Sparkle is up at dawn to begin her elaborate process of getting ready. Sleeping through it is out of the question. If I were her, I'd roll out of bed, wipe the drool off my cheek, and head out the door, since she's stunning even when she has bedhead. But dolled up, she's glamorous, and I tell her so.
"I get that you're new to this, but you understand that there aren't enough compliments in the world that will make me sit beside you at lunch, right?" she asks, without tearing her eyes away from her mirror.
"Understood," I say with a salute.
I carelessly shove the makeup kit Mom bought me into my leather backpack. I'll need it for my first class. Sparkle notices and groans.
"You're in Costumes and Makeup this morning?" she asks.
"Sure am," I say, struggling to make my backpack close with the bulky kit inside.
"Careful, that's a top-of-the-line makeup system!"
Sparkle's makeup kit is a slim gray bag that's scuffed and tattered. The zipper is broken, so she's pinned it shut.
"You lucky dog," she says.
In response, I bark, and she struggles to keep a straight face. I'm going to win her over eventually.
"Let's trade kits," I suggest, since learning makeup techniques is not high on my list of life priorities. I'll be leaving this one behind in the fall, anyway.
"I couldn't," Sparkle says breathlessly, sounding just like the original Marilyn Monroe in the old movies. "It's worth a year of my mom's salary. It even has the glow kit used by professional makeup artists when they want their leading lady to light up the stage, literally."
"Sounds alien."
"Wait till you see it on. It's magical," Sparkle says with a sniff, and then leaves without saying goodbye.
Inside the Little Theater, everything is dim and quiet. Yesterday's elaborate set is gone, replaced with a midnight-blue background.
The schedule on my tablet says that Costumes and Makeup is in a room backstage, so I climb the stairs on the side of the stage. My footsteps echo as I cross it to stand in the center. I pause and look out at all the empty chairs, trying to imagine them filled with people. There's something electrifying about the idea of holding a crowd that size in my thrall, as they hang on my every word. Not as thrilling as saving someone's life, of course, but the appeal is undeniable.
The sound of talking and laughter drifts out from backstage. Behind the heavy curtains draped on the wings of the stage is a hive of activity, filled with light and bustling students running to class. I catch a glimpse of Harriet entering a room before I have the chance to catch her eye.
Damn, she's in another class. Two doors down is a room paneled with huge mirrors lined with LED lights. High tables and stools placed throughout the rooms slowly fill with my classmates.
Most of the students are recognizable clone types that I've seen in movies before, even if I can't name them. Sparkle comes in, laughing, with a James Dean and the Bruce Lee I saw yesterday at the elevators. They choose a table together, where a Taylor Swift and a Halle Berry are sitting. They are easily the most beautiful and recognizable clone types at the school, exactly who Sparkle wants to be associated with.
There are other kids in the class whose faces are familiar, too, and everyone is perfect looking. It could give me a complex, if I let it.
The tables are filling up, but everyone avoids sitting near me. As a Historical, I appear to be a potential carrier of what we referred to in kindergarten as "cooties." Good. I'm weeding out all of the douchebags in the class quickly.
Finally, a pale guy with light brown hair joins me. His nose is pointy, and his skin is blotchy. I doubt that he was cloned from an actor.
"Joan of Arc," I say, getting the awkward part of the conversation out of the way.
"I'm Rob," he says. "Cloned from an American president, Woodrow Wilson."
He shifts in his seat, uneasy. I suspect he's lying about who he's cloned from, which makes me even more curious about who it is.
Another boy with dark, greasy hair and Asian features joins us as well, but the teacher arrives before we can make any introductions.
"Welcome, darlings, to Costumes and Makeup," says a tall woman with dark hair as she floats across the room. "The hours you spend in this class will be the most important of your life. I will give you a competitive edge that few people understand—it doesn't matter who you are. It's who people think you are. People determine your worth in the first ten seconds of meeting you. They know nothing of your values and talents. They make up their minds about you based on what you wear, your hair, your makeup, and how you carry yourself."
I'm not sure if it's her words or the flowery smell of her perfume that's making me so nauseated. After having a chance to examine her, I determine that she's a Cleopatra who has wholeheartedly embraced her clone type.
At first glance, she appears about ten years older than us, but upon closer evaluation, she's at least fifty. Her eyes are made up in a dramatic Egyptian style, and she wears gold jewelry embedded with tiny lights that glow subtly when she makes a point. Clever.
Her eyes scan over her students, and her smile widens when she sees Sparkle's table.
"Quite a promising start to the year. Call me Lady Cleo, my lovelies, and I am here for you, whatever worries you may have. Let's start by introducing ourselves, starting with your name and clone type," she says, shocking me a bit.
In addition to the celebrities I'd already identified, there are several others whose names I remember when I hear them. There's also a table of clones who are technically Historicals, since they're not cloned from actors, but they are good-looking enough to pass as actors, including a Cesar Chavez, an Elizabeth I, a Sacagawea, and a Joseph Stalin.
The other boy at my table whispers that his name is Sal, and that he's cloned from the leader of some Cambodian rebellion no one's ever heard of.
"And you, of course, are cloned from Joan of Arc. Jo Macson and I went to school together more than thirty years ago," Lady Cleo says to me before I have a chance to speak for myself.
The distaste in Lady Cleo's eyes makes it clear that she doesn't have a high opinion of Jo.
"I'm Joan Fasces. I love my long hair, only rarely dress up as a boy, have never held a sword in my life, and, so far, have managed to ignore the voices commanding me to take back my country from the English."
"But are you a virgin?" the Bruce Lee sitting with Sparkle, whose real name is Ken, shouts from the back of the class.
Everyone bursts out laughing, and no matter how hard I try to force my perfected badass look to stay in place, I still blush.
"That's a yes!" Ken hollers.
Lady Cleo prevents me from replying by tapping on the mirror behind her. It's a screen, and she begins a lesson on different face shapes, and the best techniques to minimize flaws and heighten beauty for each one.
Lady Cleo's class is a full three hours, and it takes everything I have not to bash my head against the table to put myself out of my misery. Sure, looks matter a lot if you want to be a famous actor. But no one cares how hot their doctor is when they're in critical condition.
This class confirms that I'm making the right choice by going to Paris. Staying in Seattle would mean attending classes that I hate and listening to authorities who want to control me.
I'm going to make my own rules.
~ ~ ~
When Lady Cleo finally sets us free, everyone heads to the break room to wolf down some lunch before our afternoon class. I hunker down with my food and ignore the snickers of Sparkle and her friends until Harriet joins me.
"Need a distraction?" she asks.
"Hell yes," I reply.
"Justus messaged me last night, asking how I know you," Harriet says.
A silly grin threatens to split my face. The connection between us was more than a trick of my imagination. I need to see him again, to check if that spark was more than a one-off reaction of my body.
"I told him you're the only person I've met so far who is worth my time," Harriet says.
"Right back at you. How do you know him?"
"He's best friends with Mason, the guy you helped. Mase and I grew up in the Lab together," Harriet says. "When Justus visits, he always brings food and never comments on the smell down there, so everyone likes him."
Before I can grill her further, our classmates begin packing up and leaving the break room. Elizabeth stops at our table and scrunches her dainty nose at the peanut butter sandwich I'm inhaling, looking for all the world like a snobby Evolved whose parents patented her DNA at birth, instead of a lowlife Throwback like me.
"Eating one peanut butter sandwich isn't going to make you fat," Elizabeth says. "But every fat person I know eats peanut butter."
Ken howls with laughter at her insult, and, for once, a witty comeback escapes me.
"The barking you're doing isn't going to turn you into a dog. But every bitch I know barks," Harriet replies.
I give her a grateful grin for her kick-ass comeback, and Elizabeth scowls at both of us before leaving. It's surreal, being bullied by Elizabeth the First and having Harriet Tubman come to your rescue.
"What's your next class?" Harriet asks.
"Remedial Acting with Crew Beaker. You?"
"Same!" she says.
At least a few times a week, I'll have an ally at my side in class. Did Crew recruit Harriet into his rebellion as well? My curiosity will have to wait until we're alone.
We head to our Remedial Acting class, which is located in the basement. Downstairs in the bowels of the theater, it's dimmer, and even cooler than the theater itself. I like it down here, secreted away from the world.
A familiar figure is programming the lighting panel for the theater at the end of the hallway. Justus looks up, and my smile is automatic, but he doesn't return it. His eyes swing between me, Harriet, and the open door to the only classroom down here. He shuts his eyes, releasing a long breath, and when he opens them, he avoids my gaze. He returns to working the lighting panel as if he didn't see me.
"He's ignoring me? Really?"
"You can't talk with him while he works. You can't even share glances. He could get fired if someone caught him slacking on the job. There are fifty other Throwbacks who would love his position, so there's no room for screwups, especially since he isn't eighteen yet, and his lavaliere and working permit are forged," Harriet whispers.
Maybe. Or maybe Justus is taking his mysterious and moody act too far.
There's only one classroom, and it's much larger than the classrooms upstairs. It even has a tiny stage and a couple dozen seats. It's completely retro, with no technology embedded in the walls or floor to project sets. The wooden stage is stained with age.
Harriet and I move toward the front of the classroom, and my eyes narrow as I examine my classmates. It's a very different crowd than the one in my Costumes and Makeup class. Rob and Sal are present, but the other students are a mystery, making me guess that we're all Historicals. Perhaps that's why our class is "Remedial" Acting, since we lack the genetic advantages that those cloned from famous actors carry in their DNA.
Elizabeth comes in, laughing with Cesar, Sacagawea, and Joseph. Damn. I'd hoped they were good-looking enough to not be classified with the rest of us Historicals, but I'm wrong.
Beside me, Harriet gives a low bark at the sight of Elizabeth, making me laugh. Elizabeth notices us, but her expression is carefully blank, so as to avoid giving us the satisfaction of a reaction. I may not like her, but she carries herself like a queen. I bet the original Elizabeth scared the shit out of her subjects.
"Welcome, students," Crew thunders from the stage.
He's grinning at all of us with this Cheshire cat smile that is simultaneously silly and spooky. I wonder what his clone type is. But unlike Lady Cleo, Crew doesn't bother with introductions.
"Here, you are individuals. Share your clone type if you wish, but it's your choice to reveal it. You are the first incarnation of you, and we will not judge you on the merits or sins of someone you have never met."
Part of me wants to stand up and applaud loudly at his words, but the curious side of me wants to stamp my foot in frustration. It would be so cool to know who everyone is cloned from.
"The walls around you are the one safe place to speak freely when you are on school premises. This room is bug-free, and any technology is disabled upon crossing the threshold, so secret taping of anything that is said or done here is impossible."
My eyes widen. Crew is talking like everyone in this room knows about his real agenda for training at Seattle Secondary.
Next to me, Harriet shifts in her seat.
"He recruited you, too?" I whisper.
"I'm still deciding if I can trust him," she says.
Crew's eyes snap to me, and he flashes his Cheshire cat grin again.
"While some of you may enjoy your other classes, I suspect that most of you have impatiently been waiting to learn more about the Throwback rebellion."
"At last," Elizabeth says to my surprise. Was Queen Elizabeth as bored as I was in Costumes and Makeup?
"Each of you has been personally recruited by me, and you can trust that your goals are all the same, even if you don't like each other. I don't expect a class with as diverse personalities as you have to get along. I hope you don't. I want you to debate, question, fight, and scheme. I want you to take risks that Macs and Mollys could never dream up. I want you to take back the world."
We're in Crew's thrall, and grins are breaking out on the faces of almost every student. That's when I notice Nic, the guy who lost his temper when I was kidnapped, leaning against a wall at the back of the room. His eyes narrow when he sees me. Excellent. Another enemy. I'm really racking them up, and it's only my first day of classes.
"Today we are going to start by reading a classic and discussing how its principles can be applied in our current struggle. Nic, pass out the books," Crew says. "This is the most important book you will ever read, and if you ingrain it in your mind, you will be unstoppable."
Nic lifts a box and begins passing out paper books to each student. When he comes to me, I meet his eyes and see the familiar gold sheen. Even now, he's high. I can't resist shaking my head, and his hand tenses around the book he's giving me, likely wishing it were my neck.
Then his expression changes, and the slightest smile twists his mouth. "If you don't stop being so judgmental, you'll never lose your virginity, Joan the Maid."
The story from this morning's class has already made it to Nic's ears, and he's got to be in his second year at Seattle Secondary. For the second time today, I blush, and Nic's smile turns triumphant.
I snatch my book from Nic's hands. The title distracts me from our petty argument. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. It's a text that I've heard of, but online it's behind a strict firewall that only a few are allowed to access. All I know about it is that principles in this book have enabled nations to be overthrown, businesses to thrive, and individuals to rise in power. And now those secrets will be mine, too.
It's also one of the few times in my life that I've held a physical book in my hands. I turn the pages slowly, reverently. The book's spine is broken, and the cover is worn. It's obviously been read and reread. Running my fingers over the printed words, goose bumps break out on my arms. Next to me, Harriet lets out a heavy breath, and we look at each other. It's a new feeling, having someone who shares my reaction to a moment like this.
My eyes pause on the words "Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories." Today a piece of understanding both myself and my enemy is literally in my hands, and I hold my breath as the immensity of that truth takes ahold of me.
I come out of my trance and notice how silent the room is. It isn't only Harriet who understands how I feel right now. Every student holds the books like the priceless artifacts they are. Crew is right. I may end up hating some of the people in this room and loving others, but I've found my own kind.
Crew is watching us all, his former smile replaced by a calculatingstare. He's sitting on the edge of the stage, leaning forward as his eyes flickfrom face to face. "Let's begin."