by Kristen Pham
“You’re a saint.”
“Why are you making this harder than it already is?” she asks.
“You don’t have to laugh along with everyone else. Want to take the stairs, so we don’t arrive together?”
“Enough,” Sparkle says. “I’m sorry, okay?”
Her apology surprises me, so I hold back further biting comments. We drift apart when we emerge in the lobby, as Sparkle hangs back to wait for her friends.
Harriet is ordering breakfast from a food and drink dispenser in the lobby.
I peer over her shoulder. “Chocolate chip cookies for breakfast? I entirely approve.”
“It’s a feast, as far as I’m concerned. I’m used to scrounging for food with the rest of the Lab rats,” Harriet says.
“Lab rats?”
Harriet scrunches her nose. “That’s the nickname the police have for the Throwback kids running from social services and hiding in the tunnels.”
“Were you hungry a lot?” I ask, watching her from the corner of my eye as we make our way to the Little Theater.
Harriet jerks her head in a quick nod and then flashes me a tight smile. “I’m making up for lost meals now that the school gives us a decent amount of money for food.”
“My parents said they’d send me a little extra money now and then in case I need anything. Maybe we could take some treats for your friends in the Lab, once I pass the Harriet trust test.”
“If you show up with cookies, they’ll follow you to the gates of hell.”
“It’s a promise,” I say. “Are you in Music for the morning block?”
Harriet shakes her head. “Except for when we’re pulled out for Remedial Acting, we are with the same group of kids for the rest of our classes.”
Well, damn.
“I’ll find you at dinner,” Harriet promises when we part ways inside the theater.
I’m following the sound of music down the hall to my first class when a redheaded girl runs into me. Her long red braids are coming undone, and I don’t need to see the freckles on her tear-stained cheeks to recognize her clone type. She’s a Molly, like Addie. A Molly I know.
“Brie, what happened? I can help you.”
Another tear streaks down her cheek as she nods, and I pull her into the mop closet at the end of the hall.
“Let me help,” I say, using the hushed tone I save for kids, animals, and people who are overdosing on Amp.
“They followed me and took my bag, and the big one hit my cheek, and I was too scared to come home and . . .”
The rest is an unintelligible mess of sobs and broken words, so I gently rub circles on her back, like Addie does when I’m upset.
Gradually, her tears slow. “Let me get Justus.”
“Thank you.”
I rapidly text Justus the situation and tell him where to find us.
“While we wait for Justus, can you help me with something?”
“Anything,” she says, her eyes shining up at me with gratitude, reminding me of her hero worship after I fought Mr. G.
“I’m really scared because I’m going to my first music class at this school, and I’m brand-new to being a Throwback. Can you teach me some Throwback songs that we might sing?”
Brie’s face breaks out into a wide smile. She softly sings me songs I remember Addie crooning to me when I was little as I rebraid her hair.
The door to our closet opens, and Justus quickly joins us inside. He stops short when he sees Brie smiling as I tie the end of her braid.
“What happened, Brie-Bear?” he asks, kneeling in front of her.
Brie’s smile vanishes. “Jeff.”
Justus’s jaw clenches, and his rage is so palpable that it makes our closet feel warmer. Just as quickly, the expression melts into a smile for Brie.
“I’ll get you home safe, and then I’ll make sure this never happens again.”
Brie’s body sags with relief, trusting her big brother to fix everything.
Justus turns to me. “That’s the second time you protected her. Thank you.”
I shake my head, dismissing his gratitude. “Let me help you get her home.”
“We’ll attract less attention on our own, and my shift is almost over.”
Justus and Brie leave the closet first, and I wait a couple of minutes before sneaking out after them. In spite of my morning detour, I’m the first person to arrive in Music class.
The teacher is alone, playing his heart out on a saxophone. My schedule says his name is Mr. Ramschild, but I recognize his clone type right away. Music will be taught by a Louis Armstrong.
Settling in a chair in the back of the room, I absorb the music as students enter. Everyone entering is equally quiet in the presence of the incredible sounds Mr. Ramschild is producing. When he finally stops, the class is full and utterly silent. He smiles, and I wonder if his performance is a deliberate tactic to immediately establish himself as an undisputed master of his craft.
“Whether you know it or not, every person goes through life paced by the beat of inner music,” Mr. Ramschild says, his deep, rich voice hypnotic. “Tapping into your personal tune will enable you to live a more rewarding, successful life.”
“My inner song is rock and roll, baby,” Ken says.
The class laughs, and I bite my lip to keep from replying with a snarky remark about his inner tune being the screams of the people who run from the overpowering smell of his cologne.
Mr. Ramschild continues, ignoring Ken. “Each of you will have the opportunity to try the instruments in this room and see which one calls to you. Don’t limit yourselves to the gifts you assume you possess because of your clone type.”
“What if we’re singers?” the Taylor Swift clone, whose real name is Alison, pipes up.
“That’s for another day. Patience, kiddo,” he says with a low chuckle. “For now, choose an instrument and sit.”
We all make our way to the perimeter of the room, which is lined with long tables where different instruments rest. Attached to each one is a set of expensive earphones that completely cover our ears, blocking out any sound other than what’s coming from the instrument it’s connected to.
I choose this thing that looks like a little guitar that’s labeled a “ukulele.” I have no idea what that is, but I pick it up and strum it the way I’ve seen my favorite stars do on holo-vids on my tablet. The sound that I make would give a dying cat a run for its money.
My fingers are clumsy on the strings, and even after Mr. Ramschild adjusts my hold on the instrument and I listen to basic instructions on how to strum a simple chord, making the ukulele produce anything approaching music is impossible.
Over the next hour and a half, I try the piano, bass, trumpet, and clarinet, with no greater success.
On the other hand, the Mozart and Tupac clones are in heaven. After a while, they disconnect their headphones so everyone can hear what they’re playing. They keep an eye on each other, acting on an unspoken agreement to duel using whatever instrument they are practicing on. Everyone keeps sneaking peeks at them because the music they’re creating on the spur of the moment is incredible.
It’s nearly impossible to concentrate when Mozart begins playing the saxophone, and I, like most of the other students, put down my instrument and gape at him. Even the teacher listens with approval, tapping his foot to the beat.
Mr. Ramschild lets Mozart finish his solo before he speaks up. “For your last trial today, I’ll guide you each to an instrument that I believe will suit you best.”
He leads each student to an instrument. Elizabeth is given a harp, which seems like such an obvious choice for her that I roll my eyes. When it’s my turn, he takes me to a drum set in the corner of the room.
“I think you’ll do best pounding something,” he says with a gentle pat on my back.
I put on the earphones and grab the drumsticks lying nearby. Even though the noise I make banging the drums is only marginally better than anything else I’ve created today,
I immediately feel better. My unique brand of music must include the ability to pound out my frustrations.
A while later, someone taps my shoulder.
“You better hurry, or you’ll miss lunch before your next class,” Mr. Ramschild reminds me.
All of the other students are gone. I’m sweaty, but somehow more at peace than I was when class started.
“Thank you.”
It’s nice to find one adult at this school who doesn’t bore me or spook me. Mr. Ramschild nods, but his attention is now focused on sheets of music in front of him, where he must be composing a song. I leave without disturbing him again.
There are two teachers for my afternoon Movement class. They immediately preen that they are cloned from Anna Pavlova, some famous ballerina, and Gene Kelly, a tap-dancing actor from an eon ago. They’ve both kept their clone names, no surprise.
They have choreographed an elaborate, highly cheery dance demonstration to “rev us up” for class. It leaves us openmouthed. Most kids clap loudly when they finish, but my hands refuse to come together.
“Dancing requires skill and grace, but excellent choreography brings an emotion or story to life. Here you will learn more than dance techniques. You will create art, if you follow our instructions,” Anna says, and then executes a perfect pirouette.
This is the literal personification of the “dancing monkey” that I feared I’d become in acting school.
Anna notices my expression and frowns. “Stand, students. We’ll begin by getting a sense of your existing skills. Let us know of any dance training you’ve received in the past or genetic gifts you’ve inherited.”
She might be worse than Lady Cleo, who has the benefit of being a tad crazy to excuse her enthusiasm for entertaining the Evolved.
Gene turns on music with a heavy beat, and Anna brings forward the first student to dance for them. She picked Ken, the Bruce Lee, and he’s graceful, if not particularly on beat.
I’m shoved into the spotlight next.
“This will be good,” Ken says, nudging Alison.
Every class needs a kid dubbed “loser” to be the butt of jokes, and Ken and his friends clearly have their money on me.
“Go, on, young lady. Show us the clay we have to work with,” Gene commands.
The part of me that revels in saying “no” decides that I will not be a dancing monkey for these dick wads today.
When the music turns on, instead of dancing, I lay on the ground like a blob. After a few seconds, I wiggle. I punch out my arms, then legs. Next I hop like a frog.
Everyone is staring at me like I’m nuts, but they’re transfixed, even the teachers. I begin scratching my armpits like a monkey, then swinging my arms like an ape. Elizabeth releases an unladylike snort of laughter. She’s the first to figure out what I’m doing.
“Evolution,” she says loudly, and the class joins in the chuckles as I transform into a caveman beating my chest and dragging my knuckles.
I start to walk, then dance for my final transformation into a modern human. Anna shuts off the music, and I deliver an elaborate bow. Everyone is howling.
“Don’t encourage her,” Anna admonishes.
“Is a sense of humor allowed in dance class?” I ask.
“Get out,” Gene says.
He’s fuming, much angrier than Anna. He drags me out the door.
“Is this class, this program, a joke to you?” he shouts when we’re alone in the hall.
“Umm . . .”
“What the students at this school learn will ensure that they do not starve! The difference between good dancing and great dancing is the difference between living in a shack with rats and living in a house with child privileges! You may choose to live in poverty if you wish, but you will not waste time in this class, dragging down the other students around you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Your kind rarely does,” Gene spits at me. “Why Historicals are permitted into such a prestigious acting institution baffles me, but here you are. Under my direction, you will not detract from the education of your betters.”
Any passing guilt vanishes. “Don’t the Evolved make life shitty enough for us without Throwbacks being prejudiced on top of that?”
“The response I’d expect from a Historical. No better than a common Molly,” Gene says, and disappears back into the classroom.
I punch my fist once against the wall, hard enough that it hurts. I suck on a scraped knuckle and make my way to the bathroom.
Safely locked in a stall, my shoulders slump. It isn’t only the hearts and minds of the Evolved that will have to change if we want a more just country. Throwbacks will have to change the way we treat each other, too.
Tomorrow is another Remedial Acting class with Crew, and I’m tempted to ask what he thinks about how to bring Throwbacks together, since that would be essential in a successful rebellion.
Then I remember seeing his face last night. Genghis Khan leading any kind of rebellion seems like a bad idea. Maybe I’m as guilty as Gene Kelly out there, condemning Crew for a history that he had no part in.
My phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number. Justus. Brie is safe at home. Now I’m going hunting for a prejudiced prick who bullies little Throwback girls, probably to make him feel better about how his dick evolved to be so tiny.
Justus’s words pull me out of my funk, reminding me of what’s real, what matters. It’s time to come out of hiding. I’m not retreating with my tail between my legs, now or ever.
Chapter 14
The teacher of the last class of the day has bright, curious eyes and a graying beard that covers most of his face. It’s an unusual style, since most men have their facial hair lasered off in their twenties so they don’t have to shave every day. This teacher is the first person I’ve seen with a beard in real life.
“I am Leo,” the teacher says.
Under the shield of my desk, I log into my tablet and conduct a quick search for Leonardo da Vinci to make sure that my guess is right. His portrait doesn’t do the spark in his eyes justice, but it does confirm that his clone is teaching my Managing Celebrity class. The original Leonardo was a master painter and inventor, a true genius. Maybe this class won’t be so bad after all.
“I ask that each of you introduce yourself while impersonating a celebrity,” he says, the suggestion of a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Naturally, do not impersonate the original of your clone type.”
For the first time since Crew’s class, the loudmouth debate champ in me is excited. Several ideas of who to impersonate flit through my mind, and I reject them all as my classmates get up and give their names and facts about their lives while impersonating celebrities like Madonna, Justin Bieber, and Morgan Freeman with varying success.
It’s my turn, and I’m still weighing my options when lightning strikes. There are a few snickers as I ascend the stage. Carefully, I steeple my fingers, doing my best impression of a certain skeleton we call Headmaster Hunter.
“I will have silence,” I say, and am gratified to see Leo flash a smile of immediate recognition. “I am Joan Fasces, a humble Throwback grateful to be at this institution to learn from my betters, especially pompous assholes with one foot in the grave.”
The students are completely silent and wide-eyed, not laughing at all. I decide to change tacks and turn this into a rallying cry. “Someday, each of us in this room may be dancing monkeys for the Evolved unless we band together and fight for equality, for our rights as human beings, not—”
A bony hand closes on my shoulder, and I immediately understand why everyone’s so quiet.
“That’s enough,” Headmaster Hunter says.
There are two bright red spots in his pale cheeks, and his eyes blaze.
His presence is intimidating, but there’s no way I’m letting him know it. “You got it, boss.”
“I take responsibility and accept any punishment,” Leo says, moving to stand a little in front of me, like he
’s going to shield me from something.
Leo swallows, like he’s scared. For me? As far as I know, Throwbacks are entitled to free speech the same as any Evolved American.
“You will be held accountable, Artifact,” the headmaster says to Leo, shoving him aside and taking a step closer to me.
I’m shocked by his use of such a filthy term, and it makes me even angrier.
“How can that be fair—”
“Stop talking. This behavior will not be tolerated. Let this be a lesson to anyone who believes a loose tongue will go unpunished in this institution. Treasonous words like Joan’s will be eradicated.”
I’m positive I’m about to be expelled as he grabs my arm and drags me outside. I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he’s strong. His fingers are going to leave bruises, for sure.
All the students in my class follow as he yanks me outside into a courtyard between the theater and the dorms. I expect to see laughter on their faces or smug satisfaction at the chance to witness me getting in trouble, but instead, they are quiet and stony-faced, like pallbearers at a funeral. They know something I don’t, and suddenly I’m afraid to find out what it is.
In the center of the courtyard, Dr. Hunter throws me to the pavement with enough force that I stumble to my hands and knees. Before I can stand, he rips a black object from a clip on his hip. He flicks a switch with his thumb, and a wire is released that sparks with electricity.
It’s a whip embedded with nano-lasers, the kind the police use to maximize damage to criminals who resist arrest while minimizing accidental deaths. The first lash cracks across my back with such force that I scream.
I make myself stand, not wanting to kneel before this sadist, and the whip snaps again. My shirt splits, and the whip rakes across my back. I clench my teeth so I won’t make a sound, but another scream escapes me anyway.
By the third lash, I’m on my knees and then limp on the ground. After that, I stop counting lashes. My entire body twitches with every strike, and I don’t care that I’m sobbing and moaning in front of my entire class. My back blazes with a pain more intense than anything I’ve experienced in my life.
