The Originals

The Originals Page 18

“Is everything all right?” Bet asks, looking at me curiously.

“Yes, but—”

“If everything’s okay, can we talk tonight?” Ella interrupts. “I need to finish getting ready.”

I open my mouth to explain that we should probably talk now—because I’m not sure where Mom will be later—but the buzzer beeps, telling us that the gate’s opening. Mom’s home.

“That’s fine,” I say. Then, not wanting to worry them, I add, “Really, it’s no big deal. Tonight’s great.”

“It’s a plan,” Ella says before waving and leaving the kitchen. She heads up the stairs a little slower than usual because of her ankle, humming all the way. I’ve heard the song before: It’s the one Dave played for me on the way to the movies.

At school I push thoughts of Mom out of my head and focus on Sean. The second I walk into creative writing, I can tell that he’s still mad about seeing me with Dave at the mall. His posture is stiff and he’s facing full front. It’s probably my imagination, but it seems like he may have scooted his desk up an inch or two.

“Great,” I mutter to myself as I walk up the row to my seat. I ease into my chair and take a deep breath. Rationally, it’s probably okay that he’s mad: I can’t date him anyway. But emotionally, I can’t take it. I know that I have to try to fix things with him or I’m going to have a breakdown of soap opera proportions.

“Sean,” I whisper to his back. He ignores me.

“Sean,” I whisper again. I reach forward and touch the back of his right arm. He doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t turn around.

“Sean!” I whisper louder. “I need to talk to you.”

Finally, slowly, he turns halfway in his seat, not all the way like when he’s talked to me before. Like when he’s given me his full attention.

“What’s up?” he says, no intensity in his voice, like I’m anyone.

“I need to talk to you about yesterday,” I whisper. “I want to explain.”

“No need,” he says, shrugging like he doesn’t care. His voice is louder than mine, and that lack of intimacy almost stings worse than his words. “I’m good.”

“Really, Sean—” I begin, but Natasha cuts in.

“Hey, Sean,” she says, glancing at me with a smirk. “Show me that app you were talking about earlier.” Earlier? Jealousy rushes through me, and I realize that this is how Sean must’ve felt when he saw me with Dave.

He pulls out his phone and starts talking to Natasha about a photo app, taking a picture of her and then doing something on the screen. Instead of letting the anger take over, I try to redirect my energy toward getting him to talk to me. And that requires a softer touch.

“Can I see?”

Sean looks at me, and in his eyes I can tell that he’s conflicted—both wanting to hate me and wanting to move forward like nothing happened. In the few seconds he considers his next move, Natasha flashes me a look that screams Back off! But I persist.

“You’re totally app-sessed,” I joke, smiling warmly at him. It’s silly, but it does its job: His face softens and he turns his body so both Natasha and I can see the screen. Class is going to start any moment; I only hope that before it does, I can melt the iceberg enough to get him to talk to me for real later.

“Anyway, this app’s awesome,” Sean says, looking at the screen, then Natasha, then glancing at me. “It’s called Twinner. You know, like Twitter but with twins?”

“Got it,” I say.

“Cool,” Natasha says, a little too flirtatiously.

Sean goes on with the explanation. “You upload a photo of yourself and it uses facial recognition software to find your twin from all the photos on the Internet,” he says as he holds the phone out so we can see it a little better. “See? We just found Natasha’s.”

On the screen, there’s a picture of a girl with similar facial features but completely different hair and body type.

“She does look like you,” I say to Natasha.

“She wishes,” Natasha says, arching her back a little. Trying to control the look on my face, I think of my mirror images, Betsey and Ella. I can’t help but wonder why anyone would want to feel less individual. Then I think that this app is Mom’s worst nightmare.

Mom.

I think about how Mom’s the reason I don’t have my own, full identity in the first place. She’s the reason I can’t go out with Sean, the reason he’s hurt and mad at me right now. She’s hiding something from us—and I’m starting to feel like it’s bigger than just a personal office space. It seems like my mom’s more concerned with keeping herself out of trouble than she is with us.

Something has to change. It just has to.

“Do me,” I say to Sean, driven by a fast and furious wave of rebellion.

“You wish,” Natasha mutters under her breath before turning toward her friend in the other row, bored with the conversation since I joined. I blush a little, but Sean just ignores her; instead he starts typing on the keyboard.

“Don’t you need a picture?” I ask.

“I have one,” he says quietly, eyes on his phone. Relief floods through me.

“Here,” he says after a few seconds. “That’s actually the best match I’ve seen yet.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. When I take the phone from his outstretched hand, I gasp at the picture on the screen. The girl really looks like me. Like us. For a second I think it’s actually Betsey or Ella, but then I realize that she looks a little older, and her face is rounder. But we all have the same eye and hair color, and the same curls.

“That’s unbelievable,” I say, handing Sean back the phone just before Mr. Ames tells him to put it away. There’s a heavy feeling creeping through my stomach; a crazy thought trying to overtake my brain.

Is she the Original? Is she Beth?

“I can message her if you want,” Sean says, glancing back at me.

“Huh?” I ask, distracted.

“Twinner doesn’t give out names, but you can message people, and if they want to meet you, they can write back.”

“Oh,” I say, taking out my notebook and feeling like my head’s on two planets. He probably thinks I’m mental. Pulling it together, I say, “That’s okay. It’s a little creepy.”

“If you say so.”

Mr. Ames finishes writing on the board and moves to the podium.

“Sean?” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I still want to explain,” I say. “About yesterday. It’s not what you think.”

There’s a long pause; I think he might not answer. But then he does.

“I’ll listen.”

The day turns out all right. Sean assures me when the bell rings that his after-school plans are legitimate—he’s going to take pictures with his mom—and not some excuse to get out of talking to me. After we say goodbye to each other at the end of the English hall, I walk to my locker feeling lighter than I did earlier. No one gets kicked in the head at cheer practice. And, when I get home, Mom’s on her way out for work, so I don’t have to deal with talking to her.