Memory Girl (22 page)

I unwind my red scarf from my neck and gently smooth out the creases, then place it in my top drawer. There isn't much else in the drawer. My belongings will fit easily in one bag. I wonder if I should pack now.

A cool breeze chills my bare neck. The window over my bed is cracked open. Who left it that way? Not me. Surely not Rosemarie who wears extra layers to stay warm. I cross over to the window and push it shut. The last time I found the window open, I also found Petal curled on my bed.

But my bed is undisturbed.

Changing into my night covering, I slip under the blankets. My pillow is lumpy, and when I lift it up, I find a square package. There's no label, but I know it's meant for me since it was beneath my pillow. Who would leave a gift? Rosemarie? Arthur?

I dig my fingernail into a corner of the package to rip it open. Inside I find a small packet and a folded note.

Unfolding the paper, I read a scrawled, blue-inked message:

Only you can free Nate.

I won't do it.

I can't do it.

How can I
not
do it?

I'm tempted to open the small packet, but it's sealed with glue-wax and addressed to Nate. I read the note again and again, tormented by each word. Someone knows that I know Nate.

Daisy.
Of course it's her. Her sly glances hinted that she knows my secrets. But even if she does, why would she care
if Nate lives or dies?

When my doorknob jiggles, I shove the packet under my pillow and pretend to be asleep. I sense Rosemarie's gaze on me. Soft footsteps come closer, and her hand brushes across my hair. “Sleep well, Milly,” she whispers.

Her tone has the finality of a good-bye.

I want to grab her arms and beg her to tell me what is going to happen to me, but she goes into the privacy room, shutting the door behind her.

I'm so tired, my body aches for sleep, but plans whirl in my head. Somewhere between dreams and thoughts, ideas take shape, transforming into a bold plan that will break more rules in one day than I've broken in all of my fifteen years.

When I awake the next morning, I know what I have to do—even though it's more dangerous than climbing the Fence or sneaking Petal to Marcus.

I'm going to give the packet to Nate.

With this decision made, dread lifts from me. I move through my chores, lighter with hope. Rosemarie seems in high spirits too, humming a cheerful melody as we prepare to leave for my sizing.

When Arthur says he's going with us, my dread returns. Even last night, when everyone else ignored me, he still pulled out my chair and offered to butter my bread and refill my water glass. And often, when he doesn't realize I'm aware, I find his gaze sweeping over me like I already belong to him.

Now Arthur takes the driver's seat, inviting me to sit beside him, but I pretend I don't hear and slide into the back beside Rosemarie. She pats my shoulder, then hums happily like when she's baking pumpkin bread. Arthur raises his brows at Rosemarie and they share a meaningful look.

I'm too anxious to puzzle over them, each wheel-turn bringing me closer to Nate. I go over my plan, scheming how to sneak away from my sizing. I'll need Lorelei's help, but will she agree? She has to! I'll plead until she gives in. I only need about fifteen minutes to follow the path beneath the bushes, throw the packet through Nate's window, and hurry back before I'm missed. Timing is important. Luck would be useful too, and I wish I still had my favorite sand shell. But Nate has it, and he'll need more than luck to escape.

The drive into City Central blurs until we approach thick bushes, and I see the brick walls of the prison. The packet for Nate is tucked in my pocket.

I think of Nate's face, shadowed by irons bars. I can help him, if I can only get to him. Somehow I'll find a way. I'm so lost in thought that I don't notice where we're going until I glance out the window.

“Arthur!” I cry, pointing. “You passed the fashionizing shop.”

“Yes, I did.” He grins at me.

“Why would you do that? Make him turn around,” I urge Rosemarie. “I'll be late for my appointment.”

She shakes her head. “I postponed your appointment.”

Arthur slows the coach cycle in front of a square stone building with a pink engraved plaque over the entry door.

“I've been bursting to tell you since yesterday, but Leader Cross didn't want anyone to ruin the surprise.” Rosemarie grasps my hand. “You're getting your first memdenity.”

Nate will be executed tomorrow.

And today, a part of me is going to be buried beneath Milly's memories.

I'm numb as I climb down the steps of the solar cart. Arthur grins at me, his head lifted high with pride and something else—maybe ownership. Will he be in Milly's childhood memories?

“Come along, Milly.” Rosemarie's cheerful tone is a smothering blanket.

Arthur comes around to open my door and offers me a hand. Already the attentive husband, he is kind and will be good to me. I know this and appreciate his kindness. I have heard of husbands who strike in anger, so I'm lucky to have a gentle man for a husband.

“The insertion won't hurt,” he says as he opens the entry door for me. “Don't be afraid.”

“I'm not.” Pain is brief. It's the permanent changes I dread.

Rosemarie slips her arm around my shoulders. “You'll do fine.”

I enter a small room with a desk and rows of chairs. No photos, paintings, or decorations on the walls—only stark blankness.

A deep-voiced man in white pantons and a pink shirt
strides on long legs through double doors. He's tall, with skin a shade lighter than mine and thick, flaxen hair. “You must be Milly,” he booms in a deep voice.

“Not yet,” I say like it's a joke. But it's not.

“Wait here while I see if your room is prepared,” he says, then goes down a back hallway.

Rosemarie squeezes my hand. “No worries, okay? It won't take long, and afterward you'll be pleased with everything you know.”

I nod, but Arthur frowns. “Actually, she won't gain much from the first memdenity. Childhood memories have little substance,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “Nothing useful.”

“She learned many skills as a youth,” Rosemarie argues. “Milly's cooking talent started young. I should know—I was with her.”

“And I wasn't.” Arthur draws in a deep breath, then blows it out. “I'll wait over there.” He sits in a hard chair, alone.

“Poor Arthur,” Rosemarie says, guiding me to a chair on the opposite side of the room. She sits beside me, leaning close to whisper, “He didn't marry Milly until she was age twenty, and while they were happy together for the first century, there was a time when they stopped talking … and unfortunate things happened. You will ease more hurts than you know when you bring Milly back to him.”

But I don't want to be Milly
, I think with panic, wanting to run somewhere far away where I can make my own memories.

The yellow-haired health keeper returns.

“The insertion room is ready,” he says.

Rosemarie rises to go with me, but the health keeper
gives her a stern look. “Only the youth is allowed,” he says.

I'm led down a narrow hall and through a steel door. A lock clicks behind me. I'm told to sit in a leather chair with steel clamps on the arm rests. Wire devices twine around a tray like silver snakes. I want to gag at the sterile chemical odor. My heart thumps.

It's happening. The moment my whole life has led up to.

The flaxen-haired man reminds me of a giraffe, long necked and lanky. “I'm Rachid,” he says, cranking a knob that reclines my chair so I'm staring up into a ceiling of twisted cords. “It's good to see you again.”

“We've met before?”

His chuckle rolls in a faint accent. “You won't remember; you were only a babe. I never forget the babes, and I noticed you because of your curiosity. You always knew what you wanted too, grabbing toys from your born-mates. I knew you wouldn't be one of the discards, so I cuddled and played with you.”

“Discards?” I've never heard this term before.

“The scientists always supply us with extra embryos.” He reaches for my wrist and slips it in a clamp. “Only the most healthy make the final fifteen. I remember them all, and you were a favorite.”

This should please me, but the word
discard
is troubling. What if I'd been born with a flaw or an illness? Would I be here? Would I be anywhere?

The snap of an arm clamp startles me. I jerk but can't move.

“Relax, Milly,” Rachid says calmly, and my long ago memory stirs at his voice. “It's a simple procedure, and you'll sleep through it.”

“If it's simple, then why are my arms restrained?”

“A safety measure. You won't feel anything.”

That's what worries me.

Clamps fit over my ankles too, and my tunic bunches up to my thighs. I glance at the knee I scarred as a child, smooth with no trace of the scar. I hold tightly to the memory of being age one, stumbling, pain and blood. The scar will never fade as long as I remember.

A cone mask comes down over my face, eclipsing light. Strange, sweet smells wisp up my nostrils. Hands lift my hair. Cold metal presses on the back of my head. There's the flash of silver and a shining needle aiming at my face. I'm drifting somewhere beyond water and land. My last thought is clear, strong, and determined.

I am Jennza.

Images flood my mind with sounds, smells, and strange sights, bright lights and tall ceilings. Someone holds me tight, murmuring soft words. I'm helpless to do much except cry and suck and sleep. Tiny hands, my tiny hands, reach up to grasp larger hands. I'm content, safe and loved.

I'm rushing forward, small legs stretching into first steps. Learning letters and reading on my own. I laugh with a small girl with long black curls. We're bundled in heavy jackets and gloves—no, the word is
mitten
—and we're excited about something. A door opens and a whoosh of icy air stings my cheeks. The other girl runs ahead, and I run after her, stumbling in thick, soft white ground. A word comes to me: snow.

Time leaps. I'm riding on a leather seat beside the black-haired girl. I look at her now, recognizing the smile that tilts
unevenly at one corner and the thick brows over serious brown eyes. Rosemarie: my sister.

We're at the sea, but we call it the Pacific Ocean. The sandy shore shimmers like white-gold cloth. Confusing strings of words and images tangle in my thoughts. Rubber-wheeled vehicles—cars. Tiny boxes flash pictures and make sounds—phone. Something large and metal roars into the sky, shrinking in the distance like a tiny flying bird—airplane.

The car stops in a paved square—a parking lot. We're swallowed into a dizzying crowd hurrying into shops, whirling flashing lights, music and buckets flying high in circles—Ferris wheel. The screams and crowds make me clutch tight to Rosemarie's hand. She says we should skip the rides and go to the beach, so we race to the shore, where people ride boards in high waves. Sand tickles my bare toes. We laugh, chasing waves and dancing in seaweed. “Race you!” Rosemarie shouts, and my little legs can't catch her.

I'm calling her name, “Rosie! Rosie!” when stinging salt water crashes over me, sweeping me away from shore. Can't breathe. I'm swallowing salt water, choking, slipping deep into darkness.

A hand grasps my shoulders, pulling me from the water. I'm on my side on the ground, still sinking, drifting away. A man stands over me, water streaming down his face … or tears? “Milly, baby! Breathe!” I spit out water, sucking in air, sobbing “Daddy!” as I cling to him.

Another scene flashes by. Noisy streets and honking, like geese, blares from cars, trucks, buses, taxis, and even horns on bicycles. I'm riding in the back of a car, strapped on a cushioned box. Booster seat. The Daddy man is driving and a woman sits beside him, her hair dark with braids like
Rosemarie's. Mom. I look to the side and see my sister. Rosie. There's a car seat with a crying baby, a boy with a squishy face. He spits up on me, but I still like him. Brother.

Towering buildings reach for the clouds. I peer out windows at chaotic sidewalks of people riding, walking, and skating. Wiggling in my belted seat, I ask again and again how long before we're there. We're going to climb a tower. Rosemarie says she'd rather see a museum, and the Daddy man says we will after we climb the tower. There are many, many steps that go up, up, up. My legs hurt from the climb. “Carry me,” I beg the Daddy man. But he's holding the boy baby. I'm not liking the spit-up baby so much now. Rosemarie takes my hand. “Stay with me,” she says.

Numbers race up and down in my mind with each step. 26, 27 … 35 …. But the number steps never end and my legs burn. I want to go back to the car. I let go of Rosemarie's hand and look down, down, so far down. Rosemarie shouts at me to hurry up. But I can't stop looking at the distant ground. My head is spinning and I'm rubbing my eyes because I'm crying. My foot slips. I'm falling … until Rosemarie pulls me to safety.