the pearson’s clones
Our clones knew something was up.
"Mom. Dad," our son, Emo, was saying, "We know something's up."
Joan and I were sitting at one end of the dinner table, holding hands on the table top between us. Emo and our daughter, Alex, sat across from us, holding hands on the table top between them.
"What ever do you mean?" I asked in my best approximation of innocence.
Everyone, even Joan, rolled their eyes at me.
Alex looked at Emo, and Emo looked at me, tilting his head slightly so that he was 'looking down' at me even though he was only 15 and shorter than I, "Okay Dad. See, it‘s like this. The older we get, the more my sister and I look like you and mom—I mean Joan. Ben Bobb Junior‘s been joking us every chance he gets since the PTA meeting last month."
"That kid Ben‘s a juvenile delinquent," I snapped. "Who cares what he thinks? He'll be behind bars the moment he's 18!"
"Bruce," Alex put up her free hand to pause me. She didn‘t call me 'Dad.' "Please try and stay on the subject."
I looked at Joan and thought her confused expression probably matched my own.
"The kids at the bus stop joke us about it all the time. People give us funny looks when we go out in public as a family," Emo explained. "Alex and I can see them whispering to one another, gossiping."
The more Emo spoke, the more I thought this was sounding rehearsed, very rehearsed. "They act as if they know something scandalous about our family, some kind of inside joke. It‘s like when dad jokes someone for wearing a bad toupee."
"Or Mom knocks someone‘s breast implants," Alex added.
Emo nodded, "It‘s like everyone in the world thinks you‘re trying to pull a fast one. It‘s like you think you‘re really clever, but everyone sees the obvious."
Emo paused dramatically.
-3-
