“I’m aware that today is important, and that you are all anxious for me to continue with the rest of our program. But before I do, it would be unwise of me to gloss over the implications of this tremendous day in both our school’s and our nation’s history.”
Ransom pauses, and I can feel everyone around me sitting up a tad bit straighter. We aren’t eager to hear what he has to say; we are hungry.
“The six upperclassmen joining our junior class today are highly intelligent, talented individuals like you. Do not doubt that they have met Darkwood’s standards for admission with flying colors. The fact that these students have come from a different background than your own and that their existence is a scientific phenomenon of sorts has no bearing on how they are to be treated at this school. They deserve every consideration and respect when it comes to their safety and privacy. The media has agreed to keep their identities confidential until they are eighteen, unless they choose to speak out before then. If anyone at Darkwood reveals the identities of these students in any public way, it will be grounds for immediate expulsion. Additionally, there will be serious legal ramifications.”
A collective breath is taken. Ransom is asking us to protect the Similars against the outside world.
“We will now begin the key ceremony,” Ransom says. “Mr. Park?”
Mr. Park skitters up to the podium, holding a cigar box. The box is closed, its shiny chrome lock tightly fastened, but I know what’s inside: six keys, gold in color and old-fashioned, like the ones that used to unlock the doors in Darkwood’s rooms decades ago. My hand flies to my neck, where a cord is looped around a key like the ones in the box. Programmed to open Cypress’s front door and my dorm room, my key is read by a sensor embedded in the doorknob, verifying my identity through contact with my skin. Keys are presented to each new Darkwood student on the first day of school, along with an ominous warning: they aren’t replaceable.
“In this box are six keys to the school,” Ransom explains. “Each one belongs to a new member of the Darkwood junior class. You’re all undoubtedly aware that transfer students to Darkwood, while uncommon, are not unheard of. However, six new eleventh graders in one year is quite a record, one that’s required some creativity on the part of our housing committee. But don’t worry, none of you have been assigned to bunk in the outhouses,” Headmaster Ransom adds, eliciting light laughter from the student body. Mr. Park opens the box, revealing the six keys. “First years, you will receive your keys immediately following this assembly, so kindly stay in your seats. When you do receive your key, place it around your neck and do not remove it for the first twelve hours, giving the software time to initialize. And now, the first key.”
Pru reaches out and grabs my hand, pressing her nails into my palm as she squeezes. I can’t tell if she’s excited or nervous for Pippa, or simply acknowledging how significant the moment is.
“Welcome to Darkwood, Jago Gravelle. Please come forward to accept your key.” Three hundred fifty-seven necks crane to watch as the first Similar steps out from the very front pew in the chapel. That must be where the clones are sitting.
The boy approaches Headmaster Ransom. It’s Jake’s Similar who I saw by the lake—the boy with the black hair and the burdened expression. I hear stifled laughter coming from the pew where the original Jake sits. His friends nudge him, elbowing him in the side, no doubt. I can’t see Jake’s face. I wonder if he’s wearing his usual smile, and if so, how forced that smile is.
Jago shakes Ransom’s hand, then bends down so Mr. Park can loop the cord with his key around his neck. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. You knew about the Jake Similar, I remind myself. You were expecting this Jago boy.
“Jago Gravelle,” Ransom continues. “Repeat after me. ‘I pledge my allegiance to Darkwood Academy. I vow to uphold the school’s four founding tenets: Loyalty. Excellence. Inclusion. Identity.’”
Jago repeats the pledge with confidence. As soon as he’s done, the student body erupts in applause and chatter.
“He has a British accent?” I murmur.
Pru nods. “So does Pippa. I guess they all do. Hers is charming, but Jago’s is kind of hot, right?”
I definitely wasn’t expecting the accent. But of course, he wasn’t raised in America. He grew up on some secluded island out in the middle of the ocean. It makes sense that he doesn’t sound like the rest of us.
Next, Headmaster Ransom introduces Tessa’s Similar, and I make a mental note of the fact that while all the Similars are juniors, the originals, so far, are a mix of seniors and one junior—Pru. Must be because of the way their birthdays fall and the fact that all the Similars are at least nine months younger than their originals. Pru’s birthday is in October, so that explains how her clone is a junior and not a sophomore. I bet the clone’s birthday is around July. “Welcome to Darkwood, Theodora Gravelle,” Ransom says. The girl walks forward, hesitant, like she isn’t comfortable in her own skin. On instinct, I seek out Tessa. I locate her three rows in front of me. Madison sits next to her, whispering in her ear. I wonder if Madison’s angry that Tessa didn’t mention her Similar this morning when they met in the driveway of the school.
Theodora Gravelle repeats the pledge and accepts her key, returning to her pew as unceremoniously as she came. The chapel is no longer hushed. Students can’t help whispering. A Jake Similar. A Tessa. Who else?
“Their names start with the same first letter,” Pru whispers. “Did you notice? Tessa and Theodora. Jake and Jago. Prudence and Pippa. I thought ours was a coincidence, but now… It’s like somebody planned it that way.”
I hadn’t noticed, but she’s right. The person who named the Similars—whoever that was—must have wanted them to have another tie to who they came from. Who they were copied from. Even their names are a reminder that they share DNA with another person.
Speaking of Pippa, Headmaster Ransom introduces Pru’s Similar—Pippa Gravelle.
“I know she’s your clone, but I’m still amazed by how much she looks like you,” I say, a little awed.
“If I bothered to wear makeup or brush my hair,” jokes Pru. She offers her Similar a thumbs-up and a wave.
Next up is Similar number four, a replica of Archer de Leon. As Archer’s Similar inches his way up to the podium, I catch sight of Archer’s friends clapping him on the back, which strikes me as odd. Archer didn’t do anything to become the DNA sample for another person, but that’s nothing new. Archer gets accolades in life for simply existing.
Archer’s Similar is named Ansel, and though he has his original’s good looks, that’s where the resemblance stops. Ansel shuffles awkwardly to stand next to Mr. Park. He turns his back to us as he recites the Darkwood pledge, which he mumbles so softly we can’t hear a word of it. He’s clearly shy, or at least suffering from stage fright. Either way, it doesn’t help that most of the girls in the chapel are giggling at the sight of him. I’m not surprised. Even America’s brightest female students get weak-kneed in Archer’s presence. Why would it be any different with Ansel, who’s equally handsome, albeit slightly awkward?
Headmaster Ransom introduces the next Similar, and I squint to get a better look. Blond hair. A familiar, symmetrical face… It’s Madison, only not. So Madison was telling the truth. She has a clone. But didn’t Madison say that her Similar wasn’t coming to Darkwood? That her family had paid the Similar to stay away, because if she attended this school and the public found out about it, it would be political suicide for Mrs. Huxley? Then again, Ransom said he’d be introducing six Similars to the school, not five. From the look of things, Madison’s clone has matriculated at Darkwood after all.
I turn to stare at Madison the original and catch the betrayed look on her face. Madison jumps to her feet. Tessa grabs her by the arm, pulling her back down to their pew. My gaze returns to Madison the clone. Headmaster Ransom introduces her as Maude, and although she wears Madiso
n’s same tight-lipped expression, her eyes—they’re different. Hollow. Almost wounded. Yet she has a fierce and determined stance. When Maude takes her oath, she’s confident. She doesn’t smile, not even a little.
Pru whistles through her teeth. “I feel bad for her. Maude probably had no idea that her original is, well, kind of a bitch.”
Maude leans down to accept her key, and I wonder what it must be like to be her. What must it be like to be any of these clones, their very existence an experiment, only to be deposited here at Darkwood for what can only be described as a strange social experiment in itself?
“And now,” Headmaster Ransom continues, “our final new student. Welcome to Darkwood Academy, Levi Gravelle. Please come forward to accept your key.”
“Where is he?” Pru murmurs. We crane our necks to get a better view of the figure moving toward the podium. I can’t make out much from this angle. Nothing about his size or stature jumps out as being remarkable. He’s about average height and has longish hair, which covers what I can see of his face. I squint to get a glimpse of his features when Pru tenses beside me. She grabs my arm and squeezes hard—too hard.
“Ow,” I whisper, turning to look at her. “Why are you…?”
She looks shocked. Stunned. Like she’s seen a ghost. I turn back to the front, confused.
The boy leans down, accepting the key that Mr. Park is placing around his neck. I can’t make out which student he’s a copy of. Brown hair, medium build—he could be a clone of any number of boys in the junior or senior class. It isn’t until he straightens that I see his face.
And it’s Oliver’s.
Levi
The Similar— the one with Oliver’s face—recites the oath, pledging his allegiance to Darkwood Academy. He shakes Ransom’s hand, followed by Mr. Park’s. He smiles at both of them, and Mr. Park snaps the metal box shut. I watch all of this happening, but it’s like I’m looking through the wrong end of a lens. I see it unfolding, but I do not believe it.
The boy is Oliver—only he is not. He is, and he isn’t. I find myself trying to make sense of that. I can’t.
The Similar has Oliver’s chin. He has his floppy bangs, his familiar nose, his cocky smile. He has every feature that Oliver has—had.
Only none of the memories. None of the stuff of our lives, the stuff that made us us. This boy has none of it; he knows none of it. Because Oliver is dead, and this, most definitely, is not him. This person is a shell of my best friend. The same on the outside but not within. He won’t know that Oliver and I spent our eighth-grade year watching every movie on the AFI’s 100 Greatest American Films list, starting with Citizen Kane and ending with Ben-Hur. Or that we used to put mustard on our popcorn. He won’t know that Oliver understood me so well, he never had to ask how I was. This guy won’t know any of it.
Oliver has a clone.
It’s impossible. And yet, here this kid stands, in front of me, as real as the rest of the Similars.
“Did anyone know?” Pru asks, her voice sounding hollow. “Ollie’s parents didn’t mention it to you, did they? At the funeral, or—?”
I shake my head.
The rest of the assembly is a blur. My stare is glued to this Similar, this not Oliver, this Levi, as he joins the others.
“Before we break for the first-year key ceremony,” Headmaster Ransom says, his voice taking a solemn turn, “I’d like to acknowledge the life of a student who is no longer with us. Please take a moment to pay tribute to a beloved member of our community, Oliver Ward. Skilled filmmaker, caring classmate—Oliver will be truly missed. Though Oliver passed away at the beginning of the summer, your return to school may trigger some difficult emotions, given his absence. Because of that, grief counselors will be on-site throughout the first week of school, and we will be holding a suicide-prevention workshop in the coming weeks to raise awareness of the warning signs of suicide, which is the third-leading cause of death among teens—a heartbreaking tragedy. Please know that we—the teachers, administration, and everyone at Darkwood—are here for you if you need to talk. And now, a moment of silence in honor of Oliver.”
I feel the serrated knife slide in. I look around at my classmates, all 357 of them, as they bow their heads in silent tribute to Oliver. If you include the Similars, 363. I can’t see the clones from where I sit, though I assume they are following Headmaster Ransom’s instructions. I wonder what he is doing. I wonder if Levi can possibly appreciate the irony of this moment. He is introduced to the school, then we remember Oliver leaving it. It feels like a cruel joke. I appreciate the grief counselors and the steps the school is taking to prevent other deaths—but what would I possibly say to some poor, unsuspecting therapist? My best friend died, but I’ll deal? His clone is here instead?
A minute later, Ransom cuts off the tribute. Sixty seconds. Is that all Oliver’s life amounted to? Oliver, who was the only kid to talk to me in the third grade when I was the new girl at our elementary school back in California. He was the boy who sat with me at lunch and gave me half of his peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. He knew my biggest fear in life—that everyone will leave me. He knew that if my house were on fire, the first thing I’d rescue would be my mother’s old scrapbooks. Oliver’s death was as big a shock to me as to everyone else. There were no warning signs that I could see, though I’ve beaten myself up every day since, wondering if I missed something that could have saved him.
“New transfer students, please follow Mr. Park out the side exit of the chapel to receive your room assignments,” Headmaster Ransom directs. I watch as the Similars file out behind Mr. Park, Maude leading the group and Levi bringing up the rear. I barely register what else Ransom says, only that he gives banal instructions for the rest of the day, urging us to unpack and report to dinner. We move to leave, and I push past my classmates. I have to get out of the building as soon as humanly possible. Around me, students dissect the assembly. Some call Ransom a radical for inviting the Similars to Darkwood. Some call him wise and progressive. Others call him a visionary. Still others call him a fool.
I fight my way up the aisle, sliding between clusters of my classmates. I hear Pru calling out to me, but I don’t stop. I’m on a mission.
Outside. Air.
I push my way past Jake Choate, and then Madison, who’s fuming that her Similar is going to pay for showing up here when her parents explicitly told her not to.
Finally outside, I welcome the fresh Vermont air in my lungs as I gulp in a breath. That’s when I spot Madison’s Similar—Maude—talking quietly with Jago. Jago, who’s nearly a foot taller than Maude, leans down and kisses her.
They’re a couple? I’m surprised. I’d thought of the Similars like siblings. But now I realize that was a ridiculous assumption. Why wouldn’t they pair off? They aren’t genetically related to each other. And with their different hair colors and skin tones, which speak to the diverse heritages of their DNA families, they couldn’t look any less like genetic sisters and brothers. What they do have in common is their British accents—a product of their secluded upbringing—and their shared childhood.
Archer and Ansel stand together to my right. Ansel looks so awkward next to his doppelgänger. Kids swarm around them, likely trying to get close to Archer. I don’t stop to watch. Instead, I run. I dig for the pharma in my pocket and shove it in my mouth, swallowing hard.
Oliver has a clone. Oliver, who died less than three months ago, has an exact DNA replica. And that replica is here, at Darkwood, wearing Oliver’s face like he has every right to it. Walking around in Ollie’s body, he’s a living, breathing reminder of everything I’ve lost.
I charge to the far side of Dark Lake, leaving my classmates and the Similars behind. As the sky shifts from blue to the gray of an old bruise, I reach a grassy clearing, and my feet stumble and slow. I have no idea how long I’ve been running, maybe minutes, maybe more. I circle back toward the chapel, trying t
o calm myself, taking in deep breaths. That’s when I sense it—I’m not alone. There is someone else here.
I freeze, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
A figure slides out from behind a nearby oak tree.
It is Levi.
The sight of him here, now—it’s arresting.
I want to pull him toward me and hold him, letting Oliver’s warmth envelop me. Only it would all be false. A ruse. A trick.
This person, this Levi, meets my eyes. His white shirt hangs over his muscular frame. He’s more athletic than Oliver was. Oliver was lean, thin. This boy is sturdy. His body is hard. They are different, and yet, they are so achingly the same.
I stare at his face, and it’s agony, but I can’t look away.
“Don’t tell me,” he says in the British accent that sounds so wrong in his mouth, in Oliver’s mouth. “I look just like him.”
Stratum
“Your best friend, Oliver. I’m a spitting image, aren’t I?” Levi speaks so casually, it’s as if he doesn’t know how painful his words are. “A dead ringer… Sorry. Slip of the tongue.”
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and slap Levi across Oliver’s face. He stole it, after all. It’s not his. He can’t have it.
In my peripheral vision, I notice that a cluster of our peers has formed around us. I’m not surprised we have an audience. Kids at Darkwood flock to drama like moths to a flame. I don’t know how they found us so quickly, and I don’t care. Something’s overtaken me—fury, or rage, or insanity. In spite of my audience, I lunge at Levi, scratching, pulling, trying to rip his face off. Levi pushes me away, and I stumble back a few feet.
“I hate you,” I spit at him as I stand doubled over, trying to catch my breath. I know the words are juvenile and pathetic, but they’re all I have.
Levi observes me like I’m some kind of specimen. “Do you always make snap judgments about people you’ve just met? Or is it only me?”
The Similars Page 3
