Page 180 of Under Story

“I’m disappointed in you, Laurel,” Principal Carrera says. “Look at everything you’ve accomplished. You’re clearly a very bright girl. You could set an example for others.”

The wall is hung with laminated posters: Psst—You Have a Voice!; Before You Speak, THINK; Your Attitude Determines Your Direction.

“I just don’t see the point,” says Laurel.

She wonders how many other students have sat in her chair and said the same thing. The largest poster of all seems to address this particular issue.

Why choose high school?

Sharpen Your Mind: Studies have found that teenagers who attend high school sustain cognitive performance for 20% longer than unenrolled peers.

Maintain Your Body: Physical education enhances coordination, bone density, and muscle mass.

Support Your Mental Health: Social connection is positively correlated with psychological well-being.

Principal Carrera sighs. “You and your parents have the right to decide whether to keep you in school.”

But the thought of staying home all day—fighting with Clare, unable to see Eli and Maisie—fills Laurel with equal dread. Despite the indignities of high school, it offers a reprieve from rumination.

“You can waste this time,” the principal says, folding her hands. “But I’d encourage you to consider what you want for the rest of your life.”

—

What does she want for the rest of her life? Laurel walks through the orchard, dragging a fern while she considers the question.

She wants the same things she did as a child: to eat and sleep; to be soothed. She craves cinnamon toast, macaroni and cheese, her father’s blueberry pancakes. It calms her to disappear in a book, or watch October Sky under a blanket. She wants to feel safe. She doesn’t feel safe. She sleeps in the fetal position. Even Eli can only console her so much.

The truth is that she wants her mother.

Her mother. Laurel has come to think of the other Clare as a mother, or one of her mothers, but she is not the person who carried Laurel, the one who birthed and raised her. Until now, the Duoverse’s mimicry has sated Laurel. If she wanted to see her mother, she could at least see someone who looked exactly like her. She could smell her mother’s smell, hug her mother’s body—and this has strung her along over years, like a partner who gives just enough to prevent the other from leaving.

“Want to talk about it?” asks Jules.

They’ve broken into a playground at night. All of the children have already left.

“Not really.” Laurel motions to the seesaw. “Let’s just play.”

They climb through the jungle gym, a geometric dome, and take turns on the slide. Laurel pushes Jules on the swings. He drags the merry-go-round as she stands on the edge, holding the bars, hair flying. Jules takes a Polaroid of her, which he sets on the basketball court, and they lie on their stomachs to watch the picture form. When the details emerge, Laurel sees that she looks like Celeste.

The approach of her sixteenth birthday fills her with stifling dread. She scribbles lyrics on the whites of her Converse sneakers. The words don’t matter; they are placeholders, as every song or novel says—at bottom—the same thing.

I was here.

Remember me.

—

“Darling,” says Clare Two. “Wake up.”

Laurel’s parents sit on the foot of her bed. Clare holds a tray with coffee, Pete a ribboned present.

“Happy birthday, chickadee,” he says.

Snow falls outside, plush and quiet. Streamers hang from the kitchen ceiling. Muffins, made with the last of Clare’s apple butter, steam from a dish on the island.

“You sneaks,” says Laurel, hugging Clare and Pete together. “I can’t believe you did all of this.”

“You only turn sixteen once,” says Clare, and Laurel decides not to correct her.