Copyright © 2012, 2013, 2014
Smashwords Edition
The Girl Who Wasn’t
A New Adult version of Imitation
By
Heather Hildenbrand
Chapter One
Everyone is exactly like me.
There is no one like me.
I wrestle with these contradicting truths most nights while the rest of them sleep. Tonight is worse because Marla has left me a note to see her in the morning. No one sees Marla and comes back. Lonnie reminds me of this after she snatches the note out of my shaking hand and reads it for Ida, who promptly bursts into tears. No one speaks after that as we lie in our bunks counting the breaths until lights out.
In the bunk above me, I can hear Lonnie breathing steadily in and out. She’s not worrying herself out of a good night’s sleep. She’s not the one going to see Marla. Below me, Ida is quiet. I suspect she is awake, worrying, but I don’t call out. There is no talking after lights out, and even whispers carry in the sleeping room.
The sleeping room is a long rectangle with high ceilings and a bad echo. The walls are lined with triple-level bunk-beds. Everyone here is part of a trio. Lonnie says it’s because three’s a crowd. It creates diversity and therefore animosity. It discourages bonding that happens when there are only two. Ida tells her she’s wrong because the three of us have bonded just fine. I see both points. No one else seems as close as we are. But then no other trio has lasted this long.
I’ve been with Lonnie and Ida since I began. Most others have lost at least one of their threesome to a note from Marla, only to have them replaced by a stranger. Ages vary in Twig City, but the children are kept elsewhere so most new additions come in looking aged at least sixteen human years. The oldest I’ve seen is somewhere around fifty. There is no rhyme or reason to how long you’ll stay once you’re here. Could be a week, could be a year. I’ve been here five years. Training. Preparing. Waiting.
And now I have a letter.
The rough fabric of my cotton nightgown chafes so I lie very still and let my mind race. They say my discomfort comes from being built like one accustomed to niceties. How is that fair when I have never experienced anything but copies of the real thing? My entire life is an imitation.
I am an Imitation.
The constant hum of the building is annoying tonight. I’ve never experienced a moment of my existence without it. From the time the tubes were removed from my throat and air was forced into and out of my lungs, until my petri-grown organs learned to contract on their own, the humming overhead has been constant. They say it is the sound of life being poured through plastic piping and into the tiny tube-grown humans housed downstairs. Any other night, the humming is nothing more than white noise. Tonight it’s not a comfort. Nothing is.
All I can think of is Marla. And what comes after.
Some say she’s our creator—or our destroyer, but I don’t think so. I have a memory, hazy and made of a nightmare, of the day I woke and the first faces I saw. None of them were women. One man in particular stands out in the fog of that day. I can’t recall his features. It’s nothing more than a feeling, really, but the impression it left me with is one of utter fear. I am positive in a way that I can’t explain that our creator is this man.
Others say Marla is the gatekeeper. A walker between worlds, connecting us, the Imitations, to them. The humans, the womb-born, the Authentics.
I don’t know which is true. All I know is no one ever returns from meeting with Marla.
Across the pitch-dark room, a whisper is raised loud enough for an overseer to hear. They are the sentries, the silent guards who watch and wait, only intervening when a rule is broken or boundary overstepped. I hear the sure, swift falls of their feet as they make their way to the offending bunk and bark an order of quiet at whoever it was. Probably Clora. She’s newer and not great with structure. Lonnie speculates it is a trait from her Authentic. I hope not. If it’s part of her DNA, it won’t be easy to break the habit. She’ll be in trouble a lot.
Trouble in Twig City equals whatever thing you despise. Whether it came as part of your genetic makeup or something they discovered in your personality later, they’ll figure you out and punish you accordingly. If you hate cleaning, they’ll hand you a toothbrush and point you to a large tiled floor. If you hate being alone, you’ll spend time in solitary confinement. Mostly, they’ll just increase your daily exercise. Physical health promotes mental wellness. I’ve heard and said this mantra so many times I could recite it in my sleep.
The Overseer finishes her warning and exits the room, back to her monitoring booth full of cameras. The door latches with a soft click and all is silent again. It is a tomb aside from the sounds of oxygen being pushed out. No one snores. Anytime the habit develops, we are referred to the infirmary for medical attention for whatever is causing the blockage in the airways. When the Imitation returns—sometimes with a bandaged nose from a surgery—the problem is gone.
Sleep eludes me. I chase it, grazing my fingertips across its tail end but never fully catch it.
In the morning, I sit up and stretch. I know it is morning because the lights have come on. Giant fluorescent tubes covered by thick plastic covers run the length of the sleeping room. The power it takes to run them makes the hum in the air louder. More juice pushed through the pipes.
In the bunk below, Ida is slower to wake. Her lids are heavy and blinking. I wonder if her night was as restless as mine. Ida has a way of latching on to other people’s stress and not letting go until everyone’s happy again. Above me, Lonnie is grumpy but sits up quickly, mumbling about bacon and coffee. She thinks her Authentic must not be a morning person. Ida stands and regards me solemnly. The longer she stares at me, the more her bottom lip trembles.
I roll out of my bunk and land lightly on my feet, slipping my shoes on and fussing with my blond hair—anything to ignore Ida’s nervous energy. Anna, the girl whose bunk is closest to ours, catches my eye and nods. I nod back in silent hello. It is a daily ritual, simple and meaningless considering she and I never converse beyond this, but I suspect I will miss it when I’m gone.
“Ven, I don’t want you to go,” Ida says in her soft voice that always makes me think of dolls in pretty dresses. Porcelain. Breakable.
I don’t acknowledge her plea. I don’t want her to cry again. If she does, I think I will cry too. “Time for breakfast,” I say.
We fall into step together as the crowd of girls who live in this wing surges toward the breakfast hall. My shoulder is bumped as people push past. I don’t complain. The way to breakfast used to involve more shoving and jostling for space. Notes from Marla have depleted our numbers.
“I smell bacon,” Lonnie announces as we pass through the wide doors into the dining hall. She heads straight for the buffet line.
I wander to the coffee and muffins station with Ida and fill a plate even though my stomach feels packed with bricks. We sit at our usual table and though it is dead center of the crowded room, no one bothers us. Twig City discourages fraternization. Trios stick together but new alliances are rarely formed. The closest group of diners is five chairs away. I can’t even hear their conversation. Just as well. Today, I don’t want them to hear mine.
“Is that bran?” Lonnie asks, glaring suspiciously at Ida’s plate as she sits.
“Bran’s good for you,” Ida says, her lips forming a pout.
I stare longingly at Lonnie’s single piece of sausage and two small strips of bacon. “Don’t be too jealous. I had to promise to do an extra thirty minutes of cardio to get both,” she explains.
It seems a small price to pay as the smell hits me and I watch with rapture as she chews. She catches me looking. I force a bite of m
y muffin. “Yum,” I say dryly. Lonnie grins.
I berate myself for not getting the bacon since I won’t be here to do the extra cardio it requires anyway.
“Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Ida says, abruptly bringing the conversation back around.
I say nothing. Lonnie rolls her eyes and mumbles “not likely” around a mouthful of eggs. They are not real eggs, which I hear come from chickens, but processed, organic material packed with vitamins and proteins.
Ida glares at Lonnie. “It’s possible. Ven can be convincing when she wants to be.”
“No one ‘convinces’ Marla,” Lonnie says. She’s right. Ida must know it because she doesn’t argue.
“What do you think they want with you?” Ida asks quietly.
Lonnie and I share a look. There are only two reasons an Imitation gets a letter from Marla. “I think maybe they have an assignment for me,” I say. Neither of us is willing to say the other option: that my Authentic is dead or otherwise no longer in need of her Imitation. In which case, the Imitation is terminated.
“You’re probably right,” Ida says. “Something clandestine and exciting, I’m sure.”
There is a note of forced cheerfulness in her voice. Anyone else listening would assume it was for my benefit, or Lonnie’s, but I know better. Ida must convince herself there is no reason to panic.
“Very exciting,” I agree.
“Can you imagine? Living with humans? Pretending to be one of them?” Ida is far away, her words wistful. She’s not speaking to either one of us anymore but caught up in her own fantasy.
Lonnie and I exchange a look because neither of us share Ida’s dream of living among humans. Probably because both of us know that to live with humans means to never return home to each other. It means you’ve been assigned to do something dangerous in order to preserve your Authentic and once your assignment is done, so are you. I can’t bear to say that to Ida.
After breakfast, the three of us walk together to our designated changing room. We have ten minutes to report downstairs for physical activity along with the rest of the girls in our wing. Ida’s back is turned to me as she quickly switches out her plain cotton sleep-shirt for the spandex material we are given to exercise in.
The black ink high on the side of her neck contrasts with her milky skin, the tree and set of numbers engraved inside the trunk announcing her identity. All Imitations are given a mark just before they are brought out of incubation. I don’t remember receiving mine—it was always there, from the time I awoke. The designs are all the same: an outline of a tree, the symbol of life. Inside the hollow trunk are seven digits unique to each of us. Possibly the only thing we possess in our entire physical makeup that makes us one of a kind.
I catch sight of Ida’s and read it: 8988494. Her identifier. I know from memory that mine reads 4266256. I am older than she is in incubation days, though we were awoken around the same time. Lonnie’s is half-covered by her hair but I can recite hers from memory also: 7215409. She woke up a month after I did.
“Ven! Quit daydreaming and get a move on,” the overseer near the door shouts, jolting me out of my thoughts.
I finish yanking on my pants and shoes and head out. The overseer who fussed at me—a towering woman with broad shoulders and a mean scowl—gives me a look as I pass her. I ignore it. The overseers are paid to be cross. I’ve told this to my examiner, Anita, and she doesn’t bother arguing so I know it’s true.
Examiners are another constant in Twig City. They check our mental health almost daily, making sure we are fit for duty at a moment’s notice. Anita is more laid-back than most. Still, I’ve never told her the real truth: this letter from Marla is the most dreaded possibility I can imagine. More terrifying than donating a vital organ or limb to the girl I’ve never met whose genetic makeup matches mine to a T. Instead, I tell Anita what they all want to hear, what Imitations are supposed to say. That if and when I am called to duty, I will be ready. I will serve my Authentic in any way necessary, including my own termination. I was created to serve. The last line, one I’ve repeated ad nauseam and always with conviction, leaves a bitter taste in my throat.
I follow the line of girls out and down the hall. I have less than a minute until the bell goes off. Our days are scheduled to the second in Twig City. This way, we don’t have time to think about the fact that it’s more like a prison than a city. No one says it out loud but it’s true. The absence of an exit is proof of this.
I step inside the gym just as the speaker overhead dings to signal the start of the hour. An overseer gestures for me to keep moving. I make my way to the bins along the wall containing sports equipment: basketballs, soccer balls, even boxing gloves. I choose a tennis racket with red tape wrapped along the handle and keep walking. Ida and Lonnie follow me to the courts. All but one are taken. It is the farthest from the door and the net is sagging in the middle so that it pools on the floor. The court is scuffed and pockmarked. It doesn’t matter. None of us really want to play. Except maybe Lonnie. She props her racket between her legs and sweeps her chestnut hair into a quick and haphazard bun. When it’s secured, she walks to the far end of the court and raises her racket to serve.
“Ready?” she calls.
I am not but I say I am.
We hit the ball back and forth a few times before Lonnie slams it past me. I could’ve lunged and maybe reached but I don’t care enough to try. Not today. Ida lounges against the wall, propping her weight on the tip of her racket. She stares at us but I don’t think she sees. Her cheeks look wet.
By the time the whistle blows over the loudspeaker announcing a five-minute warning, we’ve stopped playing. Lonnie is thrusting her racket this way and that, pretending it’s a sword, or maybe a jousting lance. Ida is picking at her nails. I am lying on my back, hands hooked behind my head, staring at the iron beams on the ceiling. My white-blond hair is fanned out around me. It feels good off my neck, but I rarely wear it up. The flimsy elastic bands provided to us won’t hold its thickness for more than a minute or two before they snap.
I stare at the ceiling and force my thoughts to wander—to think of anything except Marla and the note. The exposed piping hums and I imagine I can see it vibrating with the energy it carries. I wonder why they didn’t cover it with a drop ceiling or cheap tiles like in the hallways. Maybe it’s meant to give off a feeling of openness. This strikes me as funny. Twig City is never open.
The whistle blows again, an empty, shrill sound via the rusted loudspeakers scattered about. The gym empties quickly as we are all eager for the one hour of personal time we get between showers and lessons. Most spend it in the lounge in front of the television. There are three channels. One plays nothing but survival documentaries. Another is music that has been approved by Twig City but the screen is blank. The third is a list of pre-programmed shows—mostly cartoons—that play over and over on a constant loop.
During our free period, Lonnie, Ida, and I usually find a corner in the library where we can pretend to read but instead whisper and giggle about the sad way the librarian woman stares at the thin-haired janitor.
None of us have had much conversation with boys. Twig City is segregated to prevent lasting relationships of that sort. Attachment is too complicated when you could get called up for duty at any time. To develop our social skills, we are treated to a quarterly mixer, where we are made to dress up and then marched upstairs to the boys’ dormitory. For two hours, we are fed cookies and punch while static-filled music is cranked through the speakers. Once, a few couples tried dancing but as soon as their bodies made contact, the overseers were there, pulling them apart and handing out punishment orders. No one dances anymore.
Sometimes, at night, I imagine how it would feel to press my own body against one of the boys’. My hand wanders, rubbing over my breasts, and my nipples harden. I’m always left with a strange ache below my stomach that I can’t quite figure out how to satisfy.
“When are you going to man up and play me at t
ennis, Ida?” Lonnie asks as we pass through the now-empty courts.
“When they get us decent equipment,” Ida replies, eyeing her twice-taped racket in disgust.
“Agreed,” says Lonnie. “All the money they bring in growing people out of petri dishes, you’d think they could afford a decent racket. Or real eggs. Messed up priorities, I’m telling ya.”
We return our rackets to the bin and linger in the doorway just out of sight of the overseer stationed inside the gym. We are the last to leave and this corner of empty hallway—if we stand just so against the wall, the cameras miss us—feels like the best place to say goodbye.
“Are you coming?” Ida asks when I don’t follow.
“I don’t have time for free period today,” I say after a gulp.
“Is it time already?”
I nod. “Yes.”
She throws herself against me, wrapping her arms tight around my neck. I hug her tight and kiss her hair. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her in my best soothing voice.
She nods against my shoulder but I can tell she is crying again. In this moment I want desperately to do the same. We both know nothing will be okay. I will probably never see them again. But Ida lets me soothe her with my empty words and I manage to hold it together for her sake. I murmur a few more reassurances that are lies before I gently break free of her hold.
Then it’s Lonnie’s turn. We stare at each other for a long time. Her stoic expression and clenched jaw are stark reminders of all that Lonnie is. Her will to fight is automatic, an ingrained part of her. It is a trait that balances my quiet brooding and Ida’s emotional outbursts. I’ve often wondered if we’ve been grouped together for this reason. As I stare at her, I imagine myself memorizing her strength so I can copy it later. I’m not sure if that will help, but I’m such a copy already, maybe it will work.
“Be brave,” she says finally.
There is a fire in her, a fierce determination that she has summoned. I know it’s her shield against what’s happening.
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