Doppelganger (6 page)

I pulled out the paperback and checked the cover.

Shakespeare. I'd heard of the guy, but my mother never brought any of his stuff home for me to read.

“When we started this play at the beginning of the week, what was our take on Macbeth?” Ms. Simpson asked. “Susie?”

“Well, like, he was a hero, right?”

“Yeah, he was the good guy,” a boy added.

“That's right,” Ms. Simpson agreed. “Before we even saw him, we heard about his exploits. And, like you said, he was the hero. But what made him a hero? I mean, what was he doing, Richard?”

“Killing,” Richard said. “The bleeding sergeant describes him slicing that rebel dude in half and sticking his head on a pole.”

“That's right. And how does Duncan, the king, react to the description?”

“He gets all excited,” a girl said.

“He does. And who can blame him? After all, Macbeth has just saved his royal rearend. But the point here is that, right away, Shakespeare's showing us that the world of the play is a violent one, and that everyone is complicit in that violence, from the king on down. Most of all our hero—Macbeth is knee-deep in it from the start.”

“But even so, why does he turn around and suddenly go after the king?” a boy asked.

“It's his wife, man,” Richard said. “You saw what she did to him. She totally manipulated him.”

“So what?” the kid replied. “He's still responsible, isn't he?”

“You both raise interesting points,” Ms. Simpson said. “What is it that leads Macbeth to do what he does? I want you all to think about that as we make our way through the scenes surrounding the murder. So let's get started.”

I shrank in my seat as she went around handing out parts. Her eyes fell on me for a second, but she gave me a pass. I was glad—the last thing I wanted was to have to read in front of everyone on the first day. Not to mention the fact that all this talk about killing had me a little freaked out.

Of course, as soon as we started reading, things only got worse. Don't get me wrong, the play itself was great. I mean, I didn't understand half of what the characters were saying, but somehow it didn't matter. I understood enough, and Ms. Simpson explained the tougher parts. The trouble was that the play was almost too good. It was really creepy—all that darkness in the old castle and the weird hallucinations with the dagger and the blood. Shakespeare didn't depict the actual murder, but I wish he had. All I could see were my hands around Chris's throat, and that look of confused terror in his eyes. I can only imagine what he must have been thinking when that old man strangling him suddenly turned into a slimy monster. What a way to go.

At one point I almost bolted from the classroom. It was the part where Macbeth has just come back from Duncan's
room, fresh from the murder, and there's this weird moment of confusion with his wife—they're both jumpy as hell, big surprise. And then Macbeth looks at his hands, and they're all covered with blood. “This is a sorry sight,” he says. It's like I could feel the panic in him, the instant regret, and it made
me
feel all panicky. Once again I got that weird rush, that sick sort of full feeling, and I thought I might throw up. I looked around at the other kids. A few were looking at the ceiling or writing notes, the rest were reading along, but none of them seemed particularly bothered by any of it. None of them had done what I'd done.

The scene after that was better. That bit with the gatekeeper was pretty funny. Ms. Simpson called it comic relief, which I guess is a good name for it because it made me feel relieved. Then there was the discovery of the body. Pretty soon you've got the characters running around upset, and in the middle of it all you've got Macbeth trying to act like he's all outraged by the killing, but doing an awful job of it, to the point where Lady Macbeth has to step in and pretend to faint to distract everyone from his guilt. Listening to that I suddenly hoped I was doing a better job pretending than he was. Macbeth just wasn't good at it. He talked too much.

When we finished, Ms. Simpson asked us what we thought, and a few kids talked about it for a while. I looked at the clock—only a minute to go. At that point I was more than ready to get out of there. Then somebody asked Ms. Simpson a question.

“But I still don't get it,” the girl next to me said. “Everybody loved him. He was, like, the big hero. Why did
he feel he had to go and kill like that?”

Ms. Simpson nodded. “Good question,” she said. She looked around the room for a second and then her eyes fell on me again. This time she didn't let me go. “So why does Macbeth do it? What do you think, Chris?”

Everyone turned and looked at me.

I shrugged. “Maybe that's just who he is,” I said. “Even if a part of him doesn't want to do it, it's just what's in him.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Interesting. I think that's what Shakespeare might be suggesting. That's the horror of it. Even more horrible is the thought that, in the right circumstances, any one of us could wind up in the same position. It's easy to sit there and say, ‘Oh, isn't it awful what Macbeth did,' but maybe Shakespeare's trying to tell us we all have a little bit of Macbeth in us. We just have to hope it never comes out.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Then the bell rang. Everyone jumped to their feet.

“Have a great weekend, everybody,” Ms. Simpson chirped.

 

I was stumbling numbly toward the buses lined up in front of the school, looking forward to going home and collapsing in front of the TV, when Josh grabbed my arm and spun me around.

“Wrong way, pal,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I can see why you'd say that, but if we head over now, maybe we can get you changed up before Coach sees you're not wearing your jersey.”

He laughed again, but he seemed all nervous and scared. At that point I was too tired to share the sentiment.

“Good thing I got you to watch my back,” I said.

“Screw you,” he said, “I just don't want him to get pissed off and take it out on all of us.”

I sighed. The last thing I felt like right now was going to practice, but I figured I had to. From the way everyone acted, it seemed that Chris was some big-time player and sooner or later I'd have to face it. To be honest, it wasn't just that I was tired. I was nervous, too. After watching the game yesterday afternoon on TV, I thought I understood the basics pretty well, but how could I be sure? All those positions, and everyone moving every which way at once, like they all knew where they were supposed to go—it looked confusing.

I decided to probe Josh a bit as we headed for the locker room. From what Barry had said, I knew that I was a linebacker, but I didn't have a clue what that meant.

“So what do you think of our positions, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” Josh asked, screwing up his face.

“I mean, do you like them? Do you wish you were somewhere else?”

He shrugged. “I can't speak for you, since I'm not a linebacker. As for tight end, I don't mind it. Get to catch a pass now and then—or drop one, more like it.”

“Have you ever thought of being a linebacker?”

He looked at me. “What the hell's gotten into you?”

“Just answer my question. I mean, boiled right down to its simplest form, what does being a linebacker mean to you?”

“Well, it's pretty simple, really. Whoever's got the ball,
you go after them and take them out. That's your job.”

I nodded. “Good answer,” I said, and slapped him on the back.

He glanced at me with kind of an odd look. “What are you, kidding me?”

“What?”

“You sound like you're still drunk from the other night or something.”

“Yeah, I'm just kidding. Just messing with you,” I said as we turned into the locker room.

I found the locker with my name on it and got changed. The pads were a little tricky, but after a bit of fiddling, I managed to get suited up. I just copied what Josh, Steve, and everyone else was doing. Of course, I had to be careful—a boys' locker room's not the kind of place you can stare too much. The only bad part was the smell. Doppelgangers have real sensitive noses, and that place stunk even before practice. As soon as I opened Chris's locker, his smell swept over me, that odor of sweat, aggression, and fear—just like the other night—and for a moment I had to turn away.

At one point the coach—whom everyone called “Coach!”—poked his head in.

“Hurry up, you Sallies! We haven't got all day!” he barked, then disappeared.

Coach Ballard, one of the assistants, seemed a little more laid back. He came in clapping his hands and actually smiling.

“Let's go, guys,” he said as everyone scrambled for the door. “Big game tomorrow. Got to get ready!” He stopped me as I passed by. “Good to see you back, Parker.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

“You missed a big practice yesterday. Went over a lot of stuff. Get ready for Coach to ride you pretty hard.”

“But I was sick,” I said. Jesus, these football people were uptight.

“Just giving you a heads-up, that's all.”

“Thanks,” I said, and followed everyone out onto the field.

Practice wasn't too bad, at least at first. Coach gave me a scowl as I came out of the locker room, but he didn't say anything. We formed up and ran around the field a bunch of times, then did warm-ups and grunted like gorillas. It was actually sort of fun. I felt like one of the guys. I just fell in line and moved when everyone else moved, like in those aerobics infomercials I'd seen on TV. And I guess all that walking I'd done over the last few weeks paid off, because I didn't really get that tired.

The second part of practice was tougher. We had to do all these different kinds of drills with weird names like “bull in the ring” and “monkey rolls.” I mean, who comes up with this stuff? I did the best I could, but I didn't have a clue what was going on—there are limits to faking it. Coach was on me every second for one stretch, standing over me and screaming every time I made a mistake. It was like he was waiting for me to screw up so he'd have an excuse to blow out my eardrums. He seemed like an even bigger jerk than Chris's father. It pissed me off at first, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming right back at him, but after a while I just tuned him out. I think he wanted me to get mad. He kept telling me I needed to be “more aggressive!” over and over. More, more, more, more, more!
Screw him
, I thought.

In the end missing practice the day before turned out to be the best thing I could have done. It gave me an excuse for being clueless. Every time I screwed up, Coach would scream, “If you'd been here yesterday, you'd know what the hell was going on!” and I'd just nod and try it again. After a while he got tired of hassling me and moved on to someone else. Not long after that, practice ended.

What really got me through the whole thing, oddly enough, was Amber. I just kept thinking about her, and every time I did, I forgot about all the other crap. While the autumn sun cast long shadows on the field and we all huffed and hollered and banged each other around, her face kept popping up in my mind.

After a while it kind of annoyed me. I mean, sure I found her attractive—anyone would. But with Amber, it seemed to be more than just the fact that she was hot. There was something else. I just didn't get it. Why was I thinking about her at all? I mean, I didn't even know her. Why did I pull that stupid card out from under Chris's bed and read it again this morning, just like I'd done last night before going to sleep? Worst of all, why was I still feeling this way after our encounter at lunch? She hadn't been particularly upbeat or nice. In fact, from what I could tell, she seemed to hate my guts—or Chris's guts, at least—and I had no idea how to dig myself out of that hole. Not that it really mattered, since who knew how many more days Chris Parker would be around, anyway. I'd have to take off eventually, and right now, between Barry and Coach, I imagined that day would be sooner rather than later.

The point is I was all screwed up, and I knew it. But that didn't stop me from thinking about her as I walked off
the field, as I showered and changed, and as I headed home to wait for her to pick me up.

That's one of the weird things about doppelgangers. Just because we're not human doesn't mean we're not attracted to them. From the way my mother talked, it's like we're all supposed to look down on human beings—they're weak, after all, and we're superior. But the truth is, we're drawn to them. We have to live among them, we have to be them, just as much as we have to kill them. They're equal urges. Maybe that's why doppelgangers despise human beings so much—we hate the fact that we're so obsessed with, so dependent on, what we desire. That's our weakness.

“Chris!” Echo called. “Amber's here!”

“Thanks,” I hollered back, but I was already halfway down the hall. I'd been watching from my bedroom window, and the second I saw her headlights in the driveway, I was headed for the door. The last thing I wanted was for her to come inside and get into a conversation with Barry and Sheila. Not that that was likely. Barry was sacked out in front of the TV on his fifth beer, and Sheila was on the phone, murmuring in desperate tones to whomever. As for Echo, I still wasn't sure what she was all about. She just seemed to wander around the house doing nothing in particular.

“Are you gonna kiss?” she asked me with a devilish grin as I threw my jacket on and reached for the front door.

I paused. The possibility of something like that happening hadn't even occurred to me until she asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

“Oh.” She seemed somewhat taken aback. “Well, have fun.”

“Thanks,” I said, and headed out into the dark.

Amber didn't really look at me as I went around the front of the car and got in on the passenger's side. Her car was nice—a lot nicer than Barry's or Sheila's, and ten times better than Steve's.

“Hi,” I said.

She glanced at me for a second, then backed out of the driveway, and we took off.

“So you still want to go to this stupid party, huh?” she said.

“Sure,” I said, gripping the handle above the window to steady myself as we took a corner. Amber was driving really fast. At every curve I could feel my stomach nuzzle up against one side of my rib cage or the other and hang there for a few seconds even after we'd straightened out. I could hardly keep track of where we were going. I glanced over at her for a second. In the glow of the dashboard, her face seemed softer, sort of muted and almost sad, as if she were letting go, drawn into the speed. When she looked at me, the sharpness came back.

“What's the matter, Chris?” she said, sort of smirking.

“Nothing,” I said, my other hand squeezing at the plush of the seat as the engine revved up on the straightaway. “You're going a little fast there, aren't you?”

“Isn't that how you like it?”

“Okay,” I said. I didn't care—I just wanted her to get her eyes back on the road.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She slowed down. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Who would've thought?” she said.

We pulled up to a big house with lots of cars in front of it and got out. I remember thinking the ground had never felt so good. I also remember thinking that Amber was crazy. In fact, all of them were—Barry, Sheila, Echo, Chris, Coach—human beings were just plain nuts.

I followed Amber up to the house. Even before we got to the front steps I could hear the music. It reminded me of Steve's car—
thump
,
thump
,
thump
, like the house was some kind of big machine, grinding away. On top of all that was the buzz of voices, of people yelling and laughing, a sound that exploded as the door burst open and some kid ran past us, falling onto the lawn and puking.

Amber was unfazed. “Gross,” was all she said before continuing up the steps.

The party itself was nothing special. In fact, I hated it. As soon as we went in, some girl wearing heavy black eyeliner and way too much lipstick pushed through the crowd, ran up to us, and started babbling in excited tones and kind of jumping up and down. I guessed it was Cheryl, the girl whose party it was. The girl whose house was in the process of being ransacked. She disappeared for a second, then came back with two plastic cups, one blue, one red. She handed them to us and started talking again. I had no clue what she was saying—the music was so loud, I couldn't hear anything. While she blathered on, I took a sniff of the drink and recoiled. It was some kind of booze. It wasn't whiskey like the old man and Chris had been drinking, but it reminded me of them. I tried not to think about it and concentrated instead on pretending to understand whatever Cheryl was saying. I nodded and smiled and, when it seemed like the right time, said things I
couldn't even hear myself say. Amber did the same in between sips, and every once in a while she'd laugh and so would I, and then so would Cheryl. Somebody was saying something hilarious, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't me.

The whole time we were there, it was like that. If it wasn't Cheryl, then it was someone else stepping up to yammer at us as we threaded our way through the house. It was really hot in there, and the place reeked of alcohol and perfume and sweat. Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, dancing and swaying, swimming in a current of sound as one song blended into the next. Not me. I was drowning. In the dim light, everyone's faces took on a sinister tone, their smiles twisting into snarls, and for a second I thought I was going crazy. It's like they were doppelgangers too, slipping in and out of form, unable to hold on. And at any moment they would drop it entirely and so would I, and we would all be left staring at one another, all echoes of our own horrible selves.

The only exception was Amber, who remained composed from the moment she walked in. I kept close to her as we went along, amazed at how the sea of kids seemed to part before her, leaving her untouched by their slog. Even the ones who accosted us with their tipsy party talk held back slightly, as if a force field surrounded us. She had this coolness about her as she downed one drink and somehow ended up with another, and I managed to catch my breath here and there in her wake.

An hour later we were through. I just remember the cool air on my face and the feeling of relief as we exited through the front door and headed back to the car.

“What a lame party,” she said as we climbed in and she
started the engine. She didn't seem to like much of anything, but in this case I couldn't argue with her.

“Totally,” I said.

“I should get you home,” she said as we pulled back onto the road. She was driving slower now. “You probably want to get to bed early, what with the game tomorrow and all.”

The clock on the dash said 10:15, but I didn't really feel like rushing back to Barry and Sheila. Besides, I wanted to know more about Amber. We hadn't exactly had a chance to talk at the party.

“I'm not tired,” I said. “Let's go to your house.”

She sighed. “Right.”

She didn't live far away, just a mile or so down the road. Looking out the window, I could tell this neighborhood was pretty different from the Parkers'. The houses were farther apart, not all scrunched together, and they were a lot bigger. Amber's house was even bigger than Cheryl's.

As we pulled into the garage, Amber reached over and took a bottle out of the glove compartment. At first I thought she was going for another drink. But it was something else.

“Mouthwash?” she offered, holding out the bottle. I shook my head. “Don't look so surprised,” she said. “This is your trick, after all.” She took a swig and started swishing like crazy, then she sort of grimaced for a second and swallowed.

“I hate that part,” she said, coughing.

We got out and went into the house. Coming around the corner, I nearly jumped at the sight of Amber's parents waiting in the bright kitchen, grinning like a pair of hyenas.

“There he is,” her father shouted, coming over and clapping me on the back. “Hope you went easy tonight,” he said, laughing. “Wouldn't do for the best damn linebacker in the state to be hung over tomorrow, now would it?”

Listening to him talk, all loud and sort of slurry, I got the feeling someone else should have gone easy that night.

“Jim,” Amber's mother scolded, never losing her grin. “It's great to see you again, Chris.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Don't worry, I didn't have anything to drink tonight.”

“God,” Amber said, “cut it out, Chris. You made the good impression months ago. I mean, Jesus, my parents like you better than they do me.”

“Now sweetie, you know that's not true,” Amber's mother said, cocking her head.

“Well, maybe a little bit,” her father said. Her parents looked at each other and burst out laughing, as if it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard. No wonder Amber rolled her eyes so much.

After they'd recovered, Amber's father wrapped his arm around me again. At this point I was almost starting to miss Barry.

“So when are you turning pro, Sport?”

Was this guy for real? “Uh…,” I figured I was supposed to say something clever here. Then again, maybe not.

“Dad,” Amber cut in, “shut up, okay? Just shut up.”

“Hey, just asking. Kid's got it written all over him. Everybody says so. And you better start being a little nicer to him, or someday you'll regret it. He just might trade up.
Right, Chris?” He slapped me on the back and started laughing again. Then he kind of looked at me and raised his eyebrows like I was supposed to start laughing too. But after the long day, and then that party, all I could muster was a smile.

“Look, Connie—kid's already got his game face on for tomorrow. That says it all right there. Well, good for you, Chris.”

“Come on, let's go,” Amber said. She grabbed my arm and started dragging me toward the staircase. I looked back at them as we left.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Amber's mother said, waving good-bye. “We'll be watching.”

“Give them a good beating,” Jim added, raising his fists and jabbing the air a few times. They both started laughing again.

“What a jerk,” Amber said as we reached the top of the stairs.

“Your dad really seems to like football,” I said.

“Yeah. He's a real fan.”

We went into her bedroom and closed the door. Unlike Chris's bedroom, the walls of Amber's room were loaded with pictures, posters, postcards, and collages. It seemed like every square foot of space was covered with something. And then there was the nightstand, the dresser, the desk, the makeup table, even the bed—everything was loaded with stuff. Candles, dolls, coffee cups, bottles of hair products and moisturizers, papers, books, CDs, ceramic figurines—you name it, she had it. The only thing missing was a TV. It reminded me more of Echo's room. I don't know, maybe it's a girl thing.

While I looked around, Amber went to her computer.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I'd never used a computer before, and Chris didn't have one. None of the Parkers did.

“Checking e-mail,” she murmured, staring at the screen. She was typing furiously.

“That's right.” I'd heard of that. “You've got mail!” I said.

She looked at me sort of funny, then went back to typing. When she finished, she got up and started walking around the room, taking off her earrings, picking up clothes, stuff like that. I just sat on the bed watching her. We didn't talk. It was like I wasn't even there, like she'd forgotten all about me. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. I was happy enough just watching her, remembering how she'd been at the party, drifting and smiling through the crowd like she was a queen among peasants or something. And here I was, in the queen's own chamber, in the inner sanctum. But this queen didn't smile, at least not at me.

For some reason I suddenly remembered the scene from Macbeth today. That strange moment after the murder with the two of them, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, fumbling around in the dark, Macbeth utterly paralyzed by horror at his deed, and Lady Macbeth seeming cool and annoyed by her husband's weakness, but really just as scared. I could tell they weren't a happy couple. And after today I got the feeling we weren't, either. At least the Macbeths were bonded by their crime. What did Amber and Chris have?

I looked up and realized she was gone. Light shone around the partially closed door of the bathroom. Then
the light clicked off. The door opened and out came Amber in her bra and panties.

When she looked at me, her face was blank. Or maybe just resigned. Either way, she looked nothing like the picture I had of her at home.

For a moment I didn't say anything. I just sat frozen at the edge of the bed, trying not to stare.

“Not the usual reaction,” she said. She didn't sound disappointed. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I mean, it's what you came here for isn't it?”

I jumped up and almost lost my balance. My heart was pounding so hard, for a moment I felt like I was back in Cheryl's house.

“What about your parents?” I sputtered.

She frowned. “What do you mean? They'll have another cocktail and go to bed.”

“What if they came in?”

“They know better.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and shifted into a slouch. “And so do you. What's the problem?”

“Nothing,” I said. I sat down on the edge of the bed again. I could hardly look at her, and the fact that I wanted to made me look away even more. None of it made sense. Suddenly I didn't like being in the queen's chamber—the whole thing was too complicated. I was in way over my head.

“Not as exciting when it's given to you, is that it?” she sneered. “Takes all the fun out of it?”

I didn't know what she meant by that, but I knew it wasn't good. I looked up at her. Before I knew it, I'd just sort of blurted it out.

“You don't like me, do you,” I said.

She frowned again. “We're a perfect couple. Isn't that what everybody says?”

I didn't say anything. I just wanted her to go back in the bathroom and put some clothes on.

“You're a miserable son of a bitch,” she said finally. “How's that?”

“Okay,” I said, “then why are you still with me?”

“Since when do you care?”

“Just answer the question,” I said. I don't know why, but I was starting to get irritated.

She didn't say anything for a moment, but her face kept changing, passing from confusion to anger, before settling into loathing. It was the same kind of look I'd seen on Chris's face before he attacked me that night—loathing not for me, but for himself.