Popular Clone (26 page)

“Get back here, you little runt—
oomf
!” Brody's angry shouts were cut off, as Trevor Weiss stuck out a loafered foot and tripped him. Brody skidded face forward into a garbage can, which promptly turned over onto his head, coating him in day-old hot dogs and mac 'n' cheese.

More laughter erupted. As Leroy rounded a corner, a sixth grader reached out and shoved him off balance with his tray. A tall, gawky-looking seventh grader ran up and dumped his fried rice on Leroy's head. Everyone was joining in, surrounding the bullies and using their lunch as weaponry—which was the only thing Wompalog cafeteria food was good for, anyway.

This wasn't revenge. This was
justice.

The Vikings ran out of the cafeteria's back doors and out of the school to escape, with dozens of other kids in hot pursuit. They had gotten only a few dozen yards when white blotches began raining down on their heads and shoulders.

“Agh!” Brody screamed as white goop splattered across his nose.

“What—What is it?” Willard hiccuped and zigzagged wildly to avoid the bombardment.

The other students looked up and saw a flock of birds flying overhead. The Vikings had stumbled right into a bird-poop rainstorm.

“I don't recognize that species,” said Trevor Weiss, squinting through his glasses. “Do you, Fisher?”

Fisher smiled widely. “That,” he said, clapping his hand on Trevor's shoulder, “is the double-billed yellow bellied bilious duck.”

“Hey, what's that one got in his beak?” Trevor said, pointing to the lead duck. The duck was carrying something in its proud double bill. It let out a loud quack, and the small object fluttered to the ground almost at Fisher's feet. He picked it up.

“Spicy sauce packet,” Fisher said, shaking his head and grinning. “Looks like they've found a way to coexist with King of Hollywood.”

Once the Vikings had finally fled, humiliated, Fisher dusted off his pants and returned the canister of mosquitoes to his backpack. Other students smiled at him and then filed back into the cafeteria, returning to their lunches.

He hoped the initial effect of his celebrity would start to wear off. He didn't need to be mobbed by fans every day. All he needed was a few close friends.

And it was time for him to make some.

There was one more point of business to take care of. Fisher snapped his fingers and FP trotted up, holding a single orange rose in his mouth.

“Can I trust you not to eat that?” he asked the little pig, who snorted lightly in reply. “Okay, then. Go to it, boy.”

Fisher saw Veronica Greenwich carrying her tray toward her usual table, looking just a little bit sad, her eyes aimed down at the floor in front of her. She turned when she heard a strange rustling sound in the air, and jumped a little in surprise as a pig with wings glided to a landing in front of her, wobbling slightly. He looked up at her and squeaked, and she reached down and plucked the orange rose from his mouth, a bright smile forming on her face.

Fisher walked up to her, just enough of the old nerves showing in his expression to brighten her smile further.

“I had my taste of being popular,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked down at his feet, carefully planning his words. “That's not me. I'm the same Fisher I've always been. For a while I thought I wanted everyone to like me, and that'd make everything better. But it didn't.” He cleared his throat, feeling warmth in his cheeks. “I just want to be myself again. I don't care if anyone likes me. Well, except for … except …” FP, sensing Fisher's hesitation, leaned forward and clamped his mouth around Fisher's heel. “… you!” Fisher said, jolted into speech by his pig companion.

When Fisher worked up the courage to meet Veronica's eyes, he saw that she was beaming at him.

“I knew you wouldn't lose yourself,” she said as she smelled the rose. “Thank you, Fisher. You know, we never did get to study together.”

FP looked back and forth between them, realized neither was going to be petting or feeding him, and curled up on the floor.

“Would you like to?” Fisher said, his heart beating so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. “Tomorrow, maybe?” he managed to squeak out.

“That'd be great,” Veronica said. “See you then.” She clasped his hand and held on to it for a few seconds before walking away. Fisher felt trails of warmth tracing along his hand, up his arm, and all through him.

He sighed a happy sigh and looked down at FP.

“Come on, boy. Our work today is done.” FP looked up, but didn't budge. “Yes, I'll feed you as soon as we get home.” FP hopped to his feet and wagged his tail enthusiastically, and they walked home together.

EPILOGUE

The next week was the best in Fisher's life. He'd started hanging out with some of the kids from debate team, and even Amanda Cantrell seemed to have accepted him, shooting only the occasional suspicious scowl in his direc-tion. The Vikings hadn't messed with him since his insect henchmen had redecorated their faces.

Best of all, he'd been spending almost every afternoon with Veronica.

All was well with the world, Fisher thought as he stepped off the bus in the pleasant, breezy October weather, though he still often felt a pang when he thought of his poor clone, lost in the fiery demise of TechX. The explosion had turned everything inside to vapor and dust, and only a few of the strongest titanium robot frames had been recovered. No bodies. Whatever was left of Dr. X and Two apparently wasn't enough to scoop into a thimble.

He picked up the mail before walking into the house, but his hand stopped when it came across an envelope with his name on it, and no return address. Curious, Fisher slipped it open as he walked up to his room, and when he pulled out what was inside he had to catch himself on the banister as he nearly tumbled back down the stairs.

It was a Spot-Rite ad, torn from a magazine. A message scrawled across it in silver marker said:

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Were I to compose a list of everyone whose aid and support helped me to write this book, and all of the thanks they deserved for it, it would require its own volume. So to begin with a general note —if you are my friend, you have made writing this easier and less stressful.

I must, of course, acknowledge the three fates of Paper Lantern— Lauren Oliver and Lexa Hillyer, who brought me into the fold when I was just an actor who liked to pen a story now and then to satisfy his creative urges. And the third, Beth Scorzato, whose writing suggestions, illustration ideas, and overall jack-of-all-trades capability were crucial to every step of the process. My editor, Greg Ferguson, is a pleasant and genial man in person and a thoughtful and capable one in profession.

My family deserves their own accolades. My parents didn't threaten to call fire down from the heavens when I decided to embark upon a career in the arts, and now that I'm pursuing
two
of them, my mother's support never ceases, nor, I'm sure, would my father's, were he here to see it. My little sister Laura is always thrilled and excited to hear of my most recent literary exploits and takes pride in her big brother's accomplishments, just as I take pride in hers.

There is also one place I should note—the Main Reading Room in the Bryant Park branch of the New York Public Library, where much of
Popular Clone
was written. Anyone who writes should try spending a day writing there. It's a huge room and gets a little drafty, but all that space and natural light is a perfect environment for the imagination.

I'm not going to ramble on too much because I intend this book to be the first of many, so I'll wrap up by reiterating my thanks to all of my friends for their encouragement and just for being my friends.