Deadly Design
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Synopsis
The emotional power of If I Stay meets the survival story of Maze Runner
Genetically engineered identical twins Kyle and Connor McAdams were born two years apart. Their parents figured it was safer that way, to increase their odds of survival. Connor was born first, paving an impossibly perfect path for Kyle to follow. He was the best at everything—valedictorian, star quarterback etc. Kyle never thought he’d be able to live up, so he didn’t even try.
But when Connor, 18, suddenly drops dead of a heart attack, and Kyle learns of other genetically modified kids who’ve also died on their eighteenth birthdays, he’s suddenly motivated—to save his own life. Like Connor and all the rest, Kyle was conceived at the Genesis Innovations Laboratory, where the mysterious Dr. Mueller conducted experiments on them. The clock’s ticking as Kyle searches for answers: who was Dr. Mueller really, and what did he do to cause their hearts to stop at eighteen? He must unravel the clues quickly, before, he too, becomes another perfect, blue-eyed corpse.
Release date: June 2, 2015
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers
Print pages: 368
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Deadly Design
Debra Dockter
1
I was five years old when I found out that my older brother wasn’t just my brother.
It was right after my preschool graduation. Chairs were set up for parents and grandparents in the lobby of the school. A wooden box and a microphone sat across from the chairs. We were each expected to stand up on the box, lean over a microphone, and tell the audience what we wanted to be when we grew up. One little girl said she wanted to be a mermaid. That made everyone laugh. The boy in front of me played it safe. He said that when he grew up, he wanted to be a grown-up. Then it was my turn. I was going to say that I wanted to be a fireman. Not original, I know, but Mom had just bought me this awesome fire truck at a garage sale, so . . .
I went to stand up on the box, and I noticed a photograph hanging on the wall behind me.
There were a lot of photographs, each filled with groups of graduating preschoolers, all of them wearing nice shirts or dresses and all with the same dorky grins. But there was something in that photo, someone, that almost knocked me off the box. It was me.
I looked at the kids lined up on either side of me. These were my classmates, the kids I’d learned my letters and colors with. The kids I’d chased around the small playground. But they weren’t the same kids in the photograph with me. We hadn’t lined up yet to take the official graduation picture. But there I was on the wall.
“Kyle,” Mrs. Parks, our teacher, said as she gently took my shoulders and turned me toward the audience. “Tell everyone what you want to be when you grow up.”
My mind was a complete blank, at least as far as deciding at five what path my life should take.
I didn’t say anything. I stepped down from the box as a few people inhaled sharply like it was bad luck not to say what I wanted to be in the future. Like not saying something meant I wouldn’t have a future.
My family didn’t stick around for the punch and cookies. Instead, Dad dropped Mom and my brother, Connor, off at the house, then he took me out for ice cream—just me because I wouldn’t stop asking why my picture was already on the wall and why I was wearing a green button-down shirt in the picture, when I don’t have a green button-down shirt.
Dad and I got ice cream, then we walked down the block to the park and sat on a bench. That’s when he told me that Connor wasn’t just my brother; he was my twin brother, my identical twin brother. The picture was of him, not me. When Connor graduated from preschool, he was five, just like I was, so we looked exactly alike.
I felt stupid. If Connor and I were twins, identical twins, I should have noticed. Twins are supposed to be the same age. That’s part of being twins, being born at the same time. But we weren’t.
Dad explained everything at the park. Well, he probably didn’t explain all of it, not the part about him and Mom being carriers for a fatal disease called spinal muscular atrophy. Not the part about Mom having had six miscarriages. He did tell me that Chase, my other brother, whose picture sits on my parents’ dresser, died when he was six months old from a very bad illness that they wanted to make certain their next baby wouldn’t have.
That spring day in the park when I was five and ice cream was melting faster than I could eat it because I didn’t have much of an appetite, Dad told me that Connor and I were designed in a special lab. They had a very smart doctor, and he created a baby for them who was very healthy. But then the baby split into two babies—me and Connor.
Because they wanted us so much, they decided to separate us. Mom gave birth to Connor first, while I was kept at the lab.
That threw me. Connor was at home with our parents, and I was still in some creepy lab? Then Dad explained that I was frozen the whole time, so I wasn’t lonely or anything. That threw me even more.
While Connor was baking in Mom’s Easy-Bake Oven, so to speak, I was frozen. When he was crying and getting his diapers changed and people were talking about how cute he was, I was in the deep freeze.
After our talk, we got ice cream for Mom and Connor, and we went home. Connor asked if I wanted to kick a ball around in the backyard, and I said yes, but I couldn’t keep my eye on it. All I could do was stare at him—at me, two years into the future. I asked Connor if he knew we were twins. He said he’d found out on his own a few Christmases ago when he was snooping for presents in Mom and Dad’s closet. He found our baby books and when he started looking through them, noticed that when put side by side at the same ages, we were identical. He said he’d wanted to tell me, but Mom and Dad thought it would be better if I was a little older before I knew.
People used to comment that Connor and I looked alike, but it seemed like people had to say that. Like it was a rule or something to say, “Oh, he looks just like his brother.”
I remember Connor putting his hands on my shoulders, his arms tilting downward because he was two years taller.
“I’m glad we’re twins,” he said. “Are you?”
I nodded. He smiled, and we started kicking the ball again.
But I couldn’t stop wondering what it would have been like if we’d graduated preschool together. If we could have always been together.
• • •
“Even in that stupid getup, he looks handsome,” Emma says, staring at Connor’s photo displayed on the wall with all the photos of the graduating class in their caps and gowns. It’s not a very big graduating class. Rose Hill High School has a total of about six hundred students in the entire school—pretty typical for a small town in Kansas. “I can’t wait to see him onstage giving his speech.”
I don’t say anything as students rush past us, anxious to step out of the frigid air-conditioning and into the warm spring—almost summer—air.
“I’m meeting Connor at your house after school,” Emma says. “You should let me drive you home.”
“Doesn’t Connor have track practice?”
She shakes her head, her long blond hair brushing against her shoulders. “The coach doesn’t want Connor worn out for the meet tomorrow, so no practice today. We’re going to hang out for a while and then grab some dinner.”
Of course they are. I love having Emma around all the time. I love hearing her laugh as Connor tickles her on the sofa. I love watching him whisper in her ear right before he kisses her and my dad tells them to get a room and Mom tells them not to.
I love her blue eyes. I love her full lips and the pink gloss she lightly coats them with. I bet it has a flavor—cotton candy or bubble gum. I could ask her, but I won’t. It’s bad enough to be head over heels for your brother’s girl, but I refuse to be that pathetic.
“So, about that ride home?”
Emma never offers me rides, usually because she’s too busy with her after-school activities. Plus, I only live a few blocks from school.
“Why?” I ask.
“I want to talk to you,” she says. “It’s important.”
“It better be,” I say, not because being alone with her in a confined space could be torture, but because riding in her car is definitely dangerous. Really dangerous.
We follow the dwindling mob of high school students out to the parking lot, where most of the parking spaces are occupied by hand-me-down four-doors or old pickup trucks. Emma’s car takes up half a parking space at most.
“Get in,” she says, unlocking the doors with the remote.
I hesitate, looking at the dull green coffin on wheels. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Please,” she begs. “I promise it’s safe. It even has air bags.”
“Are you sure?” The Smart car is tiny, and I can’t help imagining a dozen circus clowns crammed into it. “Does it really have air bags, or does a whoopee cushion pop out of the steering wheel?”
“Don’t insult my car. I love my car. And I love the environment.”
I open the door and get in. It’s roomier than I expected.
“Your mom said you might not go to graduation?” Emma says once my seat belt is buckled.
I half expect the door locks to engage, to trap me in the car for the conversation I don’t care to have.
“Connor needs you there. You’re his brother, his twin. This is really important to him and your parents.”
“You and my parents talked about this?”
“Just your mom.”
“Then why doesn’t she talk to me?”
Emma hesitates. “You know your mom doesn’t like conflict.”
“What conflict? My mom and I never fight.”
“You don’t talk that much either. She doesn’t want to push you away. She doesn’t want you spending even less time with the family.”
“I eat supper with them every night,” I say, trying not to sound pissed, but I kind of am. “I watch movies with them on the weekend. I let you and Connor drag me around.”
“Sometimes,” she says.
“I’m sixteen. Eating dinner with my parents is as social as I’m supposed to be. Besides, I have interests.”
“You mean video games?”
How can I explain to her that “video games” aren’t just games to me? I’m good at them. I’m damn good at them. Online players beg to have me on their teams. They schedule their playing times around mine because no one can kick ass on Call of Duty like I can. But compared to Connor’s history of athletic domination, who gives a shit if my kill-to-death ratio is off the charts.
“I don’t want to make you mad,” Emma says. “I just want everyone to be happy.
I scoff as a giant-ass pickup truck pulls up next to us.
“Will you at least think about going?” she asks.
How can I make her understand why I don’t want to go? Yeah, we may be twins, but we’re not twins in the traditional sense. Even if it weren’t for the age difference, Connor and I still wouldn’t look exactly alike. He has six-pack abs and giant biceps. And he’s super smart, super athletic. He’s super everything, and I’m . . . good at video games.
“Why don’t you want to go?”
I look at her like it’s a stupid question, because it is a stupid question.
“I’m serious. And don’t tell me it’s your pride, because that’s bullshit. You are not supposed to be your brother. You are two different people, and that’s good. Besides, if you and Connor were carbon copies of each other, how on earth would I be able to choose between you?”
She gives me a coy little smile.
“Do you have any lemon juice?” I ask. “I just found a paper cut on my finger I’d like to pour some into.”
“I just meant that you’re both special people. Connor is like my Clark Kent, my Superman. He’s perfect.” Emma’s eyes stare out over the dashboard, but I know from the way she’s smiling, her face beaming, that she’s seeing more than the after-school traffic. “He’s the most perfect person in the world, and we’re perfect together.” She looks at me, and she’s so happy. And I’m happy for her. I really am. “And you,” she says. “You’re like James Dean.”
“James who?”
“Dean. James Dean. He’s the quiet but tough guy. He doesn’t need anybody else, doesn’t care about what anybody else thinks. He’s a bad boy.” She gives me a sideways glance.
I consider this, then nod in agreement. “Yep, that’s me. I’m bad to the bone.”
“Oh, yeah,” Emma says. “Tell me something you’ve done, bad boy.”
I think for a minute, but I don’t have to think for long because I’ve been so notoriously bad. “Last week, I was playing Call of Duty online. It wasn’t just me. I was playing on a team. I had guys relying on me, and I realized that I’d been chewing the same piece of gum for over two hours.”
“Two hours?” She’s already amazed, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“I couldn’t leave the game. I couldn’t let my guys down, but it was disgusting—like chewing on a rubber band. So you know what I did?”
“What did you do? Tell me.”
“I took it out of my mouth.”
“And then?”
“I stuck it on the nightstand. Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t put it in the trash. I could have. It was only a few feet away, but no. I stuck it there, and guess what?”
“What?” she says, like she can’t take it. Like she wants to speed all the way home so she can rip my clothes off, and if I say something about Connor, she’ll say, “Connor who?”
“I left it there.”
“For a whole week?”
I nod and she laughs, breaking character.
“I better arrange an intervention,” she says. “You’re too wild for your own good.”
“Yep, that’s me.” I turn up the volume on the radio, and she turns it down again.
“So, graduation?”
“Graduations are boring. They read a bunch of names, the choir sings a couple of sappy songs, and the band plays like shit.”
“What about his speech? He’s valedictorian. That’s a big deal.”
“I know it’s a big deal,” I say. “Everything in Connor’s life is a big deal. He doesn’t need me around to make it any bigger.”
“But he does.” She reaches over and grabs my arm. “It’s not your fault that you were born second, and it’s not his fault he was born first. He cares about you, and he really wants you there. It’s important.”
We stop at an intersection, and she looks at me. I can’t help but wonder what she sees. I have the same eyes, the mouth, the nose, even the voice—the exact same DNA of the guy she’s madly in love with. I’m just two years younger and too lazy to go to the gym.
“Think about it?” She makes a left turn onto the street where I live. “What about the state track meet?”
Now she’s really pushing it. “I suppose Mom mentioned that to you too, or was it Dad? Well, like I told him, I’m busy Saturday. I signed up to help medical students learn how to perform colonoscopies. So if Connor’s upset that I’m not there, if he wants to know ‘what’s up Kyle’s ass?’ you can tell him I have about a dozen medical students up it.”
She growls, tightening her hands around the steering wheel. “It’s his last meet.”
“So I’m supposed to go cheer him on while he breaks his own record.”
“It’s also his birthday. We’re going out to dinner afterward.”
The car slows, and Emma pulls in front of my house. She places her hand on my arm.
“If you won’t do it for him, do it for me?”
Why does she have to put it that way? Am I that transparent? Can she tell that there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her?
2
Connor’s just getting out of his Jeep in the driveway.
Emma jumps out of the car, runs across the lawn, and throws herself into his arms. Connor spins her around, and she’s flying with her arms tight around his neck and his arms tight around her waist. When they stop, they stand there in the driveway staring at each other like they’re the most gorgeous people in the world, and they can’t help themselves, and that’s pretty much how it is. Hell, even I can’t stop staring at them as I walk across the lawn toward the front door.
The windows are open on Connor’s Jeep, and the wind has made his hair into a perfect blond mess. My hair is usually just a mess. My face isn’t quite as full as his either. Being an athlete, he packs a lot of food away. He’s always drinking protein shakes and downing giant spoonfuls of peanut butter.
He’s tan too. The lamp in my basement bedroom doesn’t do a lot for my skin tone, but when Connor’s not in school, he’s outside. Sometimes I look at him, and I can’t believe we’re identical twins. Even if I spent hours at the gym or running outside in the sun, no way would I look like him—like Apollo coming down from Olympus to let the mortals bask in my awesomeness.
I reach for the doorknob.
“Kyle.” Connor runs up onto the porch. “We’re going to go walk around the park for a while and then grab a bite. You want to come along?”
“No thanks,” I say, opening the door.
“You sure? We can shoot some hoops or something. Mom texted me that she’s making tuna casserole. Between you and me, I didn’t get the text. Why don’t you come with us?”
I look at Emma. “I better eat here. Evidently I don’t socialize enough with the family.”
Connor follows my eyes. He looks at Emma, at the smirk on her face, then back at me. “Did I miss something?”
“Not a thing,” I say. “You two go ahead.”
“We can bring you back something if you want,” Connor says.
“I’m good, but thanks.”
I start to step inside, but he’s still standing there. I turn, and he’s looking at me, looking right into my eyes. He does this sometimes, a lot of times. He looks at me like he’s waiting to see if I can read his thoughts, like he wants to tell me something, but it’d be so much easier if he didn’t have to use words. But I can’t read his mind. Even if I could, I think I’d be afraid to. Connor’s mind has to be full of amazing things, like state championships and political issues he knows inside and out because of debate and maybe even plans to someday cure cancer.
My thoughts are more of the Nazi zombie type. I just want to kill shit.
Connor sighs, his eyes finally leaving mine. I’ve failed the test again. If he had a better twin, a more worthy twin, we’d be able to have psychic conversations, and I’d ace every test in school because he could “think” me all the answers.
Emma takes Connor’s hand, and they start to walk toward his Jeep. I start inside again.
“Are you sure?” he says, his body sideways like he’s torn between coming inside with me or going with Emma. “It’s tuna casserole. We could get a pizza.”
“I’m good,” I say again, and I hate how he’s looking at me, like I’m rejecting him. With all his admirers, does he really need one more, and does it have to be me?
I have to get away from him. His aura, or whatever the hell it is, is too damn bright. My skin, my pale epidermis, is starting to burn. Connor needs to leave. Then I just have to get through dinner, so I can shrink back into the shadows of my basement sanctuary.
Emma pulls him toward the Jeep, and he follows. He walks her to the passenger side and opens the door, but before getting in, she looks back at me and smiles.
I remember the first time he brought her home. He was a freshman, and I was in that hell called middle school. They’d walked to our house after school on a Friday because Mom was going to serve as chauffeur for their first date. Connor and Mom went into the kitchen to discuss rules and curfews, and Emma sat down next to me on the sofa. We watched television for a few minutes and then she started talking to me. She asked me if I liked sports, and when I said no, she asked me what I did like. I started talking about gaming, and she seemed interested. Interested in the games. Interested in me.
She noticed me.
When Mom and Connor came back into the living room, Emma got up, and I thought that was it. Once the great Connor was back, I disappeared again. But as they were walking out the front door, Emma turned and smiled at me. That was four years ago, and she’s still giving me that smile.
3
“Guess what I heard.”
It’s the voice of Teddy Eskew. As if spending the day sitting amongst Connor’s adoring fans isn’t bad enough, now I have to put up with the school’s biggest asshole.
“I heard you and your brother were Siamese twins, joined at the dick, and when the doctors separated you, they decided to give what there was to your brother. That’s why you have to piss sitting down.”
Teddy doesn’t ride the short bus to school, but he can’t get it through his head that Connor and I are twins, born two years apart. Somehow he got the idea that I’m a sophomore while Connor’s a senior because I had the cord wrapped around my neck. Lack of oxygen made me delayed. Teddy’s a senior, and he and I are in two classes together. He’s the one who’s delayed. He’s also the one on probation for vandalism, underage drinking, exposing himself to a minor, and attempting to grow facial hair like Wolverine from X-Men.
“You made any summer plans yet?” I ask as I push past him, balancing two hot dogs and a can of Diet Coke in my hands. “I heard there are lots of unsupervised kiddies at the water park if you want to show off your . . .” I lift the hot dogs.
Teddy’s hair-framed face reddens. His biceps flex.
“Is there a problem?”
Officer Prater, our school’s resource officer, is standing right behind Teddy. He’s not wearing his uniform or his Taser, but at six and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds, he doesn’t really need them to be intimidating.
Teddy walks away, but not before giving me that “I’ll find you later” look.
“I really hate that this is Connor’s last meet,” Prater says, running a hand over his shaven head. “I’ve been watching him since middle school.”
I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that even though Connor is graduating next week, he should be able to come watch me compete in football and basketball and track. But I’m too much of a slacker. I’m too lazy to be all that I can be.
“He’s got a good chance of breaking his record, and I bet it stands a long time too.” Prater looks off at the cloudless May sky like he’s savoring this moment—the moment before Connor McAdams cements his place in the history of high school pole-vaulting. He smiles to himself, and when his eyes fall back on me, it’s like he’s about to reprimand me for hanging out in the hallway instead of being in class. “You better get up there. There’s only one more competitor before Connor. You don’t want to miss this.”
“Oh”—I shake my head—“you have no idea how much I don’t want miss this.”
I push my way through the crowd, and the hot dogs I was craving a second ago have lost some of their appeal.
I don’t want to be here!
But over breakfast this morning, Mom kept opening her mouth as if to say something, then closing it again and starting to rinse dishes or wipe counters. Dad, on the other hand, came into the kitchen, fixed a bowl of cereal, and said what he wanted to say.
“Don’t come if you don’t want to.” His mouth was full of cornflakes, and there was a tiny dot of milk on his chin. “Your mom and I understand that watching your brother compete may not be . . .” He couldn’t quite find the words, so he shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth to buy some time. “It’s just that this is his last meet. He wants us there, all of us. You mean a lot to him. I know you two haven’t been that close, not for a long time, but you used to be. It’s probably my fault. Maybe if I’d have tried harder to get you involved in sports, or maybe a little less hard with him, then . . .”
That’s when I agreed to come to the meet. I hate it when my parents start analyzing the ways they may or may not have screwed up their kids. Right or wrong, Dad loves sports, and he loves watching Connor. I don’t want him to feel guilty for that. And I definitely don’t want him to feel like he’s a bad father. He’s not.
Besides, the truth is, what Connor does is pretty cool. I’ve watched pole-vaulting on YouTube. It’s pretty amazing. These guys, they actually fly—not for long, but they do fly. And that part where the pole is bending, and it looks like it might snap in half and stab them, that’s scary as hell. And Connor’s not just good at it. He’s the best.
I go up the four steps leading to the bleachers and notice a guy standing next to the chain-link fence. He’s young, probably in his midtwenties. He’s got broad shoulders, definitely the athletic type, and he’s taking pictures of . . . Connor. Of course he’s taking pictures of Connor. Connor isn’t even jumping yet. He’s just bending over touching his toes, but even that’s impressive if you’re a scout for some big university and you want Connor on your team. The photographer pauses to look at the shots he’s just taken. He glances up for a second, and when he sees me, he looks . . . uneasy. Then it’s like he remembers that somebody told him Connor had a twin, and he nods at me and looks away.
Don’t worry, buddy, I want to tell him. You won’t have to come back to take pictures of me in a couple of years. Not unless you’re recruiting for your college’s video game club.
I don’t walk to the stairs. I step from metal seat to metal seat. It’s not hard maneuvering around people, because most are congregated in the middle of the stands.
“Hey, Connor!”
I recognize the voice immediately, and she’s not talking to Connor. She’s talking to me. I turn. Cami, Emma’s best friend, is sitting about three feet to my left. She’s wearing an old orange Lion King T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. Her pale legs are propped up on the seat in front of her like she’s attempting to get some sun.
“How are you, Connor?”
She’s doing it on purpose. She always does it on purpose. Cami, short for Camille, calls me Connor because she knows that there is an unwritten law in the universe that anyone who calls me by my brother’s name will get flipped off. I’ve served two detentions because of her, once because she did it during my food presentation in Spanish class and once when she said it as the principal was walking down the hallway.
“Really?” I lift my full hands.
“Sorry,” she says, as if she hadn’t noticed. She puts down the sketchbook she’s been doodling in and takes the can of Diet Coke from my hand.
I flip her the bird, and with a smile on her face, she hands the can back.
“I’m kind of surprised to see you here,” she says.
“You didn’t think I’d want to see my brother break his own record? Watching Connor achieve his goals is pretty much my purpose in life.”
She shakes her head and tucks short curls of brown hair behind her ears. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to be here—wouldn’t want to spend another day in the Great Connor’s shadow.”
Wow. I scoff because I can’t believe she said that. She gets it. The girl who constantly calls me by my brother’s name just to piss me off and get me into trouble gets it. Connor is the quarterback of the football team. He’s the captain of the basketball team. And when he’s not breaking track records, he’s walking on water. I can’t compete with that. And Cami gets it.
I give her a miniature “fuck you” with the hand carrying the Diet Coke, but this time it’s meant as a sort of salute. She smiles and flips me the bird from behind the sketch pad.
“What are you drawing?”
She turns the pad around to reveal a small bird sitting amongst sparse tufts of grass.
“Over there,” she says, nodding her head toward the patch of grass next to the concession stand, where tiny birds with red-tipped gray wings peck at bits of popcorn.
“Nice.”
“Than
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