by Schow, Ryan
Over a cup of salted caramel hot chocolate, I tell Netty everything. My father isn’t home, so I feel comfy telling her about his plan for me, how he started the company to help me. I also tell her he looks different, that he’s not the version 1.0 of him she once knew.
“When you see him,” I say, “don’t act like you know me the way…you know me. He’s trying to establish new identities for us. We’re supposed to be purging ourselves of our past. Oh, and call me Abby, or Abigail.”
“Call you what?”
“Just do it.”
“How the hell am I going to pretend not to know you and your father?” She starts laughing at the absurdity of it, but quiets some when she sees the serious look on my face.
“I told you. He’s changed, too. So you need to be a bit, I don’t know, keep your emotions on the DL is all.”
“Serious?”
“For sure. He looks nothing like his old self.”
A few minutes later we hear the garage door open. When my father walks into the kitchen, Netty goes all doe-eyed. I’m almost embarrassed for her. With her chipped blue fingernail polish, her thin blonde hair, and her big Slavic eyes, I just want to hug her for being her. There’s nothing like a best friend.
“Hi, girls. Who’s this?” he asks, trying to be all coy about it. He knows Netty very well, and his acting isn’t Oscar worthy. Not by a mile. Brayden would say this is how every porn starts: some older guy coming in on two girls with bad acting. All he needs now is an old pizza box and super tight jeans.
Netty stares at him until I bump her. Holy balls, she’s practically salivating!
“Sorry. I’m Netty.”
I introduce Netty to my father by his new name, Christian Swann. He stares at me, incredulous, then says, “Pumpkin, can I see you in the other room for a minute?”
Uh oh, he’s never called me pumpkin before. In the other room, he says, “Are you off your goddamn rocker?”
“I met her at the bookstore. She doesn’t know about us. Swear.” The lie tightens my throat, quickens my pulse. My heart is positively pounding with dishonesty right now!
We stare at each other for a long moment, then he says, “If I find out you’re lying to me…”
My hands are now on my hips and I’m sort of in his face, which is so unlike me. I pull back, but my voice is still a ferocious whisper. “Then what? You’ll ground me? Send me to my room?”
“I’ll make you live with Margaret.”
Ouch, direct hit.
I whisper, “You don’t need to be cruel.”
“Consider yourself warned. I’m going to bed, so turn out the lights and set the alarm before you retire for the evening.”
“You mean before I go to bed?”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s not what you said.”
“You told me I should act my age earlier. I’m acting my age.”
I say, “I’m just trying to get used to the new you, okay?”
“Fine. Imma bounce. Imma go crush the mufuggin’ springs.”
I burst out laughing, and he laughs, too. His anger simmering, he finally pulls me into a hug and says, “I love you, Savannah. I really do.”
“Me too, daddy. How did your date go?”
“Fine, if I was into gold diggers and collagen lips and big fake balloon tits. But I’m not so there you have it. Your old man’s still single. Listen, don’t stay up too late. And please do what I say about this thing, okay?”
“Okay. And dad, I really like the new you. You’re kind of funny.”
6
Netty and I head to my room where I quietly explain the importance of what my father and I are doing and how secrecy is paramount. Then I tell her how our house was broken into, death threats were leveled against us, and all my father ever wanted was to not be numb all the time, and she was like, “Wow, I never knew any of this.”
Then she looks at me and says, “I’m so jealous of you right now. Look at my tiny tits, my bony ribcage, these wobbly legs. I can’t eat enough fatty foods to hardly pack on ten pounds, and when I do, off it goes again. If I could do what you did and look the way you do, holy cow Batman, I would do it in a heartbeat.”
The way she says “holy cow Batman” in a light Russian accent is hilarious.
“First of all, I think you look great the way you are. You’re not too skinny at all. I think you’re beautiful.” Who she looks like is Taylor Momsen, who starred as Jenny in Gossip Girl then later found her bitchy inner rebel and started the sexy sort of grungy band The Pretty Reckless. I love her music. I absolutely, unequivocally love it.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“I’ve always felt that.” She leans in and gives me a hug telling me how much she missed me, and true to her word, she’s all bones and tiny tits. Then I say, “You know, if everyone could do this, we’d be a nation of look-a-likes. Talk about boring! Not looking like everyone else, or even being perfect for that matter, honestly, that’s so in right now.”
She pulls back and looks at me funny. “No it’s not.”
Putting on my psychologist panties, I say, “We only know beauty because we have ugly to compare it to. If not for the Will Ferrell’s and the Danny Trejo’s of the world, we wouldn’t appreciate the Zac Efron’s and the Robert Pattinson’s.”
“You hate Zac Efron,” Netty says.
“The High School Musical Zac, yeah. Not the Nicholas Sparks’ version. You know, from The Lucky One? Never mind, you get the point. If this treatment goes mainstream, and it will, not only will it ruin true beauty, we’ll all be slaves to the corporations who created us.”
“Now you’re sounding paranoid.”
“I’m being realistic. I mean think about it: I’m basically Gerhard’s creation, who is an extension of the Virginia Corporation. When a corporation patents their technology, every person they transform will carry their specific DNA sequencing, protecting the corporation under patent laws.”
“I don’t get it,” Netty says, clearly not following along.
“If you study corporate law, and patent laws, then you would know this gives them property rights over you. You see, patent rights supersede human rights, which in a round about sort of way completely erases our freedom.”
“Are you sure?”
“Holy crap, Netty, don’t you watch any lawyer shows on TV?!”
“No.”
“You should. The point is, I’m conflicted.”
“About what? You look beautiful. You’re perfect! What else do you want?”
“Don’t you get it? Our own morality is at stake, as well as our freedom. When this technology becomes mainstream—and I’m living proof it’s not so far off—we won’t be people anymore, we’ll be brand names. And we’ll be owned by corporations because, technically, they will own the rights to our DNA. And if everyone is beautiful and perfect, with nothing ugly to compare against, then beauty in the technical sense won’t exist.”
Something lucid snakes through her eyes: understanding, and the true weight of its implications. “Wow,” she says. “You’re right.”
“Plus, I haven’t even mentioned the things I’ve seen. People in canisters of pink liquid with tubes and wires coming from them. They’re attached to submersible data wires and computers and gigantic servers that need entire cooling systems. These people were created only to sleep their entire lives away while donating everything beautiful and perfect about themselves to others. Talk about loss of freedom. Talk about slavery. Technologically we’re advancing. In terms of human rights violations, however, this advancement stands against everything America strives for.”
“So what can you do about it?”
“I’m not sure. What I do know is these people are playing God and honestly, I think someone needs to do something about it. Someone has to expose them.”
“Even if you do that, you can’t stop technology. And you’ll be going against your father.”
“I know,” I say, the implications heavy. “T
hat’s what I’m afraid of.” As the stress of feeling conflicted darkens my heart, I also feel a twitching in my cheek again, like a slow, steady ache. “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” I say, feeling a throbbing pain spreading like hot frost working its way into my chest and ribs. “Now why don’t you get me up to date on everything going on in Nettyland?”
Netty catches me up on the last semester and her new friends and we talk about how much we miss each other. I tell her about my run-in with Jacob and she gets giddy at the part when I insult his ding-dong and slam the door in his face. We’re rolling on the bed laughing when she gets a call from her father. It’s midnight and he wants her to come home. Talk about a buzz kill.
“I take it your father didn’t get indicted for embezzling after all?”
“No, he’ll get indicted. It’s inevitable. He’s just having his attorneys stall the trial so he can hide what’s left of our money.”
“Are you nervous for him?”
She shrugs her shoulders and says, “These are rich people problems. My father says it’s just par for the course, that once he’s out of the white collar slammer, we’ll still be loaded so”—and here she makes finger quotes—“‘what’s a couple years in the joint?’ He says he’ll finally get a good night’s rest, so maybe there’s an upside.”
Too Good to be True
1
I dial Brayden’s home hoping to God I don’t get his father, but that’s exactly who picks up the phone and I’m like freaking great!
“Ah, the ever influential Savannah Van Duyn,” he says. His voice has the consistency of sandpaper, like maybe he’s a brute, which would directly contrast the skinniness of his son. “To what do we owe the honor of this call?”
“I am actually calling for Brayden.”
“He’s off enjoying an early Christmas present.”
“Okay…”
“He’ll be back January second if you want to call then.”
“Do you not want him talking to me, Mr. James? Because I’m encouraging him to be reasonable, I really am.”
“He said as much. Still, he’s a reasonable boy with unreasonable dreams.”
“All of us ugly kids are,” I say, regretting my words the moment they leave my mouth. Who wants some pretty, rich girl calling their kid ugly? Before he can chastise me, I say, “I’m sorry, Mr. James, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, we kind of understand each other’s pain and we’re open about it. That’s how we became friends.”
“Are you still ugly, or did that scientist fix you like Brayden says?”
My insides coil thinking of having this conversation with Brayden’s father, and now that I’m having it, it seems a whole lot worse. “I’m a new version of myself.”
“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” he says, letting his oil worker’s heritage loose on me. I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved. “And you’re as beautiful as he tells me?”
“I’m a modest person, Mr. James.”
He gives a hearty laugh, shaving about four beats a minute off my heart. “So you blackmailed the doctor who beautified you then, huh? That your way of saying thanks?”
“Why couldn’t you just let him get the treatment? I mean, I put my life on the line for him, for all of us.”
“You got big hairy balls, young lady, I’ll give you that. But me and Brayden’s mom, we aren’t wired that way. My son is who he is, and we aren’t looking to make him into someone else.”
“I certainly understand,” I say, ready to get off the phone at this point. “So he’s really gone until the second?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I’m relieved to find you aren’t upset with me—”
“Never said that,” he says, calm, his voice still scraped with the slightest edge. “What I said, in so many words, was Brayden’s lucky for friends like you. But you’re playing a dangerous game, and I don’t want my boy in the eye of it. Now I told him, like I’m gonna tell you, doing what I say is best for us all. That clear, young lady?”
Wrapped with a burning chill, feeling ashamed at being called out, I say, “Yes, Mr. James,” I say. “Perfectly.”
We say good-bye wishing each other the perfunctory “Happy Holidays,” and I have to say I’m gosh damn elated to be done with that phone call.
2
The clock reads 10:43 A.M. and I’m dying for some interaction with someone. Netty’s at work and Brayden is off doing whatever for the winter break, so I decide to either egg Jacob’s house or call Damien. I check the fridge for eggs, see none, then after forever, decide to pick up the phone and dial Damien. I’m hoping his step-mother doesn’t answer. Or his father for that matter. I’m not sure either of them are terribly anxious to talk to me right now.
The way Oprah says having that sudden understanding is an aha moment, I’m suddenly having a holy crap moment.
I’ve never been disliked by anyone other than Margaret before. How did this happen? I remind myself Netty’s father likes me, and Netty’s mother—even though she’s Russian, and the Ruskies don’t really like anyone but a few of their own (so I’m told)—she’s at least decent to me.
Damien’s father answers the phone and I feel the way you’d feel if you got surprise hemorrhoids (the purple, bulbous type) or learned you had tuberculosis.
“Can I speak with Damien please?”
“Sure,” he says, chipper. “Who can I say is calling?”
I think about using my false name, but honestly, I’m having a difficult time thinking of myself as an Abigail. “Uh, this is…Savannah Van Duyn.” Silence. A screaming, liquid silence.
“Hello?” I say. Nothing. I look at my cell phone and the display shows I’m still connected. Uh, okay. Wow.
A minute later, there’s some shuffling noise on the phone and Damien says, “Hi, Savannah.” Totally neutral.
“For a second there I thought your dad hung up on me.”
“He probably wanted to,” he says, quiet, like he doesn’t want to be heard.
“That’s zero for two now on dads. I just spoke with Brayden’s dad and he politely let me know I’m bad for his son. As if…”
“You’re not bad for anyone, you’re just, I don’t know, not normal. People don’t know how to take you.”
“What about you?”
“I’m just really trying to get used to having my family back together, even though we still don’t know what we’re going to do with Kaitlyn. She’s still officially dead, so, who knows?” He takes a deep breath, then says, “This is still so surreal.”
“Yep, so surreal that somewhere along the way, you forgot how to say a proper good-bye before leaving school for a month.”
He pauses long enough for me to almost get pissed off. Then, sheepishly he says, “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“How’s Kaitlyn?” I ask this because I don’t know what else to talk about with him. But the minute he starts to open up about her—how she’s trying to adjust to losing two years of her life and how upset she is that she can’t go clothes shopping or see her friends—my mind begins to wander. And not in a good way. I spent all last semester turning my life upside down because of her.
The minute he stops to take a breath, I say, “Let’s say, hypothetically, you decide you want to date me, how do you feel knowing I look somewhat similar to your step-sister.”
“It doesn’t turn me on, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Freaking ouch!
“I’m not asking that.”
“It’s a little creepy, to be honest. I like you Savannah, but I could never like you like that because the resemblance is…it’s just too close. If not for your darker skin or your eyes, it might be hard to tell you two apart.”
After a moment of silence, I say, “Wow, it’s every girls’ dream to hear those words.”
“I just thought we should be honest with each other. I mean, I understand you like me, you know…like that, and I just don’t want to lead you on.”
“So if I lo
oked different, pretty, but not so much like Kaitlyn—”
“Maybe it would be no question. I don’t know. Why are you asking me these things anyway?”
He makes a good point. I will always look like Kaitlyn unless my father ponies up another twenty-five million, so basically he’s saying I have no chance at all.
Gosh dang, am I ever going to catch a break?
Grabbing a glass bottle of VOSS Norwegian water out of the fridge, working like a border mule to conceal the disappointment in my voice, the anger, I say, “Well, that’s very fascinating and all—” and then the bottle drops. The grey plastic lid breaks and the overpriced water splashes everywhere. “Dammit, I gotta go, my water just broke.”
I hang up the phone, and head for a dishtowel to clean the water now seeping into the cracks of the dark hardwood floor. Only when I’m wiping up my mess do I realize two very important things: One, I’m crying, which is unusual for me these days, but comforting to some degree because, as an abused fat girl, I cried all the time and I’m used to it. And two, I just told the boy of my dreams my water just broke. Like I’m pregnant.
I think about calling him back, but really, what would be the point?
3
I’m sitting on the couch, bored almost senseless, watching Chimp Eden and reading an old Teen Vogue magazine when the twitching in my face and just below my left breast begins to flare. Is this going to be a normal thing for me? At first the feeling is like my muscles being roughly massaged, but then it feels like my insides are being twisted hard, and a little too tight. The twitching becomes a queasiness inside me, like trapped gas or acid reflux, or maybe a baby seal trying to inch its way out of me. Then the pain lessens and I’m like, WTF is happening to me? Pretty soon the twitching is gone again and I go back to reading/watching TV.
Ten minutes later something violent unfurls inside me, a deep, searing pain that reminds me way too much of my transformation days back at school.
As I’m racing to the bathroom (old habits die hard), I can no longer ignore the fact that something is definitely amiss. Has my new DNA somehow been corrupted? Am I suffering a glitch? A side-effect?
