Regenerate

by Emily Goldthwaite

  I glare at the back of his head and cough from the small cloud of dust his wheels are kicking up. The path inclines so I pedal harder. “Haunt me.”

  He shakes his head, his wavy locks blowing in the breeze. “Only in your mind. It’s just stored images and data, Averi. The haunting part is all you.”

  He slows and I ride up next to him. “Don’t you ever get haunted by the past?”

  Lander brings us to a stop where the road dead-ends amidst a stand of tall, slender trees. He rests his arm across his handlebars, staring at me evenly. “Nope. No need. I don’t care enough to lug my past around like my favorite suitcase of ‘uber-special’ hurts.” He shoots me a smug grin.

  What a jerk! My mouth drops open and I hold up my hand as if to push back his insult. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. I mean, you don’t even know me!”

  He’s still smiling, and I’d really like wipe it off his face with my balled first.

  “Not knowing you is probably why I can see you best.” He taps next to his eye. “No filter.”

  I buzz my lips. “No kidding.” My arms cross and I set my jaw. “So, Mr. All-Observant, what do your filterless eyes see?”

  He slips off his bi-ped so that he’s standing mere inches from me and holds my gaze. “A beautiful girl who’s starving for human connection, to the point that you’re terrified to actually get it. So you push it away. Forcefully, I might add.” He glances me over once.

  I can feel the color trying to rise up my neck. “I don’t push connection away.”

  His lips pull down in one corner, his voice dripping with cynicism. “Oh really? Have you asked your buddy Raxtin about that?” He jabs his thumb in the direction of school.

  Something deep inside my gut flares and my face twists into a hardened scowl. “You don’t know anything.”

  Lander walks his bi-ped forward into the trees. “I’d bet that’s really why you screamed—or should I say, shrieked—that first night, when I put my hand on yours.” His tone lifts at the end, leaving his statement with an unfinished quality.

  I follow him at a brisk, stomping pace. “No, I screamed for a different reason. But that’s none of your nosy business.”

  “Sure,” he says, drawing out the word. “I don’t buy it. No matter what you’ve convinced yourself of.”

  A pair of tall, frosted glass doors are recessed into the hillside ahead and set in a very organic-looking building face. What a random place for a building. There’s no label to indicate where the doors lead, and I don’t recall ever seeing this place before.

  Lander parks his bi-ped off to the side of the doors, hidden behind some trees.

  I park mine next to his. “Where are we?”

  He studies the doors a moment then looks at me. “You’ll see. Just try to keep up.” He smirks and twitches his brow up once.

  I’m not letting him have the last word on our previous conversation, no matter what weird building he’s brought me to or how charming he pretends to be.

  I plant my hands firmly on my hips. “I can keep up just fine. And about what you said before, I’ve got a whole group of friends, Lander. I’m not starving for connection.”

  He rolls his eyes like he’s got something to say about that but isn’t sharing, and heads for the doors.

  I follow. “Besides,” I add, picking up my pace so we’re walking side by side, “who ever said I even want connection to begin with?”

  “Oh, you want it.” He reaches over and tests the handles on the doors, but they’re locked. So he starts searching around. “Humans need connection,” he continues. “It’s part of what makes us human. That’s not the question you should be trying to figure out, though.” He stops his searching to turn and stare at me again. “The real question you should be asking yourself is why are you afraid of it? What’s made you different from everyone else?”

  I blink several times, trying to really grasp what he’s saying. “I’m different?”

  He keeps talking, his eyes studying me the whole time. “Look, this society is all about outcomes and how to consistently produce the ones the Organizers want. Clearly, you staying single and solitary your whole life would never be in their plans. So, what threw you off their track?”

  My mind is both reeling and racing. Is what he said true? Do I crave and fear connection? If so, why doesn’t anybody else?

  Not until I realize the hillside we’re climbing up is actually the wall of that organic building do I begin to really question where the heck we are, and why he wanted to come.

  “Lander, no more ambiguous answers: what on earth is this place?”

  “This,” he says, crouching down and signaling for me to join him, “is where the magic happens. Come here, look.”

  I crouch beside him in an awkward squatting position. Man, this feels graceful. He slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close into his side. I freeze at the contact. His other arm extends outward, his finger pointing down to what looks like a hole in the ground about as big as two fists put together. There’s a faint light coming up from it, and it takes me a second to realize the hole is actually a window.

  We crawl forward and each take a turn peeking through the porthole-sized window. Inside are massive vats with rolling, tumbling water at their surface.

  “What is all that?” I ask, blinking to make sure I’m seeing things right.

  “I bet none of you ever even knew this was here, did you?” he says and glances at me.

  “I guess that depends on where here is.” I gesture to the forest around us.

  “This, I believe, is your village fishery. All those synthetic burgers and steaks you guys eat are actually a fish-based product.”

  “Ew, I hate fish!” Wow, that imagery just really makes me want to puke. “Why would they do that?” I feel an odd sense of betrayal.

  “Keeps things leaner, in theory. Fish are also one of the easiest, fastest meats to raise. But more than anything, it’s because they can control them, keep them in a sterile, closed-system environment.” He drops the arm that’s been around me and swallows. “Like I said, predictable outcomes.”

  I look down at the vats again and can see into a few of them. Enormous, iridescent blue and green fish swim aggressively in a tight circle, like a miniature tornado of life forms.

  “This is so cool!” I can’t believe I’ve lived here all my life and never knew about this.

  “Isn’t it? I had a hunch you’d like it.”

  I slide my gaze towards him. “How did you find it? It’s not on any of our maps.”

  He shrugs one shoulder, adopting a very smug smirk. “Guess my map is better than yours.”

  He looks over at me and our proximity makes me uneasy.

  I clear my throat and turn back to the window. “We had a whole week of units on fish one year. I wonder why they didn’t let us come here to see them in real life?”

  It’s his turn to look through the window. “Yeah, sure seems odd.” His voice is so flat, it almost sounds like he already knows the answer.

  Lander pushes up off the ground and I can’t help noticing the nice bulge of his biceps.

  “I’d better finish getting you home,” he says. “I only have an excused absence for social studies.” He offers me his hand and helps me to my feet. “Wouldn’t want the rumors to get too outrageous.” He gives me a blatant once-over and winks.

  I draw a quick breath and pull my hand out of his. He smiles, making my stomach do an unexpected flip. I turn on my heel and quickly head down the hill—er, building—for my bi-ped.

  “Yep, better get going then,” I call over my shoulder.

  I really don’t want to like Lander. He’s a flirt, and liking an avid flirt is just asking for heartache. Yet something inside tells me his flirting is a front, possibly even a decoy. The question is, what about himself is he trying to hide? And why?

  I turn off the automated greeting before I open our front door. If Mom doesn’t know I left school early, I’d rather not have to explain m
yself right as I walk in.

  I slip inside and make it halfway down the hall to my pod before I catch my name from a semi-familiar voice, coming out of Mom’s pod. I inch closer to the cracked-open door, trying to hear whatever it is they’re discussing. I bet it’s something like “Averielle was being dramatic and left school early today.”

  “We’ve been monitoring Averielle’s condition for some time now,” says the female voice. I think it’s my case handler, Donna. I haven’t heard from her since I finished my therapy sessions after Gran Ann died. “As of the last year and a half, she’s been failing to meet important adolescent milestones.”

  Adolescent milestones? Yeah right; my grades are fine.

  “What do you mean?” says Mom. She has that certain pitch in her voice, the one that means she’s double blinking.

  Donna keeps going. “Relationships, for example. All social, emotional and situational indicators predicted Averielle would form a romantic relationship with Raxtin Ray North by now. However, despite all the data and statistical probabilities, she has shown little to no interest in this, and even some resistance.”

  My breathing is getting louder and my whole upper body feels flushed with heat, clear into my ears. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. They’ve been tracking Rax’s and my friendship? For how long? Why would the Executive Organizers care about the dating habits of two teenage GAPs? Because we’re GAPs. That’s why.

  “I don’t think that’s too odd,” hedges Mom. “Maybe if Averi would try the dating app I sent her, or finally let me sign her up for E-match.love, I know she’d—”

  “Ms. Gouch,” says Donna, cutting her off. “We are not speaking of virtual romance. We are talking about physical, real world milestones.”

  I can almost hear Mom blink. “I don’t understand. E-match is real people. They guarantee it or your credits back.”

  There’s a sick twisting in my gut. But despite the mortification of listening to my behavioral dissection, something keeps me rooted in place. Are they saying I’m defective? Maybe Lander was right. I press my ear up next to the opening and try to quiet my steadily increasing breaths.

  Donna releases a long, drawn-out sigh. It sounds like she’s tapping her stylus on her desk. “To put it bluntly, Mrs. Gouch, we have assessed that Averielle is exhibiting signs of adolescent failure to thrive.”

  Chapter Six

  I think the temperature just dropped by ten degrees or more. Seriously, is there a window open? I’m not failing to thrive. That’s ridiculous.

  Mom gasps.

  There is a long pause. Then Mom’s voice starts again, low and firm. “No. That can’t be. I followed the literature exactly!”

  A sharp pain stabs the middle of my chest and I have to rub at it.

  “Mrs. Gouch—”

  “NO! This can’t happen to me. Not again.” Again? “When the other one died, it nearly ruined me!” Did she just say the other one? What other one? Another kid? “Once word got out, the social disgrace was unbearable. It was all over ImPulse , Chirpnews, AND Chatclap. It nearly drove me to take my life. Remember? Things only turned around when Alex convinced me to have another one.” Does she mean me? “But at my age I just can’t. I’m not in my fifties anymore, you know. This is–”

  “Mrs. Gouch, no one is saying you failed as a parent.”

  Because the obvious doesn’t need said. The word “disposable” keeps repeating in my head. I never realized it describes how Mom feels about me.

  Donna continues trying to placate Mom. “We feel Averielle isn’t coping well with the loss of your mother. Therefore, it would be best for everyone if we look into other options.”

  Too tight. My lungs are too tight. When I try to breathe deeply, it feels like water is gurgling in them. A coughing fit is building in my chest. I gotta move. I’m gonna get caught if I stay any longer.

  I sit on my bed, allowing the pent-up tears to roll down my cheeks and land where they will. I don’t try to wipe them. In my hands I squeeze then release the shears’ handles over and over, the motion and rhythm of it soothing, like always.

  I thought, all things considered, I’d been doing pretty well with Gran’s death. I don’t burst out sobbing at school anymore, and I barely even bring Gran up these days. What more would convince them I’m coping well? How do the other GAPs cope in “acceptable” ways, and yet I miss the mark?

  I don’t let the crying last long. If Mom or anyone tries to Face Chat with me, I don’t want them to know. I sit quietly for a moment, the gravity of the conversation soaking in.

  Mom said “when the other one died.” Was she really talking about another child? Did I have a sibling? Was it a sister or a brother? What happened to them? Are the stories we’ve all been told actually true? Did she let her own little baby starve? It’s one thing to think, Oh yeah, I can totally see her doing that. But it’s another to find out she actually did do that. My mind reels and it makes the room spin. I can’t think about this right now. Not till I know for sure. I drop my head in my hands until the spinning stops.

  I curl into a ball and lie on my side. My thoughts drift to what she said about Raxtin and me. Something in my stomach makes a painful knot. We were supposed to be together? What statistics was she talking about, and what does Raxtin know about this? Is that why he’s been a little weird lately? I bury my face in my pillow. If they actually talked to him about my “condition,” I think I’m gonna die.

  In my head, the last few days of our interactions involuntarily replay. I smack my head against my mattress several times, since my brain seems to lack a mute, pause, or stop button. Then I remember the potting soil I brought home yesterday. I jump up and feel around under my bed till my fingers brush the bag. My eyes scan the room. I know I left a cup in here this morning. I snatch that as well and retrieve the stem of the plant.

  I position it upright in the cup. Then, carefully, I pour and press the soil around the base of the plant. Living greenery, especially the unmodified kind, has an elegant, peaceful beauty about it.

  When I’m done, I look down at my dust-covered hands. At school, they once mentioned that when things die, their bodies decompose into dirt. Glancing at my hands again, a shiver runs through me. I jump up to go wash them off.

  I scrub my hands thoroughly with soap, then stop and stare into my own eyes in the mirror. There’s gotta be some part of me that shows I’m my mom’s child, that we share DNA and not just a residence. I press my palms to my cheeks and pull downward, contorting my face. Mom and I look so different from each other. She has narrow blue eyes, while mine are wide and a rich, deep brown. How much of me came from my father? I can’t believe she said his name—Alex.

  I’ve only heard my bio-dad’s name once or twice ever. But she said it like she actually knew him. Was it possible she did? Maybe she even met him, like in person. I make a face at myself in the mirror. You’d think I was six years old again. Grow up and stop fantasizing, Averi. The Lost Generation don’t even discuss their biological contributions to us GAPs, let alone meet up with each other. Heck, the lack of physical interaction is why the human race nearly went extinct.

  My pocket vibrates and Ivi’s voice echoes in the bathroom. “Incoming chat from: Mom.”

  I wipe my cheeks one last time to make sure all traces of my tears are gone, then I take a deep breath. Pretend to be fine. I’m coping perfectly. I didn’t hear anything about my dad, a possible sibling, or my own emotional decline. Everything is normal. I try to smile, and turn to check it in the mirror.

  Oh man, I hope she’s really distracted. I look like an ancient gargoyle with a dorky smile glued to its face.

  Ivi’s voice echoes the message again.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Shake it off, Averi. “Ok. Receive.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Raxtin asks me for at least the third time this hour.

  We’re dissecting sprouted seedlings today under a micro-zoom, and no matter how I adjust the specs, I can’t see anything but mottled
fuzz.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” I squint harder and type in the reset code again, but it’s still blurry.

  “Any better yet?” he asks, looking through his micro-zoom.

  “Ugh!” I growl and shove myself back in my air chair. “It won’t focus.” More like I won’t focus, but it’s creating the same problem for my eyes.

  Raxtin slides his chair closer to me, a doubtful pinch between his brow. “Let me try, Averi.”

  I cross my arms and gesture towards the small glass device. “Be my guest.”

  He glances sideways at me before pulling over my square window lens and looking through it. “Yeah right you’re fine,” he murmurs to himself.

  It’s cool he can tell I’m lying, but at the same time, not cool. What am I supposed to tell him? Any topic of the conversation I overheard with Mom is pretty much off-limits. Come on, Averi, think of something or you know you’ll end up spilling the real beans.

  “I just feel anxious about the village birthday celebration this weekend. I mean, I used to love it, but now…” Um, where am I going with this? “Now it’s gotten awkward and weird.”

  “Why’s that?” he says, still typing in minute adjustments.

  Crap. You really didn’t pick a safe alternative. I twist my fingers around my wrists several times. “I think I’m just getting too old to enjoy it like I used to.”

  He gives a half grin and his dimple stands out in deep relief on his cheek. He looks over at me. “Too old? We just barely turned seventeen. I still enjoy my parties; why don’t you?”

  Because you’re dating someone, so you have a built-in escort and I don’t. Because you still have a Grand to give the yearly oratory about their feelings for you. Mine’s now an artificial voice with a generic script from the Organizers assuring me I’m still valued, even though no one’s around who actually cares. Pick one.

  Out loud I say, “I don’t know. It kind of feels empty and hollow.”