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“You’re just pissed at her about Sean,” Betsey says. “You don’t really think that.”
“Don’t I?” I ask sarcastically. “She’s hiding an office from us; what else is she hiding? It’s entirely plausible that she lied about the Original, too. That the baby didn’t die and for some reason, she doesn’t want us to know.” I pause, and a thought hits me. “For all we know, she could be hiding Beth in that weird secret office of hers.”
“Come on,” Betsey says, rolling her eyes. “This is Mom we’re talking about.”
“If you’re so convinced, follow her again,” Ella says between crunches, like stalking our mother is the most normal thing on earth. I look at her funny. “Seriously. I mean, you’re probably wrong—it’s probably something totally innocent. Maybe she was taking care of a colleague’s office while they were traveling or something. Just follow her again and you’ll know for sure.”
In the middle of the night, when I’m still awake envisioning talk show–style reunions with our long-lost DNA donor, when I’m still conjuring up images of what could be happening at Mom’s secret office, I pull on a sweatshirt and tiptoe out of my room and into the hall. I listen at doorways to see if anyone else is awake; when all I hear is nothing, I move quietly down the stairs. For a moment, I consider acting on Ella’s advice: driving back to Mom’s office and trying harder to get in. But the horror movie–style scary factor of that gives me the chills inside my warm house. I opt to poke around Mom’s office at home instead.
Nothing’s different from the last time I visited—even the emergency money stash is still forty dollars low. I pull open the bottom drawer and see the stacks of correspondence from Wyoming. The same feeling of curiosity overtakes me that I had the last time I was here. I take out one of the stacks and remove a bank statement from its neatly ripped-open envelope.
Back before we moved, Mom talked on the phone a lot to a guy we jokingly call the Wizard. She won’t tell us anything about him, just that he’s a friend and he helps her sometimes. One such time was when he advised her to filter money through a corporation in another state; hers is called Trifecta, Inc., and it’s based in Wyoming. We have a double layer of protection—the fake corporation and new identities. Two new identities, of course: one for her and one for the three of us.
Mom said she was paid well for the cloning, which is why she’s been able to provide for us. But she’s always maintained that she needed an outside job, too. However, as I look at the bank statement from the last month, something strange catches my eye: Twenty thousand dollars was deposited on the first of the month.
I open another statement and my jaw drops: Another twenty thousand dollars was deposited on the first of that month, too. I find another statement and another twenty grand. There must be more than twenty statements, all revealing deposits in the same amount.
Excitedly, feeling like I’ve caught Mom at something, I put everything back and run upstairs. I turn on my computer and do an Internet search for ER doctors’ average salary. When the results pop up, I’m disappointed. They can make around $250,000 a year: Even math-challenged me knows that’s more than twenty thousand a month.
I laugh a little at myself for getting worked up over nothing before turning off the computer and climbing back into bed. Even though the fact remains that I saw Mom unlock that office, maybe Ella’s right that it’s something completely benign. Maybe she really is watering someone else’s plants.
Feeling silly, I push thoughts of Mom from my head and think of Sean until I fall asleep.
twelve
Creative writing is a work period and in the middle of class, Sean asks if I want to hang out after practice. He says it so easily, reminding me that hanging out after school is what most kids do. Most kids don’t rush home so the evening clone can leave the house.
“I… can’t,” I say. Sean looks at me hard, like he can’t figure me out.
“Okay,” he says before refocusing on his writing project. “I thought you wanted to talk.”
There’s a shift in the air between us. I want to say something, to explain. I want to tell him that I’d like nothing better than to spend the afternoon with him. But I can’t, so I look down at my own work.
“I’m not really into games,” he says quietly. I look up to see that he’s still facing front, but his chin is a little to the right so I can hear him.
“I’m not playing games,” I whisper.
“It seems like you are,” he says, less angry and more stoic. He sighs. “I don’t get you, Lizzie.”
It feels awful, but what am I going to do about it in the middle of writing class? In the middle of my third of a life? So far, from his perspective, I’ve alternated between flirting with him—even telling him to kiss me—and being seen with David… or not at all. I can see how he’d think I’m playing games.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, meaning it.
Sean doesn’t talk to me for the rest of the period, and when class is over, he says “See ya” with no feeling, confusion written all over his face.
I’m completely distracted at cheer. Morgan slams into me at one point, because she moves when she’s supposed to, but like I’m stuck in the mud, I do not.
“That’s your spot,” Morgan says, pointing at the ground a few steps to the right. “This is mine,” she says, pointing at where I’m standing. She blows her bangs out of her eyes, frustrated, and rubs her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m having a day.”
“Whatever,” she says in a way that feels about something more than the collision. She walks away, and I swear I hear her talking about me to a few of the other girls. I manage to hit my mark the next few times, but then at the end of practice the day devolves even more when a bunch of the girls decide to get pizza and invite me to go.
“My mom asked me to come straight home today,” I say. “Next time?”
“Sure,” Isla says, smiling. “Next time.”
