was nothing else she could do. She had no makeup, no scissors for a haircut, no pillow with which to gain weight. Alice had read somewhere—or Dad had told her—that weight gain was the best disguise. Add fifty pounds, and no cheekbone, throat, profile or even hand would look the same.
Along with the peasant dress, sandals, and purse were three copies of TWIN: two on disk, one on paper. This was the kind of stupid decision that gave Dad work: people who subjected all copies to the same risks. She stuck one disk in her jeans pocket.
Get breakfast, she told herself. You have three dollars; get some orange juice, get a bagel. You need calories.
She slung the backpack over both shoulders, tried to pretend she didn’t look like the girl described on the radio and shown on television, and left the ladies’ room. She would have a raisin cinnamon bagel with cream cheese and then she would feel better.
There was quite a line, but it moved very fast; people knew exactly what they wanted. Alice yearned for food so badly she was embarrassed for herself. She was next. One bagel would not do. She needed two of them, or eight.
The woman two ahead of Alice was juggling a coffee, an orange juice, and a bagel, along with her purse and briefcase and laptop. In spite of this, the woman looked Alice straight in the eye and caught her breath. “Hey—” she said.
“Hi,” said Alice, smiling. “I think I recognize you, too. Aren’t you Julie’s mom? Can I help you carry something?”
It worked. The woman got busy explaining that no, she was Matthew’s mom, and Matthew was only six, and probably…
“Well, you have a nice day,” said Alice, still smiling, and she stepped casually out of line. She walked back out the rear door. She did not have the composure to prevent tears. Tears came in spasms, like a garden hose with a kink. She took paper napkins out of a metal table container to mop her eyes.
Beyond the parked cars was a long, raised, planting area with city-type trees as neat as crayon drawings. Past that was more shopping, with traffic entrances and exits for the next set of stores. It was much too early for any of the stores to be open. In the distance, Alice could see a church spire and the towers of office buildings, glinting like sunglasses. Alice always wondered what held up a building that seemed to be one-hundred percent glass.
Dad worked in a one-hundred percent glass building.
In fact, he worked in one of those.
How far was she from actual downtown? One mile? Two?
The still-rising sun was behind Alice and did not shine in her eyes, but cars turning into the parking lots moved slowly, and Alice thought they could probably not see very well.
And there, most visible, was the car belonging to Paul Chem. As a reward for his brilliance, his grandparents had gotten him a Jeep Wrangler: the real kind, squared off and open, for moving soldiers.
The Jeep was full of guys—three or four of them standing up, hanging onto the frame, looking around and having a wonderful time.
There was no reason for Paul Chem and his friends to be around here; there was nothing here for them; at this hour there was nothing here for anybody; certainly not for high school students who belonged in class.
Only the possibility of finding Alice.
Being hunted by the police was scary, and yet police did that: They hunted the bad guys. But being hunted by her friends! And these did not qualify as friends—they were just people she would recognize in the hall. Why were they doing it? What sick thrill could they be getting?
Maybe she should not believe her own eyes. She had had several shocks, and not enough sleep or food. Perhaps she was hallucinating. It was an evil mirage: a dancing chorus line of classmates that she was constructing from her imagination.
She found her fingers splayed against her cheeks. She was holding her head up with her hands. Her spine had weakened. Without assistance, she would droop and puddle in the road.
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Along with the peasant dress, sandals, and purse were three copies of TWIN: two on disk, one on paper. This was the kind of stupid decision that gave Dad work: people who subjected all copies to the same risks. She stuck one disk in her jeans pocket.
Get breakfast, she told herself. You have three dollars; get some orange juice, get a bagel. You need calories.
She slung the backpack over both shoulders, tried to pretend she didn’t look like the girl described on the radio and shown on television, and left the ladies’ room. She would have a raisin cinnamon bagel with cream cheese and then she would feel better.
There was quite a line, but it moved very fast; people knew exactly what they wanted. Alice yearned for food so badly she was embarrassed for herself. She was next. One bagel would not do. She needed two of them, or eight.
The woman two ahead of Alice was juggling a coffee, an orange juice, and a bagel, along with her purse and briefcase and laptop. In spite of this, the woman looked Alice straight in the eye and caught her breath. “Hey—” she said.
“Hi,” said Alice, smiling. “I think I recognize you, too. Aren’t you Julie’s mom? Can I help you carry something?”
It worked. The woman got busy explaining that no, she was Matthew’s mom, and Matthew was only six, and probably…
“Well, you have a nice day,” said Alice, still smiling, and she stepped casually out of line. She walked back out the rear door. She did not have the composure to prevent tears. Tears came in spasms, like a garden hose with a kink. She took paper napkins out of a metal table container to mop her eyes.
Beyond the parked cars was a long, raised, planting area with city-type trees as neat as crayon drawings. Past that was more shopping, with traffic entrances and exits for the next set of stores. It was much too early for any of the stores to be open. In the distance, Alice could see a church spire and the towers of office buildings, glinting like sunglasses. Alice always wondered what held up a building that seemed to be one-hundred percent glass.
Dad worked in a one-hundred percent glass building.
In fact, he worked in one of those.
How far was she from actual downtown? One mile? Two?
The still-rising sun was behind Alice and did not shine in her eyes, but cars turning into the parking lots moved slowly, and Alice thought they could probably not see very well.
And there, most visible, was the car belonging to Paul Chem. As a reward for his brilliance, his grandparents had gotten him a Jeep Wrangler: the real kind, squared off and open, for moving soldiers.
The Jeep was full of guys—three or four of them standing up, hanging onto the frame, looking around and having a wonderful time.
There was no reason for Paul Chem and his friends to be around here; there was nothing here for them; at this hour there was nothing here for anybody; certainly not for high school students who belonged in class.
Only the possibility of finding Alice.
Being hunted by the police was scary, and yet police did that: They hunted the bad guys. But being hunted by her friends! And these did not qualify as friends—they were just people she would recognize in the hall. Why were they doing it? What sick thrill could they be getting?
Maybe she should not believe her own eyes. She had had several shocks, and not enough sleep or food. Perhaps she was hallucinating. It was an evil mirage: a dancing chorus line of classmates that she was constructing from her imagination.
She found her fingers splayed against her cheeks. She was holding her head up with her hands. Her spine had weakened. Without assistance, she would droop and puddle in the road.
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