My mouth waters so insistently that I have to swallow to keep from drooling. I’ve never smelled so many tantalizing scents, and the amazing part is that I recognize most of them!
For years I’ve grown food I never saw served. I’ve always assumed the fruits and vegetables and herbs and spices that never made their way onto my dinner tray were served to the adult residents of Lakeview. That after graduation I’d finally be allowed to sample the full selection of produce I’ve been growing my whole life.
Now that will never happen.
But at least I’ll have had this glimpse of tiny slices of meat I can’t identify, marinated in tantalizing combinations of spices I’ve hand-picked from their stems. Of vegetables blended together and served on delicate little crackers made from wheats and grains I always found to be more trouble to grow than they were worth, when they were only used in the coarse breads we’re served in the cafeteria.
And if I step into this huge room and face this crowd of gawkers, I might even get to taste these delicacies before the soldiers descend on me and drag me away.
Finally, after several of the longest seconds of my life, a girl stands from a low upholstered stool and holds her arms out for me. “Waverly!” Her hair is blond and too long to be practical, and her bright white smile seems to welcome me. Her lilac dress swishes around her feet as she crosses the room toward me. “I’m so glad you could make it!”
As she comes closer, I notice something strange about her face. While she looked beautiful at a distance and still does, in an odd way, up close, it’s now easy to see that her face has been…painted. Her lips and her eyes appear to have been drawn on.
As strange as this custom seems at first, given the elaborate dresses and ridiculous shoes, maybe the face paint shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.
Hennessy Chapman lets me go as the painted girl pulls me into an embrace. Her warm breath brushes my left ear. “What in the living hell are you doing in my dress, you thieving bitch?”
Margo. It has to be. I don’t understand half of what she’s said, but I can hear the fury in her voice.
Before I have a chance to tell her that her brother insisted I wear the dress, she’s holding me at arm’s length, beaming at me as if she’s never been happier to see anyone in her life.
The sudden change makes my head spin.
“Hennessy, what the hell?” she demands softly as she turns from me to take his arm. And now I feel like an even bigger fool. She’s only using the first of his two names. And he’s addressed her by a single name.
Does that mean Waverly has a second name as well?
“Don’t be mad,” he insists. “Waverly had to sneak into the city in disguise, and she couldn’t exactly bring a trunk, could she?”
“So you gave her my dress?” Margo hisses softly as others stand and head our way.
“Hennessy meant no harm,” I assure her in a soft voice, since they’re both whispering. “He thought he’d be doing you a favor, because it looks so much better on me.”
Hennessy’s laughter echoes across the room. Margo’s sharp inhalation and her shocked-wide eyes are my only clue that I’ve just said something wrong.
Her brows lower and her brown eyes darken with fury. “You brash little slut!” she hisses, too low for anyone else to hear.
I have no idea what she’s just called me, but I’ve obviously made things worse.
“It’s only a loan,” I assure her just as softly, but her eyes narrow when she turns back to me. “I fully intend to return the dress.”
“As if I can ever wear it now that everyone’s seen it on you.”
I’m not sure what she means, but there’s no time to ask for a clarification of something Waverly would probably understand, because suddenly we are surrounded by other people. Boys and girls call out my clone’s name and fuss over my dress, and as I try to pretend I know them all without using any names, I finally notice the most extraordinary part of this odd wonderland.
It isn’t just the dresses that are one of a kind—it’s the people too. I see a dizzying array of heights and a dazzling spectrum of skin tones, and no two sets of features look alike. There are no names or numbers embroidered on their clothing.
These people are—all of them—individuals. Which must mean that in her city, Waverly doesn’t stand out for being unique.
I can hardly wrap my mind around that concept. People engineered one at a time. No two alike. The process must be incredibly labor-intensive. Their city must have hundreds of geneticists. Or thousands! But why would any city persist with such an inefficient process?
I glance around the room again and notice that though the girls each have a distinctly different set of features, they all seem to share that same painted quality Margo has. Their lashes are all dark and thick, and something bright and glittery has been smeared into the creases of their eyelids, which makes their eyes look quite prominent and bright.
Their skin is universally smooth and flawless, and their lips seem just a little too plump and symmetrical. As if this collection of individuals, each determined to wear unique clothing, all secretly want to look alike.
“Waverly!” A boy in a dark green suit brushes one hand down my arm. “Did you really sneak into Lakeview disguised as a common laborer? That is so badass!”
A common laborer? Is there an uncommon variety?
“As if anyone would believe she was a clone,” one of the girls says to the boy next to her, eyes sparkling as if she’s just heard the best joke. “Can you imagine hundreds of Waverlys walking around with calluses on their hands and dirt under their nails?”
Try thousands.
But that thought makes my eyes water. I cannot afford to cry here. So I push my grief back and try not to hate all these people who think the sisters I’ve just lost are nothing more than a joke.
That’s why they’re falling for my act. It’s not that I’m good at pretending to be their friend. It’s that they have no choice but to believe what their eyes are telling them unless I make a huge mistake, because they don’t know there’s any other option.
They think that Waverly, like all of them, is one of a kind.
I get lost in the greetings, pointless chatter, and unintelligible jokes. Half of their vocabulary is indecipherable, which is just as well, because nothing I hear seems to truly mean anything anyway.
Finally, just when the noise and confusion threaten to overwhelm me completely, a hand slides into mine and I exhale in relief. Then I look up and disappointment washes over me when I realize that the hand belongs to Hennessy.
Trigger has retreated to the edge of the room, where a few other personal guards stand. They are all enough older than us that I don’t recognize their faces. However, I notice that two of them are identical.
So the partygoers are one of a kind, but the private guards are not?