Twinmaker

along.”

“Your real date isn’t feeling well,” she said, forcing herself to say the words. “Do I have to remind you of that?”

“Well, exactly. She’s out of action. The night is young. What do you think?”

“I think I’ve had enough of the crashlanders for one week,” she said. “And gossip, too. We should probably take a break from hanging out until Libby is feeling better.”

He frowned. “You mean I can’t see you at all?”

“That’s for the best. Don’t you think?”

“Hell no. It’s not our fault Libby can’t or won’t talk to us. She’s the one who’s making us do this.”

“What difference would it make if she did talk? What would you tell her?”

“That we’re going to the ball without her. That’s all.”

“What about what happened? What about you and her . . . ?”

Breaking up, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t going to put the words in his mouth.

“Not yet. I mean, how could I? She’s sick. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“But it’s fair to kiss her best friend and then try to cover it up?”

He had the humanity to blush. “I feel bad about that . . . not the actual kissing part, though. I guess I could bump her, but that would be as bad as waiting, wouldn’t it? It’s not something you’d want to hear in a message. Right, Clair?”

“I guess so.”

“What about you—have you told her?”

He had a point there. She had had the chance to tell Libby, but she had shied away from doing so. It wasn’t something she was proud of.

“I don’t know what to tell her,” Clair said. “That’s why I’m not coming out tonight. I don’t want to get into something I’m not sure about. Not when it could cost me so much.”

“Sometimes you don’t know until you give it a try, Clair.”

“Sometimes . . . but not this time.”

He nodded without meeting her eyes. “Okay, Clair-bear. If that’s how you want it to be, that’s how it’ll be. I promise not to be a dick about it.”

“Do you really think you can manage that?”

“Oh, it’ll be tough, I know, but for you . . . anything.”

She managed a smile, although it hurt her to pretend to be anything other than torn up and miserable.

“Call me if she calls you,” Clair said.

“I will.”

He signed off, and she was alone.

Tomorrow, she told herself, everything would be different. Zep would talk to Libby, and Improvement would be revealed as nothing at all. The emotional storm would be rough, but she would weather it as she always did. And when life returned to normal, maybe she would let Ronnie take her out partying. She was sure there were guys out there who weren’t slimeballs or taken.

12

ZEP WAS HUGE, a giant monster smashing the dikes of Tokyo. Libby and Clair were the pilots of a massive robot sent to stop him, except they couldn’t agree on which way to go. The robot began to tear itself to pieces while the sea rushed in to engulf the city. instead of foam, the waves were topped with thousands of handwritten notes, all saying the same thing: Charlie X-ray Romeo Foxtrot . . .

Clair rarely dreamed, but when she did, it was memorable.

Her sleep was interrupted by a nagging flash that brought her out of deep unconsciousness in stages. Only slowly did she become aware that someone was calling her and that they were doing so through her most intimate and private channel, reserved solely for Libby.

“What?” she said, fumbling with her night-darkened lens interfaces. Behind the dark shutters of her eyelids, she imagined crises unnumbered. “Libby, what is it?”

“You called me,” came the reply. Libby sounded shockingly bright and breezy. There was no sign in her voice of migraine or fatigue. “I’m calling you back. There’s no drama.”

“Are you sure?” She checked the time. “It’s the middle of the night. I was asleep.”

“Well, I’ve been sleeping all day, and I’m tired of doing nothing. Lying around is a waste of the New Improved Me, right?”

“Let me see you,” said Clair, pulling herself up in bed onto her elbows and blinking the sleep from her eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I want to.” The last dregs of the dream disappeared, leaving a lingering sense of alarm.

“You want proof. That’s what you mean,” said Libby in a sharp tone. “Life is good, Clair. I’m beautiful. You’re not going to make me feel bad, no matter what you say.”

Libby appeared in a window in Clair’s vision like a translucent ghost. She was dressed in a tight-fitting white top and had styled her blond hair in a wave. Her complexion was impeccable. Clair could see nothing but clear white skin from hairline to jaw and a smile that was as sharp as her tone.

The birthmark certainly appeared to be gone . . . but appearances could be deceiving. Libby was touching up her lips in pink, and her eyeliner was blue, so there was definitely makeup in play. Could she have found a new shade that did the job more effectively than the last one? Would she really lie about such a thing just to save face?

“I don’t want to make you feel bad,” Clair said, wondering why Libby would even suggest such a thing.

“You may not want to, but that’s what you do. You talk about me behind my back, you think I’m crazy —”

“That’s not what I think—”

“You want to swoop in and solve all my problems. Well, I’m not your project, Clair. I have everything under control. It’s time you realized it and let me be who I am.”

Clair blinked back a sudden sting of tears. Was that really how Libby saw her? Interfering and controlling? Not helping or finishing, as Zep had put it? Libby had never said anything to indicate that she thought this way, not in all their long years together.

“That’s not what I mean to do, Libby. Honest. I love who you are. You don’t need to change anything or do anything for me to think you’re the best.”

“But you won’t let me change. That’s the problem.” Libby was fussing with her appearance as she talked, either ignoring or not noticing Clair’s attempts to make her look back at her. “You don’t believe in Improvement.”

“Well . . . it is a little hard to accept. . . .”

“Basically, you’re calling me a liar.”

“I’m not calling you anything, Libby!” Clair’s sense of hurt flared into frustration. Why was Libby trying to pick a fight with her in the middle of the night? Was it the Zep situation or another weird mood? “I’m just . . . just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Don’t be. I feel fine. Just look at me. I look fine, right?”

She pirouetted for Clair’s benefit, and Clair agreed that she did look good. It was hard to equate this Libby with the grainy figure she had glimpsed that morning. But what did that mean? Improvement either worked as promised or it was dangerous: those were the two choices Libby and Dylan Linwood were forcing on her. That it did nothing at all was a possibility that seemed to have evaporated over the course of the day, leaving her feeling stranded in the middle.

“Are you going to the ball?” Clair asked, trying to change the subject.

“That ended ages ago. No, I’m going to Zep’s.”