Genesis Girl

by Jennifer Bardsley

  I wish that Ms. Lydia could be here. She’d know what to do.

  Trevor pulls me in for one more kiss. “You’re adorable,” he says. “Am I making you happy?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “More than happy.

  “Good,” Trevor says. “You’ll come to the Vestal banquet next week, right?”

  “Yes! If it’s okay with Cal.”

  “Do you think you can convince him?” Trevor asks. “If you tell Ms. Lydia how great things are between us, will that help?”

  “Probably,” I say. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Excellent, Blanca. I know you can do it.” Then he kisses me again as the cameras flash.

  It’s late by the time I stop by Seth’s apartment. I knock on the divider and ask Alan to text Cal to tell him what’s up. When you go someplace, leave a note. I’m trying one last time to complete my mission.

  “I thought you blew me off,” Seth says, after I come inside.

  “I keep my promises to your dad,” I say. “He still wants you to listen.”

  Seth flicks his thumb, and a silvery-gray photo shoots up of Trevor and me just hours before in the rain. Seth points to it with his other hand. “Is this real, Blanca?”

  “What do you mean? Of course it’s real! That’s me, isn’t it?”

  “Do you actually like this guy? Are you kissing Soap-boy for real or because my dad told you to?”

  “That’s not what it’s like! Your dad would never tell me to do that.”

  “So it’s real then?” Seth asks again.

  “Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”

  “For Soap-boy too?” Seth holds up his palm right in front of my face so I can stare at Trevor and me. “How do you know that somebody isn’t telling Soap-boy to make you like him?”

  “I can tell when somebody is kissing me for real.”

  “Can you?” Seth’s eyes flash. “Because I couldn’t.”

  “Well that’s because—” I start to say. But then I stop myself.

  “Because what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I bet you couldn’t tell,” Seth says. He’s close enough now that I can smell his shampoo. “I bet if I kissed you right now, you wouldn’t know if it was for real or if I was faking it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I could tell.” But I don’t move away.

  “Prove it.” Seth cups my face in his hands and presses our lips together. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m kissing him back. His arms go around me, and my arms reach for his neck. We’re all tangled up in a mess of heat.

  “Real or fake?” Seth asks, finally pulling apart.

  I want to be honest, and that terrifies me. It feels like my filters are slipping away. Seth already knows so much. Would it hurt to tell him a little more?

  That’s the dangerous part about Seth. He makes me forget everything that’s truly important. All I feel is chaos. For a half second I think about doing something stupid and telling him the truth about what I’m feeling. I mean, what I felt.

  “Seth, I—”

  From somewhere in the corner of the room, a buzzer sounds. Lights flash and a silvery screen pulls down from the ceiling.

  “What’s that?” I shield my face from the tech on instinct.

  “It’s okay.” Seth gently pulls down my hands. “It’s only a rival site. All that means is that The Lighthouse has another post.” He keeps his arms around me, and I feel his fingers press into the small of my back.

  “The site that bashes Vestals?” I ask, trying not to view the screen. That means that I have to turn inward, toward Seth.

  “You’ve heard of it?” Seth clicks a hand toward the visual, making it larger.

  “I’d better be going.” I step away.

  “Wait!” Seth tries to hold on. “Do you still have that white bike?” Seth points to pirated video from my photo shoot.

  There I am, tooling around on Trevor’s motorcycle for the whole world to see! One of the Vestal Rejects on the camera crew must have betrayed me and uploaded the footage online. Jeremy better fire the culprit immediately.

  “No,” I say. “That was for a photo shoot. So what?”

  “So,” says Seth. “Maybe that’s something you might like to do sometime, for fun.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Seth nods back at the screen and then looks at me. “Well, what about Nevada?” he asks. “What do you know about that?”

  “What?”

  Seth points to the text floating in the air. I turn away, not reading it, although the headline is already seared in my mind.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” I say. “I don’t know if Barbelo lives in Nevada or not.”

  I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I was growing up at Tabula Rasa, every last minute of my day was orchestrated for me. I’d wake up in my cloistered dorm and wait in the long lines to brush my teeth. All of us girls would spy on each other in the mirrors, trying to see whose teeth were becoming crooked. They’d let you get braces, but it was better if you had naturally straight teeth.

  Then we’d eat some gluten-free porridge for breakfast with a hardboiled egg. The kids who complained or were noncompliant were kicked out faster than you could say, “Please sir, can I have some more?”

  Classwork was always my favorite part. Grammar, rhetoric, logic, music—I soaked up learning but was never showy about it. I understood early on that it was better to lie low.

  I also learned not to get too attached to anyone.

  I had this one friend named Amy all the way until I was ten years old. One day we were whispering goodnight to each other across our bunks, and the next morning, Amy was gone.

  I held back the tears for weeks.

  Amy was sent home for an online transgression. Her mom posted a baby picture of her along with a message that said “Happy birthday to my ten-year-old at Tabula Rasa!” Who knows why the lady was so stupid. Maybe she wanted her little girl home.

  The point is, I didn’t bother becoming close friends with anyone for a long time, until one day when I was thirteen and some of my hair fell out.

  It was right before bedtime, and Fatima and I were the only two left in the bathroom, brushing our teeth. I leaned over the sink to spit when I noticed a chunk of brown hair had fallen into the basin.

  “Shoot!” I whispered hoarsely. “Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!”

  “What’s the matter?” Fatima’s words were garbled by her toothbrush. Even at thirteen, she filled her black nightshirt in a way that would have made the boys go nuts if they could have seen.

  “My hair!” I cried. “Look at my hair!”

  Fatima came over and examined my head closely. “You can’t see the bald spot yet, not if your hair is brushed back. But this isn’t good.”

  She didn’t need to say that last part for me to know the truth. If I lost my hair, I’d lose my looks. If I lost my looks, I’d be sent home. Nobody wants to go home to parents who didn’t want you in the first place.

  “Lights out in two minutes!” Ms. Corina called from down the hall.

  Placid, Fatima mouthed at me. Don’t let her know.

  “Girls?” Ms. Corina asked, coming into the bathroom. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Right as she approached us, Fatima slid over. She walled off the sink so my hair in the basin wouldn’t show.

  “‘Special attention to oral hygiene is a must,’” Fatima quoted.

  “Of course,” Ms. Corina said, squinting at us. “But it’s bedtime now, so get a move on.”

  “Yes, Ms. Corina,” we both answered at once.

  Later on, when we were walking down the hallway to our dormitory, I started to cry. “What am I going to do?” I whispered, more to myself than Fatima. Fatima had never paid any attention to me before that night. But she stunned me.

  “Don’t worry,” she told me. “We’ll figure it out.”
>
  I don’t know why she decided to help me. Maybe it was because Fatima was always looking for an excuse to break the rules. She was a rebel, but she also has a big heart.

  A couple of days later, I was headed toward Latin class with my hair carefully pulled back in a ponytail so the bald patches wouldn’t show. Fatima came out of nowhere and grabbed my arm, pulling me into a supply closet.

  “Here.” She shoved a bottle of pills into my hand. “Iron tablets, for anemia.”

  “Where did you get these? What are you talking about?”

  “Anemia.” Fatima flipped back her own dark tresses. “I asked around, and it’s really common here because we don’t eat red meat. Have you felt faint?”

  I nodded.

  “Dizzy?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That too. But how do you know for sure? I can’t take random pills somebody gives me.”

  “I worked hard to get those for you!”

  “What did you do?” This was getting sketchier and sketchier.

  “I can’t tell you. I called in a favor.” Fatima bit her lip.

  I looked down at the orange bottle. “325 mg ferrous sulfate.”

  “If these don’t help after three months, then there’s nothing I can do for you,” Fatima said. “You might have alopecia … but hopefully it’s low iron.”

  “Look.” I hesitated. “I can’t take these. Not without talking to a doctor. But I appreciate this. You’ve given me courage to deal with this, so thank you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go to Headmaster Russell. I’ll ask to see the doctor.”

  “But what if you get kicked out?” Fatima’s eyebrows flew up.

  “What if I die? What if these aren’t actually vitamins? What then?”

  “They’re iron tablets,” Fatima whispered. “I promise.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “I believe you believe these are iron tablets. And thank you. But I can’t sneak around. It would drive me crazy.”

  “Sometimes crazy is a good thing.” Fatima smiled.

  Things ended up being better than all right. After that moment, Fatima and I became best friends.

  Things with Headmaster Russell weren’t so easy. He was awful when he found out about my hair. But the doctor said it was a vitamin deficiency, not permanent hair loss. Iron, zinc, and B12. They hopped me full of vitamins the size of horse tablets. A few months later, my hair grew in thicker than ever.

  So when Fatima knocks on the metal door of my room tonight an hour before the Vestal banquet, I let her into my cloister immediately. It’s the first time she’s ever come to McNeal Manor, and I’m thrilled to see her, although I have no idea why she’s here.

  Is this a special surprise? Did Ms. Lydia arrange this? Does Fatima get to ride to the banquet with us for some reason?

  But then Fatima takes off her white traveling cloak, and I see that she’s covered in color.

  That’s when things get weird.

  “Nice place you’ve got here.” Fatima runs her hand over my desk like everything is normal. Her butt models those blue jeans in a way that makes you notice the label.

  “Fatima,” I say. “What’s going on? Where did you get those clothes?”

  “Not all of my friends are Vestals,” she answers calmly, as if everything’s all right. But I know better. I can see Fatima’s breath go in an out like a jackrabbit’s. I’ve never seen her so scared before. “Don’t you get tired of wearing all white?”

  I let the question slide. If Fatima wants to wear a red sweater, then that’s none of my business. But I have to ask her the most important question. The one I can’t ignore. “Does your company know you’re here?”

  Fatima gazes out my window. “Nope.”

  I take a few moments to let my own heart slow. “What’s going on?” I step beside her at the windowpanes.

  “I wanted to see where you live. I wanted to—” But Fatima can’t finish her sentence before her voice starts breaking.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m pregnant!” Fatima crosses the room and sinks onto my bed. Before my eyes, she crumples into tears.

  I don’t know what to say because I can’t tell if Fatima is crying with joy or sorrow. But then she pushes herself up on her elbows and smiles.

  “It’s a miracle. The operation must have reversed itself! I’m going to have a baby!”

  “How is that possible?” I sit on the bed next to her.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never understood things like that.”

  “Whose baby is it?” It’s a foolish question, because I already suspect the answer.

  “Beau’s, silly. It’s our baby.”

  “But wasn’t Beau sterilized too?”

  “Supposedly,” Fatima says. “But I don’t know if I can believe anything they tell me ever again.”

  “Fatima,” I whisper, afraid for her. She’s totally losing her mind. “If Headmaster Russell finds out, or Ms. Lydia—”

  “They’ll kill it,” Fatima interrupts me. “That’s why I came to you. You’re the only one who can help.”

  “Why me?” But I know the answer to that one too. I’m the only one who’s different. I’m the only one who went Geisha.

  “Will you see if your purchaser can help?”

  I look at Fatima, sitting there in her new clothes. She’s covered in color and ruined now, on the inside and out. Fatima already doesn’t look like the Vestal sister I knew. But I hold my cuff up to her heart anyway.

  “Fatima, you have a hard road. In so many ways it’s difficult being you. But I know that you can do it. You have everything you need to achieve happiness.”

  “Thank you.” Fatima throws her arms around me, and we both weep together. And I know that I’ll do anything to help her.

  That’s why I go get Cal.

  That’s why I screw everything up.

  He’s holding his toothbrush when he opens the door. I’ve never been in Cal’s rooms before, and I don’t care to be there now. It feels wrong to invade his privacy.

  I smell the fresh paint covering the newly installed lead walls. Ms. Lydia’s white traveling cloak is lying on the bed. I hear the shower running in the background.

  “I need your help,” I whisper. I’ve never asked Cal for anything before.

  He doesn’t even put down his toothbrush. He nods his head and follows.

  When we get to my cloister my rooms are empty. “Fatima.” I knock on the open door. “We’re here.”

  Fatima emerges from the corner, behind one of the drapes. She looks younger than usual, and scared.

  “What’s going on?” Cal sets his toothbrush down on my desk.

  “Fatima’s operation didn’t work,” I explain.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m pregnant,” says Fatima, coming to sit on my bed.

  “I still don’t understand,” says Cal. “Are you talking about an abortion?”

  “No!” Fatima cries, and her eyes go wild. “That’s what they’ll do to me if they find out.”

  I feel awful. Fatima has already said too much. I sense the danger seep through the room like it’s Discipline Hour and Headmaster Russell is approaching my desk with the whip.

  Cal speaks slowly, like he’s still trying to understand. “So what do you mean about the operation?”

  But Fatima doesn’t say anything. She’s too afraid.

  Cal looks at me directly. His face is more lined than I had ever realized. “Tell me, Blanca,” he says to me. “Tell me what you mean.”

  “Vestals can’t get pregnant,” I say quickly. If I say it fast enough, maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll know, like I know, that Barbelo knows what’s best. “It’s for our own good. That’s why they fix us when we turn fourteen.”

  Cal stands there, taking it all in. Then he steps closer to me and cups my face in his hands. “That is horrible, Blanca. That is evil and wro
ng. Never for one second do I want you to believe that what they did to you is okay.”

  All I can do is nod. I have to believe because Cal told me to, even though I know that he’s wrong and Barbelo’s right. Our founder is always right.

  Cal releases me and walks over to Fatima, putting his hand on her shoulders. “I know someplace you can go. There’s someone I can call.” Cal grips his forehead. “But Lydia! We can’t let Lydia know about any of this. Go to my room, Blanca,” he says. “Go distract Lydia. Keep her there. Do whatever you have to do to keep her there as long as possible. Improvise! Be cunning! I know you can do it.” Then he enfolds me in a hug and kisses my cheek.

  I am at the door, ready to leave, when Cal stops me.

  “One more thing,” he says. “You are never, ever to tell Lydia about any of this. Do you understand?”

  I nod, but I feel guilty. Chemistry lessons, dinner rolls, accidentally kissing Seth and liking it—there are so many things I’m keeping from Ms. Lydia at this point, I’ll just add Fatima and her unborn baby to the list.

  “Calum, is that you, darling?” Ms. Lydia opens the door wearing a silk kimono, her face freshly done up. “Oh. Hello, Blanca.”

  “Cal said to come ask you,” I say. “I asked him what I should do with my hair tonight, and he said to come and let you decide.”

  Ms. Lydia sighs. “Your hair? Really, that does seem like a decision you could have made on your own.” But she steps back, inviting me into the rooms.

  “I was thinking of cutting it.”

  “Cutting it? Don’t be ridiculous. What would Trevor say?”

  “Well that’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about.” I stand there immobile, trying not to observe my surroundings. The pictures of Seth as a young boy framed on the wall, the bronze Don Quixote statue standing sentential on the desk, the solar calculator that I fixed the other day, lying next to it; I’m learning too much already.

  But Ms. Lydia doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion. Maybe this isn’t an Invasion after all. She pulls me into the dressing room and sits me down on a velvet bench. I see Cal’s shaving brush on the counter next to her perfume.