Falls the Shadow Read online

  “What is—Miss Benson!”

  I freeze. My fist is still hovering just inches from Seth’s head, and he’s holding a hand over his face, trying to contain the blood that’s gushing from his nose.

  I really wish I was furniture right now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hypothetically Speaking

  Suspended. For the first time in my life. My parents are definitely not going to be happy about this. I’m not supposed to get suspended. I’m not supposed to be the problem child. That’s Violet’s job. Mother’s going to have a heart attack when she finds out that both her children aren’t allowed to set foot on Haven City Schools’ property for the next two weeks.

  And what if the press gets hold of this? They’re going to find the most unflattering picture they have of me in their archives (and, god, they have plenty) and splash it across the home page of every tabloid that will pay for it. Probably pair it with some story about how I’m turning into a wild child just like my sister. And the CCA—Clone Control Advocacy—members? They are definitely going to use this as evidence against the movement. Because they’re always after this sort of evidence. Anything to make Huxley look bad, to sway public opinion toward their own personal beliefs about cloning and genetic engineering.

  Forget that Huxley has provided the public with plenty of documentation about the benefits of cloning, and that the clones themselves prove over and over—in almost every kind of study imaginable—that they’re smarter, stronger, and healthier than the originals they came from. They don’t care about any of that. The CCA and its supporters are always trying to claim that clones and their origins, and any people involved with cloning, have a tendency toward instability and violence, a greater chance of developing serious mental-health issues, and a bunch of other crap that they rarely have the facts and figures to back up.

  But that bloody nose I just gave Seth Lancaster is a fact. Which means I’m going to be news. Maybe even bigger news than Violet, since at this point I think some of the paparazzi are getting tired of her everyday exploits. But wait until they tell the public what the younger Benson sister has been up to. Wait until the press reveals how unstable Huxley’s experiments have made her.

  The office smells like cleaning chemicals and a stomach-turning mixture of whatever food they’ve been heating up in the secretaries’ break room. I’m alone in the little hallway outside the principal’s office, waiting for Miss Davis to get off the phone. I’m not allowed to go back to class, so I’m going to have to call home and have someone come get me. Not looking forward to that conversation. Miss Davis can stay on the phone for the rest of the afternoon for all I care. Though I am getting tired of drawing circles in the faded blue armrest of this chair.

  My mind follows the circular pattern my finger is making, and I’ve started to zone out when someone sits down on the bench next to me and clears his throat. I don’t look up. I’ve done enough interacting for one day. Plus, I don’t want to have to explain why I’m sitting here dressed like I’m about to go to a masquerade ball.

  Or why my costume has blood on the sleeve.

  “Did you at least win?”

  I still don’t want to look up. I shouldn’t look up. But I know that voice. His accent has a soft lilt to it, like most of the people from the Southside section of Haven have; a lot of the ones who originally built up that part of town—the area the Neuse River winds through—were refugees from the war-torn ports of coastal Georgia. His family used to have an estate in a city called Savannah, which I know thanks to the projects we had to present in a contemporary-history class I took last spring. We had to chart population migration to and from cities, as affected by the war. I was bored out of my mind while most people were presenting, and spent the majority of that class period trying to find a way to hack through the school’s Network blocks so I could play games instead.

  But I paid attention to his presentation.

  Because the truth is, I’ve always been a little bit in love with that voice, and with the person it belongs to. Which is why I can’t help myself now. I tilt my head toward the bench. And sure enough, Jaxon Cross is sitting less than two feet away from me. And like it’s done during every one of our grand total of about five interactions, my mind goes completely blank. Perfect. So now I can check “humiliate self in front of crush” off my list of things to do to make this supremely awful day complete.

  What the heck is he doing here?

  I know the answer as soon as I ask myself, though: He’s an office assistant during fourth period. Something about the way his credits worked out; they won’t let students with empty spaces on their schedule just skip a class, so they usually make them fill the time doing busywork around the school.

  I don’t know how much work Jaxon actually does, though. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t see him wandering up and down the halls outside the auditorium, and there’s been more than one occasion when he’s played an impromptu audience member for our rehearsals.

  Not that I’m keeping an eye out for him or anything.

  “Well?” he presses with a friendly smile. It’s a permanent accessory to his face, that smile—so you’d think I’d be used to it. Especially since this isn’t the first time it’s been directed at me either. Because while most of the student body of Haven High is perfectly content with me being furniture, Jaxon always makes a point to remind me that I exist, even when I’m trying desperately to fade into the background. He always waves to me. Always smiles at me. Sure, he does that to most people—but that’s the point. I’m just like most people to him. It’s like he’s completely oblivious to who my family is. Like he doesn’t know me at all, but at the same time he’s somehow closer to me than anyone else in school. I find that both terrifying and exhilarating.

  Mostly terrifying.

  “I . . . What do you mean?” I ask, my fingers tracing the eyeholes of the torn mask in my lap.

  “That scratch on your face,” he explains. “It looks like it hurt. So I’m hoping you at least won that fight.”

  “That fight . . .” My stomach sinks. Does he already know about that? Does the whole school already know?

  “News travels fast,” he says, holding up his phone.

  Seth must have messaged him, I realize suddenly. The two of them are always hanging out, even though they seem like complete opposites to me. Because unlike Seth, Jaxon isn’t a complete ass.

  I manage a few calm breaths. So what if he knows? That doesn’t mean the whole school does. It’s just Jaxon. And the entire Theater class. And whoever they’ve told, which means the whole volleyball team probably knows, and so does every teacher Mrs. Heller’s gotten a chance to talk to. And Seth’s got a bigger mouth than all of them put together—so on second thought, I’m kind of surprised paparazzi and CCA members aren’t breaking down the office door this very second.

  Jaxon’s looking at me expectantly now, waiting for me to say something. So I laugh nervously. “This?” I say, motioning toward the scratch. The breeze my hand creates makes the raw skin sting. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

  “Well, that’s good,” he says, running a hand through his hair. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it, but it’s still got that messy-but-styled look to it. It’s not as dark as mine, but it’s close. Or maybe it just looks darker next to his fair skin. This is the first time I’ve really looked at him, I guess. I mean really looked at him, and studied him; when you’re trying to blend in to the scenery yourself, you can’t stare too long at anyone. I’m usually ducking around corners or tripping over things in my herculean efforts to avoid eye contact with him—and I guess that makes it hard to notice little things like the square outline of someone’s jaw or the way his eyebrows lift a little when he smiles or the way his nose is just the tiniest bit crooked.

  I could probably study that face all day, now that I’ve started; but silence is threatening us, so I smooth out some of the wrinkles from the front of my dress and say, “Um, I’m guessi
ng Seth told you what happened?”

  His smile widens. “Yeah. He sent me a picture, actually. One of the girls in your theater class managed to snap it—it’s a great action shot.”

  Oh no.

  “A picture . . . ?”

  He nods, then holds up his phone again. And there I am, in all of my mortified glory, fist still raised, mouth open and gaping. Seth is just to my right with his hand clutched over his face. Barely in the frame, but it’s more than enough to incriminate me.

  “Great.” I stop messing with my dress and try to smile back. Maybe I can joke this off. Jaxon, at least, seems to find it amusing. “So, um, yeah. I didn’t exactly win, as I guess you saw. In fact, I didn’t even hit the right person.”

  “I dunno,” he says with a shrug. “I feel like Seth needs to be punched every now and then. It’s good for him—keeps him in line.”

  My smile becomes a little more genuine, a little less nervous. Because all of a sudden I realize: I am having an actual conversation with Jaxon Cross. And he thinks it’s funny that I punched one of his best friends in the face.

  At what point did I step into this alternate reality, exactly?

  “Still,” I say, “can you, like . . . message him and tell him I’m sorry or something?”

  “Consider it done.” He starts messing with his phone, and I don’t even realize I’m watching him until he glances up at me a minute later. My heart thumps right up into my ears, and the back of my neck starts to burn. It should be illegal to have eyes as blue as his. “So what happens now?” he asks. “They going to haul you off to jail, or what?”

  “I wish,” I say, frowning. “It’s worse, though—I have to go home. And I’ll be there for the next two weeks. I was waiting for Miss Davis to get off the phone so I could call our . . . so I can call someone to come get me.” I almost said “our driver.” And though it’s no secret how rich my parents are, I still hate calling attention to it. It’s just one more way that I’m different from most people.

  “I could take you home,” he says.

  My mind threatens to go blank again. “I can’t . . . I mean, you don’t have to do that,” I mumble.

  “It’s nothing. I’m bored anyway—they’ve run out of stuff for me to do, and I slip out of here early all the time.” He casts a glance toward the secretary, and even though she looks completely oblivious to our conversation, he leans in closer to me before quietly adding, “I just tell Davis that I’m going to the middle school to help tutor the kids in math. I’ve done it for real enough times that she doesn’t question me about it anymore.”

  “I—”

  “And this way you can put off explaining things to your parents for a little longer,” he says, hopping to his feet.

  I try, but I can’t seem to come up with a decent argument. I mean, it’s an incredibly tempting offer. Not only would I not have to call home, but I’d also be sharing a car ride with Jaxon Cross. It’s . . . almost too good to be true.

  Maybe that’s why I feel nervous again. Why is he being so forward all of a sudden? He’s always been nice, yeah, but he’s never been this nice. I don’t want to wonder why, because it deflates the warm bit of hope that’s been ballooning in my chest. But I can’t help it. Being followed around by cameras your whole life, and having half of what you say misquoted by reporters all over the state can make a girl paranoid. And Jaxon already has a picture of what I did to Seth. Maybe now he’s just looking for content to go with the story he plans on selling to the highest bidder:

  Catelyn Benson’s Wild Rampage.

  Yeah. He could make a small fortune off a story like that, if he’s got any sort of negotiating skills. Which he’s already proven he does. He’s persuasive enough to make furniture talk, at least.

  But that’s stopping right now.

  “No thanks.” I know it’s the right thing to say, but I can’t help the disappointment that washes over me. Just once, it would be nice to forget about who I am, and who my family is, and about what we’ve done and whether it’s right or wrong or something in between. To just jump in a car and go.

  “Come on,” Jaxon insists. “You live over toward the Forsyth Park district, don’t you? Same neighborhood as Samantha did—I’ve seen you around. I go right past there on my way home.”

  “I was . . . I was actually thinking I might take the ETS home,” I lie. The Electronic Transport Shuttle coils around Haven like a giant, silver-scaled snake; you can’t go anywhere in the city without being able to look up and see it.

  “Do you even have an S-Pass?” Jaxon asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I find a coffee-colored stain on the worn carpet and try desperately to focus on it.

  “Have you ever even been on the ETS?” His voice still has that gentle, friendly cadence about it; but the words irritate me anyway. Because I know why he’s asking. Most people who take the shuttle do it because they can’t afford the steep fees that come with owning a car these days.

  We have the war to thank for those fees, since the hostilities that led to it made energy conservation one of the government’s highest priorities in the thirty years that have followed it. After the treaties were signed and the smoke had cleared, they went a little crazy slapping environmental regulations and restrictions onto everything—some of which made it near impossible to own a personal car. It was one way to keep people from complaining when billions of scarce taxpayer dollars were slotted to build energy-efficient transportation services. Most designated Restoration Cities like Haven are now served by ETS systems or something similar; it’s all Mr. Ballard talked about in my Political Science class last spring. The crazy government and its crazy regulations, and about how things are even worse now than they were when practically half the world was using our country for target practice.

  Except, of course, his choice of words was always much more colorful.

  “I have been on it, thank you very much,” I tell Jaxon. So what if it was only once and it was ten years ago now? It had been an emergency then; my father sent Violet and me away from a campaign meet-and-greet that had been violently crashed by his opponents, trusting one of his secretaries to get us home as discreetly as possible. No one expected the mayor’s children to take the ETS, and the paparazzi were busy hounding my parents. So for a little while at least, we were just two normal children, blending in with all the other normal children. It was terrifying at first, but my sister always had a way of making even the most frightening things into a game we could laugh about. So by the time we reached the stop near our house, we’d become secret agents on a mission to infiltrate the mayor’s home—and there was no room for fear when we had such an important job to do.

  I don’t have Violet or our silly make-believe games now, maybe, but I can still handle public transportation. Just because I’m rich doesn’t mean I’m completely helpless.

  He’s right about one thing, though: I don’t have a pass. And in a fantastic twist of irony, I’m pretty sure I don’t have any money on me either.

  “You know,” he says innocently, “people get mugged and stuff on the ETS. Happens all the time.”

  “So if anybody tries to mug me, I’ll punch them in the face. Giving people a bloody nose can become my signature move.”

  He laughs. I wish he would stop doing that, because I’m falling in love with the sound of it; it’s so pure, and so tantalizingly real. It makes me second-guess myself even more. Maybe I’m being too paranoid after all? Maybe he honestly just wants to help? There has to be some honesty in the world, right?

  “That’s it, then?” he asks with a good-natured sigh. “There’s no convincing you?”

  Before I can answer, Miss Davis calls my name, tells me the comcenter’s free if I’m ready to call home. Which I’m not. I don’t know that I ever would be. I don’t know that I’m ready to trust Jaxon, either, but I have to admit those deep blue eyes plead a good case for him. And in my head, I’m already practicing the lines I’m going to give Miss Davis about how there’s no on
e to pick me up. How I’m just going to go to the middle school with Jaxon, do a little community service and help him with tutoring, and then catch a ride home.

  “I . . . I’ll be there in a second,” I tell her. She answers with an uninterested nod, then spins her chair around and starts tapping away at her computer. When I turn back to Jaxon, he already has my bag in his hand.

  * * *

  I had a clean record before today, and that, combined with Jaxon’s charming smile, is enough to persuade Miss Davis to let us go without much fuss.

  Outside, it’s a typical hot, humid day. I did take the time to change out of my costume, though, so at least I’m in jeans and a modest tank top instead of a five-hundred-pound dress.

  His car is beautiful. It’s a pearly blue color, and the paint literally sparkles in the sun, as do the polished chrome wheels and bumpers. The windows are tinted. It doesn’t have an aerodynamic, rounded body like most of the cars you get today; it’s all fierce corners and angles, and the front end alone is as big as most of those newer cars. When we first walk up to it, I’m sure we must be at the wrong parking spot; his family isn’t very well off, I don’t think, so I have no idea how he could afford this thing—especially since it looks like an antique. I doubt it meets regulations; the ownership fees alone have to be staggering.

  “Took me four summers of working my ass off and saving every cent to buy it from my uncle,” he says, answering the questions I don’t dare ask out loud.

  “What kind of car is this?”

  “2005 Camaro,” he answers. “A classic.”

  “It runs on gasoline?”

  “It’s modded so it can use gas and electric. Gas when I can find it, and when I’ve got extra money. And when my fuel permit’s clear. Usually.” He grins. “Though I might have driven it a time or two when it wasn’t cleared.”

  “Aren’t there huge fines for that?” I ask as he opens the passenger door for me.