The thing nobody thinks about is that it’s difficult to hold things, without fingerprints. Dollar bills, telephones, pub darts and pens: they just disappear when Tegan2‘s applying what should be the right amount of pressure. She’s broken more glasses that way.
It’s one of the minor side effects of clonehood–forced growth means skipping the details–but it occupies a frustrating amount of Tegan2‘s attention. Her friends joke that she should become a burglar, as if every scrap of her DNA isn’t owned.
Marlo’s learned to be quick at catching. Tegan2 keeps meaning to look up t-ball leagues.
Tegan swore she’d have to be two people to keep up with Marlo, so she became two people, and shortly thereafter became the first person in history to lose custody to her clone. Which had benefits: the alternative was dropping out. Twenty with a five-year-old. Doesn’t take a math degree.
“You’re late,” says Tegan2, wreathed in kitchen smells (Tegan can’t cook a Hot Pocket).
“Sorry,” Tegan mutters.
“Get your backpack, sweetie!” Marlo comes running.
Tegan2‘s got crow’s feet and gray hair: fraying telomeres. She won’t see thirty. Tegan takes Marlo’s hand and turns away, eyes filling, hating herselves.
Wednesday, September 6, 2006