The Girl Who Wasn't

by Heather Hildenbrand

  “Linc Crawford.”

  “Linc Crawford.” I repeat it, turning it over on my tongue, still trying to understand the reason for his distaste.

  He pushes off the frame and steps into the room. “They say you have amnesia from that fall the other day.”

  I recall the story Titus told me he’s given the staff. “That’s right.”

  “I’m supposed to show you these albums. See if it’ll help you remember.” He sits down so close to me, our shoulders are almost touching. He pulls the album from my lap to his. The sudden closeness startles me and I am quick to cover my discomfort with conversation.

  “Do you work for Titus?” I ask. “I mean … my father?”

  “I’m your security detail,” he says in a rough voice.

  I press my lips together and leave it at that. I’ve already botched this enough and his tone is clear. He doesn’t want to talk to me any more than necessary for the job. I take my cue from him and concentrate on the assignment at hand.

  Linc begins to show me the albums and we fall into a rhythm. He points to a face, says a name, I repeat it. We go slowly. After each page, he asks who I remember. I’m able to recall a senator and his wife. This makes me happy but Linc doesn’t react. Just turns the page and starts on the next set of faces.

  “I’m not doing very well, am I?” I say after several pages of faces I’ve already forgotten.

  He shrugs. “I get paid either way.”

  My shoulders stiffen as his biting tone finally gets to me. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  “Whatever. Let’s just get this done.”

  “Fine,” I say through tight lips.

  I no longer care that the blue in his eyes makes me think of cloudless skies or that he smells like wind and soap and something else I can’t identify. Or that I want to touch the scar on the back of his left hand. Instead, I force myself to memorize politicians and social climbers and the elite among a society I’ve never stepped foot in.

  When we’ve finished, Linc rises and walks to the doorway, arching a brow as he glances over his shoulder. “You coming?” he asks.

  “Um, shouldn’t we put these away?” I ask, waving at the albums scattered about.

  His forehead crinkles. It’s clear I’ve said something wrong. “No, the maid will get them. Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Tea.”

  I follow him out with a backward glance at the mess. Cleaning up is something Authentic Raven wouldn’t care about. I see that now. Linc leads me back into the room with the fireplace. Titus is already there, seated at a small table by a window, sipping something steamy from a delicate glass cup. He doesn’t look up from his newspaper when I enter but I have no doubt he knows I am here.

  Linc stops inside the doorway and waves me forward. I take the seat across from Titus, scooting my chair back as far from the table as I dare. When I turn back, Linc is gone.

  Titus and I are alone.

  He fills the cup in front of me with an amber liquid that steams as it leaves the spout. Tea, I assume. I’ve never had it. I begin to lift the cup to my mouth but Titus stops me. “You take your tea with sugar.”

  My hand falters as I set the cup down with a clink against the saucer. I fumble with the assortment of glassware until I pick out the sugar and load a spoonful into my cup. My movements are quick and jerky, giving away the anxiety coiling inside me.

  “Did you have a chance to look over the albums?” he asks, abruptly setting his paper aside to look at me. His gaze is direct, challenging, offensive.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And? Do you feel confident about your ability to identify those within your social circle?”

  It is not my social circle. It is hers. But I say only, “I believe so.”

  “You believe so?”

  “I—I think I need more time. I wasn’t able to remember very many. Can’t we just tell everyone I still have amnesia? That way I won’t have to remember—”

  “Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. You do not have a choice in the matter of your role here. You were bred for this purpose. You were made to be her and so you shall. The fact that you benefit from this arrangement is merely a fortunate bonus. You will not return home if you displease me. If you fail, you will be terminated.”

  I am speechless. I suspected as much but to hear him say it so carelessly, as if I’m nothing more than a tool, a weapon, an accessory … But he is right. I am not human. I am not Authentic. I mean nothing.

  “I understand,” I say quietly.

  His gaze sharpens and I let my hair fall over the side of my face. “Something else to work on,” he says, “is your attitude. My daughter is sure of herself and lowers her face to no one. Including me.”

  Again, there is the unmistakable hint of challenge. I force my chin up and out and meet his stare. “Yes, sir,” I say, packing as much acid into the last word as possible.

  He nods, as if my answer—the vehemence in my tone—is exactly what he wanted to hear. “You will work again with Linc this afternoon. Learn the names and faces. There is a party tomorrow night, a fundraiser I am sponsoring for a senator, and you will be there as her or you will be finished here.”

  He tosses a linen napkin from his lap onto the table and strides out with heavy footsteps. I am rigid in my chair, staring at nothing while I concentrate on expanding my lungs in and out in a way that counteracts the hyperventilation threatening.

  I am relieved to be left alone, although I have no doubt I’m being monitored. My attention wanders to the window. Through the gauzy curtains I see a clear blue sky lit by cheerful sunshine. It is so opposite to what it feels like inside these walls and I wish again to be home in Twig City. At least there my prison includes fresh air. Here, I feel suffocated, as if the air is thick enough to choke out the real me I’ve buried deep inside. Soon, all that will be left is her.

  I finish the tea, mostly because it prolongs what comes next. Titus said I need to study the albums again and while I’m not upset to spend more time with Linc, the fact that he already hates me—hates her—suggests I will end up angry again for reasons I can never explain to him.

  When he comes for me, his stance is the same—stiff shoulders, pocketed hands. Despite his aversion, my pulse trips over itself and my hand trembles as I set the cup aside. He is a magnet, his polarity a strange and drawing force no matter how much he tries to repel me.

  “Time for round two,” he says from the doorway. “You ready?”

  I nod and push back from the table, happy to leave this room behind.

  We return to the parlor where the albums have been neatly restacked into small piles on the rug. I sink down to the floor and pick up the first one. Linc remains standing and when I look up at him, he is watching me with creases over his brows.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You must’ve really hit your head,” he says, sinking down next to me.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Raven Rogen never sits on the floor.”

  My cheeks burn. I’ve made another error. I return my attention to the album in my lap. I scan faces, commit them to memory, and repeat them for Linc who nods or frowns accordingly.

  “This man looks sick,” I say, pointing to a photo of a dark-haired young man in a bright purple shirt. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. Heavy circles ring his eyes. His frame is frail and, even with the long sleeves, I can see the delicate curvature of his bones through thin flesh as he raises a half-empty glass. Behind him, a party rages. The darkness is broken by twinkling lights that only serve to blur the background.

  “He’s on excess,” Linc says.

  “Excess? As in too much of something?”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” he agrees. “It’s a drug.”

  “What sort of drug?”

  “Basically, it’s an amped-up version of ecstasy. It started out as a dirty version called XS, as in ‘ecstasy on steroids.’ Street kids throwing t
ogether whatever they had left over from the latest rave. Then the rich crowd got a hold of it. Cleaned it up, which basically means they laced with the good stuff. They renamed it Excess and now it’s the big thing.”

  “What’s ecstasy?” I ask.

  He quirks a brow and studies me. I’m supposed to know this. “It’s a drug. Usually a pill, although I’ve seen it in powder form as well. It heightens your senses, most specifically touch. It makes you feel things more intensely.” The weight of his gaze grows heavier, pressing around me like a tangible force. I become aware of how close his face is to mine. He goes on in a low voice, “Couples like it because it enhances sex.”

  Sex. The word jolts me. It’s a clinical term I’ve heard used by my anatomy instructor. A way to describe the human reproductive process. It felt cold and factual then. Now, with the way Linc looks at me as he says it, his voice seductive soft, I have an impression of something else. Without warning, an ache flares inside me. It starts in my breasts, hardening my nipples, and travels lower, ending between my thighs. My breath hitches.

  Before I know it, the words tumble out of me on a wanton whisper. “What’s sex?”

  Linc blinks and straightens. His animosity is gone but so is the intimacy of the moment. If his downturned mouth and slanted lids are any indication, all of it has replaced by guarded suspicion. I’ve botched it again.

  Linc clears his throat and, instead of answering, gestures to the album in our laps. “We better get back to it,” he says. “Lots more to cover and Titus won’t tolerate failure.”

  We resume our game of memory.

  I come upon one picture of a woman dressed in a bright yellow feather costume. She is obviously some sort of performer with her arms spread wide for dramatic effect and her outlandish outfit and high-heeled shoes. I think she must have been going for sensuous or even sexy, but to me, the effect is ridiculous.

  I let out a giggle and Linc’s fingers go still against the page. He looks over at me like he’s never seen me before.

  “What?” I say, trying—and failing—to contain the rest of my laughter.

  “Your laugh …”

  “I’m sorry, but she looks like a giant bird,” I say, only to giggle again.

  His expression turns from confusion to utter concentration. My laughter dies. There’s a shift in the way he watches me. I can’t identify it, but neither can I look away. If this is what it feels like to have a boy look at you, no wonder they keep us segregated in Twig City. My nerves dance on end.

  Out in the hall, a gruff voice calls out to another. The words are muted but it’s enough. The spell is broken. Linc looks away. I blink furiously and stare down at the album shared between us.

  Linc clears his throat. “This one,” he says, picking up where we left off.

  An hour passes.

  Albums are cast aside, replaced by fresh ones. A face catches my eye. It is a boy, striking in his similarity to Linc, though this face is rounder, older. “Who is that?” I ask.

  Linc is quiet for a long time. When I look at him, he is staring at the page so hard I think he could burn a hole through it. “That’s Adam,” he says finally. “My brother.”

  His answer intrigues me. Any sort of familial reference makes me curious because I have no idea what that would feel like. Sometimes I think Ida and Lonnie are like my sisters but I suspect it’s not the same. My attention returns to the picture. “You look like him. Are you close?”

  “We were.” He hesitates and then his voice goes flat as he says, “He’s dead.”

  I can’t help the flinch of my shoulders. Death is so final for me, a soulless being. For humans, they say it isn’t the end, though I have no idea what would come next. “What happened?” I ask.

  “There was an attack on his employer. He was outnumbered and they killed him.”

  “His employer?”

  “Congressman Ryan and his son. They survived. Adam did not.” He presses his lips together and goes silent.

  I don’t push. It’s clear he doesn’t want to discuss it further. His story sounds an awful lot like the one he and I are currently living out. And then I realize … “You’re supposed to protect me.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Linc, you don’t—you shouldn’t.” I don’t know how to say it without giving away too much, but I feel the weight of it all pressing against me and I have to say something. “It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it. Don’t—don’t die for me.”

  He glares at me, his expression so cold I shrink back. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “None of this is for you. It’s a job and I have my orders. We’re done here.”

  He springs to his feet and is gone. The door slams shut behind him. In the hall, I hear him speaking to someone before his footsteps fade.

  I am alone.

  I’m never alone.

  Chapter Four

  The following afternoon, I spend two hours with the maid—whose name I’ve overheard from other staff is Maria—going over the correct order in which to use my silverware and how to place my napkin properly. These are all things I learned during my first year in Twig City but Titus insists I be put through a refresher course.

  I am told by the security guard on duty that Titus watches from a hidden security feed, and throughout my lessons the back of my neck burns with the knowledge. It is exhausting and mind-numbing how serious they take social etiquette, but I know it will mean the difference between being me and being her tonight. In other words, the difference between survival and termination.

  Not that anyone would suspect differently. The world at large knows nothing of Imitations. Not unless you’re rich enough to afford one yourself. We are the ultimate in genetically engineered secrets.

  At seven, Maria ends her lessons and leads me back to my room. She goes straight to the closet, examining my dresses with solemn scrutiny. She does not speak of anything personal, nor does she seem to care for my company, but she is not disdainful like the rest of the staff. Like Linc is.

  I haven’t seen him today. Earlier, I swore I heard his voice in the hall, but he never showed himself. I don’t think I want him to. I know it is all a reflection on her, but it is daunting nonetheless to know that everyone I meet hates me even before I open my mouth. I haven’t even left the house yet. What does the rest of the world think of Raven Rogen?

  Maria thumbs through waves of fabric and stops on a purple halter-top gown. The skirt is layered with gauzy fabric that reminds me of tissue paper. “This one,” she says, shoving it at me.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, eyeing the tiny swath of fabric that will clothe my torso. It doesn’t seem to be enough to cover all that I’m used to covering.

  She looks at me quizzically, and I remember I’m supposed to want to wear this sort of thing. “I’m sure. Mr. Titus will approve,” she says.

  I force flippancy into my words and say, “Good. I’ll get changed.”

  She regards me for another moment and then leaves without another word. I don’t exhale until the door clicks shut behind her. For once, when the lock twists, I am relieved.

  The dress is short in the front with a tail of gauze flowing down the back. The gym shorts I wore in Twig City were longer than the front of this dress. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror and pretend this is exactly the sort of thing I want to be seen in. But my skin feels so exposed I might as well be naked. It’s more than my body … I feel as if they’ll see all the way through to the secrets I keep.

  I was created to keep secrets. I am a secret.

  It shouldn’t bother me so much but it does. I’ve never admitted it to a single person—not my examiner, not even Lonnie or Ida—but I am not nearly as accepting of my intended purpose or fate as they’d like me to be. I wasn’t certain of it then, when it was just an abstract idea of something that hadn’t happened yet. And I’m not certain now, when it’s such a stark reality that each passing second feels like a grain of sand lost inside an hourglass. It is all a countdown to the en
d now.

  I was created a copy. I want more than anything to be an original.

  The only move I have is forward, though, and so I continue to dress and ready myself. If I can pull off tonight, I’ll live until tomorrow. It’s not much but it’s all I have. For some reason, this line of thinking makes me angry. I let it, knowing anger is much more effective than fear for all I have to do tonight.

  The purple heels I wear only serve to raise the hem another half an inch and I growl in frustration. The lock slides free and the door opens. Gus pokes his head in and his eyes land on mine through the reflection in the mirror.

  “It’s time,” he says, swinging the door wider to allow me passage.

  I slide my arms into the jacket he offers and walk out.

  Titus waits for us by the elevator. He is dressed in a dark suit that shines with newness. It makes his shoulders appear wider, his chest broader than it seemed last night. I wonder if he’s trying to look taller or if it’s an unintentional side effect of the fabric’s cut. He doesn’t seem the type to need cosmetic reassurances. My heels leave the soft carpet and make a click-click against the heavy marble. Titus looks up and gives me a once-over that tightens my knuckles.

  Like before, I have the urge to speak up, to rail against the injustice of his ultimatum: be her, or die. But the look he gives me freezes my tongue. I don’t know what he is capable of and the possibilities scare me.

  He gives a barely perceptible nod indicating I pass his inspection and then presses the button for the metal box that will take us out of here.

  My heart thumps wildly and it’s more than my nerves at seeing Titus. I am leaving my prison. Even if it’s only to be transported from one cage to another, the idea of being outside for any length of time is too appealing to ignore. The idea of riding in an automobile again, even sandwiched between Gus and Titus, has adrenaline pumping through me. I am caught up in thinking words like “freedom” and “fresh air” when I hear Gus speaking to Titus in a low voice.

  “… Assessed the threat level for the vicinity. There are vulnerabilities—”

  “That’s exactly what we want,” Titus cuts in. “The more vulnerabilities, the quicker they’ll try again. Just have the men ready to counter. I want them alive. I want names.”