Behind the racks of coats, I find the boy kneeling in front of a trunk—one of dozens lined up around the perimeter of the room. “Margo always brings a spare dress. She can never make up her mind until she sees what everyone else is wearing. Don’t tell her I said this, but I think you’ll look even better in this one than she does.”
He stands holding a garment unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Rather than the knee-length narrow Management-style skirt I am expecting, the dress he holds out to me is the color of a ripe peach, its long, pleated skirt made of a strange smooth, shiny material. It’s sleeveless, and the bodice is trimmed with hundreds of small crystals that reflect the overhead lights back at me like a thousand tiny suns.
I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Or so pointlessly extravagant. What kind of recreation could require such a garment? Why would the laborers in the tailor union even have occasion to produce such a thing?
“Oh, and look. There’s a jeweled cuff that goes with it too.” The boy pushes the dress and cuff at me, brown eyes flashing with satisfaction over his find, and I wish I knew his name so I could politely refuse what he obviously intends as a favor.
I’m supposed to be hiding, and no one wearing such a lavish arrangement of fabric and crystals could possibly blend into a crowd or fit into a tight space.
Unless…
“Is this what everyone is wearing? At the party?” The word feels strange on my tongue. The question feels even stranger. But if all the girls at this diplomatic event are wearing the same ridiculous dress, maybe the soldiers won’t bother to look at their faces. They’ll never expect to find me in anything other than the trade labor athletic uniform I was arrested in.
He laughs again. “Wouldn’t that give Margo a fit! Can you imagine two girls wearing the same dress?” His eyes flash with mischievous mirth, and he leans closer, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “The power of their fury and humiliation would cause a planetary collapse.” Suddenly his grin widens. “That would make the best prank. If you could bribe Margo’s seamstress to make you a dress identical to whatever she’ll be wearing next, then show up at the event in it before she does! She would have a total meltdown! They’d be talking about it for years!”
My confusion leaves only one thing clear: I will not blend in wearing that dress. Not even with the other party attendees.
“I’ve found what I came for.” He holds up a skinny metal bottle with a screw-on lid, then slides it into his jacket pocket. “Hurry up and change. You’ve already missed half the party.”
I accept the dress and the cuff, because I have no other choice. If I refuse he’ll realize I’m not Waverly. And maybe if he can mistake me for my identical, so will everyone else at this party.
He goes behind a rack of coats to give me privacy, and as I step out of my shoes, a bolt of fear spears me.
What happened to Trigger? Has he been captured? What will they do to him? I can only imagine that the punishment for trying to help me escape will be much more severe than simply losing a braid.
I drop Violet’s jacket onto the floor, and the sight of it lying there, stolen and discarded, makes me inexplicably sad.
“My sister’s going to have an aneurism when she sees you in her dress,” the boy calls through the rack of coats between us.
My hands freeze, my shirt only halfway over my head. “Your sister?”
How can a boy have a sister? In Lakeview, that term applies to one’s genetic identicals. The archaic definition refers to genetic siblings, which could be of different genders, but that concept hasn’t had relevance in centuries.
Evidently his native city uses the term as a colloquialism.
It’s never occurred to me before that other cities could be so different from Lakeview. But as I step out of my pants, I realize I’m not truly surprised. I’ve known my whole life that Lakeview is the greatest, strongest, most efficient and well-run city in the world, and now I understand why. The others indulge in wasteful, frivolous practices and events, all of which no doubt take time and resources away from their primary purpose: the effective function of the city itself, for the good of all its citizens.
Only once I’m wearing a dress belonging to a girl I’ve never met do I realize how unprepared I am for the charade I’m about to attempt. I don’t know what city this boy and his “sister” are from. I know nothing of its culture, beyond an overview of their wasteful practices. I don’t know the people who will be at this party. I don’t even know this boy’s name, and I can’t ask him without exposing my ignorance.
“Are you ready?” he calls.
“I’m dressed,” I reply, hoping he won’t notice that I haven’t actually answered the question.
He steps around the rack of coats, and when he sees me his eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. He seems to have run out of words. “Um…that dress is a perfect fit. Margo’s going to kill us both.”
I stare down at the dress, disoriented by the sight of myself, but he seems pleased with the look.
“What are the chances”—he kneels in front of the open trunk again—“that you and Margo wear the same size shoe?” He stands again with the footwear equivalent of the dress I’m wearing—a gem-studded pair of shoes made of straps that appear to be mounted on four-inch stilts.
“Are you sure those are shoes?” I ask, and he laughs as he holds them out to me.
“Right? I don’t see how you girls walk in those.” Yet he seems to expect me to do exactly that.
I prop myself against the wall with one hand while I step one at a time into the glittery, strappy footwear, and when I stand again, wobbling, I wonder why I even bothered. My skirt covers them entirely.
Either they’re a size too small or they were designed to double as instruments of torture.
I plan to ditch the shoes at the earliest opportunity.
The boy waves me forward, and I follow him around the rack of coats toward the exit. He pulls the door open and gestures for me to precede him into the hall, smiling, but I’ve forgotten how to move.
Standing in the doorway, his dark eyes wide with shock, his hand still reaching for the doorknob the boy has unwittingly pulled out of his reach, is Trigger 17.
“Trigger!” There’s a spot of blood on his collar and his knuckles are bruised, but as far as I can see he’s alive and unharmed. I have no idea how many soldiers he disabled—or killed?—but I’m so relieved to see him in one piece that for a moment I forget that in the few minutes since we parted ways I’ve been transformed into the princess from a primary dorm nanny’s fanciful bedtime story.
His gaze travels over my borrowed dress and his surprise melts into a frown. “What are you wearing?” He hasn’t yet glanced at the boy still holding the door open, but I can tell from the tension in his arms and the tight line of his jaw that he’s already assessed the potential threat and is ready to dispatch it.
“It’s my sister’s dress,” the boy says, and Trigger’s hard gaze finally fully lands on him.
“Who are you?” Trigger’s voice sounds deeper than I’ve ever heard it. The sound gives me chills.