Clone: A Contemporary Young Adult SciFi/Fantasy (Swann Series Book 3) Read online

  “The asshole in the lab, yes? The creep with Arabelle?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “How’d you get this number?” I bark. “It’s unlisted everywhere on this planet.”

  “Dr. Heim is more dangerous than you know, Abby. You shouldn’t have provoked him.”

  “What’s happening with Georgia?”

  “Where’s the girl?” he asks.

  “I notice you didn’t say clone, since Rebecca is clearly not a clone.”

  “Not all boys and girls are clones,” he reasons. “And not everyone in my care is mine.”

  “She was there against her will.”

  “You took something that wasn’t yours, Abby, and like I said, Dr. Heim is not a man to be trifled with. He’s beyond dangerous. Please believe me.”

  “Yeah, well I made it out of the lab with Rebecca and he ended up in his own blood and piss, so maybe I’m dangerous, too.”

  “The man is a butcher,” Gerhard warns. “Even though I don’t like you, I worry for you.”

  “Georgia,” I say, exhausted already.

  “You hurt Arabelle, too,” Gerhard says, ignoring me. “She might have a concussion.”

  “That I’m actually sorry about,” I say.

  “Why can’t we get along better, Abby?” he says with a sigh. “Why must we always do this terrible dance?”

  “Rebecca’s a girl, Gerhard. Not a science project. Not a clone. For God’s sake, the girl is still twelve years old in her mind.”

  “As I said, Rebecca was my colleague’s, not mine.”

  “You allowed it.”

  “We’re getting off track, I’m afraid. Dr. Heim is not the primary reason I called, although I can assure you, that incident will be dealt with when we see each other next.”

  “First off, I don’t plan on seeing you again, or that gosh damn lunatic. Second, don’t threaten me.”

  I hear him blow out another long and painful sigh. “Dr. Heim is not a man of idle threats. You have shaken a hornets’ nest, which is to say, you will have to answer to for your actions eventually.”

  “With no due respect, when I need a lesson in responsibility, I’ll Google it.”

  My navigation system alerts me to an upcoming turn; I signal, look over my shoulder, make the turn. Gerhard’s voice changes from foreboding to something less animated. “Your friend is recovering as we speak.”

  I sit up straight, almost too quickly.

  “Georgia? She’s alright?”

  “Whom else would I be referring to?”

  “Can she come home?”

  “She’ll be returned to her parent’s home in due time. There are still tests to run.”

  I pull to a red light, come to a complete stop. It’s hard to imagine so many people packed so tightly into just one city.

  “Tests?” I say.

  “She’s not the girl you remember. Sadly I was not able to bring that version of her back. This version of Georgia, however, is very special. Different than you or your friends. More unique.”

  I’m thinking about my recently discovered regenerative abilities and I’m thinking, if only you knew Gerhard…if only you knew.

  “She’s unique how?”

  “Never you mind, Savannah—”

  “Abby,” I say. This correcting everyone about my name, it’s becoming a nuisance.

  “Abby.”

  “And I do mind, Wolfgang. You’ve played doctor to us girls entirely too many times.”

  “I don’t appreciate the implication that I am ‘playing doctor’ when I am in fact one of the finest doctors of science and medicine in my field. The things you don’t know about me would fill volumes.”

  “Your own sordid past is not my concern. And you are a genius, I will admit. I do not, however, care for you as a person, which is why I’m talking to you like I could give a shit about your feelings.”

  “Dually noted. Your friend will be ready in a month, perhaps six weeks.”

  “Six weeks? Seriously?”

  “She’s shown remarkable healing, but there are…minor adjustments that need to be made. The same as adjustments were made with you and everyone else.”

  “Can’t she come home first? Can’t you do your tests on her after she’s had a chance to see her friends and family?”

  “We both play our respective roles, Abby. I’m her doctor. You’re her friend. It is not for me to question which boys you kiss, whom you should be friends with, what color eye shadow you should use. Similarly, it’s not for you to question matters of life and health as I’m her doctor and you are just a girl. This is merely a courtesy call.”

  The light turns green, I step on the gas too hard, eliciting a grunt from Brayden.

  Between me and Gerhard, there’s a long, uncomfortable pause. A really long pause. Then: “I appreciate you telling me she’s okay, Dr. Gerhard. Even though it’s creepy how you’re not blowing a gasket over me right now.”

  He takes a moment to consider this statement before saying, “You are a cancerous child.”

  Brayden taps my shoulder and whispers, “Turn here.” I brake hard, make the turn. We’re almost to the cosmetic surgeon’s office.

  “One last question,” I say.

  “No.”

  Click.

  Wait, what? “Hello? Hello!” The Bluetooth automatically disconnects. Turning to Brayden, I say, “That Nazi prick just hung up on us!”

  Brayden, the way he is, he just frowns and says, “So she’s going to be okay, that’s a good thing, Abs. Isn’t it?”

  Talking myself off this ledge, slowing my breathing, I mutter the words, “I suppose,” and start to feel a little better. But not by much.

  2

  We park the S5, walk two blocks to the plastic surgeon’s office, then take a seat in the far-too-opulent waiting room. Brayden signs in; I open a magazine. We sit together in silence. Well, except for the speakers overhead. They’re playing a Coldplay song that’s not terrible.

  Finally Brayden’s like, “So are you going to talk to me or what?” and I’m like, “Talk to you about what?”

  “I want to know what you think about Georgia, dummy.”

  I blow out a sigh, like he’s totally putting me out, then I close the magazine, turn to him and say, “How do you think I feel?” My hard façade falls apart quickly. “I’m relieved. But I think there’s more than Gerhard’s letting on.” I snap out of my brooding funk and even though Brayden has boy parts, I’ve always been able to talk to him like a girlfriend. “Gerhard says she’s ‘unique’, whatever the hell that means. So I guess maybe I feel hopeful, but also I’m worried.”

  “That guy gives me the creeps.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I say. “In fact, I probably don’t even know the half of it.”

  Brayden lets this tumble around his brain for a minute, then he says, “What do you know about Gerhard anyway? The real Gerhard?”

  “I can tell you one thing, he likes his stupid cat,” I say, remembering the time I broke into his home to steal his keys.

  “You can’t fault a man for loving pussy,” Brayden says with a lopsided grin.

  “Whatever, stupid. The point is I don’t know much other than he gives me the creeps, too.”

  Brayden grabs my magazine and starts thumbing through it.

  “At least he’s out of our lives.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’d like to think that’s true, but he just called me on a ridiculously unlisted number.”

  “So?”

  “So he found me, don’t you get that? He found me.”

  The receptionist calls Brayden’s name and with a nervous smile, Brayden takes my magazine from me and drops it on the side table between us. “Here we go,” he says.

  I flash a weak smile, but he keeps looking at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  “You’re a big boy,” I say. I grab the magazine and flip it back open. “You don’t
need me holding your hand.”

  “Let me rephrase,” he says, more stern this time. He takes the magazine from me, closes it once more, puts it back on the table. “You’re coming with me. I need a woman’s opinion.”

  I gather up my things, stand up and say, “Ok, fine. Let’s go already.”

  3

  The plastic surgeon has the artificial look of a man who has tried all his own procedures. Looking at him, he could be seventy or he could be forty. Really, it’s hard to tell. All I know is the man gives away nothing in the department of facial expressions. I’m watching the space in between his eyes as he looks Brayden over and there’s nothing. Not a single furrow, no look of consternation, nothing. Not even one hint of a solitary emotion.

  It’s like watching a Ken doll work.

  The point is, if eighty percent of our communication is non-verbal, I’m only getting five percent of a message. I consider burping, just to see a look of displeasure. Or perhaps disgust. If I fart out loud, will he frown? Will I be able to see the frown? I think about dropping an f-bomb, but I can’t conjure a suitable reason to do so, and really, at this point, I’m not even sure why I’m so dang fascinated with his plastic face.

  But I am.

  I guess I feel sorry for Brayden. He could go into the pink jelly and be this delicious boy-god in no time flat, but because of his parents, he has to resort to surgical violence to make him whole. Then there’s the pain and the healing and all the questions he’ll have to answer. Well, maybe there won’t be questions just yet. He’s going to be laid up at my house in private, so go figure.

  When he goes home, however, and once his parents see what he’s done, what I helped him do, there is a pretty good chance their colons will seize and unbridled rage will rain down upon me. Ten bucks and a bag of chips says they’ll call me and make me their scapegoat. Oh well, I can handle it. A lifetime of abuse from both Margaret and the cockroach press made my skin thick. A rhinoceros would take a knee in admiration at the thickness of my hide.

  When the plastic surgeon begins discussing with Brayden the details of the rhinoplasty, Brayden sits and listens intently until the point when the surgeon says, “Would you like to see some examples of my work?”

  With unabashed excitement, Brayden says, “Do bears crap in the woods?”

  The surgeon laughs (you’d barely know this, except for the chortling sounds coming from his throat, because his freaking skin barely even creases!) and pretty soon the two of them are perusing through “before and after” photos and I’m browsing the web on my smart phone.

  Within moments of Brayden choosing a nose, the surgeon is up-selling his services. He’s using a pen to mark-up Brayden’s face, all the imperfections. He’s talking about the slightly uneven symmetry of Brayden’s face and how his hooded eyelids and weak chin will stand out even more once his nose is perfect.

  Brayden’s like, “So what do you suggest?” and of course, the surgeon breaks out pictures of chin implants and pictures of guys with eyelid lifts. Then he mentions a chemical peel to which I look at Brayden with the “Is this what you want?” look. He nods, then I nod, and pretty soon we’re talking surgery dates.

  “We’ll just need your parent’s consent,” the surgeon says, to which Brayden breaks out his fake ID and is like, “Um, I don’t think so.” The surgeon smiles and Brayden smiles, then the both look at me and guess what? I smile, too.

  All the way home Brayden is coming out of his skin with excitement. And me? I’m squirming inside. Going home, it’s like returning to the circus. But not in a fun way. We’re talking dysfunctional, dark, depressing. The three D’s.

  Then there is the question of the boys: Jacob, Damien, Professor Teller (Jake), Brayden. What the effing hell am I going to do with them? Oh, how my mind can churn! Stop kissing them, my mind tells me, and stop flashing your business, too, it says.

  Talk about sound advice.

  “Let’s call Netty,” I blurt out. God, I so don’t want to go home. “We need to have lunch with her.” To my relief, Brayden nods and I’m on the phone before he can change his mind.

  Netty answers right away, all professional-like, and again, my relief is monumental. “Lunch today?” I say, trying not to sound desperate. “I’m in the city.”

  “I’ve got a lunch date, but you’re welcome to join us if you want.”

  “I was kinda hoping for some one-on-one time,” I say. “I’ve missed you lately and I just want it to be us girls.” Brayden raises a brow.

  There’s a pause and I can hear her talking to someone in the background, then she’s back on the phone and saying, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  I blow out an exhausted sigh. Even my friendships are feeling overly complicated these days. “I said I wanted it to be just you and me. Like the old days.”

  “Okay,” she says, after a minute’s hesitation. “I can reschedule my friends, or whatever.”

  “Is it okay if I bring Brayden?” I ask, looking over at him. He’s now staring out the window, consumed with the hustle and bustle of city life.

  “Is this a plus one kind of thing?”

  “Depends,” I say. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  “I don’t want to compete for your attention.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says, and we make plans for an hour from now.

  After hanging up, I say, “Alright Brayden, we’ve got an hour to kill.”

  “Let’s drive down Market Street and look at all the people.”

  I signal, wait for traffic to clear, then I ease into a turning lane and prepare to make a u-turn back into the city. Market always seems too busy for me, but whatevs.

  Brayden says, “I want to see some bums and some gays and some girls that look like rockers or vampires or boys or whatever.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Some goddamn diversity would be nice.”

  “Gosh, that mouth!”

  “What about it?” He says it like he’s far away, or dreaming perhaps.

  “Maybe you should try to stop cussing is all.”

  “Why? It’s not working for you.”

  “Never mind, we’ll go see your bums and freaky girls.”

  “And gays, too.”

  “Anything you want, Sunshine,” I say.

  Still looking out the window, he takes my hand and says, “Thank you for everything you’re doing for me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And thank you for letting me see your body. That made my year.”

  “Again,” I say, feeling the heat stealing into my cheeks, “you’re welcome.”

  I take him down Market Street and mostly there are the multitudes of stressed-out professional people scurrying about. Some highlights, however, are a six and a half foot black man wearing a purple cape shouting about the evils of Wall Street, and this totally normal looking lady who bent over, picked up something from the gutter and ate it. We both screamed at the sight of it, then laughed out loud until we cried. It could have been someone’s abandoned bubble gum, or it could have been a tossed Subway pickle. For awhile we speculate.

  We also see quite a few lesbians, but then we see two Goth-looking dudes with slicked back hair and Emo-style pants holding hands. Brayden stares at both. Now I’m wondering about his fascination.

  “You just don’t see this kind of thing where we’re from,” he says, and I get it. He really does crave the diversity. It’s almost endearing.

  Almost.

  4

  After Brayden satisfies his need to sight-see Market Street, I drive into the Financial District, following the Audi’s navigation instructions to Commercial Street. There I hunt for parking. We’re still early, so I’m not all that stressed out, but still, parking in the city at lunch time has a way of setting your teeth on edge. I finally find a space on Kearny and we walk to Mercedes Restaurant where I see Netty and some other girl holding hands.

  Holding hands?

  I grab Brayden’s arm and stop u
s flat in the middle of the sidewalk. A lady behind me slams right into me, gives me a hard look and says, “You can’t just stop like that!”

  Of course, I can’t.

  She continues on, huffing and shaking her head. She even gives me one last hard look before turning the corner and I’m like, jeez, what gives lady? Brayden pulls me off the sidewalk the same way a parent pulls a kid off a busy street and he says, “What the hell?”

  Netty and this other girl, they’re waiting outside Mercedes for us, but it doesn’t look like they’re waiting too intently. After all, we’re still early.

  My grip tightens on Brayden’s arm. He sees Netty and the girl and he says a long, “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  The way they’re laughing, Netty and the girl…they could be…no. Then the girl leans in and kisses Netty right on the mouth!

  I hear my mouth say, “Jesus balls, they’re bumping donuts,” a statement of disbelief that makes absolutely no sense at all while still managing to use the Lord’s name in vain. It’s all blasphemous and surreal.

  Netty and the girl’s mouths unlock. Netty checks her watch, lets go of the girl’s hand and looks around.

  “We should flake,” I hear myself say.

  “First of all, that was hot,” Brayden says. “Second of all, no way, she’s your best friend.”

  He grabs my hand and drags me back out into foot traffic. I’m about to protest when he starts waving to Netty. Oh. My. God.

  The minute Netty sees us, she acts really excited and I almost forget what just happened. She introduces me to her “friend” Chloe and I see right away there are buckets of jealousy building in the strange girl’s eyes.

  It’s always like this. Me being pretty, sometimes it’s so embarrassing. My friends, the non-clones, they told me in situations like this to own my beauty. They told me this when I was Savannah Van Duyn, version 2.0. Still, I have yet to know that feeling. The way I look, I still feel like I should apologize to people for it.

  The four of us head inside and both Chloe and Netty say hello to the owner’s dog, Gustavo. Mercedes is owned by a wonderful woman named Leanna and I swear on my unborn children’s unnamed names she serves the best Carnitas con Chile ever. Plus, looking around at the bright colors, the teals and oranges and yellows, as well as the colorful artwork, you can’t help but feel energized.