Duplicity (7 page)

I refuse to go to the closest bathroom after yesterday. Instead I make for the gym, where the giant mirror stands separate from the urinals, and the light switches are in the locked coaches' office. Foolproof. Not that the locker room isn't without other threats. I've won and lost more than one fight against certain punk jocks, but the chances of them being there during the minute I need is slim. I think.

I pass the glass lobby by the central staircase and the empty cafeteria. Cross in front of the open gym doors to the tune of squeaking sneakers and shouts to pass the ball. The locker room waits behind a solid tan door on my right. I push it open, avoid a trio of laughing jocks who clearly don't recognize me, and pause around the corner from the sinks. The fluorescent light off the tile is comforting, but I don't hear anyone else. Wait—water's on somewhere in the back, one of the showers.

It's absolutely stupid I have to consider any of this. Twenty-four hours and one freak in the mirror and I'm jumpier than a freshman girl, and for a minute I feel a crazy sort of defiance that if I just don't believe it, everything will undo itself. I'll walk to the urinals like a sane person. No evil twin's going to suck me through a mirror.

Though in this case (and I feel the smirk in my lips), Obran's more like the good twin.

Not funny. I have to pee.

Except I don't walk out all confident because I'm a coward, of course. I creep around the wall and examine the paper towel dispensers across from me. Glance down the side I'm leaning against to check the sinks and the stained countertop. Beyond that stand four maroon stalls, the square opening to the showers, and three urinals. Over the sinks, no thicker than a quarter inch from this angle, gleams the glass.

The door behind me, the entrance to the locker room, opens. My heart does a jacked-up flip when I recognize the voices, and I curse under my breath, dart past the faucets without looking to my right, and skid to a stop at the middle urinal.

“Yeah, that's what Ed said.”

Bernie Reynolds. Big linebacker with a mop of thick black cornrows and an insatiable need to pound on things smaller than him, which is most of the world. But it's the second voice that has me praying for a miracle.

“Think he'll be back in time for the homecoming game?”

Tanner. Senior, star running back, pride of Ponderosa High. Not a huge guy, maybe a couple inches taller than me, but has like thirty pounds more muscle. He's fast, too: broke the school record for the forty-yard dash with his 4.4 second time. Also has the attention of USC and the University of Florida. He's supposedly a nice kid, but I'm thinking Tanner Jennings might make an exception for punks who toy with his sister.

They've stopped in the locker room, debating what impact their quarterback's absence will have on the next game. I finish my business and lean against the wall, listening, waiting, praying they'll leave before shower guy finishes so I can jet back to class without drawing anyone's attention. They don't leave. The water squeaks off. I consider closing myself in one of the stalls, but that's a level of lameness I'm not willing to dive to yet. I start across the room just as Bernie and Tanner round the corner.

Tanner glances at me, and for a moment I think we'll pass each other without incident. Then Bernie smiles and says, “Nice ink.”

And it clicks for Tanner. His eyes narrow and he steps in my way.

“Eriks.”

I hate this. I want to shove him out of my face, even if that leaves me bloody, but I've hurt Emma enough this week so I don't. I look at him like I don't know him.

Then I make the mistake of looking at the glass.

Neither Bernie nor Tanner reflect on the other side. Only Obran, who's bent over the middle sink, laughing hysterically.
Impossible impossible impossible
is all I can think, and it's like watching a horror movie, like watching someone go alone into the room with the killer, and you don't want to see but you have to—Obran straightens, wipes his eyes, and scratches absently at his wrist. Picks at the skin around the scorpions with his thumb.

Tanner shoves my shoulder.

“Hey, I'm talking to you,” he says.

“Yeah, I know, what do you—
arg!
”

A bear trap snaps around my wrist. At least that's what I'd swear if I didn't know better. My skin feels like it's dissolving, and I tighten my fist and swallow the expletives bubbling in my throat as I jerk my head at the mirror. Obran's peeling back the top layer of skin along my scorpion tattoo, the ink lifting like it's printed on rice paper.

“Dude, it's a simple question. Don't get so pissy,” Tanner says, eyeing my fist.

I exhale and try not to look like I'm in the most agony I've ever been in in my life. My left arm shakes. I hold my elbow to stop it. Droplets of blood squeeze under my fingers.

“Sorry, something cut me back there,” I say, pressing the words through my teeth. Only five feet separate me from the lockers. I sidestep to get there, but Bernie gets in my way and raises a brow. I glare at Tanner, jaw tight. “Can you repeat the question.”

“Are you changing for my sister?” he says. “Yes or no.”

“No, I—”

I think I invent an expletive with what comes next. Obran's reached my shoulder and torn the rest away in one sudden rip that I swear takes my arm with it. He marvels at the clean skin, turns his wrist to admire all sides, and goes for his right arm. Nails dig into the back of my hand. The whimper it elicits from me is very unmanly.

“Dude, relax, I'm not going to slam you,” Tanner says, backing away. “I might've if you'd said yes. But I don't want you around Emma, so we're done here.”

They give me weird looks and circle around.

I leap for the locker room and wheel around the wall, my arms boiling from the bone out, worms of crimson trickling down both shoulders. I collapse onto a wooden bench and sit there, waiting to die from the pain, but eventually it fades and I turn my arms to assess the damage. Both tats have melted to blurs. I pass my thumb along my forearm, wincing, and my skin wipes clean under the blood.

Eight hours and nine hundred dollars, gone before you can blink.

Maybe I've been searching for the wrong thing. I keep thinking viruses, but maybe that's not it at all. I grab a towel, wipe the blood off my arms, and stuff it in the trash before pushing out the door. I pull out my phone. Ask the Internet what it thinks about evil mirror twins, but all it gives me are YouTube videos with really bad acting and pictures of babies screaming at their reflections. No wiki articles on how to get rid of one.

New search term: what to do if you break a mirror. New results, one suggesting I turn counterclockwise three times, break another mirror in the light of the next full moon (while naked), or walk backward an entire day.

Any of these rites can be used
, it says,
but typically the resulting curse is self-created
.

I think about that a minute.

Then I think the World Wide Web is full of shit.

 

7. YES, I NEED IT FOR CLASS

I GRAB A BLACK HOODIE
out of my locker on the way back to class. It's one thing to show up with different hair and missing piercings. Quite another to return from a bathroom break without two very prominent tattoos. Not that I really care what anyone thinks, but the friend requests have slowed and I don't want to give them another reason to shove me back into the spotlight.

By the end of the day, I have seven signatures on my loser sheet to turn in. Principal Myer himself picks it up at the lobby and commends me for conforming. I decide that tomorrow, I'm going to miss one on purpose.

I get two steps out the door when teeth close around my still-tender arm. For the biter's sake, I'm glad my sweatshirt absorbs most of the pinch.

“
Off
, Beretta, geez!” I say.

I have to flick her five times in the forehead before she lets go. She socks me in the shoulder and dances away.

“Hungry!” she says.

“Eat a freaking Twinkie!”

“But I
like
biting you.” She grins. “Plus, Ginger said I should, because you sicced Sniper on her.”

I jog down the first set of cement stairs, staying to the edge of the sidewalk. The parking lot's busy already, people walking and driving and milling like an ant pile, but my Z's easy enough to spot on the outskirt. I stop dead. Maybe a little too easy to spot.

“Oof, what?” Beretta says, running into me. “Oh.”

Blonde Rachel Love lounges against the hood of my car, chatting with one of her leggy girlfriends. I'd rather let Ginger pierce my tongue than talk to Rachel, ever, anywhere, so I feel for the keys in my pocket and hit the alarm. The BMW screams bloody murder. Rachel shoots up like a cork.

“C'mon, Beretta.”

I grab her hand and stalk forward. She grumbles something about being used and how boys are only good as snacks.

“Hi, Brandon,” Rachel says, twirling a lock of gold around her finger. She and Ginger are like the Heaven and Hell of dress code violations. It's warm for September, but I don't know if it's warm enough for the short pleated skirt that's showing off her fake-tan legs or cold enough for knee-high Eskimo boots. A breeze comes up and she zips her white Gap sweatshirt, just a bit, not enough to cover the dip in her low-cut tee.

“Stay off my car,” I say, and to Beretta, “Get in.”

Beretta gives me a look like I've told her the zombie apocalypse has started and hops into the passenger seat. Rachel follows me as I tug open the driver's door, then leans over the windowless side after I close it. I do not, do
not
, look down her low-cut tee. More than once.

“I really like your car,” she says. “Will you take me for a ride sometime?”

“Same answer as this morning. No.” I fire the engine. Rachel backs off, hands up, and purses ruby-red lips.

“I guarantee I'm better than that little gremlin,” she says, glaring at Beretta. “If you're finally switching to high class, you need the right girl, too.”

“
Gremlin?
” Beretta shrieks.

“Buckle up,” I tell her, and turn back to Rachel. “You know, I heard you're the ‘right girl' for a lot of guys. Your current flavor of the week not paying up?”

Her jaw drops. She yells something, but by then I've kicked the Z into first and it growls over her protests as I squeal a U-turn out of the lot. I get a honk from a minivan but soon I'm on the main street, weaving in and out of traffic. Beretta fidgets against the leather and smiles at me.

I didn't exactly think this far out.

“I don't know what just happened, but this is awesome,” Beretta says.

“Um. Did you drive in today?”

“No. I'm actually supposed to be staying after for a group assignment, but this is so much better!”

I slow the Z. “Crap. I'll take you back.”

“No, really, this is fine!” She sits straight up, clinging to the seat, then relaxes back and pushes her hand through her hair. “I mean, this is cool. Like, what do you usually do now? Are we going to hit a party or something?”

I snicker. “What do you think I do after school?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking.” She flips her phone out and starts snapping photos of the inside of the car, the hood, the trunk, me wondering what the heck she's doing. “Need to document this,” she says.

“Document what?”

“The rebellious human male in his natural habitat. Surprisingly did not fall for slutty female bait, so when hunting your type in the future, I'll be sure to use something more tantalizing.”

I make a slightly illegal U-turn and snort. “Like what.”

“We're going back?”

“Yeah. You said you had a class assignment.”

She crosses her arms. “Ginger said that you said homework is overrated.”

“I said it's optional. For me.” That's the most I want to talk about that. I make an early left so we have to take the long way around, stalling in case Rachel's still there. “And c'mon, I want to hear what you think's more tantalizing than girls.”

“Hmm…” She peers around the seats. “Fast cars. Bet I'd get a whole flock of you at once.”

I smile because she's got a point. Middle of the zombie apocalypse, shiny Ferrari, I'd bite. And be dead, apparently, if Beretta's the one hunting.

I finally turn the Z back into Ponderosa's lot. Beretta picks at her collar. Today's outfit is undead Catholic schoolgirl.

“Brandon, do you think I'm a … a gremlin?”

I'm really the worst person to have this conversation with. But I dragged her into this, so I stop the Z in the drop-off area and try to put a sentence together that isn't sarcastic.

“Of course not,” is what I come up with. “Your ears are too small.”

Beretta makes a face at me, then jerks open the handle. “Yeah. Okay.”

I sigh because it's literally hurting me to think of nice things to say. “Hey, girls like Rachel only say crap like that when they're jealous. Don't worry about it. You think I care what people think?”

Beretta eyes my undyed hair. “Well…”

“The correct answer is no. You do what makes you happy, you keep people around who make you happy, and you don't second-guess yourself when some jerk makes a pissy remark. Though a little advice, you might want to lose the zombie teeth. I saw Deathrow checking you out, but I don't think he likes those.”

The last part is somewhat of a lie. I have no idea if Deathrow prefers zombie teeth or not, but I'd like to avoid future biting incidents. It works, though. Beretta beams her set of brown-stained dentures at me, flushes, plucks them out, and slips them into her backpack.

“Better?” she asks, flashing me a new smile that's perfectly white and perfectly straight and so startlingly normal that I don't say anything.