Criminal Destiny by Gordon Korman Page A

we’ll be long gone.”
    â€œThose poor Campanellas.”
    â€œWhat do you care?” he demands a little peevishly. “They already know their car is stolen. They watched us take it. What difference does it make if we keep it, or pass it on to the next crooks?”
    Next crooks. My stomach sinks further. “I’d hate to meet the guy you’re cloned from.”
    â€œHe’s old news,” Malik scoffs. “He’s rotting in jail somewhere. I’m the one you have to worry about. And I’m just starting to get the hang of the outside world.”
    Sometimes Malik scares me.

10
AMBER LASKA
    The bus ride to Jackson Hole takes fifty years. At least, that’s what it feels like. The real number is more like thirteen hours, which is bad enough. When you grow up in a town that can be crossed on foot in eight minutes, five hundred plus miles has no meaning for you.
    We decide that it’s too risky to sit together. The police are searching for a group of four, so traveling as solo kids seems the safest. At first I’m almost looking forward to it—some alone time to organize my thoughts, maybe even make a mental to-do list. But then I realize there’d be nothing to put on it. Ballet practice? Yeah, right. Homework? I’m not even in school. My goal weight? I haven’t stepped on a scale since leaving Serenity. The things I worked so hard to keep under tight control before just aren’t in my life anymore.
    And the weirdest part? I don’t even care. Compared to what we’re facing out here—like finding Tamara Dunleavy, and learning the truth about ourselves—worrying about grades, or ballet, or a diet just seems dumb. It’s like mourning my long blond hair that I’ve been growing for the past thirteen years. It needed to be gone. Too bad. We did what we had to do. End of story. My “mother” called it my crowning glory. Consider me uncrowned.
    â€œVery womanly,” was Malik’s official opinion on the new me, delivered at the station in Denver. It’s revenge for my crack about the princess backpack—which is currently riding in the baggage compartment under the bus even though it could easily fit in the overhead rack.
    â€œSeems to me it’s more manly not to get all bent out of shape over a little pink knapsack,” I told him as he placed it in there among the giant suitcases and trunks.
    â€œThere’s plenty of room for you down here too,” was his reply.
    Come to think of it, maybe I have one thing to put on my imaginary to-do list:
    THINGS TO DO TODAY (ONE ITEM ONLY)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  •    Punch Malik in the face . . .
    But that’s not an option until we get to Jackson Hole.
    Okay, fine. It’s not really an option, period.
    Oh, please get me off this bus!
    My seatmate conked out on my shoulder ten minutes out of Denver, and is pressing me up against the window. I’m actually questioning whether I’m cloned from a real criminal. A true mastermind would have figured out a way to toss her out of the speeding bus a hundred miles ago.
    I shouldn’t complain. Tori is two rows behind me, and she’s much worse off. The man next to her can’t seem to believe that anybody sent a twelve-year-old alone on a thirteen-hour bus ride. She had to come up with this elaborate lie about how her parents are divorced, and she’s on her way to visit her dad. The problem is she was so convincing that now the guy is peppering her with questions. If this keeps up, she’s going to have to invent an entire life story. Maybe when this nightmare is over, she can write a book.
    We were writing a book together in Serenity—a picture book for young children. Tori was going to be the illustrator. Funny what never occurred to us: that there hardly were any young children in our town. The only kids that mattered were the Osiris lab rats, and we were all in middle