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

  “Help me out here,” Margaret says. She’s got the clone half out of the bed. My body jumps into action, but my mind is elsewhere. Imagining the possibilities. Trying to conceive of a world where this kind of healing power is possible.

  We’re in the middle of dressing the clone when she starts to stir. We’ve got her in panties and a t-shirt, and we’re trying to get some pajama bottoms on her. Her movement, however, makes us stop what we’re doing and hold our collective breaths. Her body shifts ever so slightly. Margaret takes the pajama bottoms off, sets them aside. Her toes curl, her fingers curl—then both uncurl at the same time and she yawns. Like a newborn child.

  Um…holy crap.

  Finally her eyes flutter a little bit and she opens them, blinking away what must be a lifetime of sleepiness. Her brown eyes have the most amazing polish to them. They close the minute they open. A reaction to the lights? To not being in a tank filled with goopy…goop? A soft whimper rises from her perfect Cupid’s-bow lips. Her body moves against this new awareness, slowly, almost painfully.

  “Her muscles must be atrophied,” Margaret says. “We should massage them.”

  “Won’t that scare her?”

  “It’s for her own good. Besides, she looks like she’s still out of it.”

  “How do you know these things?” I ask, astonished by her selflessness, her knowledge. The old Margaret wouldn’t have helped the clone because she is so beautiful. More beautiful than Margaret. In fact, I’d bet my Audi the old Margaret would let her die out of jealousy.

  “Grey’s Anatomy,” Margaret answers. “The TV show, not the book. Massage her arms, lightly at first. Very lightly. I’ll do her legs.”

  The minute our hands touch the clone’s skin, she half-startles, like her senses are there, but still not in full alert. She stirs the way a baby would stir, makes the same face you’d make if you’re about to cry. Then it happens: the tears come.

  Big, quiet crocodile tears.

  I feel a bout of sick nervousness boiling inside me. Knowing the clone has been treated the same as a dog staked to a post its entire life is the same as poison flooding my heart. The thought of her in the pink goop for so long sears my emotions. Enrages me. Makes me blister for revenge.

  More than anything, my boy DNA wants to make someone pay.

  Nurse Arabelle and Gerhard, they aren’t the top of the food chain, I know this now. The people behind them, they tried to kill me, to radiate me to death. These people, they’re the top of the pyramid. These are the people who need stopping. At least that’s what the more vindictive parts of me now think.

  But doing something so brave and impossible, these are the dreams of fools. Of children. What can I do? I mean, really, what can I do?

  Nothing. Just take care of her. Nurse her to back life.

  That’s it.

  I work my fingers over her muscles, feeling helpless, powerless, so very, very small. Writhing, she moves against mine and Margaret’s touch. Her mouth quivers. A whimper falls painfully from her lips. The way her body fights us, you would have to be blind not to see the tremendous toll it’s taking.

  “Not so hard,” Margaret warns.

  “I’m being gentle.” At this point my voice is sharp and defensive. I take a deep breath, blow it out slowly, then say: “I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just…this isn’t working.”

  “It is,” she insists. “Keep doing it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “This is what it’s like having a child,” Margaret says. “Except this one looks twenty and not so much like a sweaty little alien thing with vagina soaked hair.”

  “Will she be okay?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  5

  All day long we’ve been tending to the clone and I’m exhausted. She just barely stopped crying. And now she’s back to sleep. Thank God. The doorbell in the front hallway chimes. I leave the clone with Margaret and hurry to answer it. When I open the door, it’s Maggie.

  Note to self: make her a house key.

  Man, I’m thinking, she looks worse than I feel. She pulls me into a desperate hug and starts crying. Not quietly like the clone, but super heavy sobs. Big giant pain-filled sobs.

  “Mags, what happened?”

  She stays in my arms crying a minute longer, then she pulls her cell phone from her purse and hands it to me. It’s evidence of something, but what?

  She wipes her eyes and says, “The creep won’t stop texting me.”

  “The creep creep?”

  Maggie nods her head, her eyes still rolling out fresh tears.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not yet, but he’s telling me he needs to see me, and I’m like, ‘what for’ and he won’t say. I can’t face him, Abby. I can’t!”

  Suddenly Maggie stiffens up and I know it’s Margaret. I turn around and she’s at the other end of the hallway looking at us. “Maggie, are you okay?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Van Duyn, it’s just been a long, emotional day is all,” she says, wiping her eyes. She gives a half-smile and says, “Plus I think maybe I’m about to have my period. I don’t know.”

  The way Maggie lies, it’s masterful.

  “Why don’t you let me make you something to eat?” Margaret suggests.

  Maggie nods her head, then closes my fingers around her cell phone and says, “Read it.” I take it. And Maggie? Maggie walks down the hallway where the monster puts her arm around her and says something encouraging. Is it stupid that I feel jealous?

  Probably not.

  I should feel jealous. Margaret isn’t like that with me. She’s never been that way. Or perhaps I won’t let her be. Is this my fault? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it looks like she won’t be failing my friends the way she’s spent her entire life failing me. With her, my friends are safe. But me?

  Not so much.

  This is, of course, why I choose to play it safe with my emotions. Why being standoffish is my modus operandi.

  With Margaret and Maggie in the kitchen, I take a deep breath, then turn on Maggie’s phone and scroll through the messages. Within seconds I’m horrified. By the end of the thread I’m planning to kill this motherfreaking bush pig. Swear to God, this shit cricket has to go.

  6

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Maggie talking to the monster about recording her first album, you can almost believe Maggie isn’t suffering inside. You can almost imagine the things I read and saw on her iPhone never happened. The text messages, the video that prick sent to her…swear to Jesus, it’s worse than horrible. How she can hide something of this magnitude confounds me.

  These things Maggie pretends not to have experienced are forever scalded into my memory. Her terrifying secret. Every image of the video the producer sent, every single frame, it’s there, polluting my thoughts. Like a tattoo you absolutely hate. Or an illness you just know is permanent. Mouth gaping, I stare at Margaret—this holy terror in my life I’ve referred to as “the monster”—and I am now redefining my definition of the word “monster.”

  For the first time ever, I know the face of evil, and he works in the music industry. I shake my head, force my thoughts elsewhere. My mind moves swiftly to the string of texts between them. The thread re-appears in my brain, like the page of an exceptionally disturbing book you’ll never forget.

  PRODUCER: I’M TIRED OF YOU NOT FULFILLING YOUR OBLIGATIONS. GET YOUR ASS IN THE STUDIO AND DO THIS ALBUM OR I SWEAR TO CHRIST I’LL SUE YOU FOR BREACH OF CONTRACT!

  7:58 A.M.

  MAGGIE: I’M GOING TODAY. DON’T THREATEN ME AGAIN, NOT WHEN U DID WHAT U DID.

  8:09 A.M.

  PRODUCER: YOU HAVE A CONTRACT TO FULFILL. DO WHAT YOU’RE LEGALLY OBLIGATED TO DO OR I WILL NOT ONLY MAKE YOU RETURN YOUR ADVANCE, I’LL SUE YOU FOR UNPAID ROYALTIES AS WELL AS BREACH OF CONTRACT. AND SINCE YOUR FATHER IS ON THE CONTRACT AS YOUR MANAGER, I CAN SUE HIM TOO, BUT FOR MORE THAN THE ORIGINAL ADVANCE. KEEP THIS SHIT UP AND I’LL BANKRUPT YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY!

  8:16 A.M.


  MAGGIE: I’LL DO THE ALBUM BUT IF U THREATEN ME OR MY FATHER AGAIN, I WILL START TELLING PEOPLE ABOUT R FIRST MEETING.

  8:18 A.M.

  PRODUCER: YEAH? WHAT WILL YOU TELL THEM? WHAT I’LL TELL THEM IS I MET WITH AN AMBITIOUS YOUNG LADY WHO TRIED TO SLEEP HER WAY INTO A CONTRACT. OOOOH, EVERYONE WILL BE SOOO SURPRISED! A GIRL TRYING TO SLEEP HER WAY INTO THE MUSIC INDUSTRY. HOW FUCKING ORIGINAL! NO ONE WILL EVEN BAT AN EYE.

  8:21 A.M.

  MAGGIE: IS THAT HOW U JUSTIFY NON-CONSENTUAL SEX WITH A MINOR? U FKNG ASSHOLE. U CAN’T BURY THIS WITH A LIE.

  8:22 A.M.

  PRODUCER: WHATEVER YOU SAY DOESN’T MATTER. YOU WERE WILLING. BESIDES, I OWN A PRIVATE ISLAND AND HOLIDAY ESTATE OUTSIDE THE U.S. IF YOU CRY RAPE, I’LL JUST GO THERE ON EXTENDED HOLIDAY UNTIL IT BLOWS OVER. IT’S PARADISE. BUT WHAT WILL YOU HAVE ACCOMPLISHED YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH? YOU’LL DESTROY YOUR SINGING CAREER AND RUIN YOUR FATHER’S AND MOTHER’S GOOD NAME. AND JUST IN CASE I HAVEN’T SHOWN YOU THE LIGHT, IF YOU CROSS ME, BEFORE I LEAVE THE COUNTRY, THIS VIDEO WILL BE POSTED ON YOUTUBE AND GIVEN TO TMZ STAT. THAT PART WHERE I ASK IF YOU’RE OF AGE AND YOU JUST STARE AT ME, I THINK A LOT OF PEOPLE WILL HAVE A PROBLEM WITH YOU NOT ADMITTING YOUR AGE BEFORE WE ENTER A CONTRACT WHERE YOUR LEGAL AGE IS VERIFIED.

  8:31 A.M.

  What followed the text was the video that turned my stomach into a hard, angry knot. The video, it shows the back of a man unbuttoning Maggie’s shirt. He’s in a suit. All I saw of him was the back of his head. It was disgusting. The curly fringe overgrowth with the patchy bald spot, it totally creeped me out. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t thin either. His body—the soft sloping of his shoulders, the extra skin piled around his waist—it had me thinking that nude he was probably bone white and hairy and smelling sour. I don’t know how that thought got so fast into my mind but it stayed there. Festering.

  I nearly threw up in my mouth.

  I can’t believe he actually taped this! That’s the worst part. One violation stacked on another. Does this man have no conscience?

  In the video, Maggie pushes his hands away, tries to pull her shirt closed. He said, “You’re of age, right?” She just stared at him. And she wasn’t defending herself full force. She was just sort of gently struggling against him, like she wasn’t sure if she could go through with it. Like she was afraid to scream or act out, and just as afraid to do nothing at all. This is a girl at the precipice of her dreams not realizing it took this kind of sacrifice to get here. She kept looking to the left, to the door I presume. Was she hoping her father would come through any minute and save her? On video, the producer prick was saying this was how it’s done. He said this was how everyone in the industry gets their start.

  With a sacrifice.

  Maggie finally resigned herself to the loss of her shirt. It came off. He pawed at her covered breasts for a minute, then reached around and unsnapped her bra. Maggie’s shoulders slouched forward, fast; she tried to hold on to her bra, her dignity, her innocence. Then the bra came off, too. Her arms snaked over bare breasts, covering her tiny, cold nipples. Eventually he pulled her arms apart and saw what Maggie didn’t want him to see.

  Even though the camera couldn’t capture the glimmer of every tear, I saw the first ones fall. The look of a girl’s body shuddering out fresh tears is unmistakable and painful to witness. He reached for the buttons on Maggie’s pants. That’s where I stopped watching.

  Enough was enough.

  The text messages didn’t continue. Apparently, to him, the threat had been neutralized and no further communication was required. In my mind, he’s already done…

  Already dead.

  But at what cost? If I expose him, he will be ruined, but Maggie will be collateral damage. The pig owns an island. The pig has money, safety, an escape from the fallout. If I can’t expose him for the rapist he is, there must be another way.

  Sitting at the table with Maggie and the monster, my face shivers silent with hatred. Since the moment I saw the back of his ugly freaking skull, with that nasty fringe of hair and that sloppy motherfreaking back, I killed him in my mind. Already I’ve killed him ten times over.

  Each time I envision his death done differently, each scenario burning brighter and more violent than the rest. With every imagined execution, the little details work themselves out.

  It’s now twelve times I’ve killed him.

  Thirteen.

  A plan is hatching. Fueled by my righteous indignation, my horror, my absolute need to make the perpetrator the victim, plans are evolving as we speak. For a minute, I think I can actually kill him.

  No, I take that back…

  Before summer is out, I’m going to feed that hairy Sasquatch his own pulled-out intestines.

  7

  The way things are, by the end of dinner, the monster might as well ask Maggie if she wants to be her honorary daughter. The way she’s being so nice, so sugary sweet, bile is collecting in the back of my throat. I want to puke at the way the monster is gushing all over her.

  But I don’t. I can’t.

  Is it strange to want your old disorders back, if only to demonstrate a more physical form of self-expression? If I puked on Margaret, what would she say? Would she see the pain I’m in, watching how easily she can be nice to others? From my steaming pile of vomit, would she know how deeply the past still affects me?

  Probably not.

  Even worse, the clone is asleep in my bedroom, in my bed, and I’m not sure how to tell Maggie. Right now Maggie is the center of my attention and this seems to stabilize her. If I tell her what I have done, if I tell her that somehow I’m superhuman in my ability to rapidly heal, will she retreat downward inside herself? Will she accuse me of being selfish? Or worse, will she be jealous?

  I’ve gone too far. These things, they’re going to tear us apart. I just know they are. Whatever happens, though, I refuse to make her problems worse. There’s no way I will be the reason she crashes into the abyss. I’m trying to be a good friend, I swear. Then again, it’s making things hard knowing my jealousy is soaring. I’m jealous of my friend’s relationship with the monster.

  My mother.

  It so hurts to even think of her as a mother. I look across the table at Margaret and for the first time I don’t look away so quickly. We don’t even look like we’re related anymore. She’s this Spanish beauty with bronze colored skin, petite features and the biggest brownest eyes ever. Not like shit brown; more like the kind of brown you’d see in gemstones. She’s gorgeous. And naturalish.

  Not like me. Not a fake.

  I’m looking at her hair, the way it’s perfectly black, thick and lustrous. I’m studying her almost the way an infant studies the world, and then I notice her looking back. I want to look away, but I don’t. Maybe it’s out of defiance, maybe it’s because I think I might finally be ready to get to know her. She smiles; I smile. She looks away.

  I continue to stare at her, at the details of her: the faintest of lines near the edges of her eyes; the arch and shape of her eyebrows; how long and perfect her lashes are. It amazes me to think all of this is natural. Except for maybe hair dye or lash extensions or the waxing and shaping of her brows. Plus her tits are fake and she’s had a ton of liposuction. I guess what I mean is, she isn’t a genetic freak like me. She wasn’t manufactured and perfected in a lab.

  I don’t even have her brown skin anymore. Do I even have any of her left in me? I’m not racist or anything, but I so want my old skin back. I so want to be brown. If only to make this one connection with her.

  For some stupid reason I feel like crying, so I excuse myself and leave the two of them to talk about music or school or whatever.

  In the bathroom, I pull down my pants, plop down on the toilet and concentrate on going pee. But I can’t go. My bladder feels dry. Crispy, almost. I want to throw up, but my stomach refuses to cooperate. I almost try to poop, just for the distraction, just to feel better, but the truth is, I’m empty in there, too. I have nothing. Not
even one hopeless turd.

  I pull up my pants and go to my room where the clone is sleeping softly against the pillow. I crawl in bed beside her, careful not to disturb her. Her hair smells like no shampoo I’ve ever smelled. It’s the pink gel. I remember it clearly. It’s the smell of a newborn’s skin.

  In the morning, I’ll give her a bath with some proper shampoo and conditioner. I’ll wash her skin and brush her teeth and comb her hair. Taking care of her seems incredibly important. Her liking me, this feels essential. Anymore, if breaking and entering, and battery and kidnapping is what a girl has to do to feel unconditional love, then by all means, don’t ask me to feel bad about what I’ve done.

  8

  Outside the daylight is burning off and night is settling in. The day has officially worn on me and I’m feeling super tired. Gosh damn exhausted if you want to know the truth. Before closing my eyes for good, I scoot closer to the clone, wrap my arm around her and pull her close.

  And then I shut my eyes for good.

  It’s only at six in the morning when I’m roused from my sleep. I roll over to Maggie standing over the top of me. She’s just staring at me, her eyes ablaze with anger.

  She’s glaring at the clone and glaring at me and she says: “What in the freaking hell is this?” Except she doesn’t say freaking. Nope. Not her. Not with that angry face. When she says what she says, it’s not PG-13 at all. No, she goes nuclear and straight up slams me with the f-bomb.

  I can’t really blame her, though.

  I deserve this.

  Boy Soldier

  1

  Delta 1A knew the mission would come. He wondered if it was already planned. Either way, he was training again, and as brutal and unrelenting as training was, it was still better than the box.

  He spent the mornings honing his hand-to-hand combat and weapons techniques. His martial arts instructor, Sensei Hu, was a fifty-one year old Okinawan sadist with dark, leathery skin. A ruthless, thorough master. Despite being accused of being inhuman, Sensei Hu created as many karate legends as he did mercenaries, for he was always pressing, pressing, pressing. He demanded perfection. Nothing was ever good enough. Ever.