All this time, the Similars have lobbied to be treated exactly like the rest of us. They’ve made the case for themselves as regular teenagers. Only, they aren’t. A few weeks ago, I witnessed some disturbing evidence that the clones at Darkwood possess a kind of super strength that, IMHO, makes them dangerous, to us and our community at large. I’ll spare you the specifics, but I will tell you this: they were able to break metal as if it were as flimsy as thread. They are preternaturally strong, and it’s clear to me that they were born this way, although when challenged, they dismissed their strength as something they trained for on their island. But I can assure you—no normal teenager could do what I saw, no matter how much they trained.

Regardless, this otherworldly strength is frightening, and there’s no denying that the Similars are an inherent threat to everyone at our school. What’s most concerning, however, is the fact that, when pressed, the clones denied everything. What’s more, for the last year, they’ve felt no obligation to divulge to anyone here at Darkwood the truth about what they’re capable of. And who they really are. Which begs the question: Are they even human?

I throw the tablet down on my bed, sitting up and sliding my feet into my flip-flops. The patronizing tone of Harlowe’s essay makes me want to scream. She’s twisting the truth, or at the very least, spinning it in favor of her bigoted agenda. I know, in an instant, why she’s done this: because of what Maude did yesterday, one-upping her with the midnight session.

Pru and I don’t change out of our pj’s. We head directly to Pippa’s room. A crowd has formed in front of her door.

“What’s going on?” I murmur to Pru as we hurry toward the little knot of kids, probably ten or twelve students, who are all trying to get a look at something.

“No idea,” she answers. We push our way through the group of our classmates to get to the front. There, on Pippa’s door, spray-painted in messy red letters, are the words, GO HOME, CLONE.

I don’t have to look at Pru to know how upset she is. She raps on the door, which is slightly ajar. When no one answers, she pushes the door all the way open. The kids around us whisper and watch, wide-eyed, as we tread lightly into Pippa’s room. When we reach her bed, we see rumpled blankets but no Pippa. She’s not here.

I send a buzz to my friends, asking them to meet us outside the library. I don’t know if they’ve seen the blog post yet, or if they know about the hate speech scrawled across Pippa’s door.