The Body Institute

by Carol Riggs

  The Kowalczyks’ house.

  Their home isn’t an apartment at all. It’s practically a mansion, decked out with gables, pillars, and windows galore. And these look like real windows. In my megacomplex, outer window units cost more, which is why we have a screenpic instead that alternates from beach scenes to forests to tropical fish. I wonder if the Kowalczyks’ windows actually open to let in outside air. That would be stellar. The windows at Blair’s luxury apartment don’t even do that, since she’s way up on the twenty-sixth floor.

  In front of the house, an automower cuts a stretch of lawn that must be real grass, not artificial turf. I’ve never seen this much green growing outside a city park.

  The car glides into a garage, and Dr. K. orders the vehicle to stop. He turns to his wife. “I’m heading upstairs to work. Can you show Morgan around and have Nettie send up lunch?”

  “Of course, Charles.” Mrs. K.’s stiff posture contradicts the agreeableness of her words. “Follow me, Morgan.” She aims for a door while Dr. K. vanishes into an elevator pod.

  I nab my new phone and try to keep up. Inside, I walk into a spacious dining room in which a classy chandelier hovers above a table flanked by high-backed chairs. Cream-colored tiles grace the floor. Through an archway, I glimpse the curve of a stairway leading to the second floor. I have a feeling the faster elevator pod is used more than the stairs.

  “Lights on,” Mrs. K. says, and the chandelier springs to glittering life. “Please call Nettie to the dining room.”

  She seems to be speaking to a house system computer. Very cool.

  A large painting of a banquet hangs on the wall by the dining table. In dabs of colors so thick I can almost taste them, a feast spreads out before my eyes. Hot buttered rolls that are toasted golden brown. Roasted chicken, olives both green and black, bowls of steaming potatoes, plump links of sausages. Crisp lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers. And to top it all, a juicy apple pie sits in the center, like a queen surveying her minions.

  The food looks insanely real. My insides gnaw themselves to shreds, like sharks in a sudden feeding frenzy. I wonder if I felt this hungry when I was in Shelby’s body.

  A gnome-faced woman about five years older than Mom appears in the archway, crinkles forming at the edges of her eyes and mouth as she smiles. She cradles a bag of potatoes. “Is this Jodine’s new trainer?”

  “This is Morgan Dey, the Reducer.” Mrs. K.’s words sound rushed. “Morgan, this is Nettie Reynolds, our chef and housekeeper.” As Nettie shifts her potatoes and shakes my hand, Mrs. K. adds, “Nettie, please show Morgan around and send up lunch for Charles and myself. We’re both extremely anxious to get back to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. K. crosses the floor to the elevator pod, which swallows her and her rose-colored heels in a flash. Nettie—not seeming to mind I’ve been unceremoniously dumped on her—motions to her right with a jerk of her head. “The kitchen is this way.”

  I shadow Nettie through an autodoor. She dumps the potato bag onto a counter island and swats at a floating green robot. The bot is round and a few inches thick, the size of my hand.

  “Scat!” she tells it. “Go filter someplace else. Higher.”

  With a soft noise that sounds like a purr, it ascends, oddly childlike. I watch it rise. It must be an airbot. I’ve never seen one in real life, only holographic ones on TV.

  The cavernous rumblings of my stomach echo into the room. Nettie points a knowing finger. “I heard that. Never fear, I’ve fixed you lunch. We’ll eat first and tour later.”

  “Thanks.” I check out the marble counters and sunshine-yellow walls while Nettie slips two plates into a small elevator shaft and voice-sends them upstairs. A cinnamon-red sink by a window overlooks a backyard, framed by red-striped curtains. The kitchen even has a garbage incinerator like the ones the government puts in public places.

  I close my gaping mouth with a snap. “Gorgeous kitchen.”

  “Mrs. Kowalczyk let me redecorate it a few years ago. I like my kitchen to be a cheery place.” Nettie winks. “Now, I hope you like roast beef sandwiches. Jodine does.”

  “Do you mean the thin-sliced packaged beef, or SpeedMeal beef sandwiches?”

  She gives a chuckle that almost sounds like a guffaw, and slides two plates of sandwiches onto the counter island. “Neither. Homemade bread with leftover roast beef that’s been simmered with onions, garlic, and sherry. Don’t worry, it fits in with the dietary list that the Institute sent. I’m going to enjoy introducing you to some truly tasty food.”

  I sit on a stool covered by a bright red cushion and check out my thick sandwich. Is this roast beef fattier than what goes into a SpeedMeal sandwich? Is that why Jodine gained weight? I watch Nettie take a monstrous bite of the other sandwich, and shrug. I do need protein, calories, and healthy carbs to work out, and Nettie and Jodine’s parents eat this food and aren’t overweight. I just need to practice moderation.

  Besides, the urgings of my new body’s stomach have already drawn my hand to the plate almost before I realize it’s there.

  Chapter 8

  Hands on Jodine’s hips, I survey the horde of stuffed animals on her flowered comforter. Bears, giraffes, cats, and puppies lounge there, with a dragon and two parrots thrown in. Who knows how Jodine sleeps here. There’s barely room. Sure, I’ve owned my share of stuffed animals, but I exiled them to a bin in my closet years ago. At thirteen, Blair, Krista, and I redecorated our rooms with gaming maps, earring trees, and star constellations.

  “Sorry, you guys are history,” I inform the animals and begin moving them to the window seat. I’ll return them to the bed at the end of my assignment.

  The furry critters have a great view from their new location. Trees, hedges, and emerald lawns. I pause to play with the voice-activated openers for the windows and blinds, letting cool autumn air flow into the room. The breeze is exhilarating, although it produces an appearance of the round green airbot from a vent near the vaulted ceiling. It drifts above my head, busily extracting pollen and dust from the invading air.

  When I complete the stuffed-animal migration, I explore the walk-in closet.

  Decently cute and fashionable clothes. Plus-sized, obviously, but quality-made. However, nothing looks like it fits my current body except the faded navy sweats I wear. That makes the nifty wardrobe coordinator on the wall totally worthless. I turn to leave and catch my reflection in a full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door.

  The eyes reflected there widen. My new body is broad, with lots of extra padding. I have light brown hair to my waist, with curls cinched as tight as a poodle’s. How will I wash and comb that for the next six months? And wow, the freckles sprinkled across my face. This whole body seems overrun with freckles. Poor Jodine. I wonder if her curvy, wide mouth has ever been kissed.

  My gaze drifts up. Above the closet doorway hangs a picture of an indistinct cluster of purple grapes, a crooked white vase, a petrified pear, and two plastic-looking apples. I step closer. The picture has brush strokes like an actual painting. It’s an odd place to hang a picture, where no one can see it.

  There’s also a trio of initials huddled in one corner. Before I can decipher them, a scene flashes in my mind. It’s the window seat in the bedroom, with a canvas and an array of paint tubes scattered across the cushion. Sketchy gray lines indicate skeletons of fruit and a tall vase. A hand holds a paintbrush. My hand. A blob of red wavers at the end of the paintbrush, and I dab it onto an apple outline.

  My first spot of color. Blatant. Frightening.

  Thrilling.

  The painting in the closet whips back into focus. My initials in the corner sag, as if leaning on each other for support: JNK.

  Jodine Nora Kowalczyk.

  I drop my gaze to my hand and shake my head. No, not my hand. Not my initials, either. Weird, how I imagined Jodine painting that still life. That’s so not supposed to happen. All her memories should be neatly canceled out of this body. I sure hope there
wasn’t a glitch in the ERT procedure.

  Wait, wait. How do I know Jodine’s middle name?

  Is that a memory, too?

  No…that’s impossible. I bet Leo told me, or I read it in my briefing file. But whether Jodine’s middle name is Nora or not, I’m afraid the painting isn’t a very good one. Some people just aren’t artistic.

  I leave the closet. That freakiness about the painting aside, what I need to do now is throw myself into some serious weight loss. No one expects me to start officially working out until tomorrow, the first of October, but looking in the mirror has motivated me to get a head start.

  I find a hair tie, contain some of the kinky mass hanging down my back, and leave Jodine’s room. Nettie has some lively music going, along with kitchen-related clinks and clanks. A smoky, meaty aroma drifts through the living room. Nettie must be making early dinner preparations. It smells a little too heavenly.

  I’d better not let Jodine’s stomach get any ideas. I flee to the downstairs rooms.

  For the next twenty minutes, I use the Kowalczyks’ personal gym, working myself into a sweat on various resistance machines. My arms and legs tremble as I grab an electrolyte drink from a wall fridge and stagger out the door. Next to the gym is a huge room like the grocery section of a superstore, filled with rows of chilled produce, bright jars of liquids, and freezers filled with who-knows-what. Necessary stuff, I guess, for a chef who cooks food the Basic way.

  During her tour, Nettie also showed me a third room down here, which promises to be the best one in the house: the game room.

  I can’t help grinning as I enter. A HoloSports Center takes up one wall, with image selectors for 3-D bowling, tennis, baseball, and boxing. Two chairs border a table for voice-activated holo-chess, checkers, and cards. A karaoke machine and a synchronized sound system sit next to that.

  I’m so gonna like it here.

  In a comfy chair at the karaoke machine, I scroll through the computer list until my heart stops pounding, and I cool off. I select one of my favorite songs. Drumbeats careen into the room from hidden wall speakers, and I punch a button to generate a 3-D audience. Tapping my foot, I sing a line as the technoguitars join in. A crashing thrill leaps in my chest. This girl has an incredible voice! Rich, resonant, and velvety. It gives me the absolute freaking shivers.

  Too bad Mom can’t hear me. She’d be impressed.

  I finish the song. The audience, set to react to the singing quality, gives me a standing ovation. As the background track and applause fade, I lower the microphone and catch a glimpse of my new body. The wondrous spell fades.

  Oh, creepy. I let myself get carried away, big time.

  I shudder. Being able to sing like that is really cool, but it’s way warped. I’m much too different from my usual appearance and off-tune-singing self. I need something familiar, a hint of Morgan Dey. Maybe some fresh outside air for my next round of exercise. I toss my bottle into the recycle chute and trudge back upstairs. Nettie sits at the kitchen island reading recipes on a reader screen, her reddish-brown hair pulled into a short ponytail. Something sizzles in a pan behind her.

  “What’s that?” I walk over and peer into the pan. The aroma wafts into my nostrils like a siren song made for noses. My stomach roars approval.

  “I’m sautéeing onions and mushrooms. Want to give them a stir?”

  I grab a nearby spoon and stir like I know what I’m doing, my salivary glands going into turbodrive. “Hey, is there a city park nearby for variety in my exercising, and do you think it’s okay with the parents if I go? I don’t think Leo expects me to be stuck in the house all the time.”

  Nettie twists to look at me. “You sure are different from Jodine. The park isn’t far. At the gate, turn left and walk one block, then turn right and walk three blocks. I’ll double-check with Mrs. Kowalczyk before you go.” She hits an intercom button on a panel near the food elevator.

  “Yes?” comes Mrs. K.’s voice, sounding more than a little impatient.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Nettie says. “Morgan wants to know if she can walk to the park. Does she need to check in with you or Dr. Kowalczyk when she goes somewhere?”

  “Not as long as she notifies you where she’s going, abides by her contract, and doesn’t leave the Green Zone. Except for her weigh-ins at the Red Zone, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Nettie signs off and turns to me. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour, if you can be back by then.”

  “No problem.” I escape before I snatch a savory mushroom right from the pan.

  The Green Zone’s North Park looks a lot like the park by my megacomplex at this time of year. Benches, bushes, and winding paths meet me there. Rust-hued leaves cling to the trees. A scattering of loose leaves lie on the ground, not yet scooped up by the sweeperbots that emerge in the pre-dawn hours.

  With my phone’s exercise app turned on, I try to jog around the path, but the effort comes out more like a bouncing walk. My knees ache. My lungs go into hard labor. Feeling winded and as heavy as concrete, I slow to a careful walk.

  A man and his leashed dog approach me, trotting in tandem. I nod hello. The man passes me as though I’m a dull hologram. Another thirty yards ahead, three teenage girls sprawl across a bench. They’re howling like a pack of wolves, while a fourth girl wearing retro glasses tosses an electronic boomerang disc across the grass, out and back, out and back. None of them have the radically pierced, razor-shaved appearance of Edge chicks, yet something about their postures seems brash and hazardous. A bleach-blonde on the bench looks my way. Her arm springs out into a rigid point.

  “You, Monstro!” she yells. “Didn’t Noni tell you to stay clear of this part of the Zone?”

  My steps falter as the other girls swivel in unison, affixing me to the path with their stares. It sounds like these girls know Jodine. Not good.

  The girl with glasses raps her fist on the disc. “Yeah, I told her, Tibs. Looks like she has a bad memory.”

  Biting back a snappy retort, I resume walking. I’d better ignore these girls. Not only is fighting prohibited under my contract, I’m not exactly inhabiting a body that can fight back. Or sound tough, for that matter—not with this melodic voice. Heck, I probably can’t even run far if things get dicey.

  Tibs, the bleach-blonde, uncoils from the bench and strolls toward the path. “The North Park is off limits, Kowalczyk. You hurt our eyes. Bad enough we have to look at you in class, let alone on break. Just because you can afford to pay your tax fines doesn’t mean you can flaunt your fat body in public.”

  “I’m leaving now,” I say, trying to sound calm.

  “You’re leaving, all right,” Noni drawls, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “But first we’re gonna teach you a lesson, and beautify the park while we’re at it.” She gives a wicked grin, drops the boomerang disc, and pulls something slender from her jeans pocket. “Right, girls?”

  The others chuckle and whoop, loping across the grass toward me.

  My heart does a hard double flip. I don’t wait to see what Noni pulled from her pocket. I break into a clumsy, heaving run.

  Chapter 9

  Stomping footsteps and feral howls of glee pursue me down the park path. Adrenaline spikes through my body. I gulp sharp breaths and toss a look at a security camera posted on a light post. Will I be attacked and bloody before auto-intervention kicks in and Enforcers are alerted?

  “JO-dine, JO-dine,” one girl chants behind me, while the others hoot and make wolf calls.

  A pain in my side increases. I try to go faster but can’t get past a rapid walk. Noni and her pack lag behind, obviously not trying hard to catch me. They’re toying with me, relishing my panic.

  I shriek as one of them yanks on the hem of my sweatshirt. A handful of something scratchy and crackling gets stuffed underneath, next to my skin. Another handful scrapes me at my neckline. Ouch, what the—

  Leaves. Dead, dried leaves.

  “Stop it, you android losers!” I
yell as they herd me off the path. They cram more leaves under my clothes and shove some into my hair. They laugh, pushing and pulling on me. I stumble. They press me the rest of the way down, rolling me face-up. Two of them drape themselves across my arms while Noni bends over with the object she pulled from her jeans pocket. She snaps the cap off and waves the object in my face.

  A tube of glaringly red lipstick.

  I thrash. Better than a switchblade, but not something I want to be assaulted with. I work one arm free and swipe it at Noni, sending the retro glasses flying across the grass. Tibs leaps closer and helps pin down my arm. I kick, but my legs are as useful as a pair of worms dangling from an apple.

  Noni gives a bark of a laugh. “You’re feistier than normal, J.” She attacks with the lipstick, scrawling and scribbling across my face and down my neck. “Oooh, much better,” she says in a waspy voice.

  Her pack titters. Noni caps the lipstick and hops off to retrieve her glasses while the others release my arms. They scamper away, their rowdy laughter reverberating around the trees and across the park grounds.

  Lying on my back, I gulp for breath. When I can speak, I ravage the autumn air with a few expletives. Then I sit up with a groan and pull crackly leaves from under my sweats by the handfuls, and shake more from my hair. Disgusting, not to mention humiliating. Being helpless like this sucks. All the control over my body and my life, stripped away in a single instant. At the complete mercy of those girls’ twisted whims.

  I blink back some tears, finding it annoying I have them in the first place. I’ve never been this low on the social ladder before. Talk about the mucky basement bottom. I can’t believe Jodine has to put up with this kind of thing.

  I don’t know why those girls think they can boss Jodine around, or treat her like she’s worthless. I’m out here trying to exercise and help her be thinner. They could’ve just ignored me. Jodine should’ve warned Leo and me about the girls in her disclosure report, or at least about not venturing into the North Park. I should report this incident. There are rules about this sort of thing.