Girl of Flesh and Metal

by Alicia Ellis

  I stumbled into a puddle and brought my foot out, soaked to the ankle. I wouldn’t have minded seeing myself in those boots right now—in real life. I scowled down at my foot and then up at a third teenage girl, flaunting those damn boots.

  I ducked my head and trudged forward through the mud on the side of the road. A vehicle slowed, and someone shouted at me from the passenger-side window. I ignored him.

  I could have flagged down a ride, maybe. But accepting one from a stranger in the middle of the night seemed an even worse idea than walking home on my own. At least here, the streetlights and billboards dotting the side of the road provided some semblance of safety.

  The rain let up when I was about a quarter mile from home, but the wind still battered against my drenched clothing. Cold clung to me and settled in my bones. I broke into a run.

  When I finally reached the front door, it didn’t swing open at my touch. I backed up and waved my left arm at the door, listening for the telltale click that meant it had unlocked for me. But it didn’t come.

  This was the first time since my accident that I’d tried to get through the front door on my own, without Lionel or my mother and without Marcy waiting to greet me after the school day like she had earlier. The door couldn’t detect my ID chip, just like my locker and the billboards.

  I pressed the hidden button to activate the opening near my bicep, and the compartment door slid open.

  No chip.

  I stuck my fingers inside the compartment and rooted around in there. They brushed across the outlet where Ron had plugged the arm in to modify the software, but there was nothing else there. It was empty.

  It made sense that I wouldn’t have my hand-screen on me when I sleepwalked. I’d placed it on the nightstand when I crawled into bed, and I wasn’t in my right mind to grab it while unconscious.

  But this—having no chip—made no sense. I had toyed with the idea of removing it, going off the grid now that it was no longer buried in the flesh of my arm. But I hadn’t. I hadn’t touched the chip after Simon put it in this compartment.

  I rang the doorbell and heard it ding-dong inside the house. When no one answered, I pressed the button for the bell twice more.

  Marcy yanked the door open, her blond hair flattened on one side from sleep. “Lena! What are you doing?” She grabbed my arm and yanked me inside the house. Concern etched her forehead.

  “I . . .” I couldn’t tell her I’d sleepwalked. She’d tell my parents, and they’d insist that their employees drop everything to focus on me again. CyberCorp would endlessly poke and prod me, and Fisher would glare at me every few minutes. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here.”

  “I was wondering why the security was disarmed. You suspended the alarms on your way out?”

  I didn’t remember doing that, but I grunted in pretend agreement because I must have.

  She glanced back and forth between me and the door. “You couldn’t get back in?”

  “My chip must have been damaged in the accident.” My gaze flitted from her face with the lie. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “You want me to make you some hot tea?”

  “No, but thanks. I think I’ll be able to sleep now.”

  I kicked off my shoes. Water spilled from them onto the marble floor of the foyer. Too tired to scoop them up, I trudged up the stairs toward my bedroom. Marcy followed me up. On the second floor, she turned the opposite direction to her own room, right next to Allie’s.

  In the quiet behind my bedroom door, I peeled off my soaked clothing and climbed into bed. My ID chip lay on the nightstand, right next to my hand-screen.

  I didn’t remember removing it.

  A cold breeze kicked through the room. The window stood open—something else I didn’t remember doing. I could almost understand subconsciously grabbing a hoodie and shoes before sleepwalking across town. After all, those were logical things to grab.

  But where was the logic in removing my ID chip or opening the window?

  Could I have done those things before I went to sleep last night? Sometimes my headaches were so bad that I felt like I was losing my mind. Maybe that was why I didn’t remember.

  But as I drifted back to sleep, I had the sinking feeling that wasn’t true.

  10

  I didn’t get much sleep. The last thing I wanted was to wake up on the side of the road again. So, tossing and turning, I managed no more than ten minutes of sleep at a time.

  I’d never sleepwalked before, and throughout the night, my mind twisted around all the reasons for it. Stress from having to live with this arm. Maybe some kind of post-trauma phenomenon due to the accident. Guilt over Jackson, who still lay in that hospital bed being experimented on by my parents’ minions.

  When my hand-screen finally beeped its alarm at seven in the morning, I grabbed the device from my nightstand, called CyberCorp, and asked to be transferred to Dr. Fisher. I got the impression she worked long hours, so I was betting she’d be awake and maybe even at the office already.

  I needed to ask her about the sleepwalking, and maybe I could ease my mind about Jackson too.

  “Miss Hayes?” Dr. Fisher answered.

  “I sleepwalked last night. Should I be worried about that?”

  “Your body has been through a tremendous trauma, so that doesn’t surprise me. I suggest you see a therapist if it becomes a problem.” She had a point. Most likely, this problem had to do with my human parts, not my artificial ones. “As you might imagine, I have a ton on my plate right now. Are you having issues with your arm?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to return to the Model Ones.” She disconnected before I could respond.

  I couldn’t blame her. After all, she’d made no secret of the fact that she was available to me only when necessary to make my arm work. Sleepwalking fell way outside her purview.

  But I hadn’t gotten a chance to question her about Jackson, so I called CyberCorp’s main line again and, this time, asked for Ron.

  “Hey, Lena. What can I do for you?” he asked when a receptionist connected us.

  “Sorry to call so early. Do you have any news on Jackson?”

  “No, but hold on.”

  The line went silent and stayed that way for longer than I’d expected. Long enough that I couldn’t help picturing what might be happening over there—Ron calling Jackson’s doctors, being told that he’d taken a turn for the worse, trying to figure out how to explain to me that the boy I’d known most of my life would never recover. The metal fingers of my left hand balled into a tense fist.

  “No news,” Ron said when he came back on the line.

  “What does that mean?” I fought to keep the frustration out of my voice.

  “He’s still in a coma. Sorry, that’s all I could find out.”

  “Let me know when you hear something. Okay?”

  “You got it.”

  After we disconnected, I got ready to go and met Lionel downstairs for our drive to school.

  Fifteen minutes later, I waved goodbye to him as I stepped from the car. My usual parking space stood empty, front and center to the school’s main entrance. In theory, parking spaces at Hanover were assigned by lottery, but the lottery had gone in my favor all four years. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about that. But now, I saw things differently.

  My parents had gotten me that spot, either by calling the administration and insisting, or by just existing and making people want to please them. My whole life was like that—a product of my parents.

  Even this arm belonged to them.

  Today, the virtual banners around the school’s front doors showed nothing more than the school name in our official colors, maroon and blue. The images were stationary, but still, the fact that I saw them at all grated on my nerves.

  An odd tension crackled in the air in front of Hanover High. Faces turned toward me, with gazes pinned on the metal hand clearly visible at the end of my sleeve.
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br />   I’d expected today to be different from most days. I’d expected the stares. I’d expected students to shy away from me, to avoid me, to whisper and laugh behind my back the way they had yesterday afternoon.

  But this was something else.

  As I strode past those horrid banners and through the front doors, one group of girls stepped away from me, eyes narrowed. That looked like anger or fear—something I hadn’t expected.

  “Lena!” A male voice called my name. Hunter limped toward me down the hallway.

  I had warmed to him a bit yesterday, but I wouldn’t call us friends. Still, he was one of the two people who’d made yesterday bearable.

  I gave him the benefit of a doubt and plastered a smile on my face. “What’s up?”

  “I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Everyone thinks you did it.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his bad leg and his good one, winding up like a Jack in the Box about to spring.

  My eyes narrowed. “Did what?”

  He let out a long breath. “Killed Harmony.”

  “What?” I couldn’t have heard him right. “Killed Harmony?”

  “Harmony Miller is dead.”

  The loud chatter in the hallway plummeted down to a quiet hum in my ears, and my head swam. The voices continued, but I could no longer understand them. Hunter’s words played over and over again. Harmony Miller is dead. I held a hand out to touch the wall, to catch myself before I fell over.

  Harmony dead. Harmony.

  Dead.

  I’d seen her just yesterday. I’d cursed at her in my head for causing our argument, for setting off a chain reaction that led to an overall shitty day at school. I’d even wished I never met her. And now, she was no longer my problem.

  I had put negative thoughts about Harmony into the universe, and the universe had responded in the worst way possible.

  My stomach turned, and I thought I would lose my breakfast all over the floor, all over Hunter. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back.

  “How?” My voice came out low pitched and deliberate as I tried to control my emotions, tried not to break down.

  “They’re not saying.”

  “Where’s Melody?” My mouth felt dry, the words harsh against my throat.

  His brow creased. “Who?”

  “Her twin sister.”

  His mouth made an O-shape. “I don’t know. She probably stayed home from school.”

  “What about Claire?” I gestured a couple inches taller than me. “About this tall. Short brown hair. Gorgeous and loud.”

  “I haven’t seen any of your friends. Sorry.”

  “Okay.” A long pause stretched between us. What was I supposed to say? Then I remembered how this conversation had started. “People think I killed her?”

  “You got in a fight yesterday. You almost broke her arm. I don’t think you killed her, but some people have other ideas.”

  Liv ran up to us, unconcerned with the school’s rules against running in the hallways. “Did you hear?” she asked, out of breath.

  I nodded but struggled to form my mouth around words. “What if I killed her?” I whispered, so quietly that Hunter and Liv leaned toward me to hear.

  “Huh?” Liv said.

  “I sleepwalked last night,” I said. “I woke up on the side of the road—not far from her house actually. What if I . . .”

  “You think you murdered her in your sleep?” Hunter asked.

  When Hunter put it that way, it sounded ridiculous. Still, an odd feeling of dread sat like a dumbbell in my stomach.

  Since I’d never sleepwalked before, I was doing it now either because of trauma from the accident or because of the damn chip in my head. One of those things I could fix. “I need to get this chip out of my head.”

  “No.” Liv’s answer came fast. “The arm won’t work without the chip. You’ll have no arm. Plus, they can’t do surgery again until your headaches go away, right?”

  I nodded, even though I couldn’t remember telling Liv that immediate surgery wasn’t an option.

  I couldn’t imagine a life with only one arm, but at least it would be my life, one that I controlled. No chip doing who knows what inside my brain. No more communicating with networks, no more sleepwalking. I’d be all flesh and bone and me, and I wouldn’t have to worry about what my body did while I slept.

  That was what I wanted.

  Liv grabbed my hand—the metal one—and clasped her fingers around it. “That’s a huge decision to make. Just because you sleepwalked doesn’t mean you killed someone. People sleepwalk all the time. It doesn’t make them killers.

  Hunter nodded along with Liv’s words. “I bet Harmony’s dad has a lot of enemies. The entire anti-tech community, for example, since he’s a CyberCorp big shot.”

  “I’m part of that community,” I reminded him.

  “But you didn’t kill her,” Liv said. “It was probably someone he fired—and I hear he’s super tough on his employees—or someone else in the anti-tech community. Someone with the skills to get past the Millers’ home security.”

  “Imagine how many threats CyberCorp employees get,” Hunter said. “This wasn’t you. Trust us.”

  By the time they finished talking, I began to see their point. There were a hundred better suspects for this crime. Only that didn’t change the fact that I was still a suspect myself—at least in my mind.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ve got to make a phone call before class. See you guys later.” Without waiting for their responses, I sidestepped around them and took off down the hallway.

  I walked until I reached the west wing, head ducked low to avoid the stares and whispers. I climbed the west stairs two at a time to the second floor and then the third.

  The third floor held mostly laboratories and teachers’ offices. At this time of day, before classes, the hallway up here was usually deserted. I ducked into the nearest restroom, which was empty, and locked myself in the largest stall.

  I dropped down onto the toilet seat, and that’s when it hit me: Harmony was really dead.

  We would never make peace. I would never hang out with her again. I would never hear her laugh again. We were supposed to have more time. More time to mend our differences. More time for prom and graduation and getting together for spring breaks during college.

  I could no longer hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill. They flooded over my cheeks. Their salty taste pooled on my lips and seeped into my mouth. They shook my whole body, forcing themselves out from deep in my gut. My chest ached from the effort of expelling them from my insides.

  The first bell rang to announce the beginning of classes. I straightened my back, sucked in a deep breath, and considered cleaning myself up and heading to my classroom.

  But I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe, and each stabbing breath brought only more sobs.

  When I’d finally spent all my energy, my whole body felt empty—like I was made of nothing but skin and tears, and I’d used up all of the tears. Nothing was left of me.

  So I stared at the floor of restroom.

  And stared.

  Another school bell jerked me from my trance. I’d been in here for an hour, and first period had come and gone.

  I grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped away the liquid that hadn’t already dried on my face. My eyes would be bloodshot, so I couldn’t yet make an appearance outside the door of this stall.

  I widened my eyes a few times to try to clear them. If I could make it ten minutes without crying again, I’d be good. Then I would get out of here and go to my second class.

  I fished my hand-screen from my backpack. When I pulled the metal sides apart, the screen snapped into place. The display lit up.

  “Search Harmony Miller,” I told the device.

  An instant later, a series of articles and video titles scrolled across the screen. None of the headlines hinted at the m
ethod of death, but the top result was a recording of a news report that had aired this morning. I pressed it, and a video filled the screen. I pulled the top of the device upward to increase the size of the display.

  A woman with a short bob of blond hair spoke, her tone all business, no emotion. “Harmony Miller, daughter of tech genius Greg Miller of CyberCorp, was found dead in her bedroom early this morning. We’re still waiting on the release of further details, but we know that Harmony appears to have been murdered. Given the high security in the Miller household, we speculate that the family will be first on the list of suspects.”

  The woman stood on a small street just outside Harmony’s front lawn. Behind her, other reporters mingled nearby, some talking to cameras of their own.

  In the background, the front door opened, and a flood of reporters collapsed toward it. Harmony’s father emerged. A tall, thin man with dark-reddish hair, he seemed to slump into himself today. His eyes looked tired as he waved for silence from the small crowd.

  “We’re not prepared to speak to the press right now.” His voice shook, and he stopped to clear his throat and compose himself. “Please leave us in peace to mourn.”

  Reporters shouted questions at him.

  Mr. Miller shook his head and waved for silence again. “If you value your employment, you’ll clear this street within the next two minutes.” He slammed the door, and the reporters scattered.

  They knew better than to question Greg Miller’s power. If he said he would get them fired, he could do it. He was one of CyberCorp’s top engineers, and he’d joined the company only a few years after my parents formed it. Even though he wasn’t management, he had as much power as any other high-ranking CyberCorp employee—which was a lot.

  My parents and CyberCorp made hefty donations to the city and to private companies on a quarterly basis. I couldn’t keep track of how many buildings had wings named after them or one of our relatives.

  If Mr. Miller called a reporter’s employer, that reporter would be fired the same day. Even the press couldn’t risk withdrawal of CyberCorp funds and partnerships. So much for freedom of speech.