DupliKate Read online

  By the time last period rolled around I was in a colossally bad mood. I rushed into AP physics slightly late, thanks to my locker deciding to get stuck open until I violently kicked the door, injuring both it and my big toe. Luckily nobody noticed, because they were too busy applauding our teacher.

  “What?” I whispered to Anne Conroy, as I slid into the other seat at her lab table. “Did something happen?”

  “Mr. Piper said there wasn’t gonna be a final,” she whispered back, her round face, a contrast to her reed-thin body, still half-turned toward the front of the room. She reached up to re-tighten her already-taut, straw-colored ponytail.

  “Shut. Up,” I said. No physics final? Oh my God, all the time I’d mentally budgeted to study was suddenly free! This was just the break I needed! My eyes widened and I stared at Anne, openmouthed, then turned to look at Mr. Piper. His gray hair was even more mussed than usual and he was rubbing his hands together, looking positively gleeful.

  “As I was saying,” he said, “this semester, instead of a final exam…”

  The entire class suddenly groaned as we all realized that there was a catch—of course.

  “There will be a final project,” Mr. Piper continued.

  Oh no. Oh no.

  Silence. Somebody in the back row muttered a very small “boo,” decided that it had been too small, and then muttered, “Boo!” again, louder.

  “Your partners will be assigned and you’ll draw projects out of a hat,” he went on.

  God, this sucked. This sucked big-time.

  Somebody raised their hand. “Why can’t we pick our partners?”

  “I’m very aware that you and your girlfriend are both in this class, Mr. Rosenrock, but I’m sorry. I purposely assigned it randomly. So without further ado…” Mr. Piper started reading names off a list. Bleh. I didn’t particularly care that we couldn’t pick partners, I just hoped mine was smart. I needed that A. Without it, my GPA—and therefore Yale—was shot.

  “Kate Larson and Jake Cheng.”

  Well, so much for Yale.

  I slowly gathered my stuff, but Jake was on his way over to my lab table already. He threw down a beat-up notebook with multicolored pencil and ink doodles all over the cover, then yawned noisily and chucked a physics textbook, also covered in doodles, on top of it.

  “Hey Jake,” I said.

  “Wow,” he said sarcastically. “Kate Larson remembers my name.”

  Oh, so this was how it was gonna be. I checked to see whether his sarcastic tone had been followed by a dazzlingly friendly smile. Nope.

  “Of course I remember you,” I said patiently. We’d gone to the same school since kindergarten. “You don’t consider yourself memorable?”

  “To the right audience, of course,” Jake said, crossing his arms. He was a few inches taller than me—he must’ve grown a bunch since the last time I’d paid any attention. “To the queen of the school…” He plunked his thin, wiry frame down in his chair, yanked at the collar of his faded Patriots Super Bowl T-shirt for a second, then kicked his feet onto the table and clasped his hands behind his head.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, glaring at him.

  “It means—”

  “Kate, will you do the honors?” Mr. Piper held out a beaker filled with little slips of paper. I reached in and pulled one out.

  “Robotic catapult,” I read.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Piper said. “Trajectories and precision of movement will be fun for you two.” He walked off to the next table as Jake rolled his eyes. I rolled mine too as I sat back down. Fun wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind.

  “It means,” Jake said, finishing his thought from before Piper’s interruption, “that you used to be normal and chill, and now you’re all hard-core and ‘eeeehhhh!’” He spastically waved his hands back and forth as he made that high-pitched last sound, clearly demonstrating that he thought I was some sort of neurotic academic supernerd. “Like I can already tell you’re gonna be all gung-ho about getting an A on this thing.”

  “Of course I want an A,” I said evenly. “Actually, I need it.”

  “Exactly. Whereas I’m cool with a C.” Jake raised an eyebrow at me as if daring me to say something.

  “Well that’s great,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. Maybe my essay could be a detailed account of plotting and carrying out the cold-blooded murder of my lab partner. Why was Jake being so annoying?

  “So,” he asked conversationally, “how pissed is your boyfriend gonna be that we’re lab partners?”

  Oh, right. That was why.

  “He’s not gonna be pissed,” I said with forced patience.

  “Oh really? The guy who told you to quit hanging out with me three years ago?” Jake narrowed his dark, almost-black eyes.

  “Oh my God, that is so not what happened,” I said fiercely. Jake and I had been really good friends as kids. But in high school, I was put into all accelerated classes while he’d taken an artsier route, so we’d kind of naturally started hanging out less. Then Paul and I had met in honors bio and he’d gently pointed out that playing video games in Jake’s basement all day wasn’t really going to get me into an Ivy League school. It wasn’t like Jake and I had suddenly stopped talking—it had been more of a gradual fade.

  “We drifted apart, Jake.” I shrugged. “It happens when people get to high school. I mean, we’re not friends with Erica Kirk anymore either.”

  “Of course we’re not—she’s a total bitch.”

  “I know,” I agreed, smiling. But Jake’s angular face remained stony. He stared into space, absently running his hand over his close-cropped black hair for a moment. He then picked up a silver Sharpie and started drawing a little cartoon vampire on the dull black surface of the lab table.

  “I saw that, Mr. Cheng,” said Mr. Piper, walking toward us. “Detention.”

  Jake swore under his breath and stopped drawing as Piper threw our project folders onto the table with a thunk. I picked mine up and flipped through it quickly, wincing. Charts. Graphs. Statistics. Instructions. The assignment described building a contraption that would roll over to a Ping-Pong ball, pick it up, and throw it at three different targets. I didn’t have the first idea on how to begin. Neither did Jake, as he hadn’t even bothered to open his folder. He was busy drawing a mutated, frothing-at-the-mouth gerbil on the front cover.

  I looked around the classroom. At every other table, people already had rulers and calculators out and were jotting down notes with their partners.

  The hell with it. “Look,” I said to Jake. “It’s not your fault we haven’t talked in three years, but it’s not totally mine either. So quit being so annoying.”

  He stopped drawing. “Less than three years, technically,” he answered. “I said hi to you in the hallway once and you just walked on by.”

  “Did not,” I retorted. “Or if I did, it’s because I didn’t hear you.”

  “Of course. You were probably too busy hanging out with the cheerleading squad.”

  “Volleyball team,” I corrected him.

  “Same difference,” he answered.

  “It’s actually extremely easy to tell those two groups of people apart,” I snapped.

  “Oh, right,” he said, “volleyball’s got that seven-foot lesbian on it.”

  “No, that would be the cheerleaders.” Well, she was technically six one and not a lesbian, but she did have extremely short hair. She would definitely be on the bottom of the pyramid if our cheerleading squad ever did pyramids. Mostly they just do booty dances.

  “Sorry, guess I’m not as clued in to the inner workings of this school as you are,” Jake said. “Some of us didn’t sell out as soon as we got to high school and started dating Mr.”—he made his voice into a dopey-sounding singsong—“HarvardPrincetonYaaaaale.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think of me, my boyfriend, or this school: I just wanna make sure I’m not working on this by myself,” I said, stab
bing my finger toward one of the robot diagrams.

  “You won’t be,” Jake shrugged. “You just might not be getting an A.” The bell rang and he got up and left, not even bothering to take his project folder with him.

  I glared at the empty space where Jake used to be and a new personal statement idea formed in my mind. Yep. “The Time I Killed My Physics Lab Partner and Got Away With It, at Least Until I Wrote This Essay” definitely had potential.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “GO TO BED, WOMAN.” MY MOM POKED HER head in my bedroom door. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  I sighed and leaned back in my desk chair. I was clad in flannel pajama pants and a hoodie, my hair pulled back into a messy “study mode” bun. I’d slogged through all my homework, plus an extra credit French essay to make up for the A-minus I’d gotten on a quiz last week, and two practice SAT math sections. I’d also taken a halfhearted shot at my personal statement, but as usual hadn’t gotten any further than typing a few new titles. Not that “Highlights or Lowlights? The Brunette’s Dilemma” was going to be a winner.

  “Why should I go to bed if you’re not?” I asked, swallowing a yawn. I had been wired on three cans of Diet Coke and some leftover chocolate toffee cheesecake, but by this point “wired” had turned into “barely conscious.”

  “I am as soon as I finish reviewing these,” my mom answered, holding up a thick black binder. She was wearing her reading glasses, and her dark, wavy hair was held out of her face with one of my plastic claw-shaped hair clips. “Which will take less than half an hour, because I am the smartest lawyer ever. So go to bed.”

  “I will,” I said. “Right after I take another crack at this Yale essay.”

  My mom came farther into the room to peer at my computer monitor. “Write about your wonderful mom,” she said.

  “Paul already suggested ‘write about your awesome boyfriend,’” I answered, smiling.

  “Damn, that kid is smart.”

  “Yeah, I may just get him to do the whole thing for me. Wanna help?” I asked. My mom got her BA and PhD from Columbia, and then went to Harvard Law. Which made her great to look up to and impossible to live up to. Not that she would ever point that out.

  “Would if I could, kiddo,” my mom said dryly. “Well, good luck.” She kissed me on the forehead and then left, closing the door behind her.

  Beep. An IM popped up on my screen from Paul that said, Hey sexy. Oh wait, that’s me.

  I laughed, then grabbed my cell off the dresser and called him.

  “Aha,” Paul said as soon as he picked up. “You want nothing more than to hear my soulful voice.”

  “No.” I sighed. “I want nothing more than to be asleep right now, but that’s not an option.” I flopped onto the bed, tucking my feet under one corner of my green and white striped comforter. Nothing in my room matches. The carpet is pale blue, the wallpaper yellow flowers, the furniture a mix of Ikea and oak. But it’s cozy and spacious at the same time, and I love it.

  “Aw, poor baby,” Paul said. “So go to bed. You’re probably done with your essay by now, right?”

  “Nope. Blank page. No words. Very sad.” I glanced at the clock and sighed. “Plus I have to read through this entire physics assignment since I know Jake’s not going to.”

  “No kidding. I hate that you have to work with that kid.”

  “Oooh, jealous?” I teased.

  “Of a guy I could break in half?” Paul laughed. “No, but be careful or he’s gonna drag your grade down.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said, trying to convince myself. Actually, it probably wasn’t going to be fine at all, but I’d complained to Paul enough lately.

  “Too bad you couldn’t choose partners. Then you could’ve just worked with Anne.”

  “Yeah…” I agreed, even though I didn’t. Anne’s really smart—she’s got a 4.07 and is also applying to Yale—but she’s more Paul’s friend than mine. Actually, she and Paul dated freshman year. It was only for a few weeks, and it was long before he and I got together, but the fact that they’ve stayed such good friends is…well…annoying. Especially since it’s obvious—to me, at any rate—that she still has a thing for him.

  “Well, I should get back to work,” I said, trying to sound chipper.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Yes,” I answered, getting up and stretching. “Boost my mood and self-esteem by whispering sweet nothings in my ear.”

  Paul laughed. “Oh, I’ll whisper stuff. I’ll whisper sweet somethings.”

  A few minutes later we hung up and I looked at the clock. Now it was well past midnight. So if I stayed up until two, then woke up at six, I’d get four hours of sleep. Which, sadly, was about average lately. I looked at my computer monitor. A blank white Word document stared back at me. Ugh. I minimized the window, quickly checked cuteoverload-dot-com (awww, an extremely fat kitten!), and then stared at my computer desktop. Icons of barely started essays were scattered haphazardly across the screen. I closed my eyes and the icons swirled around, taunting me.

  “Go away,” I muttered. I started deleting the icons—no point starting an essay with a messy desktop, right? Ah, productive procrastination. I erased “volleyball essay” and “library essay” and “friendship essay” and “killing Jake essay.” I had started that one right after I got home from school, although it fizzled at the three-sentence mark, at which point I’d already used the word douchebag four times.

  Click-drag. Click-drag. Click-drag. My desktop got cleaner by the second as I started deleting old shortcuts and random downloads. It felt cathartic, and the methodical task helped wake me up. Maybe there was something in here to write about, something about a blank slate, or starting from scratch, or…My mind whirled as I deleted.

  I sat back to admire my work. Yay! Or boo, since now I had to start writing. Dammit. I pointed the cursor at my blank word document again, then noticed one last icon, a colorful little script “SL” with a smiley face on it, in the corner of the screen.

  “Don’t know what it is, don’t need it,” I said, and moved it to the trash.

  It bounced out of the trash and went back to its former spot.

  I put it back in the trash.

  It bounced right back out.

  “Oh, come on,” I muttered. I highlighted it and hit “delete.” Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. I trashed it again, and suddenly a window popped open that said, “Welcome to SimuLife!”

  Sigh.

  I tried to close the window, but a weird, tinny music cue sounded and the program stayed open. The noise was jarring in the late-night silence of my room, and I winced and turned the computer speakers down.

  What the hell was SimuLife still doing on my computer, anyway? I vaguely remembered playing the game back in the day, but I hadn’t touched it in years. I made a mental note to tell my mom that this was yet another reason I needed a new computer, then wiggled the mouse. The whole screen was frozen. I checked the clock; Paul was definitely asleep by now, and I didn’t want to wake him just for computer help. I looked over at my crappy old laptop lying on the floor by the closet. It would have to do.

  I turned back to my computer and hit control-alt-delete in a last-ditch attempt. Once, then twice.

  Nothing. The SimuLife window was still stuck open.

  Screw the laptop, I was going to bed. The universe clearly didn’t want me to work on my essay. For once the universe and I were in agreement.

  TO-DO LIST

  Essay!

  SAT practice—at least 2 sections 2 MORE SECTIONS

  AP Euro flash cards

  Bio lab questions, go over project notebook

  French vocab, memorize dialogue, extra credit essay

  English—get copy of THE SOUND AND THE FURY, return Paul’s CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

  Physics final—practice problem sets STUPID $%#!$@! ROBOT

  Prom committee crap (location rental, food/drink ideas, talk everyone out of hiring lame band, etc.)

 
Volleyball flyer designs and e-mail Coach Tate re: freshmen

  Yearbook superlatives, list possible categories—MEETING FRIDAY MORNING

  Christmas—tree? presents (Mom, wallet; Paul, sweater??? Mix CD for Kyla et al.)

  Essay, and I really mean it this time!

  Other people’s essays for Renner (oh, the irony)

  REMINDERS!

  * Fix computer; if not fixable, call school IT guy

  * Purple vitamin water for Paul bball practice

  * Get blank CDs

  * Run w/Kyla, return her blue tank (wash it first) (or maybe don’t bother since she didn’t with my cords)

  *** WRITE. STUPID. ESSAY. DAMMIT. ***

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 4

  FWAMP. FWAMP. FWAMP. I REACHED TO SLAM the snooze button on my alarm clock and realized that both my arms were completely tangled in the blankets. I wiggled around to free myself and finally turned off the alarm, then snuggled back under the covers. I was just drifting back to blissful early-morning half-sleep when I heard a voice.

  “Don’t you think you should get up already?”

  “What? No,” I said, not bothering to open my eyes. “There’s a snooze button for a reason.” I was halfway asleep again when I realized that the voice did not belong to my mother.

  There was someone in my room.

  I’m not gonna lie, I shrieked bloody murder. Then I scooched backwards across my bed as fast as I could and scrunched up against the wall, my body in an upright fetal position, my heels on one of my pillows. I held another pillow in front of me, like that would save me, and struggled to keep myself from breathing either way too hard or not at all.

  But the stranger in my room was a teenage girl. About five six, wavy dark brown hair falling just past her shoulders, brown eyes, a decent complexion. Couple freckles on the cheekbones. She was smiling, and she wasn’t holding a gun or a knife. All in all, if there was going to be a random stranger in your room, this was not a bad person for her to look like.