“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” my mother says, rising from her chair.
“Anything for my favorite patient.” Dr. Foster sets his medical supply case on the stainless-steel countertop, then turns to me with a smile. The friendly greeting freezes on his face when he sees Dahlia standing next to the exam table. “Oh my…” His gaze flickers between us. “When you said you had a biological donor, I thought you meant a distant relative. But…a twin? Or…?” He grabs Dahlia’s right arm and pushes her sleeve up to expose the bar code tattoo—a sight that makes my stomach pitch. “A clone.”
Dahlia frowns, but leaves her arm in his grip while he studies the mark.
“Neither, actually,” my mother says, and the doctor lets go of Dahlia’s arm. “What good would a clone’s deficient hormones do in hormonal therapy?”
Dr. Foster looks from Dahlia to me. “Waverly’s the clone? How is that possible?”
“It’s complicated,” my mother says. “And I expect your discretion. All you need to know is that this is Dahlia, and she has the hormones Waverly needs.”
Slowly, the doctor nods. “Okay. Well, this explains the source of Waverly’s deficiency.” He glances from Dahlia to me again, then takes a deep breath. “Let’s get to work. I’ll need blood samples from both of them, to compare.” Dr. Foster waves Dahlia toward the exam table, and I make room for her next to me. He picks up an empty blood vial and an ink pen. “For discretion in the lab, we’ll call Waverly Patient A and Dahlia Patient B.”
“Doctor, until two days ago, Dahlia was consuming hormonal suppressants in her food. How long will that take to leave her system?”
Dr. Foster opens his mouth as if he’s about to ask a question. Then he seems to think better of it. “I’m as interested in that answer as you are, Mrs. Whitmore. It could be days. Could be weeks. Which is why we’ll need to take weekly samples and monitor the hormonal change.”
We sit as patiently as possible while the doctor takes several vials of blood, and though Dahlia seems curious about everything, she doesn’t ask any questions. She doesn’t even speak.
“I’ll give these a top priority at the lab, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve been able to isolate the necessary hormones.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” My mother opens the door and turns to Dahlia. “Steward 20 will escort you back to your room.”
Dahlia says nothing as she follows the butler toward the basement stairs.
As Dr. Foster begins packing up his supplies, my mother closes the exam room door. “There’s one more thing. With the discovery of Waverly’s genetic origin, we’ve realized the hormonal deficiency isn’t her only problem.” She leans against the door, waiting patiently for him to come to the right conclusion on his own.
“The expiration date.” The gaze he turns my way is heavy with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
“Doctor, we wouldn’t bother with hormone therapy if we didn’t believe Waverly has a long life ahead of her. You were explaining to me this morning how gene therapy can be used to repair genetic protein and chromosomal abnormalities…”
Dr. Foster sinks onto the rolling stool. “I thought you were asking on behalf of the children’s hospital charity.” He exhales and his gaze flicks toward me again. “Lorna, I could sequence your daughter’s genome in a couple of minutes with the proper equipment, but I wouldn’t know what to do with that information once I had it. You need a geneticist. Someone experienced with gene therapy.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. “Do you know a geneticist who can be trusted?”
He swivels on his stool to fully face me. “I know a couple who could do what you’re asking. For the right price. But confidentiality that can be bought can also be sold down the road, if someone else makes a more generous offer.”
“Send me a list. Not of those who can be bought, but of those most skilled in the field.” My mother doesn’t look concerned about loyalty being outbid.
“I’ll do that. And I’ll let you know when I have the results from those tests.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
My mother and I walk Dr. Foster to the front door, and as we watch his car roll through the front gate, she takes me by both arms and looks straight into my eyes. “I will find a way to fix this, Waverly. I want you and Dahlia to focus on getting her ready to play you on camera and let me worry about everything else.”
“I’m not ready for this,” Dahlia says as she steps into my bedroom.
I pause the video playing on my wall screen and roll off my bed, onto my feet. “It’s been a week. You’ve seen every episode of my show three times. You’ve memorized my life story. You can walk in heels, eat with the proper fork, and recite all my friends’ birthdays. You’re as ready as you’re ever going to get. Besides, Hennessy will be right next to you.” I swallow the lump of envy lodged in my throat at the thought of my clone and my fiancé attending my engagement party without me. “You’ll be fine. Now step all the way into the room so the door can close.”
My mother gave her access to both her door and mine, so she can attend our daily “princess prep” sessions, as my father’s started calling them, without needing an escort. But every time she leaves or enters either room, my mother gets an alert. She still doesn’t trust Dahlia, but after all the time I’ve spent with my clone, I’m pretty sure Trigger 17’s the one we need to worry about.
Dahlia’s become proficient at using the wall screen, but there’s no way she could hack into the security system. I don’t even know how to do that.
Trigger hasn’t left his room in six days. I peeked at the feed from one of the cameras in his room a couple of times and found him doing push-ups. Lots and lots of push-ups. Dahlia says he’s going stir-crazy, even with the unconnected tablet full of books, games, and music my dad gave him.
I don’t care if he goes howl-at-the-moon crazy as long as he doesn’t have the ability to eavesdrop or lock me in my own bathroom.
“Are you sure you can’t go to the party yourself?” Dahlia asks. “You could just wear long sleeves again.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ve been over this. That’s like getting your nose done, then wearing a mask. The whole point of the ink is to show it off; it’ll look like something’s wrong if I don’t. And inevitably, someone will ask to see my new ink, and I’ll have no good reason to refuse.”
“Getting your nose done?” Dahlia’s forehead wrinkles.
“You know. Having it fixed, surgically.”
She stares at my nose. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” I say with a glance into the mirror. “I haven’t had any work done, but a lot of girls—and some guys—get surgery to ‘fix’ things they don’t like about themselves.”
“If you’d done that, we wouldn’t look alike.” Dahlia seems blown away by that thought.
“Especially considering that what I wanted was implants.”
“Implants?” she says, and I hold my cupped hands in front of my chest, miming bigger boobs. Her frown deepens. “Why would you want that?”
I give her a look. “Because I don’t have any? The surgeon said I was just a late bloomer and told me to come back when I got my period. But that never happened, so I had to turn the tables. I convinced the world that this is the ideal.” I gesture up and down my own body. “That rather than me trying to look like them, they should all want to look like me.”
“Did it work?” Dahlia asks.
“I’m still famous, aren’t I? Come on. Let’s do your makeup.” I grab my desk chair and lead her into the bathroom.
“I don’t know how to use those little paintbrushes and pencils,” she says as I set the chair next to my vanity stool, so we can sit side by side in front of the mirror.
“No need. For days when there’s no professional makeup crew…” I open the trifold automated applicator and Dahlia lean
s in for a better look. “Illumination settings: camera ready,” I say, and the light panels between the three mirrors brighten to the setting I’ve programed for filming days. “I tried out several looks this morning and settled on this one,” I tell her, framing my perfectly made-up face with my hands. “The goal now is to make you look just like I do. Sit here.”
“A machine did that?” She sinks onto my vanity stool. “How does it work?”
“When it was installed, the technician took a bunch of pictures of my face, then uploaded a three-dimensional model. You look just like me, so it should work for you too. Foundation, contouring, and blush are applied with a series of airbrushes—tiny paint guns—programed with each specific movement, based on that 3-D model. Eye shadow and brows are done the same way, with smaller airbrushes. The eyeliner applicator uses an actual bristled brush, depending on the desired effect. There are about a million different looks. More every day, actually. My stylist uploads anything she thinks I might like.”
“Your stylist?” Dahlia seems to be tasting the word.
“The person who helps me pick out my clothes, makeup, and hairstyles. Normally, she’d have been here on Sunday, planning out what I’d wear on camera for the rest of the week. But I’ve been stuck here teaching you how to be me.”
Dahlia frowns. “You shot the voice-over for the union ink episode and you went to dinner with Hennessy the other night. I saw about a thousand pictures of you drinking champagne.”
“Yeah, but that was just one charity dinner.” And a long-sleeved dinner at that—my last chance to be seen in public before the ink ceremony airs and I’m stuck inside for weeks. Watching Dahlia go out in my place. “I normally commit to a heavy schedule of appearances when school’s out, and I’ve already had to miss a children’s benefit, a celebrity tennis tournament, and the dedication of the new DigiCore annex building this week alone.”
My friends think I’m avoiding them. My public message feeds are full of people speculating that I’m sick, or I’m having second thoughts about the wedding, or—irony of bitter ironies—that I’m suffering severe morning sickness.
“Anyway…” I turn back to the mirror. “I do my own lashes, because I don’t want any machine that close to my eyeballs.” I laugh at myself. “Weird, I know.”
But Dahlia doesn’t seem to think it’s weird. Or maybe she has no idea what mascara is.
“And it doesn’t hurt?”
“Nope. Um…” I study her face for a minute; then my gaze lands on her arm. “Let’s cover up your bar code first.”
“Makeup can do that?”
“You’ve clearly never seen Margo first thing in the morning. This stuff can cover anything.” I take her right arm for a better look at the pattern of thin black bars tattooed across her wrist. “The surface is pretty flat and the area is small. A rough scan should work.”
I hold her arm in front of the applicator. “Area scan for basic foundation—blemish cover.”
A small sensor on a robotic arm slides out of the applicator, and I position Dahlia’s wrist in front of it. “Cover drastic discoloration,” I say, and the sensor runs a red beam of light over her arm in search of the “discoloration.” When it finds the tattoo, it begins to scan.
“Scan complete,” the applicator says. “Color match with the dominant skin tone?”
“Yes,” I say. “Okay, hold your arm still.”
An airbrush emerges from the applicator on another delicate robotic arm. It hovers over Dahlia’s wrist, then sprays a fine coat of foundation over her tattoo in several strokes, carefully blending it with her skin on the edges of the coverage.
“Please approve,” the voice says as the air brush retracts.
I study Dahlia’s wrist, searching for any sign of her tattoo. But it’s gone. “See?” I hold her arm up for her inspection. She looks stunned.
“You can’t even tell I’m a clone,” she whispers.
An odd ache echoes deep in my chest. “You’re actually not a clone,” I remind her. “Now you look like what you are. Yourself.”
“Will it rub off?” She starts to run one finger over the foundation, but I catch her hand to stop her. “Not after we seal it.” I turn back to the applicator and hold her arm in position again. “Approved. Seal the cover-up.” Another airbrush emerges and sprays her wrist with a clear sealant, then disappears into the applicator.
“Give it a second,” I instruct while Dahlia inspects her arm again. When the coat looks dry, I nod. “Okay, you can touch it.”
She runs one finger over her wrist, but the foundation stays put. “I can’t even feel it!”
I can’t help but smile. She looks so pleased. So astonished. “Now it won’t wash off, even in the shower, unless you use a special makeup-remover wipe.” I hold up the packet for her to see. “These break down the seal. I’ll have some sent to your room. You have to take your makeup off and wash your face every night with that soap I gave you, to maintain clear skin for the cameras. This is crucial, Dahlia.”
She takes the wipe packet, then scans the directions.
“Okay, now for your face.” I set the applicator for the look I’ve picked out, with a little extra attention to the eyes, since today’s a special day. Then I talk Dahlia through washing her face with a special soap and applying moisturizer.
With her skin prepped, she sits as still as possible while the applicator sprays on primer, then foundation, then contours and applies blush. She holds her breath while the tiny eye shadow airbrush begins, and she looks more like a statue than a person while the eyeliner brush does its job, giving her a smooth, slightly smudged outline that fades around the middle of her lower lid.
“Wow,” Dahlia says when she finally sits back so I can do her mascara. “I look like myself, only…”
“Better?” I suggest.
“Well, shinier, anyway,” she agrees. But that’s an understatement. She looks just like me. And we look stunning.
“Now…clothes.”
Sofia and I help each other pick out new clothes all the time, but neither of us has ever looked anywhere near as excited by that prospect as Dahlia looks right now. “Come on.” I throw open my closet door and pull her inside, where her eyes go wide as she looks around.
“Go crazy,” I tell her. “With our hair and skin tone, we look best in bold, strong colors, and you really can’t go wrong with that…butt.” Do I look that good from behind?
Somehow neither the mirror nor the Digiglass does justice to my body the way seeing someone else walk around in it does.
Dahlia picks out a flowing red blouse with broad lace cuffs—the color will look great with our dark hair—and a pair of snug white pants. She has good instincts. Not that there’s anything in my closet that would look bad on either of us.
I take the clothes into my room and hold them in front of the e-glass. “Have I ever worn this on camera?”
Three dots scroll across the center of the screen while it scans the clothes and searches for them in every episode of my show, as well as in footage of me from hundreds of public appearances.
“No,” it replies at last. “And may I suggest you add black knee-high boots and an onyx necklace to coordinate?” An image of me wearing the suggested ensemble appears on the screen.
“Yes. That’ll work.” I give the clothes to Dahlia and shoo her back into the bathroom to change. When she emerges, I hand her the boots, and while she steps into them, I fasten the onyx pendant around her neck. Her ears aren’t pierced—we’ll have to fix that, if she’s going to become my full-scale mannequin/dress-up doll/live stand-in—but I have a pair of dangly silver clip-ons that will do the job.
“I haven’t even worn this myself yet,” I tell her as we stand in front of the mirror. “But I’m making a mental note to wear it as soon as it comes back from the laundry. It didn’t look this good on me in the virtua
l dressing room.”
“You would wear it even though I’ve already worn it?”
“I’m going to wear it specifically because you wore it, and I’ve seen how good it looks.”
“Margo seemed to think she should light the dress I borrowed on fire rather than be seen in it after I’d worn it.”
“That’s different,” I tell her. “That was a custom ball gown, designed specifically for her. If she wears it after you wore it, people might think we both bought the dress from the same place. Off the rack.” I hesitate, trying to think of a way to explain one-of-a-kind fashion to someone who grew up as one of five thousand uniform-wearing identicals. “My friends and I don’t go out in off-the-rack clothing. Designers show us their newest things, we buy what we like, then no one else gets to have that outfit ever again. Unless we auction it off for charity.” Although, there are plenty of copycat discount designers.
Dahlia follows me into the bedroom, where I take a slim white box wrapped in a silver ribbon from one of my desk drawers and hand it to her. “This is for you.”
She hesitates for a second. Then she pulls off the ribbon and opens the box. Her eyes widen as she stares at the contents. “You’re giving me a tablet?” She pulls out the thin, hand-sized sheet of e-glass and squints at the lines of her palm through its surface. “For how long?”
“Forever. That’s how a gift works.”
Dahlia stares at me for a second. Then she throws her arms around me, still holding the tablet, and nearly bowls both of us over.
“Hey.” I tap on her shoulder, and when she doesn’t release me, I let myself hug her back. “It’s just a tablet.”
Dahlia lets me go. “We didn’t give gifts in the training ward. Trigger is the only other person who’s ever given me anything.”
“Really?” It seems so sad to never have been given a gift before. I get gifts all the time. “What did he give you?”
“A carrot. And a peanut,” Dahlia adds, as if those are the most normal things a soldier could ever give his secret clone girlfriend.