color”—green, obviously: see hoodie—“what bands he
liked”—The White Stripes and some obscure ‘80s group called Tears
for Fears—“what he wanted to be when he grew up”—a geologist, or a
chef, or an auto mechanic—“stuff like that.” By the wounded look in
Ian’s eyes, I figure I’ve hit a nerve. Sometimes I forget he was
George’s friend too. “Sorry,” I say.
Up ahead, the trio of Dr. Smullen,
Rosie, and Opal exits Schermerhorn and keeps on trucking. “Pick up
the pace, people,” Haley says, pulling away from Ian and
me.
At the moment, speed walking is not in
my repertoire of skills, my mind racing with George-related
anecdotes to spring on his father if I’m lucky enough to get the
chance. “Go ahead,” I tell Haley, who needs no further
encouragement to jog off.
The good news is that we’re not going
far. As soon as Ian and I hit daylight, the rest of our party slips
inside a building called Uris. When we catch up, I realize we’ve
tracked Dr. Smullen all the way to his meeting at a campus deli.
“Maybe we should go,” I say, feeling creepy about my (and everyone
else’s) stalkerish behavior.
Ian says, “You’re kidding,
right?”
Dr. Smullen breezes through the food
line, somehow managing to stack a tray full of goodies
one-handed.
I shrug. “Don’t you feel kind of
. . . wrong? Like we’re violating—I don’t know—George’s
trust or something.”
“ We’re never gonna be here
again.” Ian shakes his head. “This is our only shot.”
“ I know,” I say with a
sigh.
We join the line, score a couple of
bananas and a chicken salad wrap. By the time we cash out, though,
my appetite drops through the floor. Because at a table by the
windows, behind a koi-colored beam, sits the doctor’s lunch date.
Even back-to, the guy’s mop of dark hair, strong shoulders, and
easy manner proclaim the unfathomable.
And then he turns.
“ Oh my God. I can’t
breathe,” I think I say. “Help.”
Ian clutches my elbow, steadies me so
I don’t kiss the polished concrete. “There’s no
way . . .” he mumbles.
But there is.
The dearly departed George Alfred
Brooks, the boy I’ve spent my whole life loving and more than two
years mourning, has risen from the dead. And he’s staring right at
me with a big ol’ grin.
* * *
As it turned out, George
wasn’t staring at me; he was staring at his father, Dr. Smullen. As
it also turned out, George wasn’t George. He was (or should I say is? ) the biological
equivalent of George’s clone, a.k.a. his identical twin. His name’s
Alex (short for Aleksey, a fact that brings to mind George’s birth
name: Anatoly). This I’ve gleaned from a bumpy introduction,
wherein the doctor graciously agreed to allow us (meaning Ian,
Rosie, Opal, Haley, and me) to dine with him and his
son.
So far it’s not going well, most of us
tongue-tied over the resurrection of George’s ghost. “So you’re
considering applying to Columbia?” Alex asks me, in a relaxed,
congenial tone that’s at odds with the crazed panic I’m
feeling.
Our cover story is that I’m a
prospective student and Ian is an anthropology groupie. “Oh,
definitely,” I manage to reply, my head bobbing in
agreement.
“ It’s really great here,”
he tells me, “and I’m not just saying that because my dad’s a
teacher.”
The doctor interjects, “Alex
practically grew up in the anthropology department.” With a wry
smile, he adds, “I should probably send condolence letters to the
faculty for all the skateboard damage he’s inflicted over the
years.”
He’s a skateboarder too?
Nuh-uh.
Out of left field, Haley asks, “Does
your mother work here?”
Is my sister a moron? The last thing
we ought to be bringing up is a communist spy. It strikes me that I
should appear to be eating my lunch, so I crack open a
banana.
Alex shakes his mahogany curls, which
are an inch longer than George’s were ever allowed to grow. “Nah,”
he says. “She’s a
liked”—The White Stripes and some obscure ‘80s group called Tears
for Fears—“what he wanted to be when he grew up”—a geologist, or a
chef, or an auto mechanic—“stuff like that.” By the wounded look in
Ian’s eyes, I figure I’ve hit a nerve. Sometimes I forget he was
George’s friend too. “Sorry,” I say.
Up ahead, the trio of Dr. Smullen,
Rosie, and Opal exits Schermerhorn and keeps on trucking. “Pick up
the pace, people,” Haley says, pulling away from Ian and
me.
At the moment, speed walking is not in
my repertoire of skills, my mind racing with George-related
anecdotes to spring on his father if I’m lucky enough to get the
chance. “Go ahead,” I tell Haley, who needs no further
encouragement to jog off.
The good news is that we’re not going
far. As soon as Ian and I hit daylight, the rest of our party slips
inside a building called Uris. When we catch up, I realize we’ve
tracked Dr. Smullen all the way to his meeting at a campus deli.
“Maybe we should go,” I say, feeling creepy about my (and everyone
else’s) stalkerish behavior.
Ian says, “You’re kidding,
right?”
Dr. Smullen breezes through the food
line, somehow managing to stack a tray full of goodies
one-handed.
I shrug. “Don’t you feel kind of
. . . wrong? Like we’re violating—I don’t know—George’s
trust or something.”
“ We’re never gonna be here
again.” Ian shakes his head. “This is our only shot.”
“ I know,” I say with a
sigh.
We join the line, score a couple of
bananas and a chicken salad wrap. By the time we cash out, though,
my appetite drops through the floor. Because at a table by the
windows, behind a koi-colored beam, sits the doctor’s lunch date.
Even back-to, the guy’s mop of dark hair, strong shoulders, and
easy manner proclaim the unfathomable.
And then he turns.
“ Oh my God. I can’t
breathe,” I think I say. “Help.”
Ian clutches my elbow, steadies me so
I don’t kiss the polished concrete. “There’s no
way . . .” he mumbles.
But there is.
The dearly departed George Alfred
Brooks, the boy I’ve spent my whole life loving and more than two
years mourning, has risen from the dead. And he’s staring right at
me with a big ol’ grin.
* * *
As it turned out, George
wasn’t staring at me; he was staring at his father, Dr. Smullen. As
it also turned out, George wasn’t George. He was (or should I say is? ) the biological
equivalent of George’s clone, a.k.a. his identical twin. His name’s
Alex (short for Aleksey, a fact that brings to mind George’s birth
name: Anatoly). This I’ve gleaned from a bumpy introduction,
wherein the doctor graciously agreed to allow us (meaning Ian,
Rosie, Opal, Haley, and me) to dine with him and his
son.
So far it’s not going well, most of us
tongue-tied over the resurrection of George’s ghost. “So you’re
considering applying to Columbia?” Alex asks me, in a relaxed,
congenial tone that’s at odds with the crazed panic I’m
feeling.
Our cover story is that I’m a
prospective student and Ian is an anthropology groupie. “Oh,
definitely,” I manage to reply, my head bobbing in
agreement.
“ It’s really great here,”
he tells me, “and I’m not just saying that because my dad’s a
teacher.”
The doctor interjects, “Alex
practically grew up in the anthropology department.” With a wry
smile, he adds, “I should probably send condolence letters to the
faculty for all the skateboard damage he’s inflicted over the
years.”
He’s a skateboarder too?
Nuh-uh.
Out of left field, Haley asks, “Does
your mother work here?”
Is my sister a moron? The last thing
we ought to be bringing up is a communist spy. It strikes me that I
should appear to be eating my lunch, so I crack open a
banana.
Alex shakes his mahogany curls, which
are an inch longer than George’s were ever allowed to grow. “Nah,”
he says. “She’s a
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