The Girl Who Wasn't (2 page)

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 tennis, 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.

“
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.