Has anyone ever told you "You're one in a million" ? They meant it as a compliment, I'm sure. A kind remark about your stunning personality, your unique conversation, your fantastic achievements. Or maybe they were just being a sarcastic little bitch. What ever the case, depending on who you are, you either brightened up because, aw, aren't they so sweet for saying that, or else you snarkily remarked on the fact that there are currently 7 billion people on Earth, meaning there are a thousand other people exactly like you.
You thought you were being sarcastic. You thought you were being funny and clever and mathematical. You thought you were wrong.
That's what the government wants you to think.
When was the last time you looked closely at any kind of census, or record made by scientists studying population? You might notice some trends. I, for example, appear on the US census 320 times, but I'm sure I have duplicates in Britain, Canada, Europe, all over the world. People who look just like me, think just like me, and for the most part, have the same name as me. I noticed a few Bernice Leslie Flatts-s and Leslie Beatrice Flatts-s and other variations, but we are still the same person. In fact, at the moment I was investigating, a hundred other Leslies were as well. And then I got an email - lo and behold, one of them had successfully guessed my email address, as it was one they had considered before finding out it was taken. I forwarded it, and the word spread through the Leslies. I was on a quest to find myself.
We pooled our cash and rented out a conference hall in Arkansas, because it was the first place we all thought of, further proving our connection - we all said, "Arkansas - it's the middle of nowhere" followed immediatley by: "Poor Arkansas, I always pick on it."
When we all arrived, we were ... well, not exactly astonished. It was pretty much what we were expecting. 476 girls, nearly identical except for the kinds of scars, tan lines, and other markings originating from outside factors. It was like standing in a herd of zebras, each with subtle differences, who were all incapable of remembering said differences due to a shared bad memory for faces. But then came the important deciding moment, when we all had the same thought and attempted to rush to the stage. We froze, realizing, and thirty Leslie's shouted, "Green shirt by the stage. Get up there!"
Automatically, that one became our official leader, recognizable by the olive green shirt she wore and.. actually, nothing else. Her hair was in braided pigtails, a minority style that day, but still common enough for around 80 of us to have done our hair like that. They must have been the ones who were there early and had time for such things. Her earrings were nondescript tiny silver hoops, and her watch matched my own - purple and water proof. In short, she was Leslie Bernice Flatts, and she was standing on the stage, holding a microphone, and voicing everyone else's thoughts.
"So, the question is," she began without preamble, "what do we do? Do we tell the world, or should we keep in secret?" The rest of us all tried to answer, and then realized what would happen. The room went from incredibly loud to nearly silent instantly. We looked around at ourselves and giggled.
Leslie-onstage took charge again. "It could be hard to tell the world. It doesn't seem dangerous or imediately pressing, but I think we think we have a moral obligation. We should get the word out quietly, and let everyone else draw there own conclusions, right?" The Leslie crowd nodded in sync. "Right. So, I know I have a Wattpad account. Does anyone else here write online, or in a magazine or something?" The entire room raised their hands. Leslie-Onstage grinned in satisfaction. "Then that's what we'll do. 400 or so accounts of our meeting, probably identically written, most likely taken as fiction, will be written up and spread around. The world can make up it's mind from that."
It was what we were all thinking, so there were no dissenters; we just needed her on the stage to do the thinking outloud and formulate a plan.
Leslie-Onstage turned to other matters as our identical minds realized our other challenge. "I know me," she said, "so I'm assuming that means I know all of you as well. And if you're thinking what I'm thinking, you've realized that if we all split up and go back to our normal lives, we'll be living boring, nearly identical lives. So the only way to avoid that, is to all live together. That will force us to be individuals."
"Or drive us all crazy!" the crowd shouted.
Leslie-Onstage grinned, the same slightly crooked grin that adorned my face and those all around me. "Aren't we already?"
And so here I am, in my apartment in the new town of Flatts. It was a tiny town - population 516 - and it didn't take much to overpower the mayor and the citizens and convince them to give up and move away. We were nice about it, for the most part - most of them were bored and wanted to move to the city anyway.
We've gotton settled in nicely. A commision repainted the water tower with "Flatts". We schedule time for chores and online school, leaving plenty of time for writing and reading. The library had to be moved into a larger building with all our combined books.
All around me, Leslies are choosing new names and defining their identities. My roommates are called Lez, Lee, and Bea. I know a Leah, a Berni, a Nice, a B Flatt, a Nys, a Lys, an Elle, and a Bebe, and I'm still trying to learn everyone else's name. Leslie-from-onstage is now commonly known as Miss President. I managed to hang on to Leslie B. We ended up with naming sign up sheets taped to the mayor's house, now shared by six Leslie's, and a line to sign going halfway down the block.
There was a brief 'stand out' movement, lasting about two days, during which time the entire town wore black and too much badly-applied make up. It was hysterical. We've gone back to being ourself now, and it's perfect. You can nearly always predict what some one is going to do next, we rarely disagree, and when some one's different, it's a pleasant surprise.
Right now my roommates, Les, Lee, and Bea, are all on their own laptops, writing their accounts of our discovery. All through the town, all I can hear are the sounds of keyboard keys clacking in rhythym, as we type our shared story from our own points of view. it's a nice night; I think I'll go for I walk. I'll probably run into myself on the way.
Just remember, when you see six, seven, thirty four of these stories on this site, and more on others - this is not a hoax. You are one in a million, whether you like it or not. Good luck finding yourself. This is a Leslie B Flatts, signing off. You've been warned.
