“Those are from a costume,” Waverly says when she sees what I’m staring at. “Don’t ask.” Then she backs out of the closet and closes the door, leaving me alone.
In the center of the room, standing on a plush rug, is the long, upholstered bench where I got dressed the night of the engagement party. I take off my tank top and soft, stretchy pants—clothes I borrowed from Waverly—and set them in a folded stack on the bench. Then I step into the VirtuFit.
The leotard stretches to fit my body from my ankles to my neck, and down my arms to my wrists. I feel strangely apprehensive when I turn to look at myself in the wall-length mirror at one end of the huge closet. I can see every dip and curve I’m made of.
“Did you get lost?” Waverly calls from the bedroom, so I emerge reluctantly.
She studies me from head to foot, and after a minute spent awkwardly fidgeting, I realize she’s not trying to make me uncomfortable. Not entirely, anyway. She’s looking for differences between us. Or maybe for similarities.
Her gaze lingers on my chest, and she frowns. “Yours are bigger than mine.”
I glance down at myself, then over at her, but I can’t see the difference. Unlike her mother and most of the women here in Mountainside, she and I have very little to notice, as do all the female clones I’ve ever known. Evidently that’s due to the hormone deficiency and suppression.
“It’s subtle, but it’s there.” She looks distinctly displeased. “Were your sisters’ as big as yours are?”
“I don’t…” I frown, trying to remember. “I never noticed any physical differences between any of us. But I don’t see a difference between you and me either.”
She looks skeptical. But then she pastes on a fresh smile, clearly determined that we will both enjoy ourselves today. “Come over here.”
I head toward the wall, and when I’m about five feet away, my image appears on the screen, facing me as if I’m looking at a mirror. Waverly steps up to my side, and her image appears next to mine.
“Okay, I guess you just need the basics, for now. Tops and bottoms.” She glances from my torso down over my legs. Which is when what we’re doing finally sinks in. We’re shopping for clothes for me.
“Is this another gift?” I have to admit, I like the tablet, even if it doesn’t connect to the house system. I like that it is mine.
“Kind of.” Waverly frowns. “Not really.”
Oh. “You don’t want to share your clothes with me anymore.” After hearing her complain about everything I’ve taken from her, I probably should have anticipated that.
“No! I just think you should have some clothes of your own. Everyone should.”
“Even clones?”
Waverly looks frustrated. “Yes,” she says at last. “Even clones. You know…I mean, you do know I don’t disagree with what you were saying that night. Right?”
“At the engagement party?”
“Yes. I don’t disagree,” she insists again. “I just…you can’t go around putting words like that in my mouth, because you don’t understand the repercussions. You don’t understand my life.”
I glance around her room full of fine furniture and hundreds of articles of clothing. “I think I understand enough.”
She exhales slowly. “I’m trying to spread the wealth here, if you’ll let me. If I could, I would do the same for…other clones. But for now, at least I can start with you.” She gestures at the screen, where we both still stand in a dressing room. I nod, and she scrounges up another determined smile. “Good. Let’s start with pants.”
The rack of clothes on the screen blurs, and when it comes back into focus, it holds two dozen pairs, in a stunning array of colors and fabrics.
“How does the screen know when you’re talking to me and when you’re talking to it?” I ask.
“It’s programmed to recognize certain key words and phrases. Narrow selection to the last twenty pairs I ordered,” Waverly says, and the rack blurs again, then comes into focus to reveal another selection of pants. “Okay, pick one.” She shrugs and takes a step back. “Just…point to the one you want to try and lift one leg, as if you’re going to pull them on.”
I select a pair of simple black pants with prominent white stitching. When I lift my left foot, my image on the screen grabs the pants and bends to pull them on one leg at a time. Dressing-room-me laughs and stumbles to the side a little, then straightens, pulls the pants up, and buttons them at her waist.
Waverly laughs at my surprise. “It plays a different simulation every time. They’re from videos of me actually getting dressed.”
“Video from your show?”
“No. From the cameras in the room.” She turns and points at cameras I cannot pinpoint. “They’re always recording. So, what do you think?”
I think I never want to take my clothes off again. I knew the cameras were there, but I never really thought about that.
I turn, and dressing-room-me turns, showing off the pants. They reveal…everything.
“Trifold mirror,” Waverly says, and a framed set of three mirrors appears on-screen behind my image, reflecting my backside from all different angles. “So?” she asks.
I shrug. “They’re pants.”
She rolls her eyes. “There is no way we come from the same genes.” But she’s smiling as she says it.
We spend the next hour picking out simple, comfortable tops and pairs of pants; then a box opens in the middle of the dressing room. In it is the silhouette of a woman’s head. “Are you ready to consult with your personal designer?” a voice asks.
“No!” Waverly jabs at the box, and it disappears.
I lift both brows at her in question.
“If I’d said yes, my designer would have come online for a consultation. But obviously we can’t let her see you.” Waverly scowls at the screen, her shopping joy eclipsed by the near-miss. “I think that’s enough for now.”
In the training ward, clean clothes were issued to us from a shared supply of thousands of articles, all in the same shade of green. Here, I’ve borrowed clothes Waverly intended to donate to a homeless shelter, except for some unused underwear she instructed me to “just keep.” But I’ve never really owned my own clothing. Until now.
“Purchase: everything on the ‘definitely’ rack,” Waverly says. “Add a dozen basic socks, underwear, and bras, in the eight basic colors.”
“Order prepared,” the screen says. “Please confirm.”
“Confirm.”
“Your purchases will be delivered within the hour.”
Waverly swipes at the screen, and the dressing room shrinks until it’s the size of an icon, which then slides into the upper right corner of the wall. “Okay, why don’t—”
A sudden cramp low in my stomach doubles me over.
“You okay?” Waverly asks.
“May I use your restroom?”
“Of course,” she says, and I duck into the closet to grab my clothes on the way.
In the bathroom, I strip out of the black dressing-room suit, fold it, and set it on the counter. Then I use the restroom.
The toilet paper has a bright red spot on it.
Puzzled, I stand. The water in the bowl is a pale, uneven shade of pink.
My heart slams in my chest. I’m bleeding. Something is wrong.
Pulse racing, I get dressed and stuff a handful of toilet paper into my underwear.
“You okay in there?” Waverly calls.
“Um…” Maybe I should tell her. Maybe I need a doctor.
“What’s wrong?” The door slides open, and she finds me stuffing another wad of toilet paper into the pocket of my pants, just in case. “What are you…?” Her gaze falls to the toilet and her eyes widen. “Oh. I guess your system has flushed the hormone suppressers.”
“What does that mean?”
I don’t see the connection between hormones and…this.
Waverly frowns. “Do they seriously not even teach you guys this stuff? I mean, I know the rest of them will never need to know, but it’s still basic biology.” Then her expression softens, and she looks almost sympathetic. “This is normal. It’s called menstruation. Though most people call it ‘getting your period.’ If I weren’t a clone and you hadn’t been eating hormone suppressors all your life, we both would have gotten it already.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s your body getting ready to make a baby. That’s what your hormones will help my body do.” She studies the confusion that must be written all over my face. “You don’t know how that happens either, do you?”
“I know how embryos are created in Lakeview. And I know that here that’s done the ancient way.” Like animal husbandry, in the livestock classes.
Waverly laughs. “Yeah, I guess you could call it ancient. People have been doing that as long as they’ve been harvesting plants and hunting animals.”
“We didn’t do any of that in Lakeview.” Except harvest plants.
“You may not have, but my mom says soldiers aren’t denied hormones like the rest of you. They need testosterone and aggression, or something like that, in order to develop muscle mass. You better bet your toy soldier has played a couple games of ‘ancient doctor’ with the girl soldiers. And maybe with the boys.”
Stunned, I can only stare at the floor, trying not to think about Trigger…touching someone else. I know he’s kissed other girls, but it never occurred to me that he might have done anything more. Or that there was anything more to do.
I feel oddly achy at the thought.
Is this how he felt when Hennessy kissed me?
Waverly bends to open the cabinet beneath her bathroom sink and takes out two unopened cardboard boxes. “My mom brought me these years ago, but I never got to use them.” She lifts the first box. “These stick into your underwear. The other ones…well, you can read the directions for yourself.”
As she swipes the door, leaving me mystified and humiliated in her bathroom, Waverly glances at me one more time, and the sympathy in her gaze is gone.
All I see in her eyes now is envy.
Dr. Foster sets his supply bag on the exam room counter. “How are you today, girls?”
“Fine,” Dahlia says as I hop onto the padded table next to her. Though this is his third visit to take blood samples, this is the first time she’s spoken directly to the doctor.
“Better than fine.” My mother beams a smile like the sun, as if she were personally responsible for the good news. “Dahlia has begun menstruating.”
I flinch over her causal announcement of something so personal, but Dahlia doesn’t seem embarrassed. I told her this is a normal biological function, and she took me at my word. I probably should tell her it’s not an appropriate topic of conversation on camera at the bridal shower.
“Well, that is good news!” Dr. Foster declares. “That means her hormone production must be at or near normal levels.” He turns to me with a smile. “Which means we’re ready to create some custom hormone therapy.”
“How long will that take?” my mother asks.
“Not long at all. We’ve already designed a preliminary version from the sample I took last week, just to work on the technique. I’m pleased with what we came up with and we should be able to repeat the process pretty quickly with the samples I’m about to take.” He opens his bag and pulls out the sterile phlebotomy supplies. “I hope to be back with something to try out on Waverly within a couple of days.”
“Excellent,” my mother says, and despite the week I’ve had, this feels like lighting a candle in a dark room. This could change my life. This could give me children. This could make me…normal.
The fact that I want “normal” so badly feels like a bitter irony after a lifetime of fighting to stand out. But no one wants to be known for infertility and small breasts.
Dr. Foster reaches for Dahlia’s left arm, holding a rubber tourniquet.
“No,” she says quietly. Then she crosses her arms over her chest.
I blink at her. “What?”
Dahlia turns to my mother, anger burning behind her eyes, despite the soft, calm quality of her voice. “You broke your word, so I see no reason I should stand by mine.”
I can only stare at her. In three weeks, the meek little gardener has become a rebellious saboteur, and now she’s holding my reproductive health hostage! After I took her shopping!
“Doctor, will you please excuse us for a moment?” My mother’s request is actually an order. “If you’ll head up to the kitchen, Julienne will offer you some tea or coffee. We’ll only be a minute.”
“Of course.” He glances at the three of us in confusion. Then he grabs his bag and steps out of the exam room.
“This is not a game,” my mom snaps the moment the door closes behind him.
“I know.” Dahlia sits straighter, her hands clutched in her lap, and she holds my mother’s gaze boldly. “You said I could take my meals with Trigger, but I haven’t seen him in a week, except on the screen in my room. It isn’t good for him to be alone for so long.”
My mother’s eyes narrow. “You’re not in any position to make demands.”
Dahlia takes a deep breath. “Actually, I believe I am. You can probably take my blood by force, but you can’t make me play Waverly in public. At least, not the way you want me to play her.”
“Are you seriously blackmailing us?” I demand. “After you threw me under the bus at my own engagement party?”
“What bus?” she says with a frown.
“Mom!” I turn to my mother, trying to control the panic threatening to overwhelm me.
“Dahlia, I hope you haven’t forgotten about the thousands of identicals who’re waiting on you to earn their release….” My mother’s voice is as cold as I’ve ever heard it.
“I haven’t forgotten that you don’t have access to them yet,” Dahlia says slowly, and I can practically see her thinking through each word. “Which means you can’t hurt them.”
My mother’s scowl feels like a bolt of thunder. “I can tell the Administrator that I’ve changed my mind. That she’s free to have them ‘recalled.’ ”
My clone thinks about that for a second. “If she were willing to do that, she already would have. I think she’s keeping them alive as a threat against you. Against Waverly. I think she gave you access to the Valleybrook security feed for the same reason you gave it to me.”
“Oh my God!” I shout, astonished by how much she’s come to understand in three short weeks. Terrified by how far she’s obviously willing to take this. “Mom! Let her have lunch with Trigger!”
“I want him back in his room.” Dahlia sits straighter, and I can practically see her confidence growing as my panic swells. “You’re being cruel to him because you’re mad at me, and he doesn’t deserve that. Treat him like a guest, rather than a prisoner, and I’ll do everything I can to help Waverly.”
My mother presses her lips together, her eyes narrowed as she considers.
“Mom!”
She shoots me an angry glance, then turns back to Dahlia. “Fine. I’m going to assume you’ve learned your lesson. But if you don’t participate fully for Dr. Foster and deliver a flawless performance at the shower tonight, I will have Trigger euthanized myself. Do you understand?”
Color drains from Dahlia’s face, and I have to swallow my own shock.
Dahlia’s jaw tightens, and her gaze goes hard. “I understand exactly what you’re telling me.”
* * *
As soon as a week. As long as a month.
Dr. Foster wasn’t sure how long it would take the hormone therapy to begin affecting my body, but he seemed to think that four weeks would be on the long end.
&n
bsp; I stop pacing across my rug and turn to eye my wedding dress on the e-glass. If the hormones kick in sooner rather than later, will I have to get the bust let out?
I mentally cross my fingers….
My mother knocks once, then comes in. “So?” I demand the moment the door closes behind her. “Did you pick a gene therapist?” Over the past three weeks, she’s narrowed it down to the top two doctors in the field, and after Dahlia’s little rebellion this morning, she decided today was the day to pick one. That the sooner we moved beyond dependence upon my clone, the better.
I was starting to feel guilty about keeping Dahlia in the dark about the expiration date, considering that it might affect Trigger and definitely will affect her identicals—until she threatened to let me die flat-chested and childless. Now I’m leaning back toward “what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“I dug into their finances to see which of them might be most in need of a large infusion of credits, in exchange for working in complete confidence, and it turns out neither of them does,” my mother says. “The top two gene therapists are both being bankrolled by Amelia Locke.”
“Huh? What does that mean?”
“For the past decade, Lakeview has provided the funding for their research—to the tune of nearly a billion credits, total—in exchange for majority ownership of the results. It looks like that’s how she stays ahead of the technology curve on proprietary cloning methods. Which means that neither of them is likely to choose confidentiality to us over the continued research and revenue stream.”
I sink onto the end of my bed. “We can’t hire the best geneticists in the world because they already work for the Administrator?”
“Basically.”
“So I’m screwed!”
“No!” My mother settles onto the comforter next to me. “Your father’s looking into several other geneticists—”
“But you said those two were the best.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean the others can’t help us. However, there’s a possibility that if she’s funding two of the top geneticists, she could be funding more.”
Strange New World Page 18
