Cloneward Bound (9 page)

“Sunscreen,” Fisher said with a nervous laugh.

Fisher kept his arms locked tightly around FP. The unfamiliar sights, smells, and sounds gave FP the nervous, destructive instincts of a caffeinated hyena. He couldn’t afford to let FP get away when a single wrong turn could land him in the hands of the FBI or the CIA or someone with even scarier initials.

The Walk of Fame stretched before them, the highly polished black stone decorated with rows and rows of rose-colored marble stars, each bearing the name of a director, actor, or other famous film industry professional in polished brass. People began pointing out their favorite stars and posing for pictures, joining all of the other tourists from across the globe in the excited shuffle.

It was almost lunchtime. Fisher had only a few hours before his meeting with GG McGee, Agent of Stars—his best shot at finding Two. And he still had no idea how he would get away from Ms. Snapper.

The Chinese Theatre came into view. Warren started running in crazy loop de loops around the ornamental pillars that flanked the entrance to its main courtyard. As the class came to a stop, Fisher glanced at the street
traffic, and his shoulders seized up as an awfully familiar-looking black car came into view. He looked around for a spot to hide himself when he heard a collective gasp from nearby, and turned just in time to see a gang of seven girls who looked about fourteen descend upon him.

“Basley!” one of them said.

“Basley!” echoed her companions in eerily identical voices.

“Can we have your autograph?”

“Oh my God! You’re even cuter in real life!”

Fisher was suddenly lost in a whirlpool of perfect tans and bleached white-blond hair. He could hardly tell where one of them ended and the other began. The girls blurred together into a many-headed beast as Fisher tried to free one hand for a pen. One of them noticed FP.

“Oh my god!” she squealed. “Is this your baby brother or sister?”

“Yes,” Fisher said, half in a daze, “he’s my brother.”

“Awwwwww!” they said in disturbing unison. They bent down to get a closer look at the “baby.”

“Oh … gee,” one said, as she got a closer look. “He’s very, um …”

“Pink and healthy-looking,” another chimed in quickly.

“What’s his name?” one said.

“FP,” Fisher said, trying to remember what he’d told
the last people who’d asked. “It stands for … Frankie Philip.”

“Ohhh, hi, Frankie!” another one said, waving at FP, who was starting to stir, and looking around in confusion.

“Hey!”
another voice cut in. “I think Kevin Keels just walked into the theatre!”

Like a flock of pigeons being charged by a small child, the girls exploded into motion, leaving nothing but a dizzy Fisher and a cloud of hair-spray fumes in their wake.

Fisher shook his head, trying to clear it. FP blinked at him confusedly. The black car was gone. He didn’t know if its occupants had seen him or not, but with any luck the giggly wall that had just surrounded him had done the trick.

Did those girls really just call him
cute
?

Fisher looked up and saw Veronica. She winked at him. “I didn’t really see Kevin,” she said, and he realized that she was the one who had shouted.

“Thank you,” Fisher said fervently. Veronica smiled at him. He felt like the already bright sun had been dialed up and focused just a little bit right around him.

As Veronica turned back to admire the architecture, Fisher felt hands gripping his shoulders. Before he could shout, he was spun around on his heels.

“If you’re not too busy with your
adoring fans
,” Amanda said, her hands on her hips, “we’ve got work to get done.”

“There are other ways to get my attention besides grabbing me,” Fisher said, without bothering to conceal his irritation.

She ignored him. “We have a meeting with GG right after lunch,” she said, tapping her watch. “That gives us less than an hour to prepare.”

Fisher sighed. “I don’t see how we can do it,” he said. “Ms. Snapper has been keeping a really careful eye on everyone since FP’s incident at the hotel. How are we supposed to get away?”

“Like this,” Amanda said, holding up a piece of paper. It was the sheet of notebook paper that she’d had Dr. Devilish sign. Fisher saw that in between the phrase
To Sandra
and his signature, Amanda had written:
I need to see you. Alone. 3
P.M.

“He didn’t mishear me,” Amanda smirked. “I told him to write ‘Sandra.’ ”

“But …” Fisher said, and then it dawned on him. “Sandra …”

“… Snapper,” Amanda finished, adjusting her glasses to emphasize her raised eyebrow. “Sandra’s her first name. In case you haven’t noticed, our teacher turns into a fire-engine-red wobbly-kneed wonder anytime Dr. Devilish is even mentioned. We’ll be going back to the hotel for lunch soon. I’m going to slip this into her purse as we walk into
the restaurant. If this works, she’ll find it before we’re done.”

Fisher was speechless for a moment. Amanda never let anything keep her from getting what she wanted, but this was an impressive scheme even by her standards.

He didn’t like the idea of lying to his teacher, but this small deception was nothing compared to the massive lie he’d been frantically spinning ever since Two had come into being.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s do it. With any luck we’ll get one step closer to Two.” He just had to hope that Two’s next step didn’t take him right into the spotlight.

CHAPTER 9

In the fifteen minutes it took to get the class off the bus and assembled for lunch, Fisher let FP run around like crazy in the grass next to the parking lot. Now, thankfully, the pig was calm again, and he lay in Fisher’s lap, accepting the bits and pieces of special sauce–coated French fries that Fisher periodically handed down to him.

Some of the kids were showing each other photos they’d taken in front of the sidewalk stars, and many were still buzzing about having run into Kevin Keels at the
Strange Science
studio lot the day before. Fisher kept having the uncomfortable feeling that people were talking about him, too.

Or rather—that people were talking about “Basley.”

Fisher couldn’t believe that Two had already catapulted himself into the limelight with a single audition tape. As much as he’d marveled at Two’s ability to attain instant
popularity at school, it seemed that he’d underestimated just how charismatic the clone could be.

“Fisher,” Amanda whispered, and pointed subtly. Ms. Snapper had just come out of the restroom, looking flustered. Her cheeks had turned a strawberry shade, and she was adjusting her hair obsessively with one hand while clutching a folded-up piece of paper in the other. Amanda’s note. She had dropped it casually in Ms. Snapper’s handbag as they filed into the restaurant; obviously, it had found its target.

“Boys and girls,” she said, reaching the middle of the big table and taking a deep breath to compose herself. “There’s been a … minor schedule change, due to some … business—important business!—that I have to attend to. I’m giving you the rest of the afternoon off.”

The table erupted in cheers. Ms. Snapper held up a hand to silence the class. “You’ll have to stay on the hotel grounds, but you can use the pool or the other facilities if you wish. Mr. Crenshaw?”

The reedy, bespectacled assistant librarian who had filled the last chaperone spot walked up to Ms. Snapper, paper napkin still tucked into his shirt collar.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said.

“You’re in charge while I’m away,” she said, and ignoring Mr. Crenshaw’s stammering protests, turned and
practically sprinted from the restaurant.

Amanda looked at Fisher with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“We’ll wait until people start to leave, and we’ll slip out during the commotion,” she said. “Crenshaw won’t even notice. Yesterday he called me Penelope.”

“Where did you learn how to be this devious?” Fisher asked, popping his last star fry into his mouth.

“It comes naturally,” she replied with a grin.

At the end of lunch, Mr. Crenshaw attempted to round up the class.

“So, if everyone could just … if, perhaps, you could arrange yourselves in an orderly line …” Mr. Crenshaw spoke in a stuttering whisper. He darted from one table to another, making little brushing motions with his arms as if the students were dust motes he was trying to make float away. “P-please … if you could all just cooperate …”

“Now’s our chance,” Amanda whispered, once Mr. Crenshaw was busy at the next table. “Follow me.” She slipped out of the group, Fisher following close behind, gripping FP tightly in Trevor’s blanket. Fisher stole a glance back as they slipped out a side door. Crenshaw was frowning at the spot that Fisher and Amanda had just vacated. But just then, a star fry smacked Crenshaw in the back of his bald head, and a table of boys burst into laughter.
Fisher watched as Mr. Crenshaw swiveled around to lecture them.

They left the hotel, and Amanda hailed a cab with a two-finger whistle that made Fisher’s teeth buzz. She gave the driver GG McGee’s address, and off they went, careening onto a massive six-lane highway and zigzagging through the lanes with such speed, Fisher felt his brain rattling in his skull. Thankfully, the office was only a few minutes’ drive away, and soon they were zipping off the highway and pulling up to GG’s office.

The building where GG McGee worked was a swooping granite-and-glass monster, its front courtyard decorated with a statue that might have been a mythological figure—or an enormous centipede. It was difficult to tell. A flood of very important-looking men and women in very expensive, well-tailored suits went to and from the office, each talking into several electronic devices at once and wielding enough coffee to flood a living room.

In the elevator, Fisher and Amanda were nearly suffocated by a powerful fog of perfumes and colognes. When they reached the thirty-second floor, reeling from oxygen deprivation, they stumbled out into the plush hallway. The mahogany-paneled walls and ceiling were trimmed with silver. A circular black marble reception desk stood in the middle of a cluster of smaller corridors. The young woman behind the desk was unhurriedly tapping at a keyboard
and looking very bored. The plate-glass window behind her desk was big enough to drive a train through, and Fisher felt himself sway dizzily just looking through it.

Fisher cleared his throat. “H-hello,” he said as he approached the desk. Amanda hung back.

The receptionist looked up and glanced around, frowning. Then she raised her seat a little higher up, and saw Fisher, who was almost entirely dwarfed by her desk. She wrinkled her nose in distaste when she saw the strange-looking bundle in his arms.

“Can I help you?” she said in a tone suggesting that “yes” was the very last answer she wanted to hear.

“I’m here to see GG McGee,” Fisher said, feeling very small and alone, especially since Amanda seemed to be having an attack of nerves. He shot her a glance over his shoulder and tried to give her a “get-over-here” look. “My name is Fish-uh, Basley.”