Duplicity (6 page)

His smile twists. New words drip down the glass.

THE TRADE.

“What does that mean?”

He clicks off the light.

Darkness chokes in on me like a fist. There are no windows in our bathroom, so the only light's a pale slit of sun beneath the door, not enough to give shape or meaning to anything around me. To stop from hyperventilating, I convince myself that if he wanted to hurt me, he would've done it already. Besides, all he's done so far is take out a few earrings and move some things around. Hardly dangerous. Fear is for people whose moms dress them for school. I sigh (sounding far less confident than I like) and grope for a towel. Smack my hand on the rack. Find the fabric and wrap it around my waist.

Crinkle
.

From the counter?

Crinkle, click
. Like eggshells breaking. Like bullet casings hitting cement. Then the sound multiplies like snapping bones, arguing off the bathroom walls, riddling my nerves with salt and I don't care if he hasn't hurt me yet. I lurch forward as pieces of something clink onto the tile by the sink, yank on the door handle, realize it's locked, fight off cardiac arrest twisting it free, and finally spring into the hallway and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

Maybe he
can
hurt me. Maybe it's like that
Silent Hill
game, where perfectly normal places disintegrate into rust and blood-laced metal and drop you in Hell, some place with faceless monsters and huge knives. Or, and I feel lightheaded from the whack of my heart in my ears, was that thing trying to come
through?
The Trade. I hear that capital T now, because I can only think of one thing “other” Brandon could possible want to trade with me.

Not that it makes any sense why someone would want my life, but whatever.

Dad shouts a five-minute warning from downstairs. I take a shaky breath and stagger to the dresser. Pull out a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of camo pants. I grab a leather jacket out of the closet and a black knit cap that I'll wear between classes when the teachers aren't paying attention. Whatever just happened, I have no doubt Obran—Other Brandon—will try again. And there are mirrors, everywhere. One in the hall. Three in the car. A giant one at school across from the gym. And of course in every bathroom. Will Obran try with someone else in the room? He certainly hadn't cared about Ginger.

I stop.

I think what I really need is a mental institution.

Dad yells again. I think about telling him, but that didn't go over well with Ginger (and she believes a lot of stupid crap), and Dad would probably just see it as an opportunity to have me committed. The house would be nice and quiet with me gone, and my parents could go back to pretending they don't have a son. Not that that's much different than any other time, but I'm sure it'd be quieter.

I grab my bag and edge around the corner, pressing against the opposite wall as I pass the closed bathroom, and dart down the stairs. Dad lounges in the office to my right, his back to the staircase, typing away on a black laptop.

Tell him tell him tell him
, my brain says.

Would
you
believe you?
asks the other half.

That decides it. I'm going to have to deal with this on my own. And I'm going to need a faster car to calm my nerves, aren't I?

Obviously.

“Bye, Dad,” I say as I step into the kitchen

No reply, just the
tap tap tap
of the keyboard. I've learned these are the perfect opportunities to ask almost any question and get a “yes” without Dad ever remembering the conversation. In this way, technically I
do
have parental permission for all the ink in my skin. I finger the closest key ring on the hooks by the garage door.

“I'm taking the Z, 'kay?”

A grunt from the office. I flick the keys off and close the door behind me. Punch the garage opener. Sunlight glitters up the BMW's slick sides, over the convertible top that's already lowered, over the black leather begging me to sit. I hop in without opening the door, then twist both side mirrors up and tilt the rearview to the right. Jam the key in the ignition. Two hundred and fifty-five horses thunder to life, vibrating into my bones like a shot of espresso.

I'm feeling better already.

I jerk the shifter into reverse, ease off the clutch, and back the Z down the driveway. The door between the garage and the house flies open.

“BRANDON!”

Metallica's “Master of Puppets” blares into the speakers. I wave at Dad, pop the clutch, and let the Z roar up the street.

*   *   *

Before twenty minutes of first period have passed, the change in my appearance has flashed up in sixty-three Tweets and thirtysome Facebook updates, according to I-won't-bug-you-fifty-times-a-day Ginger.

The Z caused most of the fuss. Despite parking it as far from the front door as possible, two of the popular girls (blonde Rachel and some brunette chick) have already sidled up to me with questions about it and complimented me on the other changes.

And somewhere along the way I must've crossed a mirror, because my cap is missing.

I avoided The Corner before class, so my phone's jumping with new texts from Ginger and Beretta and even Sniper, all demanding to know if the rumors are true (Sniper says he'll never “hack” me again if I let him drive the Z). I ignore them. I have plenty to contend with already, between Ms. Hilton asking me if I'm in the wrong class (who am I, again?) and my classmates whispering about my real hair color.

“Hey, how'd you lighten it so well?” Ashley Winkler whispers, after Ms. Hilton instructs us to start a new three-thousand-word assignment. “I've always wanted to go blonde, but every time I try it just turns orange.”

“Do I have a sign on me that says, ‘something's different, please come talk to me about it?'” I snap.

That must be the case, because throughout the rest of the morning, dozens of jerks I don't know come up to ask similar questions. Where's my shine? Did I finally realize wristbands are for girls? And of course the most common question: why the change? They get harder and harder to ignore, but I do a pretty good job, and soon their guesses pop up on Twitter. Most of them assume my parents threatened military school if I didn't shape up. Others said I'd had a near-death experience or been arrested. Then Ginger suggested, probably in retaliation for my ignoring her all morning, that all this is to impress Emma Jennings.

I really think I might hurt her.

That
spreads faster than a keg at a party and by the end of second period I have fifteen new friend requests on Facebook. I've spent a year and a half avoiding gossip circles and have effectively isolated myself at every school thus far, not a single ripple in the water, and now this. Stupid Internet. Stupid Obran. Freaking Ginger! I send her a text while Mr. Butrez signs my loser sheet.

Unfriending you.

To which she replies,
Luv u 2.

I have to pass The Corner to get to Spanish. I delay as long as I can at my locker, then make the trek down the maroon carpets and have barely turned the corner when Ginger's shriek hits me like a sledgehammer from across the room.

“Oh my
gosh
, Brandon Eriks!”

And just like one of those dreams where you're buck naked, everyone turns. Deathrow. Amber. Sniper. Nervous groups of freshmen who usually keep their eyes on the floor. No one's ever stared at me this long without looking away (except small children in grocery stores), and I set my eyes on Ginger's bubblegum hair and press toward her. She snaps a picture on her phone and weaves away from me, laughing, staying just out of reach.

“Ginger, sweety, come here,” I snarl, grabbing for her arm. She squeals and hides behind Deathrow, who turns to me with arms crossed. I glance up, then make to go around him.

“Leave,” he says, three octaves below a normal human's voice.

Deathrow isn't someone you pick a fight with. I force a smile and back away, searching for my backup plan. Across the room, Sniper raises an eyebrow at me, and I wave him over.

“Man, you're a bigger freak than I thought,” Sniper says. “You can't still be with Ginger, right? She says you're after Emma.”

“Will everyone shut up about her? I'm not after Emma.” I breathe in, glower at Ginger (who's peering around Deathrow's massive trench coat), and scratch my neck. “And I'm definitely not after Ginger. You should really ask her out.”

Sniper frowns. “I don't know, I get the feeling she doesn't like me.”

“Don't be such a wuss. She's just playing hard to get.” I wink at Ginger and now,
now
she looks ticked. “Don't worry, by the end of it you won't like her either.”

I clap Sniper on the shoulder and start for the hallway, well aware of the whispers and chuckles that follow me. Like they know I've lost control. Like they know I've been hiding something all along. The windowless door to Spanish looms between smug grins, and I hear
poser poser poser
magnified in my ears and I jerk open the door and then—then I accidentally meet Emma's gaze, the first time we've really looked at each other since Sunday, and I can't hear anything anymore. Two seconds of surprise, that's all I get before her eyes narrow. She crosses her arms and dares me to say something. I shift my attention to my desk.

I want to tell her the rumors aren't true but I don't know anymore.

It's only fifty more minutes until fourth period.

And I really need to take a leak.

 

6. THAT STUFF'S PERMANENT

MY PHONE BUZZES
five minutes in. A text. From Ginger.

WHAT DID U SAY TO SNIPER?

I wait until Mrs. Barreto dims the lights and loads a presentation on the giant
SMART
Board screen before replying.

That the meaner you are to him, the more it means you like him.

Her next text is an illegible collection of special characters. Only good thing that's happened today.

I settle back in my chair. I should be watching Mrs. Barreto go through the new verbs for the week, but my eyes keep shifting to Emma, who has her head propped on one arm and is typing notes as diligently as ever. Her hair's down in spirals of honey-spun chocolate.

I start thinking dangerous things. Like how today might've been different, how the whole week might've been different, if I'd kissed her instead of telling her to blow off. I wouldn't have run zoomfish, for starters, which means Obran wouldn't exist and I could jet to the bathroom right now without fear of abduction. Or maybe Obran
would
exist, but I could tell her about him and she would actually listen.

Which is exactly why I can't have her. Because after all this, I'm still thinking about me.

Like she can hear me, Emma turns and looks right at me, copper eyes ready for war. This time I don't look away. She examines my face, my hair, the tattoos down my arms, with enough intensity that I can practically feel her hands making the motions, and then I start thinking how
that
would feel, and that's the way wrong direction. I force my gaze back to my iPad and close Notes Plus in favor of Angry Birds.

Except Emma's still in my head:

“You're not even trying.”

It's last week after school. School library. I'm dying a slow death by Spanish conjugation.

“It's been two hours,” I say. “It's Friday. All the words look the same right now.”

“
Hablamos
looks nothing like
hablo.
C'mon, we're almost done. It's just one more page.”

“You know what your problem is?” I snap the textbook closed. I can tell Emma wants to save the worksheet I've smashed inside it, but she holds back. “You're too serious about this stuff.”

“College is three years away. Two for you. It's time to get serious.”

“I would feel more serious about it from the top of Flanger's.” I shove my pen in my pocket and stack my iPad on my Spanish textbook.

“The stadium?” Emma says. “There's no game tonight. It's closed.”

“I know,” I say. I scoop up my book and tablet and wait for her to catch on. “You coming?”

“Brandon, if they catch us in there—”

“They don't have cameras on the roof.”

“The
roof?
”

I chuckle at how scandalized she looks. “No one thinks back on their life and says, ‘You know, I wish I did more homework.' They think back and say they wished they'd seen the city from the stadium roof.” I nudge her textbook toward her backpack with my finger. “So. You coming?”

Emma looks at me like I've completely lost it, then at her book. Then her sunshine smile flashes into place and she slams it closed, just like that, not even bothering to save her worksheet so it'll be wrinkle-free.

“Show me,” she says.

It was supposed to be a study break. Harmless, meaningless, anything-but-more-verbs-please break. I blame the stars. There were a billion of them that night, whispering at Emma to put her head on my shoulder. Witchcrafting my arm around her waist.

Frack, even
that
isn't working as a distraction. If I don't go now I'm going to bust a kidney.

I rock in my chair, agonizing as Mrs. Barreto instructs us to open the day's reading assignment from the class Web site, then per usual, hands out paper worksheets for our answers. I glance at one, toss the rest of the stack over my shoulder to the satisfying sound of spilling paper and Jason's whiny protest (“Seriously, man?”), and slip out the door.