Duplicity Read online

  “Feel the metal on both sides,” I say. She does. “Now take it out.”

  “All right, Brandon, whatever.”

  Another slip of pressure, and she holds the spike before my eyes.

  “Now what?” she asks.

  I’d expected it to disappear. I blink, glimpse the mirror, see no reflection.

  “Um…” I’ve got nothing. My stomach twists like it’s wringing out poison. Am I doing it? Am I doing all this to myself?

  “It’s supposed to disappear,” I say, feeling like an idiot.

  Ginger shakes her head. “Whatever you’re on, I want some.”

  She shoves the earring into my palm and contorts her way back to the driver’s seat. I turn the metal over and over and finally put it back in, my heart going like a drum solo. I’m the only one who can see him. Maybe Ginger’s right, as scary a thought as that is. But I feel that same spike slip out two minutes later, despite keeping a death grip on the seat belt the whole way to Taco Bell.

  Pluck, pluck, pluck. By the time I’ve devoured two double-decker tacos, all my piercings, including Ginger’s favorite, have disappeared.

  5. SOMETHING’S DIFFERENT

  GINGER WON’T TAKE ME HOME despite my threatening to tell Sniper she wants to see him naked. I even try begging (not proud of that) and complimenting her shoes and her driving skills, but she thinks I’m being sarcastic, which is mostly true, and we end up back in the school lot. I don’t have time to hot-wire a car because Principal Myer sees us there and escorts me to class, this time under the guise of asking how my parents are doing. Or trying, at least. I don’t really know how they’re doing so I can’t really answer him.

  I try not to look like I’m on speed in speech class, though I can’t sit still and kids keep looking at me when they’re supposed to be listening to Cherie Lamplight’s boring debate. A redheaded kid, I think his name’s Bill, eventually whispers, “Hey, didn’t you used to have like, your face pierced?”

  I snicker, even though that makes Mrs. Evans look up, because seriously?

  “You’re on the honor roll?” I say.

  But I keep touching my face, biting my lip where the rings used to be, running my tongue through my teeth. Obviously my subconscious wants to get rid of them, but why? They’re some of the only things that are mine. I’ve had the piercings in my ears the longest, got them as a freshman in Albany, New York, along with George, the only kid I’ll ever label a best friend because he was just as messed up. My lips and nose were next, all five in tiny Ayer, Massachusetts, the first half of my sophomore year, with Bev and Eric. Those kids knew how to party. And how to hack. Finally, my eyebrow (on the night I thought I’d bleed to death; don’t ever let Ginger near you with a needle) and my tongue (also Ginger’s fault, but at least done professionally) here in Parker, Colorado, where I spent the other half of sophomore year and now my junior.

  Things with memories.

  I think of Emma’s bracelet.

  Seventh period bell rings. I dodge The Corner on the way out and pace in the grass, watching car after car pick up my classmates, some families smiling, some arguing, some saying nothing at all. But at least they’re here.

  I wait an hour before phoning Dad to remind him to pick me up.

  * * *

  “Brandon!”

  Mom’s home. Her yell comes from below in the kitchen, her footsteps now stomping up the stairs. I crank Nirvana’s “Smells Like Team Spirit” on my laptop until the surround sound rattles the walls. I still can’t find that blasted virus. I’ve checked every new virus database and online threat from the last two months and no one’s got a problem like mine.

  Which confirms it’s just my messed-up head.

  (Right?)

  My door whacks open. Mom stands in all her fury, strands of hair escaping her bun like Medusa, suspicious eyes darting to every corner of the room. Pencil skirt, heels, ruffled white blouse. iPhone glued to her hand. She shouts something, maybe about the noise. I shrug. She starts for the computer and I click off the audio.

  “You just remember those speakers are a privilege. Keep it down when I’m talking to you or I’ll rip them right out—” She sees my face. Peers around again like something might drop on her head. “Something’s different.”

  I disguise a laugh as a cough. This moment, right here, pretty much sums up my life. I lean back in my chair and wait.

  “Your, um.” She circles her hand in front of her face. “You took out all the…?”

  “Just for a couple days.”

  “Oh.” She morphs back into war mode. “Brandon, do you know who called me today? In the middle of lunch with the President of Virtua Tech?”

  “Your BFF Principal Myer?”

  “Ha, ha. Yes, Principal Myer called, and I had to excuse myself so I could apologize for my son skipping class yet again, and do you know how awkward that is?” (I almost protest that I didn’t skip but then I remember Creative Writing from this morning. It doesn’t seem possible this day is still not over.) “The President is considering my consultation for a multimillion-dollar engineering project. How do you expect me to convince him I’m the best fit for the job if he finds out I can’t even get my own son to school on time?”

  “Good question.”

  Mom opens her mouth and promptly closes it, fists clenched. She glowers at me a full minute before saying, “Yes, well, things are changing. First off, your father is working from home the rest of the week to make sure you’re up and out of the house on time. If you don’t go straight to school, you’ll be taking the bus until further notice. Second, you’re to pick up a progress sheet at the attendance office tomorrow.”

  I shoot upright. “What? One of those loser sheets?”

  “Careful, Brandon. Think of what that means since you’ll be carrying one all week. You’ll need a signature from each of your teachers that you came to class, on time, and handed in your work. Missed signatures equal detention, where Principal Myer assures me you’ll have a few uninterrupted hours to catch up.” She grins, eyes sparkling. “We should have done this years ago!”

  “But I’ve been handing in my work, for three weeks! This is the first time I’ve missed!”

  Her phone chirps. She taps the screen. “Yes, Principal Myer mentioned that…” She reads something, one finger to her lip. “But he’s afraid, with your track record, that you’re slipping. He just wants you to succeed.”

  He, not she. I pound the desk and make my laptop jump. “This is so lame! I’ve been good the last few weeks, I’ve been—”

  “Yeah, okay honey, good night.”

  She closes the door behind her, still entirely focused on the phone.

  * * *

  Six forty-five A.M. My door squeaks open. I remember I forgot to lock it just as cold air pours from my shoulders to my shins.

  “Up!” Dad says, tearing off the sheets. “I’ve been yelling for fifteen minutes!”

  I shake my head and sit, blinking, while Dad balls up my blankets and leaves with them. I had a horrible dream about someone hacking my computer and my reflection moving and taking out all the piercings in my face. And possibly worse, it had ended with the revelation that I’d be toting around a slacker sheet at school. I rub my eyes. Roll my tongue through my mouth.

  And freeze. I check my ears, my nose.

  No metal.

  YOU’RE NOT DREAMING.

  I shoot out of bed and rip open the bathroom door.

  My reflection stares back at me, pale and untrusting, but mimics every move. I reach for a towel. It follows. But still no metal in my face, and when I check the drawer for my extra spikes, it’s empty. Mom must’ve thrown them away.

  It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m fine, I just went a little crazy yesterday but I won’t take any pills today and I’ll be fine.

  I stall a minute before clicking the door closed and turning on the shower.

  I check my back in the glass while the water heats, where three skulls grin at me, one on each shoulder blade a
nd one in the center with a dagger stabbed through it, running drops of inky blood down my spine. Down my right arm is the tat that peels back layers of flesh and muscle, revealing the gears and pistons beneath. Up my left, tiny scorpions crawl from a slit in my wrist, a slit that’s covering a scar, each one growing larger as they scurry into a wider gash on my shoulder. I smile. Dad never bellowed as loudly as the day I came home with that first one, and almost achieved orbit when he realized I’d used a fake ID to get it. For an hour I actually had a father who cared what I’d done to myself.

  One glorious, earsplitting hour.

  Steam curls over the top of the seashell-bordered curtain. With one last glance at the mirror, I step into the water.

  Stupid loser progress sheet. I did everything to avoid earning one. Three weeks of good behavior should be plenty for a pass on yesterday’s ditching. I squeeze a glob of shampoo into my hand and scrub it through my hair. Now I’ll have to linger after class, wait for everyone else to leave, and sneak the form by each teacher before the next class trickles in. So unfair. I’m not even failing! C’s and a few B’s, thanks to Emma’s involvement. I do fine on most of my tests. I just have no motivation to—

  Dark lather dribbles down my chest. I stop scrubbing. Pull down my hands. The foam drips from my fingers like tar, coiling around the drain in ribbons. Like ink.

  Like hair dye.

  I watch it and wish I could be anywhere but here. The vapor around me thickens.

  How? I snatch the shampoo bottle and twist off the top. Smells the same as always. I’ve used it for months without a problem. I drop it back on the shelf, breathe in, and inch forward into the stream.

  Black curtains down my body, shadowing the porcelain floor of the bathtub. I push my fingers across my head in disbelief, and slowly the color thins to charcoal, then silver, then clear. I try to pull together any logical reason the dye would wash out that doesn’t involve that … thing. Because now Ginger’s theory doesn’t work. Even if I subconsciously wanted to, permanent hair dye doesn’t just wash out. Bleaching takes at least half an hour.

  Shaking, I turn off the water, reach for the curtain, and slide it aside.

  A haze covers the mirror, but I know exactly what I’ll see even before I wipe a patch clear. I uncover a smear of glass and see only the wall and the towel rack behind me. I clear another circle.

  Movement by the sink.

  The other sink.

  My double’s leaning against the door, fully dressed in my outfit from the day before, tussling a hand through honey-brown hair. At least I assume it’s my reflection. Without the piercings, the wristband, the never-seen-a-comb mess of black on his head, he doesn’t look much like the sulky, unapproachable loner I’ve worked so hard to impersonate the past three years. Even worse, if I ignore the tattoos, he looks … normal.

  And that’s just going too far.

  I hit the glass.

  “What do you want?” I say.

  My double smiles and draws a finger through the mist on the mirror.

  I’M PREPARING YOU.

  “Preparing me for what?”

  His smile twists. New words drip down the glass.

  THE TRADE.

  “What does that mean?”

  He clicks off the light.

  Darkness chokes in on me like a fist. There are no windows in our bathroom, so the only light’s a pale slit of sun beneath the door, not enough to give shape or meaning to anything around me. To stop from hyperventilating, I convince myself that if he wanted to hurt me, he would’ve done it already. Besides, all he’s done so far is take out a few earrings and move some things around. Hardly dangerous. Fear is for people whose moms dress them for school. I sigh (sounding far less confident than I like) and grope for a towel. Smack my hand on the rack. Find the fabric and wrap it around my waist.

  Crinkle.

  From the counter?

  Crinkle, click. Like eggshells breaking. Like bullet casings hitting cement. Then the sound multiplies like snapping bones, arguing off the bathroom walls, riddling my nerves with salt and I don’t care if he hasn’t hurt me yet. I lurch forward as pieces of something clink onto the tile by the sink, yank on the door handle, realize it’s locked, fight off cardiac arrest twisting it free, and finally spring into the hallway and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

  Maybe he can hurt me. Maybe it’s like that Silent Hill game, where perfectly normal places disintegrate into rust and blood-laced metal and drop you in Hell, some place with faceless monsters and huge knives. Or, and I feel lightheaded from the whack of my heart in my ears, was that thing trying to come through? The Trade. I hear that capital T now, because I can only think of one thing “other” Brandon could possible want to trade with me.

  Not that it makes any sense why someone would want my life, but whatever.

  Dad shouts a five-minute warning from downstairs. I take a shaky breath and stagger to the dresser. Pull out a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of camo pants. I grab a leather jacket out of the closet and a black knit cap that I’ll wear between classes when the teachers aren’t paying attention. Whatever just happened, I have no doubt Obran—Other Brandon—will try again. And there are mirrors, everywhere. One in the hall. Three in the car. A giant one at school across from the gym. And of course in every bathroom. Will Obran try with someone else in the room? He certainly hadn’t cared about Ginger.

  I stop.

  I think what I really need is a mental institution.

  Dad yells again. I think about telling him, but that didn’t go over well with Ginger (and she believes a lot of stupid crap), and Dad would probably just see it as an opportunity to have me committed. The house would be nice and quiet with me gone, and my parents could go back to pretending they don’t have a son. Not that that’s much different than any other time, but I’m sure it’d be quieter.

  I grab my bag and edge around the corner, pressing against the opposite wall as I pass the closed bathroom, and dart down the stairs. Dad lounges in the office to my right, his back to the staircase, typing away on a black laptop.

  Tell him tell him tell him, my brain says.

  Would you believe you? asks the other half.

  That decides it. I’m going to have to deal with this on my own. And I’m going to need a faster car to calm my nerves, aren’t I?

  Obviously.

  “Bye, Dad,” I say as I step into the kitchen

  No reply, just the tap tap tap of the keyboard. I’ve learned these are the perfect opportunities to ask almost any question and get a “yes” without Dad ever remembering the conversation. In this way, technically I do have parental permission for all the ink in my skin. I finger the closest key ring on the hooks by the garage door.

  “I’m taking the Z, ’kay?”

  A grunt from the office. I flick the keys off and close the door behind me. Punch the garage opener. Sunlight glitters up the BMW’s slick sides, over the convertible top that’s already lowered, over the black leather begging me to sit. I hop in without opening the door, then twist both side mirrors up and tilt the rearview to the right. Jam the key in the ignition. Two hundred and fifty-five horses thunder to life, vibrating into my bones like a shot of espresso.

  I’m feeling better already.

  I jerk the shifter into reverse, ease off the clutch, and back the Z down the driveway. The door between the garage and the house flies open.

  “BRANDON!”

  Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” blares into the speakers. I wave at Dad, pop the clutch, and let the Z roar up the street.

  * * *

  Before twenty minutes of first period have passed, the change in my appearance has flashed up in sixty-three Tweets and thirtysome Facebook updates, according to I-won’t-bug-you-fifty-times-a-day Ginger.

  The Z caused most of the fuss. Despite parking it as far from the front door as possible, two of the popular girls (blonde Rachel and some brunette chick) have already sidled up to me with questions about it and compl
imented me on the other changes.

  And somewhere along the way I must’ve crossed a mirror, because my cap is missing.

  I avoided The Corner before class, so my phone’s jumping with new texts from Ginger and Beretta and even Sniper, all demanding to know if the rumors are true (Sniper says he’ll never “hack” me again if I let him drive the Z). I ignore them. I have plenty to contend with already, between Ms. Hilton asking me if I’m in the wrong class (who am I, again?) and my classmates whispering about my real hair color.

  “Hey, how’d you lighten it so well?” Ashley Winkler whispers, after Ms. Hilton instructs us to start a new three-thousand-word assignment. “I’ve always wanted to go blonde, but every time I try it just turns orange.”

  “Do I have a sign on me that says, ‘something’s different, please come talk to me about it?’” I snap.

  That must be the case, because throughout the rest of the morning, dozens of jerks I don’t know come up to ask similar questions. Where’s my shine? Did I finally realize wristbands are for girls? And of course the most common question: why the change? They get harder and harder to ignore, but I do a pretty good job, and soon their guesses pop up on Twitter. Most of them assume my parents threatened military school if I didn’t shape up. Others said I’d had a near-death experience or been arrested. Then Ginger suggested, probably in retaliation for my ignoring her all morning, that all this is to impress Emma Jennings.

  I really think I might hurt her.

  That spreads faster than a keg at a party and by the end of second period I have fifteen new friend requests on Facebook. I’ve spent a year and a half avoiding gossip circles and have effectively isolated myself at every school thus far, not a single ripple in the water, and now this. Stupid Internet. Stupid Obran. Freaking Ginger! I send her a text while Mr. Butrez signs my loser sheet.

  Unfriending you.

  To which she replies, Luv u 2.

  I have to pass The Corner to get to Spanish. I delay as long as I can at my locker, then make the trek down the maroon carpets and have barely turned the corner when Ginger’s shriek hits me like a sledgehammer from across the room.