Falls the Shadow (3 page)

And for the next hour, I'm not living Catelyn Benson's life. This time, I'm coming alive as Shakespeare's sharp-tongued, quick-witted heroine Beatrice. And she can look people in the eyes. She doesn't have to fade into the background or hide from camera flashes or pretend she's got somewhere else to be when people try to talk to her.

I take a moment to admire this other self in the mirror. Admiration turns quickly to loathing, though, when I think about how much better the whole ensemble would look if I could pull my hair up instead. This dress needs some sort of braided bun or something—not my scraggly, shoulder-length waves just hanging limply above it. An updo isn't an option, though, because it would leave the back of my neck visible. And even though everyone knows I have it, I don't like showing off the scar that Huxley's chip left when they embedded it underneath the skin there. The scar, or the identification number tattooed over it: 1001. It's just something else to provoke people. Another ugly reminder of things I don't want to think about if I can help it.

It's a necessary part of the process, though. The neurochip implant is what links origins like me to our clones, initiating a new transfer of thoughts and memories once every twenty-four hours or so. And it's continuously relaying more simple information from the motor cortex, too. So when I walk, my possible-replacement unconsciously walks with me—only, in place, and from within her
developmental cell over at the lab. As I'm standing here, going through the motions to prepare for my part in
Much Ado About Nothing
, so is she. Creepy as hell, yes; but this way, we not only have the same thoughts and memories, but my clone and I will develop physically along similar lines.

At least as far as appearances are concerned. Because while our bones and muscles take on the same shape and size, Huxley's genetic modifications make certain that the clones who replace us don't suffer the same weaknesses that their origins did. So frames that look essentially the same are actually made up of stronger bones and more supple joints, all of it protecting organs more resistant to disease and deterioration. And that's the part that I don't like thinking about: knowing that there's a stronger, physically superior version of me just waiting around for me to die.

It's unsettling.

Now that I'm thinking about it, though, I can't stop, and my hand reaches automatically for that scar underneath my hair.

Don't make such a fuss over it, Catelyn.
That's what my mother would say if she caught me.
It isn't as though it's going away anytime soon, so you may as well embrace it.

But I know she only says things like that because she's self-conscious about her own scars, even if she'd never admit to it. Not scars like mine, but ugly purplish marks all over both her arms. They aren't fading away, either. If anything, they're getting darker. Which is why she always, always wears long sleeves—even when it's pushing one
hundred degrees outside: so she can act like those scars don't exist. But I've seen her studying them in the mirror when she thought I wasn't looking.

My hair looks fine down, I decide.

I slide the mask on next. I made it myself, and it's easily my favorite part of this costume; maybe because it actually turned out halfway-decent looking. Which is a big deal for me, considering I'm the only person I know who failed at making macaroni art in kindergarten.

I'm always one of the first to class, so I've got a few minutes left to run lines with my reflection before I have to join everyone else onstage. A few minutes. That's all I need to slip the rest of the way out of this skin and into my character's. I close my eyes and imagine the rest of the cast around me, hear them saying their lines, hear myself answering, see us all dancing gracefully over the—

“Hey Benson.”

Seth. Probably calling me by my last name because he doesn't actually remember my first. I open my eyes and see his reflection right next to mine, both hands in his pockets, head tilted just slightly to the side.

“Question,” he says.

“What?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Where's your sister been the past few days?”

Violet. Of course. Why else would he be talking to me? He's only trying to pry into my family's business, just like everyone else.

“Who wants to know?” I ask, surprising myself with my own audacity. Must be the Beatrice in me.

He grins lazily. “The person asking,” he says. “She's my lab partner, and we've got a project due Monday. It's not doing itself, and I'm sure as hell not doing it, so—”

“She's sick.” The lie comes easily, quickly. It's not the first one I've told for her. The truth is, she was suspended—again—this time for skipping class and then refusing to tell the principal what the heck she was doing running around in the woods behind school. Sometimes I think this Violet doesn't know the meaning of “weathering the storm”—not like the rest of the family. She's a pro at creating them, though. And I'm usually the one who gets to pick up the debris that her lightning and raging winds leave behind.

Most of the time, I try to convince myself that if the first Violet had lived, she would have turned out to be the same wild, tabloid-fueling girl that this one has become. That the spotlight would have stayed on our family all the same.

But other times I wonder.

Although right now, I really don't have time to wonder, because Lacey Cartwright just appeared in the corner of the mirror.

“Sick?” she repeats in a singsong voice while absently twirling a curl of her chestnut hair. “That's not what I heard.”

“Maybe you should double-check your sources, then,” I say, and my voice doesn't shake, even as the rest of her group joins us in the already-crowded hallway. They're cornering me against the mirror, but they don't scare me. I've had to defend Violet enough times that this is just
another role I can slip into and perform. All I need now is a little bit of concentration and a few deep breaths. It doesn't hurt that I'm still wearing this mask either.
Beatrice could take on every single person here
, I remind myself.
She could probably do it with one hand tied behind her back.

“I heard she got caught in the woods,” Lacey drawls on, “With Parker Maples.”

The girl next to her looks up from pretending to study her nails and gives Lacey a serious look. Like we're discussing politics or something, and not a bunch of stupid made-up drama. “I heard it was Alex Camden,” she says.

Lacey shrugs. “Probably both of them,” she says, which earns her a chorus of exaggerated giggles from the rest of the girls. I'm probably imagining it, but I think I see Seth rolling his eyes. The possibility of that calms me down a little; at least I'm not the only one who thinks Lacey Cartwright is a complete waste of time and space.

“So who is your sister officially with now, Cate?” she asks in a mockingly interested voice.

My cheeks burn, but I try to ignore her. She doesn't seem like she's in a particularly venomous mood today, just bored more like. Maybe she'll drop it if I ignore her. I turn back to the mirror and work on straightening out the collar of my dress.

“I know it's hard to keep up,” she presses.

This collar is really annoying.

“I mean, the girl's a bit like a revolving door, isn't she?”

I'm probably going to have to take it home and iron it.

“Apparently, when they manufactured her in that lab,
they forgot to give her any sort of common-decency genes or—”

“So what's your excuse, then?” I snap. “And why are you so worried about it, anyway? Are you afraid my sister might challenge your reign as resident whore of Haven High?”

Someone gasps. Seth laughs. And all I can think is,
Crap. Did I just say that out loud?
Maybe this mask is making me a little too brave.

Lacey gives me a look that could get her accused of attempted murder. She takes a step toward me, and I'm suddenly very painfully aware of how much bigger than me she is; I'm not exactly small and delicate, but she's cocaptain of the volleyball team and apparently takes her weight-training requirement very seriously. Plus, she's about half a foot taller than I am. And those bright-red nails look like they could easily claw open a person's throat.

I probably should've stuck to my role as furniture. Furniture rarely gets the crap beat out of it.

“What did you call me?” Lacey's smile is disgustingly sweet.

It's too late to back down now. So, in a voice that sounds a lot more confident than I feel, I say, “You heard me.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard you. I was just giving you a chance to take it back before I did
this
.”

Her hand flies at my face. I twist away instinctively, but she still catches the corner of my mask. It rips off, the
rough edge of it leaving a long scratch across my jawline. I stumble, tripping over the too-long hem of my dress, and my elbow slams into the mirror. A long crack splits up the center of the glass, and so instead of one Lacey diving after me, I see three split images of her. I don't aim at any of them. I just spin around and swing. My fist barely grazes her shoulder—just enough to piss her off more, if that's possible.

The others are converging now, some of them shouting at us to stop, but most of them jeering and egging us on. The blood is pounding in my ears, and when Lacey runs at me this time, I'm ready. I throw my fist at her face as hard as I can.

Seth steps between us at the last possible second.

And I punch the most popular boy in school right in the nose, just as Mrs. Heller storms into the hallway.

“What is—
Miss Benson!
”

I freeze. My fist is still hovering just inches from Seth's head, and he's holding a hand over his face, trying to contain the blood that's gushing from his nose.

I really wish I was furniture right now.

Suspended. For the first time
in my life. My parents are definitely not going to be happy about this. I'm not supposed to get suspended. I'm not supposed to be the problem child. That's Violet's job. Mother's going to have a heart attack when she finds out that
both
her children aren't allowed to set foot on Haven City Schools' property for the next two weeks.

And what if the press gets hold of this? They're going to find the most unflattering picture they have of me in their archives (and, god, they have plenty) and splash it across the home page of every tabloid that will pay for it. Probably pair it with some story about how I'm turning into a wild child just like my sister. And the CCA—Clone Control Advocacy—members? They are definitely going to use this as evidence against the movement. Because they're always after this sort of evidence. Anything to make Huxley look bad, to sway public opinion toward their own personal beliefs about cloning and genetic engineering.

Forget that Huxley has provided the public with plenty of documentation about the benefits of cloning, and that the clones themselves prove over and over—in almost every kind of study imaginable—that they're smarter,
stronger, and healthier than the originals they came from. They don't care about any of that. The CCA and its supporters are always trying to claim that clones and their origins, and any people involved with cloning, have a tendency toward instability and violence, a greater chance of developing serious mental-health issues, and a bunch of other crap that they rarely have the facts and figures to back up.

But that bloody nose I just gave Seth Lancaster is a fact. Which means I'm going to be news. Maybe even bigger news than Violet, since at this point I think some of the paparazzi are getting tired of her everyday exploits. But wait until they tell the public what the younger Benson sister has been up to. Wait until the press reveals how unstable Huxley's experiments have made
her
.

The office smells like cleaning chemicals and a stomach-turning mixture of whatever food they've been heating up in the secretaries' break room. I'm alone in the little hallway outside the principal's office, waiting for Miss Davis to get off the phone. I'm not allowed to go back to class, so I'm going to have to call home and have someone come get me. Not looking forward to that conversation. Miss Davis can stay on the phone for the rest of the afternoon for all I care. Though I am getting tired of drawing circles in the faded blue armrest of this chair.

My mind follows the circular pattern my finger is making, and I've started to zone out when someone sits down on the bench next to me and clears his throat. I don't look up. I've done enough interacting for one day. Plus, I don't
want to have to explain why I'm sitting here dressed like I'm about to go to a masquerade ball.

Or why my costume has blood on the sleeve.

“Did you at least win?”

I still don't want to look up. I shouldn't look up. But I know that voice. His accent has a soft lilt to it, like most of the people from the Southside section of Haven have; a lot of the ones who originally built up that part of town—the area the Neuse River winds through—were refugees from the war-torn ports of coastal Georgia. His family used to have an estate in a city called Savannah, which I know thanks to the projects we had to present in a contemporary-history class I took last spring. We had to chart population migration to and from cities, as affected by the war. I was bored out of my mind while most people were presenting, and spent the majority of that class period trying to find a way to hack through the school's Network blocks so I could play games instead.

But I paid attention to his presentation.

Because the truth is, I've always been a little bit in love with that voice, and with the person it belongs to. Which is why I can't help myself now. I tilt my head toward the bench. And sure enough, Jaxon Cross is sitting less than two feet away from me. And like it's done during every one of our grand total of about five interactions, my mind goes completely blank. Perfect. So now I can check “humiliate self in front of crush” off my list of things to do to make this supremely awful day complete.