Duplicity (9 page)

Suck factor three: Spanish class.

First of all, I'm pretty sure Mrs. Barreto hits on me. She says something in Spanish under her breath when I walk in that I Google and hope I spelled wrong, because the only readable word in the translation is “yum.” Then Jason takes two minutes to remind me that if Emma's going to homecoming, she's going with
him
, back off.

Then Emma arrives.

I get out my iPad as fast as possible and pull up a game. Emma stands in the doorway so long that someone else comes in and runs into her. She sits next to me. The bell rings. I'm killing my eighteenth zombie when my phone buzzes.

What's going on?

From Emma.

I almost put my phone away. But I'm in a pissy mood so I type back,
Some people have an evil twin, I have a good twin. It's not for you, don't get excited.

Emma scowls when she reads the reply. My phone buzzes again.

TOO BAD EVEN YOUR “GOOD” IS ONLY SURFACE DEEP.

Ouch. I glare at her, and she stuffs her phone in her bag and looks pointedly away.

I spend the rest of the day offending curious classmates, ignoring Twitter, and disabling friend requests on my Facebook account. There's no way I'll let the kids in The Corner see me in my current state, so I take the long routes between classes to avoid it. I crack the mirror in the east wing bathroom to keep Obran out while I do my business. I don't get my loser sheet signed, and I don't report to the front office at the end of the day.

I skip seventh period. Instead I use that time to zip to the mall and scour the stores for new hair dye, three pairs of ripped jeans, ten band shirts without a hint of pastel on them, and a collection of grunge stuff that would make Nirvana proud: flannels and old gas attendant shirts, the world's sickest leather jacket, two pairs of combat boots so I can hide a pair in my locker. I swing back home, testing the volume capacity of the Z's speakers with Bullet for My Valentine's “Your Betrayal,” which rattles tools off the wall of the garage when I pull in. Smiling, I kill the engine and hurtle the door, reach into the convertible's backseat to grab my bags and—

“Brandon?”

I start, and every muscle in me stiffens as I face the girl who's resting against the frame of the garage. I didn't notice the gold Camry parked across the street until now.

“What are you doing here, Emma?” I say.

“You left early.”

“Yes.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Unfortunately, I think there's some safety thing on the garage door that'll stop it if I try to close it while she's there. I drop the bags and lean against the Z's trunk.

“So talk.”

“All right,” she says, and for a minute I think (I hope) she'll turn and leave. Then, “First, I want to say I'm sorry for what I said in class. That wasn't fair. It's not true, either. There's a lot of good in you below the surface.”

I—she just—

What?

That's so far off from what I expected that I just stare at her. She's apologizing? To
me?
After what I … but she can't, she should be screaming right now, she should be telling me how worthless I am and how I'll never let anyone close and how I'm a waste of air.

I should apologize, too, but my brain won't click back into place.

Emma rubs her arms like she's cold. “Second, I really do want to know what's going on. I know you made it clear you don't care, but the last few days have been really … weird. And where are your tattoos?”

Her gaze drops and I tug my sleeves, like it'll make any difference, since I just realized I've been flaunting clean skin all day. I decide she must want something else, some ulterior motive I haven't figured out yet.

“It's really none of your business,” I say.

“Isn't it?” She laughs. Not the happy kind. “That makes total sense, you know, considering I didn't share
anything
personal or potentially embarrassing with you over the last few weeks.”

I smile. “I disagree. Your talent show story was definitely embarrassing.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Well you're not very good at it, are you?”

“Ugh, you are so
infuriating
! You know what I've decided?”

Here it is. I wanted it, I pushed her until I got it, and I'm actually … smiling. I've never seen her angry. I want to see how Emma Jennings fights.

Then I never want to see her again.

“What?” I ask.

“You're a spoiled, attention-starved brat who can't make up his mind about what he wants.”

“Typical rejection backlash—”

“Is it? This is completely out of line? Tell me, then, that none of the following is true. You whine about your parents never having time for you, but you don't want anything to do with them, yet you'll happily drive Daddy's BMW to school. You complain no one cares about you, you have no routine, your family feels fake, but when I invite you to dinner with my family, when I confess to you how much
I
care, you completely balk!”

I don't like how Emma Jennings fights. But I'm pretty good at this, too.

“And you can judge?” I say. “You've lived in Candyland all your life, spoon-fed everything you've ever needed. You have friends who'd die for you, a brother who'd kill for you, you have no idea what it's like to be alone! I lose everyone I care about. So yes, I've stopped caring. And in two to six months we'll be gone again and it'll be back to square one. Don't pretend you understand. You don't know crap about me.”

Her expression twists. She whips out her phone, scrolls to something, and thrusts the screen in my face.

My Z.

Across the street from her house.

“You've stopped caring?” she says. “Then why were you at my house yesterday?”

I stare at the picture. This was not how it was supposed to go.

I look down and say I don't know.

The phone lowers, slowly. I wait for her to attack, wait to hear she's given up as well and I should hurry and jump off a bridge while someone would still notice. But her eyes are soft when I look back, somehow both determined and desperate and … understanding.

She shakes her head. “What are you afraid of, Brandon?”

This is what she does. She's good at prying. Good at asking questions, good at digging for pearls on beaches full of land mines. I don't know why she should care. No one else does, and when I push them to this, they take the hint and get out. I can't get Emma out.

I need to. I said I wouldn't—

I lie to her. “Certainly not you.”

“Then tell me to leave.”

“What?”

“Tell me this was a horrible idea, that I'm wasting my time, that you'll never feel the same. I'll respect that. I'll leave you alone. But mean it when you tell me.”

“I…”

It's just one word.
Leave
. And she will, and that'll be the end of my suicidal decision to let Emma Jennings into my life. I don't need her. I don't, I don't, I don't.

I open my mouth, and scowl instead.

Emma waits.

“I can't,” I say.

“Can't what?”

She's
looking
at me like no one ever has, like she can see to my core, like if I lie to her again I'll get struck by lightning. I swallow.

“I don't want you to go.”

I don't remember telling myself to say that but it's out and that's that. Emma's phone hits the concrete.

“Do you mean that?” she says.

Pause. “Yes.”

“You won't change your mind tomorrow?”

“No promises.”

But she smiles, in a way that reopens the hole in my chest like a flame through paper and I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I can't have her. I'll hurt her again, I know I will—

She dips for her cell, slides it in her back pocket without even dusting it off, and draws nearer. I brace myself against the Z. She reaches for my arm and draws her finger where the gears used to be, her touch so soft, and the ice I felt with Ginger cracks something violent.

She says, “I meant every word I said. Until you don't want me, I'll be here. If you have to move again, so what? That's why they invented phones. And you'll be eighteen next year and you can decide where you want to live on your own.”

She's very close, now. Closer than we've ever stood. Close enough that all I smell is peppermint and that ice cracks more and I almost—

“I have to tell you something,” I say.

She releases my hand and blushes.

“Oh my gosh, you're not gay, are you?” she says. “Is that what this is about? I mean, it does explain a lot, I just … I'm so embarrassed, I shouldn't be pressuring you—”

“What?! Emma,
stop
. I'm not gay.” I grab her hand and lift the mall bags out of the trunk. “Come on. I'll tell you upstairs.”

She follows quietly, through the kitchen and past the glass doors to the office, where Dad's gesturing elaborately, two fingers pressed to his earpiece. I lead her up the stairs and drop her hand when we reach my room so I can scan for any surprise mirrors. None. The floor's just as messy as this morning, collared shirts and pleated slacks flung in every direction. Emma takes in the ejected drawers, the spilled glass, the open closet with its Easter-themed outfits with wide eyes.

“Wow, it's like you set off a yuppie grenade in here,” she says, picking up a pinstriped J.Crew and admiring it.

“It's bullshit is what it is.”

I rip the buttons off my blue polo tearing it off. Emma flushes again but doesn't look away.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting back in
my
clothes.”

I snatch a Stone Temple Pilots tee out of one of the bags and pull it on. Strip out of the “7 For All Nerdy Guys” jeans. Stupid Tommy Hilfiger boxers—those will have to wait.

“Brandon,
geez
, what if your dad comes up?”

“What if he does? Door's open,” I say, smirking. I rifle through another of the bags and grab a slashed pair of RUDE's. “Unless you'd like me to close it.”

“You know, I really think you need help. Five minutes ago you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“You said yourself I can't make up my mind. Better roll with it while you can.”

I grin at her. She looks away, smiling at how stupid I am.

“Put those on,” she says.

“Fine,” I say.

I turn away and tug the jeans up. By the time I've turned back she's folded five of the discarded polos.

“These are really nice,” she says. “Did your parents buy them?”

“No. That's what I have to tell you about.”

I ruffle the gel out of my hair and drop into my desk chair. Emma plucks more clothes off the floor and folds them.

“Emma, don't do that. I'll get them later.” And burn them.

“I don't mind,” she says, but puts down her current stack and sits on the bed, cross-legged. “So what's this big secret?”

“Um…”

I have no idea how to tell her. She'll listen, sure, but getting her to believe me? And there's no way, no way I'm telling her about my slightly illegal job. Or why I was running it that night.

I grab one of my new pairs of combat boots. Peel the sales stickers off. Start lacing one up.

“So on Sunday, after you, er … left,” I say, “I got pretty ticked at myself and broke my mirror.”

I nod at the closet door where it used to hang. Emma raises a brow and glances at the other broken mirror, but says nothing.

“On Monday, my um—my reflection moved. On its own. Like, I was in the bathroom, and it
blinked
. Have you ever seen yourself blink?”

It's a few seconds before she answers. “No.”

It's a few seconds of me holding the shoelace over the next hole before I say, “I know I sound crazy.”

“No, continue,” she says, and that's it. She doesn't go off on a tangent like Mom. She waits.

I keep lacing so I don't have to see her face. “Since then, anytime I'm in front of a mirror, it changes something. Took out my Earl. Washed out my hair dye. Peeled off my ink. Like actually skinned it off.”

Emma clears her throat. “Okay, I'm really afraid to ask … what's an Earl?”

“I think you're missing the point.” I sigh. “An Earl's the piercing I had here.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my eyes.

“Oh, good, okay continue.”

“That's really the only question you have?”

She smiles, and I realize she's humoring me. I hook the last lace, shove my foot in and tighten. Start lacing the second boot.

“It can't talk,” I say. “But it writes to me. Says everything it's doing is preparing me for
The Trade
.”

“The
Trade
? What does it want to trade?”

“You're actually believing all this?”

Emma frowns. “Are you lying to me?”

“No.” Maybe just leaving stuff out. “And that didn't answer my question.”

She holds my gaze awhile.

“No, I don't quite believe it,” she says. “And I do. I believe you're using it as a metaphor for what's happened the last few days.”

“So then you believe I've learned a way to instantly remove tattoos and completely swap out my wardrobe overnight?”

“No, but—”

“There's got to be a way you can see him. I tried to show Ginger, but she couldn't—”

“Ginger?” Emma's eyes narrow. “Your ex?”

“Again, you're missing the point.” I put on the second boot, offer her my hand and hope I've moved on quick enough to avoid questions about
that
. “Maybe you'll be able to see Obran.”

“Obran? Where are we going?”