by Debra Driza
Stolen. I was stolen goods.
Mom’s hand smoothed my hair aside before gently stroking the nape of my neck. Everything inside me wanted to believe her, to know that she really did love me, that I really was part human. She’d always been there for me, when I was little, when Dad died . . .
. . . except—none of that was real. But how was that possible? I could see the memories etched in my head, so perfectly clear, playing out behind my eyes like detailed videos.
Like videos.
The pressure of her fingers on my neck went from comforting to oppressive in an instant. I jerked away and whirled to face her. “How did you do it? All those memories I have?”
Mom—no, Nicole—sighed, her shaking fingers reaching up to remove her glasses so she could rub the bridge of her nose. “I programmed them. The reason some of them feel especially real is because I created them using a virtual reality program, which allowed me to actually insert you into the memory.”
Programmed. My entire past, everything I’d understood to be true about my life, my family, what had formed me as a person. Stripped away with one simple word. Programmed.
“And the fire?” I whispered. “What kind of a person makes that up? And wait—is your name even Nicole?”
“Yes, it’s Nicole, but Laurent, not Daily.” Mom—Nicole—sighed and rubbed her head. “I was just trying to buy us time, to figure out a way to tell you! My first priority was to keep us safe. The only way I could make sure to protect you was to make you think you were a real girl. There’s no doubt in my head that the government is searching for us, with every resource they have at their disposal. Why do you think I chose Clearwater? I disabled your tracking device, but that doesn’t mean they won’t find us.”
And it was just going from bad to worse. Tracking device, like I was some kind of runaway dog. Except—at least dogs were truly alive. Whereas I was some kind of monster. Part living cells, mostly hardware.
All freak.
She made another move to touch me, but I batted her hand away. “Don’t! I don’t even understand how . . . how can any of this be true? Manufactured emotions?” A tight ache squeezed my throat—programmed? Real? How could I possibly know?—and I lowered my voice to a whisper. “If I’m not human, why does this hurt so much?”
“It’s a little like phantom limb syndrome . . . only for emotions. You might not have the same parts as a regular human, but you can still sense the feeling in those parts when you’re in an emotional state—pressure, warmth, chill, visceral, all of it. Phantom sensations, if you will, copied from the feelings of a teenage human girl. Via an elaborate neuromatrix, we prewired your brain to believe you were formed just like a human body, so it would accept all those sensations as real.”
Prewired. Neuromatrix. It was too much.
“And what about Dad’s shirt?” I sneered, using air quotes around the word “Dad.” “Was that just to buy us time, too? And that stupid necklace?”
Before she could grasp my intentions, I’d lunged forward, grabbed the emerald around her neck, and yanked. The fragile chain snapped, and when it did, I chucked the entire thing across the room.
“Mila!” she gasped before scrambling after it.
I raced down the hall, rushing into my room and locking the door behind me, desperate to escape before I burst into tears.
I threw myself facedown on my bed as the first sob hit, felt the warm tears pool under my cheeks. Tears I wasn’t even sure were real. Were they made up of some weird solution, prompted by “appropriate” environmental stimuli? Was I really sad, or was a computer program telling me to feel sad?
One minute I was a normal girl, the next . . . a monster.
That thought urged me to my feet and over to the oval-shaped mirror topping my white dresser. Frankenstein did not stare back at me. Just my own face. Were my eyes a slightly-too-improbable shade of leaf green? I reached up to slide my fingers through my hair. And my hair—how did it grow? Or didn’t it? Those memories of haircuts I had . . . they must all be fake. Not Mom—Nicole, I corrected once again. But even knowing what I did, calling her by name just didn’t feel right.
Next I touched the wetness on my cheeks. The liquid felt like real tears, but then, how did I even know what real tears felt like? How could I believe anything ever again, when everything I knew about myself was completely false?
Even my face, my familiar heart-shaped face with the extra-wide lower lip and the tiniest smattering of freckles fanning out from my nose. Not real. Not real.
Not. Real.
Before I knew it, my fist flew forward, my urge to destroy that phony reflection eclipsing everything else. Glass shattered and a jagged avalanche spilled across the dresser like a cascade of lies. Glittering lies, strewn in front of me as a reminder of everything I’d lost. Of everything I’d never had.
Once the rush of emotion faded, I surveyed the damage. Stupid. Not only had I made a huge mess, but the act hadn’t done anything but reinforce my otherness. No blood seeping through cuts in my knuckles, and only the faintest of pink scratches. Worst of all—no pain in my hand to speak of.
No, the only pain I was allowed was choking the nonexistent life from my fake heart.
Sweeping the shards onto the floor, I stormed over to the bed and slid between the sheets. Threw the pillow over my head in an effort to block out the world.
But I couldn’t block out the memories, false or not. Couldn’t block out the internal pain I shouldn’t even be able to feel.
Couldn’t keep those annoying phony tears that felt so, so real from flowing.
Ten
Later that night I was slumped in Bliss’s stall, knees bent, my left cheek resting against my pajama bottoms. Just staring at her dark leg like I might find the answers lurking there.
The familiar, musky scent of horse engulfed me, along with the slightly sweet smell of hay. It was quiet inside, except for the occasional snort or shuffling of hooves.
Quiet, but not safe.
Less than twenty-four hours before, this barn had been my refuge. A place where I could come to recover from Dad’s death in peace, under the nonjudgmental eyes of the horses. In my grief-stricken state, I’d never once believed that something worse could happen.
I’d never once imagined that discovering Dad hadn’t really died would haunt me in ways that his death never could.
Nowhere felt safe anymore.
“Why couldn’t I be a horse?” I asked, the sound of my voice making Bliss swing her massive head toward me, her huge oval nostrils snuffling at my hair. That simple gesture made my throat tighten.
At least she didn’t care if I was a freak.
I reached behind my head to rub her soft muzzle, ignoring the stupid tears that refused to quit welling up. “You wouldn’t even understand if you weren’t . . . normal. Not that any of that’s true, right? I mean, look at me—I’m asking a horse a question. Could it get any more human than that?”
Outside the barn, only a few stars escaped the thick cover of late-night clouds, leaving the sky dark and depressing. Besides the rustling of horses, an occasional cricket chirped. An owl hooted from a nearby tree. But I refused to go back to my room until I was sure my mom—Nicole—was sleeping. Once she’d poked her head in and swept up the disaster I’d made of the mirror, she’d taken to hovering.
Yes, hovering. As if acting like a stereotypical teen’s mom would make everything better. Right now, the sight of her slim, capable figure and concerned face filled me with violence: simultaneous and disparate needs to rage against more mirrors and to break down and sob in her arms.
Break down in the arms of the person who’d betrayed me—that would never happen. Still, with both of us occupying the guesthouse, I found it impossible to sit still, let alone sleep.
Sleep. About that. Did I actually sleep? Or was sleeping for me just another one of those “humanlike programs” that someone had had installed? Like a new version of Windows?
It would explain why I woke
at the slightest motion or noise, perfectly lucid and alert.
I buried my head between my knees, taking deep breaths to combat the panic-induced dizziness. None of what Mom said made sense, I told myself. If I were an android, why did I feel dizzy in the first place? And how could deep breaths help, when, according to iPod Man, I didn’t have any lungs? When I combed my fingers through the hay, how could I feel the exact scratchy texture with fake skin? Suddenly, all of it seemed like an elaborate scheme. A sanity test. If it weren’t for my stupid arm . . .
My mind shied away from that topic. From that and my quick reflexes, my strength. And mostly from the explanations that Mom had offered. I didn’t want to think about any of it for too long, afraid that if I did, I’d start to believe.
I just wanted to pretend today had never happened. Go back to being regular Mila. A girl fumbling her way through a loss in a new town.
The high-pitched notes of my ringtone yanked my head up.
I rescued my cell phone from the hay and glanced at the screen. And stared, my eyes scanning the number over and over again in case I’d somehow made a mistake.
Hunter.
I’d actually brought the phone to the barn to text him, but I’d chickened out and texted Kaylee instead. No response from her.
I scrambled to press send. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mila.”
Just the sound of his voice, that quiet, husky voice, made the entire debacle with Mom feel less real. Hunter Lowe—A. Real. Boy.—was calling me. The military, the CIA? Secret android project? Really?
“Hey.”
“You took off earlier. I was just . . . worried. You okay? Your arm?”
The concern in his voice leached through the phone, flooded me with an unexpected warmth. I latched onto that feeling like it was my savior. “It’s fine.” True enough. It was just the rest of my life that was a disaster.
“This might sound weird, but I’m in my car and was wondering if . . . can I come by, to check on you?”
Come by, now? To check on me?
I pressed my eyes shut, hesitating. Earlier today, I would have been beyond thrilled to have Hunter call and ask to see me. But with the click of an iPod button, everything had changed. My past, my parents, the nature of my entire existence—all of it called into question by a faceless man with a southern drawl.
“I don’t know . . . it’s late, and I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn’t be thrilled.”
Not that I cared what Mom thought at the moment. Still, the last thing this night needed was more drama.
“Could you sneak outside?”
I walked to the door and pushed it open, emitting a wedge of light. Besides that, nothing softened the darkness except the glow of a few determined stars. The unlit house windows suggested Mom had finally climbed into bed.
Bliss nickered. A reminder that while horses were nice, I could really use a friend who talked.
“Meet me in the barn.”
“Okay. See you in a few.”
As soon as I hung up, I realized what I’d done.
I craned my neck, brushing clinging strands of hay off my butt and tugging down the short-sleeved shirt where it had risen over my stomach. Ducks. Hunter was coming, and I was wearing flannel ducks. Then I realized how ridiculous I was being. If only greeting a boy I liked in silly pajamas was my sole worry.
After a futile attempt to comb the pillow-inflicted knots from my hair, I dropped my hands and waited. Hopefully, the sliver of light would act like a beacon.
Less than three minutes later, the muted rumble of an engine cut through the night air in the distance. It was another thirty seconds before I saw the dark shape of a Jeep heading down our street. No headlights—it had to be Hunter, in an attempt to be stealthy. Sure enough, the Jeep turned into our driveway, the tires crunching on gravel.
He turned off the engine at least twenty yards from our house. I could tell he was trying to be quiet, but even so, I caught the slight click of the car door as it opened, and again as it closed.
A few moments later he stood in front of me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and an uncertain smile hovering at his mouth.
“Hey,” he said. Softly.
“Hey.” Also softly, since my voice wanted to freeze up at the sight of him.
The faint glow from the barn picked up the damp strands of hair clinging to the collar of his gray sweatshirt and his clean-shaven cheeks, marred only by a tiny red dot on the left side. Right above his jawbone. He smelled like soap mixed with sandalwood.
Freshly showered, definitely. Which suggested he’d used the line about being out and about anyway as an excuse to see me. That realization sent a flutter of . . . something . . . through me. Something that felt warm, alive, and very definitely human.
I put one finger to my lips and beckoned him to follow, swinging the door gently closed behind us.
Amid the rustle of horses, who snorted at the scent of a newcomer, I led Hunter farther into the barn. And then we stood there. The pair of us. Saying nothing.
“Um, do you want to sit?” I finally asked to break the silence, glancing around even though I knew a chair or a couch wasn’t about to appear out of nowhere.
“Sure.” Hunter slid down the wall next to the first stall until he reached the floor. Then he smiled and patted the spot next to him.
I sat, careful to keep space between us. Even so, I found his nearness distracting. The way his bare knee peeked out of the frayed fabric of his jeans. Even the look of the fingers that tapped away at his knee, long and lean and gentle. I wondered what those fingers would feel like, interlaced with my own.
Fearful that my expression would give my thoughts away, I traced a yellow duck on my leg to avoid looking at him.
“So . . . ,” he said, pausing.
“So . . . ,” I echoed. When he still didn’t continue, I felt a pressure inflate my chest, rising with every silent second that slipped by.
Why wasn’t he saying anything? Did he already regret coming here? Was it my arm? Maybe he was wanting to ask me about it but didn’t know how. I should just tell him.
Well, tell him the fabricated version I’d come up with between his phone call and his arrival. Get the ordeal over with already.
With a bravado I didn’t feel, I forced myself to turn my head and look at him. He did the same thing at the same exact time.
“So—”
“So—”
Our words competed again, and we both broke off. The corners of his mouth twitched up. I felt mine follow. A second later, our laughter comingled in the barn, echoing off the lofty ceiling and concrete floor.
“So you wanted to check up on me?” I said, giving him the perfect opening.
Then wished I hadn’t when he stopped laughing. His eyelashes swept low as his gaze fell to my arm. “Yeah, I did. You seemed really upset when you left.”
As Hunter continued to stare, that trapped sensation, the one from school, rushed over me. Maybe inviting him over had been a mistake. If I were smart, I’d stand up, tell him I was tired, then send him away. Tomorrow at school, things would be safer, once the memory of the accident faded and there was a hall full of kids to distract him.
But my feet neglected to cooperate. My head, my heart, everything balked. Smart was good, but right now, I needed Hunter around. Right now, he kept me anchored to the world of the living.
“So your arm, is it . . . fixed?”
Here we go. “It is, actually. No permanent damage or anything.” I rotated my wrist so he could see it from every angle. Amazing, the way Mom had fixed it with a few random tools. All that remained was a thin pink line, like a long scratch, but Mom said even that would fade within two days.
What I wouldn’t give for a scar.
He reached out to stroke the inside of my elbow, his fingers warm against my skin. Panic mixed with flutter—lots and lots of flutters.
See that? Perfectly normal teen response. Okay, maybe not so much the panic, but definitely the flutters.<
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“May I?” he said.
“Um, sure.”
Ever so gently, he clasped my wrist. When he traced the scratch with his other hand, I swear something inside me flipped over completely. Somersaulted. Performed an entire circus act in less than five seconds.
No way could a covert nanocomputer android spy feel like that.
“Amazing. Not really sure how it’s possible, but it’s definitely amazing. How did it happen?”
The protective way he cradled my arm sent a ball of warmth careening through my stomach. His blue eyes connected with mine, tempting my lips to swallow the lie and release the truth. I could chuck the fabrication. Get another take—his take—on the whole unbelievable thing. Because right now, it still felt surreal. The two of us, we could figure it out. Together.
Of course, there was the other, way more probable scenario to consider. The one where I told him the truth and he laughed. Right before he backed away, ran for his Jeep, and alerted the entire school that I was a nutjob of epic proportions.
The iPod Man’s drawl whispered through my head, conjuring visions of jail cells and labs and other places I wouldn’t allow my mind to go. I shivered. No one could know. Ever.
Besides, I wasn’t about to chase off the one person who made me feel the most human. Sticking with a lie was my best bet.
“My arm is a prosthetic,” I said, disappointment making my voice flat. “I was in a car accident a year ago. It’s so realistic, I almost forget it’s fake sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Yeah, me too, I wanted to say. For lying, for your completely unwarranted sympathy.
I needed a distraction. Something to steer his attention away from my arm, my past, the questions I couldn’t answer.
