I, too, am a clone. Created in a test tube, gestated in an artificial womb. I grew up not knowing this, thinking my life was my own, when in reality, I was created to replace a little girl who was dying. The original “Emma.” I still can’t wrap my head around what this means, or how it will change my life. I am still me, I know that much. I still feel the same things I felt before. Fear and hurt and, yes, joy. Perhaps I have a different name now, this name “Eden” that I’m told is on my birth certificate. But what makes me me at my core isn’t any different, just because I have the same DNA as another person, who lived and died.

What meaning lies behind the name “clone,” or “Similar,” if any at all? I’d argue that there is no meaning there, because, in the end, clones are humans, just like everyone else. We are individuals who are as different from their originals, on the inside, as any two people walking this earth. The clones at Darkwood—myself included—are kids. Teenagers worried about how they look and who they love and who loves them back. Nothing more, nothing less.

I know now why I hated Levi the first time I met him: it was because I was afraid. I was afraid that he’d take the place, in my heart, of Oliver. I feared him because I didn’t know what I know now—that Levi and Oliver are not the same person at all. That one could never replace the other, not for me. Just like I didn’t replace that little girl I was copied from. The fact that anyone ever thought I could was misguided at best, and dangerous at worst. All I shared with that other girl was some genetic coding. Some DNA. Just like Levi shares Oliver’s DNA. Which, when you think about it, makes them equally capable of love. Of kindness. And of being loved back.

The first thing I do is send a copy of this essay, which I’ll use as my personal statement for my college applications, directly to Ollie’s plum. I don’t stop to let myself think about what I’m doing—or change my mind. I add a note to the beginning of it:

Dear Ollie,

This is what I wanted to tell you earlier. I’ve known for a while. I guess it took me some time to come to terms with it. To accept it, and realize that I can’t deny it to myself anymore. I’m sorry I’m only telling you now. I hope you can forgive me.

Love,

Emma

Then I send the essay to The Daily Darkwood for immediate publication.

Confrontations