Unfurl by Cidney Swanson Page A

in the halls instead of tracing the flow of cracks in the concrete as I moved from class to class. But no one was looking at me. They all stared at the guy walking beside me. He’d altered his gait since coming to California. I wondered how he’d been able to do it so well until he told me that walking lessons had been part of his daily routine as a young courtier.
    “We studied the rules of motion and how to present ourselves most attractively to the world,” he’d said. “I understand an entire art–form has grown from our efforts and survives to this day—the ‘ballet,’ Sir Walter informs me.”
    All I knew was that Christian had figured out how to blend in and yet still attract a heck of a lot of stares. As the three of us walked together to biology, every girl we passed turned her head back over her shoulder to keep her eyes on Christian.
    “Dr. Yang’s going to wonder why the sudden outbreak of neck strains in high school girls,” I murmured to Gwyn as we sat for class. “It’s ridiculous.”
    In her seat beside me, Gwyn scribbled for a few seconds and passed a note to me.
    Sad–looking eyes—check.
    Amazing hair—check.
    Ass–to–die–for—check.
    What part of this confuses you?
    This time when I rolled my eyes, they ached from repetitive motion strain. I had to admit she was right about Christian’s eyes, though. They did have this sort of sad–puppy–dog look to them. Haunted, Sylvia had called them.
    Gwyn reached back to pull a stray leaf from Christian’s long hair. “Flowing locks of gold,” she’d said when he wasn’t in hearing range, “Hair that belongs to a bass player in a really cool band.”
    I could hear a girl seated behind Christian quizzing him on what biology was like in French schools.
    “Do you study reproduction?” she asked. “Or anatomy?”
    I glanced back to see her adjusting a tight tee–shirt to display her own body parts to advantage.
    Christian’s face was red when he turned forward. Gwyn stared at the girl looking like she could shoot lasers from her eyes.
    She passed me another note.
    OMG Can you believe the girls at this school?
    I snorted back a laugh while she waited for me to respond. On the board, Mr. Polwen had written: HUMAN CLONING—ETHICAL OR UNETHICAL?
    Gwyn sent me another note.
    Do you think Christian gets lonely here?
    Ignoring her, I scribbled notes on a controversial cloning facility that had come to light last fall. I’d heard about their claimed success with humans. The location of the facility had been kept secret, but in the photos you could see the Cyrillic alphabet, so it was somewhere in the former Soviet Union, people surmised.`
    Gwyn kicked my foot and looked at me with an eyebrows–raised expression that asked, Well, don’t you have an opinion?
    Probably , I wrote at the bottom of a scrap of paper. I left it on my desk where she’d see it. My stomach was doing sick flops as I tried to copy Polwen’s notes on zygotes and blastocysts, the names for the earliest stages of human embryo development. I had to get my egg back. And soon.
    Class dismissed and Gwyn linked one of her arms through mine, the other through Christian’s.
    “Looks like rain again,” said Gwyn. “Do you mind driving me?”
    I made a choked laughing noise.
    Gwyn guffawed. “Okay, it’s not going to rain. I just like your company.” She winked at Christian.
    The two carried on a discussion of the merits of American versus French pastries, about which Christian knew little and all of it centuries out of date. They’d be pretty cute as a couple, I had to admit. Gwyn climbed in the front of my Blazer cab again, snuggling against Christian for the three–hundred–foot drive across the parking lot and Main Street.
    Our school’s three cheerleaders waved and called out, “ Bonjour , Christian,” as I idled in front of the Las Abuelitas Bakery Café.
    “ Au revoir ,” said Gwyn, planting a quick peck on his cheek as she stared down the trio.
    The door