The Originals

The Originals Page 4

“Well, it shouldn’t,” Bet says. “You’re awesome. But you know what? Mom’s going to make us both feel inferior if we don’t get our homework done because we’re standing around gawking at our baby selves. You’re already on her list this week; why make it worse? Let’s go.”

I allow myself to be dragged by the hand toward the door of Mom’s room, wondering whether the kids at school would consider clones unnatural; wondering what they’d think if they knew the truth. My fingernails are still painted, and as I flip off the light behind me, my neck is still prickling, too.

“Here,” Ella says, holding out the necklace at lunch. We’re on the front porch and the car is idling; I was the one waiting this time.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it and putting it on, thinking that to anyone else, the necklace probably looks like a family heirloom: a locket containing tiny photos of those I love. But it’s a lot more than that.

“Everything go okay this morning?” I ask.

“Yeah, fine,” Ella says, blowing out her breath. “Classes were okay; I talked to that David guy a little in student government.” She pauses, eyeing me for a few seconds before adding, “And… I aced the quiz.”

Ella wrote down the classroom numbers, but still, I’m edgy as I walk into Spanish III that afternoon. Instinctively, I make my way to our seat: front row, closest to the right wall. It’s the one we choose in any classroom, assuming we’re given a choice. We do it mostly for convenience’s sake—sometimes someone gets sick and we need to fill in for each other—but I’m not saying one of us (ahem, Betsey) doesn’t have a few obsessive-compulsive tendencies, too.

I settle into the chair, lean back, and twirl an end of my hair, pretending to be bored. As far as everyone else knows, this is my sixth class of the day, not my first. I try to look tired, even faking a yawn just before Mr. Sanchez shows up. He drops his teachers’ manual loudly on the front podium, then addresses the class.

“Hola, estudiantes!” he shouts, beaming like we’re his favorite people on earth. He claps his hands loudly a few times, probably trying to shock us, with our post-lunch comas, into the afternoon. Happy to be learning Spanish from a native speaker instead of my mom, I’m okay with his antics.

“Hola, Señor Sanchez,” I reply aloud. No one else responds. A few people snicker. Mr. Sanchez looks at me with eyebrows raised, smiling.

“Brownnoser,” a girl mutters behind me.

I don’t turn to see who said it, but I learn my lesson. For the rest of the class period, I only respond when called upon. But that doesn’t mean I don’t shout out the answers in my head. And, unlike in trigonometry, here I get them all right.

One step removed from private, Woodbury is one of the few remaining public schools with an arts program, still offering things like music, painting, pottery, and dance. I may not want to chant “Go, TEAM!” while wearing a revealing outfit, but I’ve always loved every form of dance. So, inheriting our dance elective from Ella was a gift.

Seventh period, I walk confidently to the studio in the hallway next to the gym without pausing to think or ask for directions. It’s possible that I might have happened to take the very long way to history once or twice to see what the dancers were up to. Thankfully, now it’s my turn.

I find locker number 27—it was assigned—and type in the only combination we ever use: 3, 33, 13. Inside, I find a black halter dance top with a built-in bra, black drawstring shorts that, embarrassingly, say DANCE across the butt, a red hoodie shrug that covers my arms and upper back, footless nude tights, and black, broken-in jazz shoes. Faster than fast, I change, excited to get to try out the dances Ella’s already taught me with a room full of other students.

“I hope she finally teaches us the ending today,” a red-head named Alison says from behind me as I walk from the locker room to the dance area. I’ve seen her before during first half: She always says hello when we pass in the halls.

“I know,” I say, thankful for Ella’s prep, “we’ve been stuck on the middle section for a week!”

“I think it’s easier to dance the whole thing,” Alison says. “I’d rather learn all of it and practice it straight through than keep stopping to perfect each section.”

“Totally,” I say, feeling a little awkward but forcing myself to remember that even though I don’t know Alison, she thinks she knows me. “And you know how if you learn something then sleep on it, you’ll remember it better?” She nods. “Well, I bet if she teaches us the ending today, we’ll all nail the dance tomorrow.”

“Genius,” Alison says, smiling warmly.

“Hardly,” I say, laughing as I pull my long hair into a knot at the back of my head, checking for strays in the wall of mirrors.

“Showtime,” Alison says as the teacher takes her place.

And for forty-five minutes, I’m in heaven.

I leave my hair pulled back for creative writing, because it’s sweaty and I used all my shower time going over the routine—the whole routine—three more times with Alison. Still high on dance, Madonna ringing in my ears, I walk into the creative writing classroom and cut straight to the front desk on the right. Not until I’m practically in the lap of the desk’s occupant do I realize that it’s taken. I stop short, no clue what to do. Should I just sit in a free seat or run out of the room and call Ella? While I’m deciding, the guy in my seat feels my stare and turns around.

Suddenly I notice that the room has grown very warm.

“Hi?” he asks, smiling with his brow furrowed. I don’t know him, but his greeting seems to be translatable to Gawk much?

He moves in a funny way, almost levitating the desk while he’s still in it. Then he makes the walls ripple, too. How does he do that? I wonder, but not for long, because the floor buckles. I reach out for the desk next to me; we’re having an earthquake. Except no one else seems to be alarmed.

“Are you okay?” I hear the guy ask.

I don’t answer.

Instead, I pass out.

When I wake up seconds or minutes later, my classmates are looking at me from their desks, some of them smirking, some of them concerned. My first thought is that I’m thankful that I’m not wearing a skirt. My second thought is of the necklace. My hand flies to my throat, and for once this week, I catch a break: The necklace isn’t there. I must have left it in my gym locker after dance.

“Elizabeth?” Mr. Ames says, standing over me, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, feeling like an idiot. I look at Guy, who’s half out of his seat; he eases back down.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Ames asks. “You look quite pale.”

It’s weird to be on the floor while he’s hovering over me like this; I can see up his prominent nose. I start to sit up and choose to look back at Guy while I do it.

That’s when I realize that he’s actually pretty cute. Except not in the traditional way. Picking apart the pieces, he’s too angular. His chin and mouth are sharp; his nose looks like it started out perfectly straight then met up with a tree or another guy’s shoulder at some point. His hair can only be described as a side spike, like he stood sideways in front of a fan blowing hairspray instead of air. He’s tall and towering even seated, watching me curiously with light brown eyes. Just as I decide that he looks like the daytime alter ego for a nighttime superhero, he speaks.