“I will,” I promise.
That is all we say before she turns and drags Ida down the hall.
I stand and watch until they vanish around the corner. My feet are heavy and it takes a moment to get them moving. Every step closer to Marla feels like a step toward the end.
Chapter Two
Marla’s door is closed when I arrive. The view through the small window beside her office is obscured by heavy blinds. Two men in dark suits stand against the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on something far away and invisible to everyone but them. I shuffle past and stop at the front desk.
“Can I help you?” says Gerta, the receptionist. It is most often her nasally voice we hear on the intercom when there is news to be dispatched to Twig City.
“Marla asked to see me,” I say. I produce the note from my pocket and hand it over. Gerta slips on a pair of glasses that look too small to be of real help and squints at the paper.
“Ah, yes, Ven. We’re expecting you. Please have a seat. Marla will be right with you.” Gerta motions for me to sit in one of the blue-cushioned chairs along the wall.
I make my way over as Gerta scurries out of sight. Around the corner, a door opens. I hear voices and then nothing as the door shuts again. I sit and shuffle my feet around, trying to get comfortable. I cross my legs and then immediately uncross them. We are taught early that our bodies are fragile, something to be protected and cared for. Leg crossing cuts off circulation, which is detrimental to the nervous system. It’s frowned upon. I have a bad habit of doing it when I’m nervous. Ida always fusses at me. Lonnie crosses her legs every time she sits down. Ida has given up fussing at her; it only makes Lonnie laugh.
My chest pings at the mental image of Lonnie grinning at Ida’s lectures.
I don’t know what will happen once I’m inside Marla’s office. I have a bad feeling, though I can’t name it. It’s foreign to me. Like fear, only worse. It leaves my throat dry until I can no longer swallow.
The door reopens. Gerta reappears. “Follow me, please,” she says.
She turns on her heel and leads me back to Marla’s office. As I pass, the two men continue to stare straight ahead as if they don’t see me.
Marla rises as I enter. I have half a mind to tell her not to bother, since the effort of heaving herself upright seems to drain her of oxygen. She leans with both palms on the desk to assist her knees in pushing herself to full height. By the time I’ve crossed the room to stand in front of her, she is winded. Her ample chest swells and retracts a dozen times before she speaks to me.
“Ven, thank you for coming,” she huffs.
I can’t bring myself to say “you’re welcome.” Not when it’s so untrue.
“Have a seat,” she adds.
We both sit. I clasp my hands together in my lap to keep them still. The room is large, which is probably helpful for the occupant. The walls have been painted what was likely a lavender color but it’s faded into something like dirty fog. A bookcase brimming with hardback manuals line one wall. A giant tapestry that looks like some sort of flag covers the wall behind the desk. There are no windows.
I think of how many of us have passed through this doorway on a one-way trip to I-don’t-know-where. My stomach lurches.
Marla is oblivious. She is staring most interestedly at a stack of papers on her desk. She makes clucking noises while she reads. I try to decipher how badly my death will hurt based on the sounds.
My eyes catch on a photo displayed on the desk. It’s a snapshot of Marla, a man by her side. He is balding and almost as large as she is. Not much of the sunny backdrop is visible around their bodies. But the landscape isn’t what catches my notice. Marla’s hand is wrapped casually around the man’s midsection. His arm is curved around her neck, resting on her shoulders.
What would it be like to have someone touch me that way? A boy. Maybe not one like Marla’s, but one my own age. My own size. Longing fills me. It presses against my chest, a weight I’ll never remove. Touching is for Authentics. Dying is for Imitations.
Finally, Marla looks up at me. “Ven,” she says, setting the papers down and folding her hands over them. “I’ve called you here today for a very specific and unfortunate reason.”
My heart seizes, skips three beats, then starts again.
Marla is waiting for me to say something. “Mmm,” I say without opening my lips.
“Something has happened to your Authentic.”
I sit quietly, incapable of sound or response. It’s everything I dread. I am finished. Ida was wrong.
“I’m sure you’ve been told your Authentic is well off?” she continues.
A full thirty seconds pass before I manage a nod.
“She and her family are prominent figures in their community. Recently, she began receiving threats and last night, there was an attempt on her life. Her family has decided to send her to a safe place to wait out the storm. They’ve requested you come and take her place until the danger has passed.”
I stare at Marla, positive I’ve heard her wrong.
“You want me …?”
“To go and live in your Authentic’s house. Pretend you are her. Take her place. It’s what you’ve been grown for, dear.” Marla’s voice is compassionate but firm. This is not a request. It’s also not termination.
“When?” I ask.
“Now,” she says. “There is a car waiting outside. I realize much of this will come as a shock. Usually, we take more time to brief you, to prepare you for the outside. This is all very last-minute due to the sensitive nature of the circumstances.”
I understand the layers to what she is saying—and not saying. “You don’t want people to know about the danger she’s—I’m in, do you?”
“That, and we want to make sure you’re safe. We’d hate for something to happen to you before you even reach your destination.”
“Of course,” I manage. My hands go cold. I realize I’ve not been brought here to die at all. I’m being sent away for it.
“The men outside will escort you,” she goes on, studying my face.
“What about once I get there?” My voice is scratchy and dry. I try to swallow but there’s no moisture.
“The man you are going to live with has a full security team. They will protect you and make sure nothing happens.” She smiles, a gesture I assume is meant to reassure me of her promise that whoever is after my Authentic won’t kill me instead. Her smile is fake. “You’ve trained for this,” she reminds me.
I nod absently. She is referring to the self-defense classes we’re required to take in Twig City. Twice a week I am paired with someone of similar stature and taught where to strike and how to defend. Lonnie says I was created with small muscle mass and I can’t argue since even Ida does better. I am consistently horrible—but Marla doesn’t know that.
Marla calls to the two men in the hall and they file into the office. One stands at the back and takes up a stance identical to the one he held in the hall. The other man walks to the curtain hanging on the wall behind Marla’s chair and pulls it aside.
I gape at the sight of a narrow door. It is painted the exact same shade as the wall and even though I’ve rarely seen the view of the east wing from outside the building, I know a door should not be there.
“Due to the clandestine nature of your assignment, Ven, I’m going to ask that you be discreet about your exit,” Marla says. Clandestine. Ida would be thrilled.
I rise, wondering briefly what exit they would’ve offered me had my departure not required discretion. I never planned on being allowed to walk out the front door at any rate. Twig City doesn’t have one.
I follow Marla through the narrow passage that leads outside. The lighting is dim in the alley but it is crisp and fresher than the re-circulated version inside Twig City. Marla steps aside as the passage widens and I see my transportation.
The car is black and sleek and hums quietly in the alley wedged between the secret door and a brick security wall that I th
ink hides a Dumpster, judging by the smell. I cannot help but stare at the complex machine in front of me. I’ve never seen a car this nice in real life. It’s the second thought I have upon seeing it. The first is that I am both terrified and elated to be a passenger.
One of the men hurries ahead and opens the door as we approach. I begin to climb inside but Marla places a hand on my elbow and pulls me back. She has been speaking for the last couple of minutes about protocol and etiquette and how maybe I “should’ve changed clothes first, but no, there wasn’t time.” I’d tuned her out but now I give her my attention again. “This is where we part ways, dear, but good luck,” she says.
“You’re not coming?” For a moment I’m paralyzed by the fear that the last familiar face I know is about to vanish. I bite the inside of my cheek and channel Lonnie.
Marla shakes her head, oblivious to my panic. “I have things to do here. But you don’t need me. You’ve trained for this for years. You’re ready. Now, hurry up and get going.” She ushers me into the car and before I can think of a single thing to say, she turns and waddles back through her secret doorway.
She is gone. It is only me and my silent security guards.
Inside the car, the leather is warm underneath my touch. It should be comforting after the chill outside but it does nothing against the rattling cold that is bone deep—a side effect of my anxiety. I shiver in the cavelike shell that feels large enough to accommodate half the sleeping room in Twig City.
The two men get into the front and the driver adjusts various gadgets that I cannot see from where I sit. We ease forward, slowly at first, then faster, the road widening as we circle. We pass out of the alley. To my left, Twig City rises up, set at an angle I’ve never seen from my limited, walled-in view. Metallic lettering runs the length of one side, spelling out whatever name identifies this place to the outside world, but it angles away too quickly for me to read.
Then it is gone behind the trees and my curiosity is replaced by anxiety. I stare out the window with stiff shoulders and a fast pulse. Adrenaline courses through me. I am leaving. I am never coming back. No one has said that part, but it’s the truth. No one ever comes back. I want to scream and laugh and cry all at once but I do none of those. Instead, I bite my lips to keep them closed and watch as the ground is eaten up beneath our tires.
When we ease onto the highway, my fingers clutch at the edge of the leather seat, holding on in case of what, I don’t know. At this speed, I’m sure a crash would be fatal. I’ve been inside a car before, as a training exercise. They called it “human experience.” We were driven around the track in the back courtyard until Ida got carsick and we all had to get out before she threw up on us. While all of the other kids stared out the window or down at the belt strapping them in, I kept tabs on the dashboard. The controls and dials were fascinating, as was the potential for speed. But we never made it past thirty before Ida’s face turned green.
In this car, a dark partition blocks my view of the dashboard. I can barely make out the faces of my two escorts as they stare ahead. They are expressionless, hidden behind their impenetrable glasses, an effective wall against communication.
The windows to my right and left are darkly tinted, staining the scenery beyond with a brown hue from the painted-on film that is chipped high in one corner. Still, what I see is awe-inspiring. None of the knowledge my circuits came embedded with do the scene justice. Those are pictures, facts, ideas. This is vivid, colorful, fluid.
Open fields. Tall grass. Trees in the not-far distance. And clear sky above that is so much bigger when seen from outside the walls of the yard where we play soccer or run track five days a week. The grass on the side of the road is full and green, a complete reversal from the patchy, sun-deadened weeds I’ve grown up with. This is rich and full and beautiful—and completely worth it, even if it takes me closer to my own death.
When the scenery changes almost an hour later, I’m still breathless. The open fields give way to squared-off walls and boarded-up windows. These are buildings but like none I’ve seen. They look decayed. Old. Unkempt. Signs are missing letters or have been painted over. Trash litters the gutter between the sidewalk and the street. The car slows and then stops, and I wonder if this is where I’ve been summoned. Where I’ll live. The thought is sobering. Terrifying.
But then I see the reason for our pause: Authentics. A stream of them crosses the street at the intersection in front of us. They are indifferent and unconcerned with the car bearing down on them. My driver scowls at the inconvenience.
Most of the Authentics barely look over as they pass by. The ones who do, a pair of men with scraggly beards and patchy mustaches, give the driver a mean glare that lingers even after they’ve turned away and stepped onto the sidewalk. I am completely caught up by the sight. Their clothes—rags even by Twig City standards—suggest they’ve been worn far more than they’ve been washed. And the hollow look in their eyes is nothing like I expected. Authentics—humans—are so much more than we are. More feeling, more depth, more life. And yet these people look dead inside, barely any speck of light shining through.
As I watch, one of the men raises a bottle to his lips and takes a long swig. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, but he looks strangely content. He slouches against the building before taking another swig.
I’m drawn to another man half-hidden in the alcove of a doorway. His eyes sweep the length of the car before settling directly on my window. He grins hungrily and slides his hand down the front of his pants. He rubs his hand up and down over a bulge in his crotch. I have no idea what it means, but it seems to be some sort of lewd invitation.
It takes a moment before I remember the windows are tinted. He can’t see me. Despite the knowledge, my cheeks heat in embarrassment and my stomach jumps.
I’ve studied human anatomy enough to know what he’s touching as he stares. But my understanding of Authentic behavior is nonexistent. And this man makes my skin crawl in a way I can’t explain.
Finally, the last of them has crossed and the way is clear. The car eases forward. I watch the group gathered on the sidewalk through the back windshield until they disappear from view.
We pass into what is obviously a nicer part of town. The windows are made from glass instead of covered in scuffed planks. The gutters are clear of debris. More people are out and about. They look cleaner, well-kept. I am grateful for the window tint. Something about the way these people move—keeping completely to themselves while managing to look with disdain at everything else—tells me it would be rude to be caught staring.
I am distracted by pedestrians in bright hats and I don’t notice we’re slowing again until we’re stopped. We pull into an alleyway narrow enough that I feel squeezed between the two buildings. The driver gets out and disappears through a side door into the building on our left. The other man stays with me and I fidget, twisting my fingers together while we wait in silence. I think we must be here. The place where I’ll live. Or die.
My stomach knots and unknots until it is a rhythm I can predict with precision. One, two, three, knot. One, two, three, loosen.
I count through it eleven more times before our driver returns. Beside him is a gray-haired man with a square jaw. He is broad chested underneath his black jacket and he carries himself like he’s sure he won’t be questioned. He comes straight to my door and pulls it open, peering in at me.
“Ven?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
He reaches in palm up, offering to help me out. I don’t want to let him but I’m not sure if it’s wise to refuse. Gingerly, I place my hand against his and allow him to pull me to my feet outside the car. His skin is rough and calloused. My thumb brushes over a scab covering his knuckle. I let go as soon as I’m on my feet.
Someone shuts the car door behind me. I stare upward at the massive building that looms in front of me. It is black as night. Sharp and shiny and taller than any building I’ve ever seen. Twisted meta
l runs the length on both sides. It looks cold. The men approach it comfortably, like they’ve been here before, but it makes me nervous. This must be it. My new home.
“This way,” says the gray-haired leader. He leads me in through the side door. To my left is the main entrance leading in from the street front. Large cutout windows frame a revolving glass door that spins on its own. A doorman stands just outside, tipping his hat to people who pass. No one acknowledges him in return.
My escort clears his throat and I turn back to where he waits for me. His brows are drawn in a look of impatience. I hurry, concentrating on planting one foot in front of the other, willing my heart to slow to something more rhythmic, less like a heart attack. I have no idea what awaits here, but I think it can’t be good, or everyone wouldn’t be so god awful serious about it.
The men lead me through a lobby made of stone floors—some carefully placed fact in my brain tells me it’s a material called granite—and smooth, onyx-colored walls. I see no one else and it is cold. Colder than outside. It makes me think of indifference. And death.
Marla’s words ring in my ears: They’ve requested you come and take her place until the danger has passed. And I remember again, I’ve been brought here as living bait.
At the far end of the lobby is a single elevator compartment. It slides open as soon as the button is pressed and I wonder if it’s been waiting for us. Once inside, I catch sight of my reflection in the chrome doors as they slide shut. My hair is disheveled and wild. My skin is pale, as usual, but the thing that startles me is my eyes. They are wider than I’ve ever seen and in the distorted reflection, I can see they are glassy with shock. I wasn’t aware of my horrified expression, but there it is. I concentrate on smoothing it out as the elevator rises higher and higher.
A chime dings and the yellow light above the door announces we are at the uppermost level. Something called the penthouse according to the yellow-lit display above my head. The doors open and I have no more time to gather myself before the three men are hovering close behind me, effectively shoving me out.
The Girl Who Wasn't Page 2