really is. Too bad he spends most of his time mad at me.
“Do you know Justus?” Harriet asks.
“He went to my high school.”
After switching records, Justus’s eyes meet mine. The passion he has for his music has dilated his pupils, and his whole body exudes waves of energy. A young Molly with spiky hair taps him on the shoulder and takes his place at the turntables.
He immediately walks over to me.
“You two know each other?” Justus shouts over the heavy beat of the music.
“Seattle Secondary,” Harriet shouts over the music.
Justus gives her a sharp look, surprised by her answer. “Didn’t think you’d pick that place, with all those obnoxious famous clone types.”
Harriet shrugs, her expression neutral. There’s something she hasn’t told him, but I don’t know her well enough to ask for the story.
Justus’s eyes flicker between us before stopping on Harriet’s face. “Joan helped Mason today when he had an Amp seizure.”
Harriet leads Justus into one of the tunnels, away from the music, with me in tow.
Harriet’s knuckles whiten as she grips Justus’s arm. “Mase overdosed? Why didn’t you call me?”
“He’s okay, Harry, relax. My dad has him on an IV at our house. No one knows.”
Harriet releases a breath. “Thank God.”
“How long have you two been friends?” I interject.
“I have to go see Mason tonight,” Harriet says to Justus, not responding to my question.
“If you want, but I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t okay,” Justus replies.
Harriet turns to me. “I’m sorry, Joan.”
“Go be with your friend.”
“Thank you for understanding. And for helping Mason,” she says. “Will you take her back to the dorm, Justus? She’ll get lost down here alone.”
Justus tenses. “Sure.”
Harriet disappears down the tunnel, almost running. I’ll have to wait to grill her on how she knows Justus so well.
“Harriet likes you already,” Justus observes. “She usually takes a long time to warm up to people.”
“I’m a special case.”
“I’m starting to see that,” Justus says. “Do you want to go home now?”
“No way. I want to dance.”
For once, Justus’s eyes light with something other than suspicion or disappointment. He smiles, and his teeth are a flash of white against his tanned skin.
He grabs my hand, pulling me into the mass of bodies. We dance near each other, accidentally bumping arms or knees from time to time. It’s the most physic
al contact I’ve ever had with a boy because relationships between underage kids is illegal until your DNA is tested on your eighteenth birthday.
Does the quick brush of skin against skin always make your heart speed up and put your nerve endings on high alert? Every contact is a pleasure, and I summon my courage and put my hand on his chest. His heart beats so hard under my palm.
My awareness of him, his marbled eyes, hard body, and lithe movements, entirely takes over my senses. I surrender to the music and the moment and forget all about acting programs and medical school and snobby roommates. For the first time ever, I just feel.
“Joan,” Justus whispers, and he’s close enough that his breath mixes with mine. He smells like spice and mint and sweat.
I haven’t had a drop of alcohol all night, but I swear I’m drunk on Justus and the freedom of being away from the Evolved gaze.
We could have danced together all night, but Throwbacks have a curfew to keep, and the music cuts off fifteen minutes before we all turn into pumpkins.
The electric connection between us is broken, for now.
Justus heads down one of the tunnels. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
As we walk next to each other, our knuckles occasionally touch. We climb up, out of the darkness, to the world above.
I don’t say anything, afraid of breaking the magic spell between us. This must be what attraction feels like. I understand the temptation to drown in it.
We stop in front of my dorm, and my mind cycles through things I could say to prolong the contact between us. I’m curious where it would lead.
“I have to go,” Justus says, and his eyes are guarded now.
Our connection was real, even if his cool gaze is denying it now.
“I’ll see you soon,” I reply, trying to sound as detached as he does.
I watch him turn and disappear down the street, hoping this new feeling of attraction is as easy to stomp out as it was to ignite.
Chapter 10
Sparkle is up at dawn to begin her elaborate process of getting ready. Sleeping through it is out of the question. If I were her, I’d roll out of bed, wipe the drool off my cheek, and head out the door, since she’s stunning even when she has bedhead. But dolled up, she’s glamorous, and I tell her so.
“I get that you’re new to this, but you understand that there aren’t enough compliments in the world that will make me sit beside you at lunch, right?” she asks, without tearing her eyes away from her mirror.
“Understood,” I say with a salute.
I carelessly shove the makeup kit Mom bought me into my leather backpack. I’ll need it for my first class. Sparkle notices and groans.
“You’re in Costumes and Makeup this morning?” she asks.
“Sure am,” I say, struggling to make my backpack close with the bulky kit inside.
“Careful, that’s a top-of-the-line makeup system!”
Sparkle’s makeup kit is a slim gray bag that’s scuffed and tattered. The zipper is broken, so she’s pinned it shut.
“You lucky dog,” she says.
In response, I bark, and she struggles to keep a straight face. I’m going to win her over eventually.
“Let’s trade kits,” I suggest, since learning makeup techniques is not high on my list of life priorities. I’ll be leaving this one behind in the fall, anyway.
“I couldn’t,” Sparkle says breathlessly, sounding just like the original Marilyn Monroe in the old movies. “It’s worth a year of my mom’s salary. It even has the glow kit used by professional makeup artists when they want their leading lady to light up the stage, literally.”
“Sounds alien.”
“Wait till you see it on. It’s magical,” Sparkle says with a sniff, and then leaves without saying goodbye.
Inside the Little Theater, everything is dim and quiet. Yesterday’s elaborate set is gone, replaced with a midnight-blue background.
The schedule on my tablet says that Costumes and Makeup is in a room backstage, so I climb the stairs on the side of the stage. My footsteps echo as I cross it to stand in the center. I pause and look out at all the empty chairs, trying to imagine them filled with people. There’s something electrifying about the idea of holding a crowd that size in my thrall, as they hang on my every word. Not as thrilling as saving someone’s life, of course, but the appeal is undeniable.
The sound of talking and laughter drifts out from backstage. Behind the heavy curtains draped on the wings of the stage is a hive of activity, filled with light and bustling students running to class. I catch a glimpse of Harriet entering a room before I have the chance to catch her eye.
Damn, she’s in another class. Two doors down is a room paneled with huge mirrors lined with LED lights. High tables and stools placed throughout the rooms slowly fill with my classmates.
Most of the students are recognizable clone types that I’ve seen in movies before, even if I can’t name them. Sparkle comes in, laughing, with a James Dean and the Bruce Lee I saw yesterday at the elevators. They choose a table together, where a Taylor Swift and a Halle Berry are sitting. They are easily the most beautiful and recognizable clone types at the school, exactly who Sparkle wants to be associated with.
There are other kids in the class whose faces are familiar, too, and everyone is perfect looking. It could give me a complex, if I let it.
The tables are filling up, but everyone avoids sitting near me. As a Historical, I appear to be a potential carrier of what we referred to in kindergarten as “cooties.” Good. I’m weeding out all of the douchebags in the class quickly.
Finally, a pale guy with light brown hair joins me. His nose is pointy, and his skin is blotchy. I doubt that he was cloned from an actor.
“Joan of Arc,” I say, getting the awkward part of the conversation out of the way.
“I’m Rob,” he says. “Cloned from an American president, Woodrow Wilson.”
He shifts in his seat, uneasy. He’s lying about who he’s cloned from, which makes me even more curious about who it is.
Another boy with dark, greasy hair and Asian features joins us as well, but the teacher arrives before we can make any introductions.
“Welcome, darlings, to Costumes and Makeup,” says a tall woman with dark hair as she floats across the room. “The hours you spend in this class will be the most important of your life. I will give you a competitive edge that few people understand—it doesn’t matter who you are. It’s who people think you are. People determine your worth in the first ten seconds of meeting you. They know nothing of your values and talents. They make up their minds about you based on what you wear, your hair, your makeup, and how you carry yourself.”
I’m not sure if it’s her words or the flowery smell of her perfume that’s making me so nauseated. After having a chance to examine her, I determine that she’s a Cleopatra who has wholeheartedly embraced her clone type.
At first glance, she appears about ten years older than us, but upon closer evaluation, she’s at least fifty. Her eyes are made up in a dramatic Egyptian style, and she wears gold jewelry embedded with tiny lights that glow subtly when she makes a point. Clever.
Her eyes scan over her students, and her smile widens when she sees Sparkle’s table.
“Quite a promising start to the year. Call me Lady Cleo, my lovelies, and I am here for you, whatever worries you may have. Let’s start by introducing ourselves, starting with your name and clone type,” she says, shocking me a bit.
In addition to the celebrities I’d already identified, there are several others whose names I remember when I hear them. There’s also a table of clones who are technically Historicals, since they’re not cloned from actors, but they are good-looking enough to pass as actors, including a Cesar Chavez, an Elizabeth I, a Sacagawea, and a Joseph Stalin.
The other boy at my table whispers that his name is Sal, and that he’s cloned from the leader of some Cambodian rebellion no one’s ever heard of.
Most Historicals have kept
the name of the person they are cloned after, which must be a trend, since we are relatively rare clone types.
“And you, of course, are cloned from Joan of Arc. Jo Macson and I went to school together more than thirty years ago,” Lady Cleo says to me before I have a chance to speak for myself.
The distaste in Lady Cleo’s eyes makes it clear that she doesn’t have a high opinion of Jo.
“I’m Joan Fasces. I love my long hair, only rarely dress up as a boy, have never held a sword in my life, and, so far, have managed to ignore the voices commanding me to take back my country from the English.”
“But are you a virgin?” the Bruce Lee sitting with Sparkle, whose real name is Ken, shouts from the back of the class.
Everyone bursts out laughing, and no matter how hard I try to force my perfected badass look to stay in place, I still blush.
“That’s a yes!” Ken hollers.
Lady Cleo prevents me from replying by tapping on the mirror behind her. It’s a screen, and she begins a lesson on different face shapes, and the best techniques to minimize flaws and heighten beauty for each one.
Lady Cleo’s class is a full three hours, and it takes everything I have not to bash my head against the table to put myself out of my misery. Sure, looks matter a lot if you want to be a famous actor. But no one cares how hot their doctor is when they’re in critical condition.
This class confirms that I’m making the right choice by going to Paris. Staying in Seattle would mean attending classes that I hate and listening to authorities who want to control me.
I’m going to make my own rules.
Chapter 11
When Lady Cleo finally sets us free, everyone heads to the break room to wolf down some lunch before our afternoon class. I hunker down with my food and ignore the snickers of Sparkle and her friends until Harriet joins me.
“Need a distraction?” she asks.
“Hell yes,” I reply.
“Justus messaged me last night, asking how I know you,” Harriet says.
A silly grin threatens to split my face. The connection between us was more than a trick of my imagination. I need to see him again, to check if that spark was more than a one-off reaction of my body.
