Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(32)

Right. I want to tell her if bruises were inspiration, I’d be a fashion queen. But I just shake my head, not doubting her story for a second after the outlandish clothing I’ve seen. “That guy is crazy,” I mutter.

“He’s genius,” Taylor says as if the two words are interchangeable.

I fall into step beside her and somehow, the crowd parts as we approach. I keep my eyes forward, trying to look haughty and over-privileged, but every once in a while I zero in on someone as they jump sideways to allow us to pass.

“You’re too conspicuous,” Taylor says. “You should’ve left your jacket on.”

“At least they’re getting out of the way.”

“Good point.”

One boy, a couple of years younger than me, is caught up trying to wrangle his dog and doesn’t move in time. Rather than go around him, Taylor halts and waits, hands on her hips. When the boy still doesn’t see her or move aside, she clears her throat. “Excuse me,” she snaps.

He looks up and away, does a double-take. When he looks back again, his eyes widen. “You’re … Sorry,” he mumbles, scrambling clear.

Taylor’s eyes narrow. “No, you’re sorry.”

We walk on.

I almost miss Jorge’s shop. It’s sandwiched between an expensive-looking suit shop with only the letter A to display its name and a bakery with cupcakes shaped to look like pigs displayed in the window. There is nothing different or eye-catching about Jorge’s storefront. For a second, I think maybe the shop is slightly less over-the-top than the fashion show I attended. Then I see the single display case in the narrow window.

It is a headless mannequin whose waist thins to the size of a toothpick. Draped over the flesh-colored torso is a dress. I think. It’s transparent and made of bubbles. I stare, wondering if they’re fragile enough to pop if I touch them. I sort of want to touch them. My gaze eventually catches on the lower half of the ensemble. In place of legs someone has wedged some sort of white Styrofoam. I’m unsure if this is supposed to be tights or a fashion statement announcing pale is beautiful.

“Ooooh,” Taylor breathes. She stares at the bubble dress with a dreamy look. I bite back a smile as I try to picture her in something like that. “Isn’t it amazing?” she asks finally.

“What sort of underwear do you wear with it?” I ask before I can catch myself.

Taylor slants a look at me and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You’re an oddity sometimes,” she says.

“I think when you’re as rich as I am, they call it eccentric,” I say and Taylor laughs.

“Touche.” She grabs my arm. “Oh, I’ve missed your wit. Let’s go shop, darling.”

She steps up to the door and waits. On cue, Alton appears, opening the door for us to pass inside before bringing up the rear.

Inside, the air is heavy with a cloying musk that gives me an instant headache. Speakers belt out music that is all treble and whined vocals. The décor is sparse; the main focus is on the outlandish clothes and ornately decorated shelving along the back wall that holds all sorts of accessories.

I do a full circle around a rack of scarves made from stitched-together washcloths. Alton bumps me as he rounds a tall shelf stocked with wigs. I jump back.

“Sorry,” I mutter before I can stop the word.

He nods and moves away, still watching and circling but with a wider berth. I scowl to myself, hating every second he shadows me. I think of Obadiah and Morton and the others. How will I ever see them again with Alton and me attached at the hip? And what good can I possibly do now, even “undercover” as Morton puts it, if I have Alton watching every move I make?

My shoulders are heavy as I follow Taylor through the racks. The only bright spot in the entire outing is that I hear Linc’s voice on Alton’s radio every so often as he checks in from the shadowed periphery somewhere outside. The squawks and static drown out Taylor’s rambling as she details the saga of some Senator who was caught doodling his secretary. I catch myself before asking her to describe “doodling.”. The meaning is clear from her vivid descriptions.

Every so often, I murmur a response to show I’m at least pretending to listen. After a few minutes, I stop doing even that and she drones on, wandering racks. She doesn’t seem to notice as I fall farther behind.

“Raven, ohmygod you have to see this!” Taylor gushes. “Come here.”

I follow the sound of her voice and find her captivated by a small display of the highest heels I’ve ever seen. Still, I don’t quite understand the draw until I’m up close. The sole is a see-through platform that’s been hollowed out. Inside is a tiny goldfish swimming in the plum-tinted water.

“Isn’t it just beyond?” Taylor says, grinning.

“Beyond what?”

“Beyond everything! God, I swear Jorge is a genius. What will he think of next?” she says, still captivated by the tiny fish wiggling its fins inside the thick casing.

“And that,” says a voice stuck somewhere between masculine and feminine, “is the question of the century.”

A man appears from behind a single red drape obscuring the room behind it. Egleston Hawthorne, Jorge’s assistant. His jacket is tight on his scrawny arms and his shadow of a mustache has been dyed bright blond. It looks like a slug is lying across his upper lip. I try not to stare.