by Mike Driver
“I think so,” I said. “Can you hold on a minute?”
He smiled. “I’m here all night.”
I figured that Dad kept it in the strongbox in his desk, and I was right. The code to unlock it, Mom’s birth date, was the same as that used on our home security system.
Sure enough, my birthday was October 23, 2014. I was about to turn nineteen.
I hustled back to my room and held the form up to the screen. Wheelock scanned it.
“Let me talk to my emancipation expert,” he said, “and we can talk about first steps. Call me tomorrow at the same time.”
I hung up with butterflies in my stomach, and spent the rest of the night unsuccessfully trying to go to sleep.
“You didn’t!” Emma said.
“You were serious, right?” I said. “About coming to live with you? Because my attorney says that’s important.”
“Come home with me after school,” Emma said. “Might as well ask.”
I was so wound up I could barely sit still on the El ride to Emma’s house. Emma, on the other hand, seemed amused.
We found Mr. Rosa in the kitchen making tea.
Despite being best of friends, I had never been in the Rosa household. I knew that Emma was an only child, her mother having died in the Congo War when she was only two.
“Dad, this is my best friend, Claire,” Emma said.
Mr. Rosa smiled and extended his hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you,” he said. “Emma talks about you all the time.”
“The pleasure is mine,” I said.
Emma stepped in front of her. “Dad, we need to talk.”
He raised his eyebrows and waved toward the dining room table. We took places at it.
Emma took the lead. “Dad, Claire’s a ‘gressed. I know she looks my age, but she’s really eighteen.”
Mr. Rosa shook his head slowly. “I never would have guessed. I’m so sorry for you.”
“Her parents are going to retrogress her again next week, against her will.”
Mr. Rosa sighed. “What’s this world coming to?”
Emma told him about my plan to sue for emancipation. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That’s ingenious,” he said.
“That’s why we’re here,” Emma said. “To win the case, she needs to show the court that she has an alternative to living with her parents.”
“If she’s eighteen, she can live anywhere she chooses, can’t she?” He didn’t look happy at the thought.
“We figure the court won’t go for that, since her body and mind are only twelve. But if she had another family to live with, one that would guarantee that she could age year for year, it might make the court more likely to free her.”
“I see,” Rosa said. “You want me to guarantee to take her in if she’s emancipated?”
“Why not?” Emma said. “She’s a good girl, and you told me you would have had another child if Mom hadn’t have gotten killed.”
He looked at me. “What do you think, dear? You’re being very quiet.”
“I just want to grow up.”
He nodded. “That’s God’s plan. He didn’t mean for anybody to stay a child just because some drug company made it possible. You tell your attorney to contact me. If living with us is the best way to let you get on with your life, we’ll make it happen.”
His words put me on a high, but it didn’t last long after I left the Rosa household.
On my walk home, I thought over my situation. I resented the strictness with which I’d been raised and the ‘gressed thing. Gwen and Wade had kept a roof over my head, for sure, but I got the idea from watching my friends and their parents that there was something missing in my household. Nonetheless, I knew the lawsuit was going to be a huge blow to them.
Feeling morose, I pulled up a picture of Aaron on my wrister to remind myself what another retrogression was going to cost me.
I called Wheelock at the appointed time, when the house was quiet.
“I’m glad you called,” he said. “I talked this over with my partners and they agreed that we’d take your case on, with the understanding that if you win we’ll get paid out of your savings. Expect it to cost around $10,000. If we lose, although I can’t see that happening, we’ll eat the cost. It’s a bit of a gamble, but if we win, it could bring us a great deal of business.”
I explained that Mr. Rosa had agreed to let me live with his family, and passed along the contact information.
“That’s outstanding,” Wheelock said. He presented me with a contract, which I signed.
“So what’s next?” I asked, feeling a touch nauseous at the thought of what I’d done.
“The question is, what will you do if your parents agree to let you age? Are you still willing to go forth with your lawsuit?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Then let’s start with a letter to them, outlining your demands.”
Wheelock had the letter drafted by the next afternoon. I was surprised that I could understand most of it, given that it was a legal argument. I took a big swallow and added my signature. While I was walking home, it was delivered to my parents’ in-boxes.
I took the long way home, fearful of the reception I’d receive at home.
When I arrived, I walked into just the tableau I’d feared; both Gwen and Wade seated at the dining room table.
My father waved me into the room. “Take a seat, young lady,” he said, his voice measured and chill.
I slipped into a chair across from them, hands in my lap to hide their trembling. I kept my gaze on the tabletop.
“What do you think you’re doing?” my mother said, holding up her wrister, on which the letter was displayed. “How dare you take a family matter to a shyster?”
I was choked up. With difficulty, I said, “It’s just not fair.”
“Not fair?” my father said. “You get to relive a year when nothing goes wrong. You’re healthy, popular, capable. You have no idea how far wrong your life can go as you grow up.”
“You’re probably a year from puberty,” Gwen added. “Things get a whole lot less pleasant then.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue, although I didn’t spot any tears.
“You might think that twelve is perfect,” I said, “but it’s not. How would you like to lose all your friends every year?”
“Well, we’re not about to let you make your own decision just because some attorney is unethical enough to take on a twelve-year-old client,” Gwen said. “What kind of example would that set for Jacob?”
“Besides,” Wade added, “the whole industry is lined up to fight these lawsuits. You don’t have a prayer against them, and I don’t want to see my own daughter standing on the other side of the courtroom.”
I began to sweat. “I just want to be thirteen,” I said. “Can’t you see that?”
“You’re going in for retrogression a week from tomorrow, regardless of what this… attorney;” Wade looked like he wanted to spit; “has to say. Tell him to drop it, and do it now.”
I recognized his expression, knew that there was no hope for compromise there; if this didn’t work, I’d be sleeping in the closet until I was eighteen.
Although cowered, I drew on my small reserve of righteous indignation. “I won’t. You can’t keep me like some house pet. I have rights too, and it’s time you respected that.”
“Go to your room,” Gwen said. “You’re not going anywhere but school until you drop this whole charade.”
“Fine,” I said, holding back my tears.
“And leave your wrister,” Gwen said, holding out her hand.
As I pulled it off, my resolve was only strengthened. My parents may be stubborn, I thought, but I’d inherited the trait from them both, and I was damned if I’d give in.
I borrowed Emma’s wrister the next day and called Wheelock, expecting to leave a message. To my surprise, he answered. I was more certain than ever that he was virtual. I filled him in on my parent’s reaction.
He nodded
solemnly. “I’m not surprised. I’ll go ahead and ask for a court date. In the meantime, you need to act maturely, especially at school. They might call one of your teachers to testify at the hearing. Watch the public displays of affection, particularly. We don’t want the court to think it was a boy who put you up to this.”
Aaron didn’t understand about my lack of a wrister, much less my unwillingness to hang out with him after school. He sat with some of his buddies at lunch instead of me.
“This blows,” I said to Emma.
“It’s not going to be easy,” Emma said. “I asked Dad if you could move in now, and he said you had to wait for a court order. He wants everything to be legal and above-board.”
The word about my lawsuit spread around the school quickly, probably thanks to Aaron. A number of other ‘gressed kids made a point of congratulating me on my bold move. I hadn’t realized, until then, just how widespread among them the feeling of resentment was.
Wheelock called me on Emma’s wrister that afternoon after school. “The hearing has been scheduled for next week,” he said, “a day before your scheduled retrogression. We’re going to ask the judge for a restraining order for the retrogression and an immediate stoppage of your AgeHalt dosages.”
My parents barely spoke to me throughout the week leading up to the hearing. Wade made me take the El to court, rather than ride with them in the family car.
Wheelock was waiting for me in the courtroom. He was real, after all.
The preliminary hearing went quickly. Wheelock outlined my situation. Mr. Rosa took the stand to testify that he was willing to take me in. My parent’s attorney, an older woman with lacquered hair, talked at some length about the rights of parents. A representative of the industry testified about all the good it had done.
The worst part was when Wade took the stand. He testified to my immaturity, and mortified me to tears when he told about the time I’d snuck away from home and tried to have Barry’s name tattooed on my shoulder.
The judge kept glancing my way as the arguments unwound, but fortunately he didn’t ask me any questions, and I wasn’t forced to testify, since it was only a preliminary hearing.
After a brief recess, we returned to court to learn that the judge had decided the suit was worthy of a full court hearing. In the meantime, he acquiesced to Wheelock’s request for a stay of the retrogression and AgeHalt. To my delight, he also ruled that I could, if I so wished, live with the Rosas until the issue was settled. I was also permitted to pay Wheelock out of my savings.
I’d expected to feel more conflict about leaving home, but I saw my dad’s glare from across the room I knew it was the right move.
Mr. Rosa treated me very primly. I was on my best behavior, of course, since my case could go back to court in a minute if he kicked me out.
We celebrated my thirteenth birthday with cupcakes. Emma gave me a pair of earrings with the numerals 1 and 3 cast in silver.
“I’m really, finally thirteen,” I said. “I can hardly believe it.”
“How’s it feel?” Emma said.
“Amazing,” I said, then broke into giggles. “No difference, really.”
“If you’d been ‘gressed, there would be big differences. When we get to school tomorrow, go look at some sixth graders. Most of them are twelve.”
I looked at my narrow wrists. “I sure hope I can put on weight now. Maybe I’ll even grow some boobs.”
Emma, who had weight issues on the other side of the scale, just rolled her eyes.
After the court decision I’d told Aaron what was up, and he’d forgiven me for distancing myself. Now he was having to deal with me being older than him.
“Only a couple of months,” I said. “Nothing significant. We’re still in the same grade.”
He nodded. “Undoubtedly. Still, you seem… different somehow. This whole emancipation thing has made you more serious.”
I gave him a look. “Is that so bad?”
He shrugged. “You used to be more fun.”
“I’m still fun,” I said, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
Christmas break came late that year, and I found myself pining for my family, or at least the family as I wished they were. I sent Jacob a card and $10, but decided to wait and see if my parents made the first move toward making up. The day came and went without word from them. Worse, a couple of days before Christmas, Aaron abruptly quit communicating with me. He wouldn’t take my calls or respond to my texts.
When we returned to school after the holiday break, I waited outside his seventh-grade home room at the end of first period, but he never came out.
“Hey,” I asked Lyle, one of Aaron’s closest friends, as he slouched by. “Where’s Aaron?”
He rolled his eyes. “Back in sixth grade. The baby.”
“He got ‘gressed?” I almost dropped my tablet.
“He barely even knows me now,” Lyle said.
“But I thought…”
“So did he. I guess it must have come as a surprise. Some parents handle it that way, I hear; they don’t like to tip their hands, in case the kid does something wacky, like run away.”
I walked away in a daze.
I cut my biology class to hang around the cafeteria when the sixth grade had lunch. I spotted Aaron in line behind the Bennett twins.
I approached him from behind, took a deep breath and tapped on his shoulder.
He spun around. “Hey,” he said, looking quizzical. “You’re Claire, aren’t you? I’m sorry if I got that wrong; I was just ‘gressed.”
I could see in his eyes that I meant no more to him than a casual acquaintance, what we’d been when we were both in the sixth grade.
“What are you going to do?” Emma asked that evening.
I bit my lip for a moment. “What can I do? If I stay thirteen, Aaron and I will never hook up. I think I have to be ‘gressed too, then hope we reconnect.”
“Oh, brother. I’ve heard of chasing boys, but that’s rather extreme.”
I could almost taste the bitterness of the situation. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”
It was near the middle of the night when I finally gathered up the courage to compose a letter to Wade and Gwen. Trying to keep from sounding childish, I laid out an argument in the cold, rational terms that I knew my father would understand. If, I offered, they would agree to let me age the next year and thereafter, I would in turn agree to one more pass through the retrogression procedure. I would drop the lawsuit, and they would return my wrister and allowance.
To my surprise, Wade responded quickly. He must be having problems sleeping too. He didn’t seem to be missing me, though.
“You act as though this was a business negotiation, but it’s not,” he responded. “You can come home when you agree that your wellbeing is our decision, not yours. We may decide to retrogress you, or not.”
Even as a thirteen-year-old, I knew how petty he could be, and was sure that he’d do the opposite of whatever I wanted, just out of spite. His response made me so mad I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
I told Emma about my dilemma the next morning over breakfast. Mr. Rosa was still in bed.
“What can I do? I feel like I’m stuck now. I’ll never be able to get Aaron back.”
“Every setback opens an opportunity,” Emma said, “that’s what my dad says.”
I snorted. “That’s something you might believe if you were only twelve.”
“You think?” Emma got that far-away look in her eye for a moment, then said “Hold on.” She punched up her wrister and navigated to a picture I’d taken of me and Aaron a month before. She enlarged Aaron, turned the picture toward me.
“Take another look at the boy of your dreams. He’s twelve now, a young twelve. Is he still worth it?”
I leaded toward the picture. To my surprise, the more I focused on him, the more he looked… ju. ven. ile. I could feel something changing inside me. Maybe it was what thirteen-year-olds felt.
Emma looked
smug at the expression on my face. “Time goes by,” I said. “You know that Barry Filster just got ‘gressed, too? Turns out he’s thirteen again.”
She held up a photo of Filster, from the school play that fall.
Compared to Barry, Aaron was just a child. I was surprised to find that I was wondering what I’d ever seen in Aaron.
Perhaps being thirteen wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
THE ARMADILLO BURNS ANTHRACITE
by Chris Lynch
The cemetery on the hill had tall clouds of black smoke rising from it as Ray’s truck pulled into town, but that wasn’t unusual. This was Centralia, and everything here was either burning or falling down.
Ray brought the truck to a shuddering halt at the rendezvous point and checked his watch. The Armadillo was late.
From the back of the truck, there was movement. Awkward, jerking movement, followed by the cracking of bones and low, agonized moans. Ray’s cargo was pulling itself back together, stitching together broken bones and regrowing lost flesh. That was the problem with the undead; every time you killed them, they found it a little easier to come back. Practice made perfect.
Ray was about to turn on one of his gospel CDs when there was a sharp rap at the door. The Armadillo was standing outside, arms folded and looking like he’d been waiting there for days.
Ray wound down the window. The smell of burning hit him immediately, the acrid bite of hot coal mixed with the unmistakable odor of burning undead flesh. At least it masked the legendary musk of The Armadillo, who looked like he hadn’t seen a bath since the last time Ray had been here.
No more than five feet tall, the Armadillo was a strangely wiry creature. He was bald and clean-shaven, with skin that was wrinkled in a way that didn’t look like the result of old age. The Armadillo looked like he had once been a big man, but something unnatural had shrunk him down to what he was now, leaving his old skin wrapped around him like a secondhand coat. Ray didn’t know why he was called The Armadillo, but he’d heard a rumor that the guy had once dug himself out from a mine collapse with his bare hands. Depending on who told the story, he’d been underground for anything from two days to two weeks. Of course, if you listened to some people, it wasn’t his own hands he’d dug his way out with either.