Grappling with the philosophical reality of clones is a trope as old as sci-fi. Teaming up with them comes up a lot. Killing them, too. But outsourcing killing your clones to another clone is a new one, and with a book a fun as Thirteen Ways to Kill Lulabelle Rock by Maud Woolf, I’m. Here. For. It.

Thirteen Ways to Kill Lulabelle Rock gives us the Born Sexy Yesterday trope from the point of view of the woman herself, and unencumbered, moreover, by any male love interest. (Love obligation?) Lulabelle—our Lulabelle, mercifully narrating in the first person to sidestep the potential confusion—wakes up to existence on page one, “born” into the body of a sex kitten. She’s got platinum hair, strawberry lips, and a kill list waiting in her expensive new car.

Also, a headache.

Yes, the first and immediate sign of Lulabelle’s interiority is pain, a tone-setting reminder that appearances are deceptive at best. But this pain is ignored (there’s a great metaphor for you, if you want it, but if you don’t, you can just keep reading) in favor of business: Lulabelle must die. No, not our narrator. And no, not the mirror-image of her sitting across the table. The other ones.

Original Lulabelle tasks our narrator with destroying all the other versions of herself that are running around in Bubble City. The clones, called Portraits, have been doing their various jobs, but now it’s time for them to go.

Lacking any other context or motivation by design, our Lulabelle gets to work. But even before she pulls out on the road—even before she makes it to the outskirts of Bubble City, she begins to have questions. Is she really going to do this to the other clones? What will it do to her? And what even is her favorite flavor ice cream?

There was a lot of potential for this book to become heavy-handed or, in the opposite direction, a little too action-obsessed. I’m glad Woolf resisted all these impulses and let the plot carry the action and the philosophy both. Everything moves at a steady clip and in remarkable harmony, Lulabelle’s emotional development, insights, and skills all growing in a very natural way.

The world of Bubble City lives and breathes around and beyond Lulabelle as she takes on her thirteen missions, a high-rise version of Hollywood reflected in a futuristic funhouse mirror. Woolf works well with what goes unsaid as much as what’s explained, giving the impression that Bubble City has far more secrets than any number of Lulabelles could ever hope to uncover. It’s a little triumph, the way she’s able to give the city more myths than history, a city of hints well suited to the tale. It implies with its size and stratum that there’s so much more for everyone, but especially Lulabelle, to see and do and become.

There’s something of Everything Everywhere All at Once in the sense that Lulabelle gets to see how she might have turned out if given different instructions or opportunities. Over the course of a few adrenaline-fueled days, Lulabelle sees how a suburban family, a perpetual nightlife, an incessant socialite schedule, and many more options would have treated her. With all of these options to consider,  who is the “real” Lulabelle? In a world of acting peopled by a small army of clones, what even is real?

Woolf doesn’t hammer us over the head with this point, she just lets it be interesting, and lets the implied answers be interesting too. Choice. Love. Art. Passion. Any stray curiosity or impulse that makes you different. The book gives you options and let you decide.

There’s a truly lovely meditation on difference here, too, a sweet reminder that sameness may draw us together, but difference is what keeps us coming back.

When you are born (sexy) yesterday and written by a woman, you still want explanations. And you still have desire. But Woolf separates those intrinsic needs from the high-octane, high-mansplain world of action by making the

The moral complexity is increased by some of the clones’ ambivalence about their own existence. Their reactions to Lulabelle’s arrival are a very wide array, much more emotionally interesting than uniform defiance as a pipeline to fight choreography. There’s sorrow, resignation, and relief to be found, but also fury, scorn, and even strange strains of glee. And of course—compassion. Kindness from yourself is often the hardest thing to come by, and to watch the tentative tenderness of one Lulabelle toward another is an odd delight.

This book is fun and smart and kind, and really, I just enjoyed it so much. I really did. And at a sensible 224 pages, Thirteen Ways to Kill Lulabelle Rock is the perfect accompaniment to a either a cozy day indoors or an afternoon in the sun. Or really anywhere. Ideally, have some ice cream along with it. Doesn’t matter what flavor, as long as it’s your favorite.

Thirteen Ways to Kill Lulabelle Rock is available now.