by Lydia Kang
Social Worker Guy turns to leave. I’m afraid to ask him, but I force myself.
“Please. What are we doing here?” I ask.
“This is the New Horizons Center of West Omaha.” I must look as stupid as he thinks, because he enunciates his next words very slowly. “So you and your sister can be placed with a new family. A foster family.” He gives my arm an unreassuring squeeze, so he can push me away to click the door shut.
I back away from the door. Foster family? Each day this past week, I doggedly assumed Dad would recover. I never considered that the sky would fall, or that the earth would stop rotating. And here I am, detached, orphaned, and missing that person who used to tether me to the world. My bones feel loose and disconnected beneath my skin at the thought.
The old lady at the desk finally switches off her holo game and serves us a prunish smile.
“Names please,” she orders. I step forward and quietly give her our information. She bobs her head, telling us to sit and wait.
After only a minute, a door opens in the back of the room. Two guys wearing ID badges around their necks walk in. One of them—tall, with broad shoulders and an aquiline nose—scans a list of names on his holo. He points at us while speaking to his younger coworker. “Take them to level F. There’s a vacated double there. I have to find singles for these two,” he says, motioning toward the brother-sister pair.
The younger guy steps closer to us. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black sweater. His short hair is perfectly mussed, exactly the way that Dyl likes. She takes notice, pocketing Dad’s ring and wiping her nose. I don’t even think she’s consciously doing it, but her posture straightens out.
Though I know she’s still sad—it’s in her face—it must be some innate reaction she’s been born with that only showed up a few months ago. The ability to react to cute guys like this. I am clearly missing this gene, because the reactive posture I have right now is an I’d rather be anywhere but here schlump.
The guy in black nods his head, acknowledging us. His light-brown locks splay across his forehead. “Come with me.”
Dyl stands up briskly to follow him. I shake my head. I want to follow because I want someone to take me away from the horror of the last two hours. Dyl wants to follow him because he’s cute. I want to tell her to be wary, but now is probably not the time for a lecture on the dangers of teen heartthrobs.
The guy lopes down the hallway. His holo is on now, and though I can’t see the face, the voice on the other end tells me it’s the same guy from the other room.
“Get them situated. The director will talk to them herself once all the data is in.”
“Shall I order the usual?” our guy asks. His voice is surprisingly soothing and calm.
“Yes, but let them rest first. Tomorrow we’ll do the tests.”
“Excuse me?” I interrupt, as politely as possible. “What tests?”
He stops and turns, and for the first time, we both get a better look at him. He’s pretty tall, towering over Dyl, who shifts her feet from side to side. She does this when she’s nervous. He stares down at her with a pair of warm amber-brown eyes, and smiles, then gives me an equal serving of perfect white teeth. There’s one dimple on the left. From the melting expression on Dyl’s face, I’m guessing that, for her, dimples equal trustworthy.
“It’s just standard stuff, to make sure you guys are healthy and find a suitable family. Nothing to worry about. Everybody gets it done.”
“Everybody?” Dyl says, her eyes wide. She hates needles, even the microneedle patches that you can hardly feel.
“Actually, I got tested too. I was in your shoes five years ago, so I know what it’s like.”
Both of us shut our mouths, feeling bad. He turns and leads us to a transport. Before long, he’s showing us into a bare-bones apartment with two beds, a table, and a bathroom. On the wall is a small metal door—an old but apparently functioning food service efferent, preloaded with food supplies so we can have fresh meals at the touch of a few buttons.
My caffeine buzz is wearing off, only to be replaced with a spectacular pounding headache. Combined with the lack of sleep from the past week and the realization that our new home doesn’t include Dad, I’m feeling pretty horrific now. I must look green or something, because the boy puts his hand on my arm.
“Are you okay?” His hand is so warm, it sends a strange tingle in my skin and I step back, embarrassed at the redness in my cheeks.
“Not really.” It’s not his problem. In two seconds when he leaves, he’ll forget us.
He studies me for a moment. “Every day gets a little easier. You’ll see.”
The canned feel-good line does nothing for me, but it works on Dyl and she practically liquefies, crying fresh tears. The guy closes the distance to pat her back, and she melts right into him. I don’t know whether to be jealous or disgusted. After way too long, they pull apart, and Dyl wipes her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Thanks,” she says, and edges closer to me. I put a protective hand on her shoulder. The guy doles out another kind smile.
“Hey, you have nothing to be sorry about. I was in worse shape than you two when it happened to me.” His smile disappears for a fraction of a moment, but soon his face returns to its normal beatific state. “Well, rest up. You have an allotment of three meals and three snacks from the efferent. I’ll come get you guys in the morning. There’s a ton of screenwork to do tomorrow.”
“And the tests.” Dyl can’t hide the crinkle above her nose, as if she can smell the needles from here.
“You’ll be just fine.” He smiles at us both. “I’m Micah.”
Dyl opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off before she can introduce herself. “I know you both, Dylia and Zelia Benten. Your names rhyme.”
Normally, I hate that. Dyl and I are more than a singsong-y, awful poem. But Micah says it in a way that is a hundred percent complimentary. Finally, he takes a step closer to Dyl and hovers next to her for a moment. Her eyes glaze over, and she’s in some faraway place where there’s no Dad to mourn, no nagging sister.
“Freesia. Nice.” And with that, he’s gone.
And from the look of her puppy-dog eyes, so is Dyl.
CHAPTER 3
AFTER A SCORCHING HOT SHOWER, I pull on the scratchy generic loungewear provided in the room. There’s even matching granny underwear. How thrilling. The bed is the best thing I’ve seen in days. I reach around my neck to put on my necklace, the black box pendant dangling heavily at my throat. In a second, my chest wall rises and falls without my permission. I’m so ready for this box to take over so I can pass out.
Dyl showers too, but won’t wear the clothes. Instead, she keeps her skimpy towel wrapped about her. Without the makeup and trendy clothes, her age shows for once. She’s lovely and fragile. Like the girl who used to climb into my bed, press her cheek against mine, and watch cartoons with me on my holo.
“You look nice without makeup,” I say between the regimented breaths of my necklace.
“Please, Zel. No lectures,” she says, combing her damp hair with her fingertips.
“I’m not lecturing you.”
“It’s a sneaky lecture. You’re an expert in those.”
“Okay, okay,” I concede, sulking a little. Dyl hops over to my bed, sending foggy, shampoo-scented air my way. Her hand touches my arm. It’s not a hug, but I’ll take it.
“I’m not mad,” she says.
“I know. Not mad, just crazy,” I quip, and she smiles at our inside joke.
“You were crazy first. By birth order.”
I lie down on my bed, and Dyl goes back to hers, pinching on her holo.
At first, the truth of her criticism won’t let me sleep. The bad feeling bounces around my insides, so I turn on my holo to scroll through my favorite cell bio sites. If I had a rock in my hand, I’d drop it just to make sure gravity still worked. I like the reassurance that some universal things don’t change, even on the worst days of my life.
&n
bsp; And then I freeze. Dad didn’t want me to immerse myself in science stuff anymore. I can’t disobey him now, not after today. I search for States history channels, but the sites unmoor me. I drift around, not knowing what I’m looking at, or looking for. I wish Dad would tell me where to start. When a yawn threatens to unhinge my jaw, I click off my holo and drift toward sleep. I am half conscious when the murmurs of Dyl and Micah make me open an eye.
They’re deep in a holo conversation. Dyl whispers, “I’m . . . um . . . nearly a thirty-two B, I guess. Why? . . . Oh. Clothes? That’s so thoughtful of you.”
Ugh. Did I forget to give her the lecture on not discussing bra size with strange guys, under any circumstances?
I turn to the wall and wish for a moment that I didn’t have to be the new police, mother, dietician, and chief financial officer of the family, all at the same time. And then, as soon as the thought comes out, guilt floods me.
I let the box around my neck do its job and punish my chest with its unmerciful push and pull.
• • •
“THIS IS SO MEDIEVAL. WHERE’S THE TESTING BOT? There’s always a bot.” Dyl gnaws her nails so viciously, I’m afraid she’ll hit bone before long.
“It’ll be over soon,” I say, trying to be soothing but failing spectacularly. There’s nothing soothing about this room. Dyl won’t stop staring at the antique-grade blood testing equipment on the rickety table before us, as if the needles will jump up to stab her eyeballs if she looks away for a millisecond.
Micah opens the door and we both flinch.
“Hey,” he says, smiling at us.
We don’t smile back.
“Glad the clothes fit,” he says. Dyl’s wearing a sky-blue, flowing skirt and a feminine, snug white tee that clearly shows he picked the right-size bra. I’m in my usual troll-wear of baggy, dark clothes, so he really did get it right. I try not to be freaked that Micah knows my bra size too, which exists in the micro-XS end of the spectrum.
“Okay, just some questions.” He sits astride a chair and pulls out a data tablet. “So Dyl. Any health problems?”
She brightens. “No.”
“No illnesses recently? Strange symptoms?”
“Nope.”
Micah gives her a smile and Dyl returns the favor. Like a prize racehorse, she’s even showing teeth in perfect, pearly order. She’s passing with flying colors. He studies the electronic tablet. The answers glow, automatically, from her verbal answers. “Your periods are regular?”
At this, she blushes. Not exactly first-date-type conversation material.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Now, Zelia. How about you?”
Oh god. Yes, yes, and I’m a mess. Gah.
“Which question?” I squint at him.
“Any health problems?”
I tell him about my breathing. I should have died as an infant. If Dad hadn’t been a doctor, it might not have been picked up. I could have died within a day of being born. Micah pushes out his lower lip, impressed with my flaw.
“And otherwise your health is . . . ?”
“Fine, fine.” I’m starting to get nervous, because what if a nice family rejects both of us because of my imperfections?
“And your periods?”
Damn. “I, uh, haven’t gotten my period yet.”
“This month?” he asks helpfully.
“No, I mean not ever.”
Micah looks truly confused now. He looks down at his tablet, and back at us again.
I shrink into my chair, but there is nowhere to hide from the fact that I am the unequivocal runt of the family.
“Did you ever get tested to find out why?”
“Yeah. They told me that my eggs and ovaries are . . .” God. Don’t make me say it out loud.
“They’re what?”
I can’t look him in the eye. “They’re undeveloped. I have some minor hormone deficiencies . . . no big deal, really.” I mumble so incomprehensibly that Micah has to ask me to repeat myself. My face boils with embarrassment. “I’m deficient, okay?” I snap.
Micah nods at me, the eggless monstrosity who might die at a moment’s notice. Finally, he stands up and smiles, hiding his thoughts from us.
“Okay. I’ll send the tech in for your labs. It will only take a little while.”
“What about a bot?” Dyl fairly squeaks out her plea.
“Or breath-chem tests?” I add. Dyl nods eagerly at my suggestion.
“Oh, that. Well, New Horizons can’t afford breath-chems. And our lab bot has been down for a while. We’re going old-fashioned today.” He scoots out the door pretty fast, as if he anticipates our coming protest.
The next fifteen minutes are a comedy for me and torture for Dyl. The lab tech looks about a hundred years old, with an IQ of a moss-covered pebble. He jabs us with needles, once, twice, and finally gets the blood flowing into the collection capsules, all the while marking down stuff on the e-tablet, which he drops twice because his gnarled hands are so clumsy. By the time he’s done, Dyl is a stunning shade of greenish white, and I’ve got my arm around her.
“The bruises will fade,” I tell her. Dyl shivers under my arm, until I realize she’s not cold, and she’s not crying.
“It’s not that. I have a bad feeling, Zel.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, let’s get something to eat. You’re probably just faint from hunger. And that vampire grandpa with bad aim didn’t help.”
The smile I hoped for doesn’t come. Dyl’s quiet despair is almost physical, blanketing both of us as we walk back in our room. She curls up on my bed and lets me tuck her under the sheets.
I punch in an order for some food at the efferent. Hydroponic chicken salad, hot peas with butter, and steaming mini-loaves of cheddar sunseed bread. But she won’t touch any of it. After a few more hours, Dyl is still half catatonic on the bed, and she doesn’t complain when I rub her back gently.
I wish I knew what to do. We’re both afloat in our own brand of uncontrolled misery, and I can’t make it go away. There’s no protocol in my lab files for dealing with grief.
“Come on. Why don’t you listen to some music on your holo. Cheer you up,” I suggest, and she nods. I squeeze her foot under the covers, and she wriggles back in acknowledgment.
I chew the inside of my cheek to distract me from that black hole of a feeling, the absence of Dad. He said to take care of myself. But all I can think of is Dyl. I have never seen her so withered, in such a dark place. While Dyl chooses some quiet, depressing music, I flick on my own holo. I can’t look at cell bio sites, and the thought of political science channels makes me ill, so I stare instead at a blank screen.
Suddenly, my holo screen goes fuzzy and matching static fills the air.
“Clear,” I command, to reset the holo. My stud is an older model I keep forgetting to update, and occasionally it’s too slow to handle the information. But the holo stays fuzzy. I reach up and pinch the earpiece, turning it off.
“My holo just died,” Dyl says, pulling the thick silver stud out of her earlobe. She walks to the bathroom, where she can examine it under the brighter light, checking the pin-sized battery in the core. I start to pull my black one out too.
“Weird. Mine did too—”
But before I can finish my sentence, the door opens.
Two strangers walk into our room. In the hallway behind them, a fancy electrostatic hoverchair bobs, as if waiting to serve a disabled person. One of the strangers is a young woman dressed in black. She wears her paper-white hair in a sleek ponytail, and her eyes are so pale blue they look white too, as if she dunked her whole head, eyes wide open, into a bucket of bleach.
The other guy is heavyset with a baby face, curly orange hair, and a scattering of scruffy beard. He withdraws a handful of black jelly beans from his pocket, popping them one by one into his mouth and chewing like a cow. For some reason, he keeps a wide distance from the woman. A bored expression flattens h
is features.
“Can I . . . help you?” I ask timidly. Dyl peeks from the bathroom.
“Your foster family is here to pick you up,” the girl says, but not kindly.
This is not what I expected. Now? It feels wrong in every way—her tone of voice, the way her eyes won’t look at me, the chubby companion and his black candy.
I shake my head. “But we only just did our tests today. I thought—”
She ignores me and beckons to my sister. “Come with me.”
Dyl looks to me, fear entering her eyes. She doesn’t move forward, instead whispering so low that only I can hear her.
“Zel, stay close to me.”
I give her the tiniest nod, and turn to the pair. “Where are we going, exactly?” I ask.
“Not both of you, just her.” The woman sounds irritated, and I can feel the blood pounding in my chest. I start breathing faster and faster to match the demand of my heart. They’re going to separate us, after I just silently promised my sister. I stand my ground in front of Dyl, like a guard. A tiny one.
“Can I confirm this with Micah? Or maybe the New Horizons director?” I say, failing to keep my voice steady. I pinch my holo on. “Micah? Can you—Micah?” My screen is still fuzzy.
A tidy smile stretches the strange girl’s face. Her teeth are tiny—pearly and sharp-looking. She pulls out a short sickle-shaped knife and twirls it in her fist. “Come on, Dylia. It’s time to go.”
When neither of us moves, the guy pockets his remaining jelly beans and crosses the room. Three of me could fit into his body. Before I can even flinch, he grabs my arms and I’m sailing across the room, landing on Dyl’s unmade bed in the corner.
“Zel!” my sister screams. I’ve only bounced on the bed, a trifle joggled and not hurt at all. But . . . holy shit. I just got attacked.
The white-haired girl hisses at the boy. “Ren! I don’t need any drama. I need quiet.”
Ren sticks his blackened tongue out at her and gives me a horrible smile. He saunters over to my corner, and I cower away from him, scrambling over the bedsheets. There’s no way in a million years I could fight this guy.
