by Carol Riggs
“Killjoy.” Krista throws a pillow at my head and misses by a yard. Blair giggles.
“Thanks for the dee-licious pizza,” I tell Blair. So much for adding Health Points to my account tonight, but it was worth it. It’s great Blair’s parents bought our pizza, since as “junk food” it’s highly taxed and way expensive. I scoot off the couch and begin picking up napkins and plates. “Guess I’d better head home soon.”
“Stop doing that,” Blair says, flapping her hand at the party debris. “I didn’t invite you over for your last food splurge to watch you clean up.”
Krista slumps. “The rest of fall break won’t be the same without you, Morg. And it sucks you won’t be here for the holidays.”
“Sorry, can’t help that.” I shrug into my sweatshirt and zip it, her words dampening me. “It’s too bad you both can’t do the program with me.”
Krista blanches. “That’s your thing, girl. I don’t care if it pays a million credits. You’re not gonna catch me stuck in someone else’s body doing squats and treadmills. I’m aiming for beautician school, period.”
“We totally need our education certificates,” Blair says. “I have to wrap up trig before I move on to calculus. I’ll never get into tech school if I can’t pass basic courses.”
Yeah. That, plus Blair can afford to attend whichever tech school she wants after she gets her basic certification—and after she explores France this summer. I move toward the door, deflated further. “I guess we’ll be split up soon anyway. I’m only bumping that up a few months.”
Blair tackles me with a hug. “Quit being so freaking practical,” she says, her words pepperoni-scented on the side of my face.
“Miss ya already.” Krista likewise squeezes me tight. “Good luck with the job. It’s your kind of sweet, humanitarian thing. You sounded like you really got into it last time. Send us loads of messages after you switch bodies, okay?”
“Duh. You’ll see so many texts and emails you’ll get sick of them.”
“Doubt it, loser.”
We share one last laugh. To my surprise, my voice cracks on the command for the front door to open. Outside Blair’s megacomplex, the cool night air hits me like a slap as I hurry to the MT shelter. Everything feels larger than life right now. Looming new experiences. Changes. Leaving my current life for an entire half year…all at once it feels a little too momentous.
How can I run off like this? Ditching my friends and family, even if they are being supportive about it. I walk a little faster, trying to leave the ache and nervousness behind. Concentrating on the negatives won’t help me do what I need to do. I have to power through this doubt. Being a Reducer does have its positives, but I could do without the heart-wrenching parts.
Tingling zaps and zings race over me. Yes, I need to focus on the positives. Tomorrow I’ll head to the Institute, and though it probably makes me a certified schizo, that idea also sounds incredibly sly. This job will push me to new limits. It’ll be a great challenge.
When I board the MT, I tap up Leo’s initial email and read it for the millionth time.
Hello, Morgan,
Here’s more information about your Reducer assignment. This time, you will be residing offsite. We have strict requirements for this kind of setup; your Loaner’s parents have requested this arrangement and have been approved for you to live with them. They have a personal gym and employ a live-in cook who will provide meals for you.
It’s more challenging for a Reducer to lose weight outside the Clinic, but after your exemplary success with your previous assignment, I’m confident you’ll be able to handle the extra work and responsibility. It’s a definite privilege, since not many Reducers are allowed to live offsite. I’ve already discussed these things with your parents; if you have any questions or concerns, please call or email me. I’ll arrange a briefing meeting if your answer is yes.
As a final note, payment for a six-month assignment is provided in two installments: one at the end of three months, the second upon completion of the job.
Regards, Leo Behr
As the MT travels along, I watch the city lights wink at me with eyes of red, green, and gold. This stint will be trickier than last time, I’m guessing, and with tons more responsibility. When I first toured the Institute, I saw the Clinic with its dorm rooms, gyms, indoor pool, and cafeteria. That setup clearly worked for me before. I hate to mess with success.
Yet how hard can it be to work in a different setting? It’ll be cool to have the privilege of doing something not many other Reducers are allowed to do. Leo thinks I can handle living offsite, and so do Mom and Dad. A change in location shouldn’t make any difference.
And it’s perfect that I’ll get paid half the wages after three months. That’ll be right in time for the collectors’ December deadline.
Yes, I can do it. I have to be able to do this assignment.
There’s too much at stake for me to fail.
The MT deposits me onto the sidewalk at my usual shelter. When I walk inside my apartment, I blink, finding the lights low and Mom home with Dad. Soft music plays from the TV platform, the visibility turned off. My parents recline on the couch together, gazing at our wall screenpic that’s set to a tropical beach.
“Hi, kiddo,” Dad says, mellow. “I trust you had a good time with Blair and Krista.”
“Yeah, I’ll miss them a ton,” I say. “Done with your gig at The Lounge, Mom?”
She pushes her dark hair from her forehead. “Unfortunately, we’ve been replaced by a couple of twenty-four-year-olds singing retro country. Can you believe it? Richard was so mad I thought he was going to heave his drum set across the dance floor.”
I try not to smile at a mental image of Richard doing that. “Sorry, Mom. I bet you’ll find another gig soon. Hey, is Granddad awake?”
“He was five or ten minutes ago.”
I leave them to enjoy the rhythmic waves of their beach and move down the hall. When I knock, Granddad’s door opens to his command. He looks up from his oversize chair and presses his finger on a large printed book to mark his place.
“Welcome home, sweetie.”
A lump clogs the back of my throat. After tomorrow, it’ll be six long months before I can return home. No exceptions. I step over a wadded T-shirt and a stray sock and squeeze into the chair beside Granddad. The springs creak under the plaid cushions. A fragrant and sweet aroma drifts up from his mug on the bedside table. Blueberry herbal tea, his nightly drink.
“All pizza’d out?” His bushy hair wiggles as he scratches his head.
“Never. But it’ll probably be my last pizza for a while.” I scrunch lower, until I can lean my head on his shoulder. I touch the crisp pages of his novel. It’s a thick book, the edges of its brown cover frayed and well-loved. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yep. The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Again?” A smile creeps across my lips. I remember when he started reading it aloud to me. I was twelve. When Dad protested I was too young for a novel like that, Granddad told him we switched to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. We really did switch, but only for a couple of days.
“It’s a magnificent book,” Granddad says.
Minutes of silence pass. Memories swirl in my head, of how his spoken words conjured up clashing sword fights, passionate romance, cruel betrayal, and deep dark revenge. I’m sure Granddad is entertaining similar thoughts.
Granddad rouses himself with a sigh. “You’ll be off to your own Chateau d’If tomorrow,” he says, his bristly beard prickling the top of my head.
“Being a Reducer isn’t like being in prison. I’m choosing my destiny.”
“No, you’ll still be imprisoned—in someone else’s body. You won’t be you.”
“I’ll be me no matter what I look like.”
“Your looks are an important part of who you are.” He winds a lock of my hair around his finger. “You wouldn’t be who you are, the same personality, if you’d grown up looking different. You’re a
blend of your body and your soul.”
“I guess. I never thought of it that way.”
“Don’t do it, sweetie.” I hear rather than see his pained expression.
I sit up and twist to face him. “I have to, Granddad. It’s the only way I can go to tech school, since I can’t get a grant. It’s my future we’re talking about here. Plus I’m helping someone, improving her life.”
“You could always get a normal job and save up the old-fashioned way.”
“That’d take forever. Years. Tech school is expensive.”
He looks at me with mournful eyes. “I hope you don’t regret this.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.” I lean over, give his wrinkled cheek a gentle kiss, and hand him his mug of tea before I leave the room.
I see signs for the Red Zone whip past the MT window and straighten in my seat next to Mom. We’re getting closer. The Institute lies about five minutes ahead. The butterflies in my stomach perform a hot-footed little dance. Today I’ll be installed in a new body, and my rigorous six months of weight loss will begin.
I’m ready and up to the challenge.
I send a quick TeenDom message to Superguy.
@geektastic007: almost there! strange i’m starting up 1 day after u ended ur job.
Which is a definite downer. We had a microscopic window to get together—which we missed—and now it’ll be impossible to meet for six months. Assuming he even wanted to in the first place. Oh well, no use sniffling about it. At least we’ll be able to keep chatting. He won’t remember the texts we sent each other while he was a Loaner, but I’m sure he’s read them all by now.
There’s only a one-minute lapse before he sees my text and answers.
@superguy: GO, u! i’m sure u will do great. let me know when ur done morphing.
@geektastic007: gotcha. ttyl.
Morphing. Funny way to put it.
I throw a glance at Mom’s cheery profile. This morning I watched a newsvid about the WHA ramping up their protests. They insist the Reducer program violates ID security, infringing on people’s rights by letting others use their bodies, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t share the vid with Mom or Dad. The WHA’s claims are ridiculous. In fact, I watched another vid that debunked the “identity situation” of that Iowa woman’s brother who didn’t know her. Come to find out, her brother was never overweight or a Loaner. There’s no way the Institute could’ve permanently replaced his ID, because his body and brainmap were never in the system. He just got caught sneaking around in the data file room of the Institute’s Kansas City branch. I bet his sister made that silly claim because she was ticked off about his arrest.
The WHA should do its homework before it reports things. If they want to share a legit claim someday, like some valid identity snag or a Loaner rights issue, no one is going to listen.
As the MT decelerates, an overly courteous e-voice announces, “Red Zone. Now arriving at Alameda Street.” I shoulder my bag and glimpse my reflection in the security camera above my head. Mom did a great job braiding my hair, and I love the new white jacket that Blair bought for me last week as a going-away present. I’m a traveling Reducer-to-be, about to embark on an important assignment.
“We’re here, Cupcake.” Mom’s frilly laugh sounds like notes to a song. “How exciting.”
I give her hand a squeeze despite the juvenile nickname, and she squeezes back. We step off the MT and head down the sidewalk. I take long strides, breathing in the rich smell of fall leaves. Puffs of whipped-cream clouds squat in the sky, peeking around office buildings at us. The taste of adventure sits on my tongue.
Approaching the Institute grounds, however, I suppress a groan. Ahead is a milling cluster of protesters, more than a dozen this time, carrying signs and blocking the sidewalk to the entrance gates. The WHA. I should’ve expected this. They’ll probably hassle me again, and Mom too. I tuck my phone into my bag and try to hurry us past the group without being noticed.
No such luck.
They see Mom and me, and they rush at us like stray filaments toward a pair of magnet-bots.
Chapter 6
“Where are you two going?” a blustery voice calls. The demand belongs to the WHA sign-maker who can’t spell, the balding man with stringy gray hair I saw this summer. He marches over and plants himself in front of Mom and me. “If either of you plan to join the Institute to be a Reducer, you’re making a mistake.”
“Who said we’re going to be Reducers?” I ask. “Maybe we’re meeting my sister who just finished her assignment.”
The balding man hesitates, his e-sign wavering in his hands. I go around him, only to find the stout, wavy-haired woman blocking my path. “You little liar,” she says. “I remember seeing you leaving here a few months ago. I warned you not to come back.”
I look to see Mom a short distance behind me, blocked by a couple of protesters.
“That’s a rude thing to say!” Mom exclaims. “My daughter’s not a liar, and she has a right to go wherever she wants.”
Before I can respond, someone’s finger jabs me in the shoulder. “Ow,” I say, and spin to frown at the bearded man who did it. “Don’t poke me.”
The balding man gets up in my face, scowling. “You’re helping the government abuse people’s rights. First it taxes and controls overweight people. Then it funds this Reducer program to force people to change their bodies. What’s next, targeting ethnic groups? Permanently stripping brain waves from people with low IQs, or from people they decide are lazy or unproductive—or maybe from people they just don’t like?”
“Exactly,” the woman says. “ERT is a dangerous procedure. The Institute could delete anyone’s brain waves and give their bodies to someone else.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “They’re trying to help people lose weight. That’s all.” I find myself hemmed in. Trying to move, I bump into the balding man. Still behind me, Mom asks someone to step out of her way. I glance toward the Institute gates and see two Enforcers standing thirty feet from us, exterior-grounds guards supplied by the government. They’re eyeing the WHA group, like they’re making sure the protesters don’t cross some imaginary line. The sight of their bright blue uniforms is reassuring.
“Let us through.” I make my words as firm as I can.
“Sorry, we can’t let that happen.” The woman shoves my shoulder, making me take a step backward.
What the haze? I hold my arm out to keep her at a distance and start to walk past.
“Oh, no you don’t,” the bearded man cries, swinging his sign at me. “You can’t bully your way in.”
I duck, but not fast enough. His sign hits my face, and the frame crashes against my mouth. Pain explodes across my lower lip and jaw. Someone pushes me, hard. I drop to one knee. It smacks against the concrete. A woman shrieks—it sounds like Mom. Someone slams into my shoulder and I fall to the ground, sprawling sideways.
“Stop!” I yell, curling into a protective ball while angry shouts surround me.
“Halt.” A thunderous voice penetrates all the other noises, echoing into the air. “Step away from the girl and place your hands on your heads. Do not try to run.”
A voice amplifier.
The protesters’ shouts stop. I raise my head to see the two Enforcers standing in the street with their legs braced. They aim long-range stun guns at the protesters. My hands shake like a frail old woman’s as I scoop up my bag and stagger to my feet. The rusty tang of blood spreads across my tongue.
The balding man and the stout woman glare at me. I limp away toward the entrance gates as Institute workers stream from the administration building. Two security guards dash by, one of them barking orders into a phone.
Mom hurries over and flings an arm across my shoulders, her teeth chattering. “Are you okay? Oh, honey, your lip is bleeding.”
I touch my mouth and find it slippery. Blood is smeared across my white jacket. My other hand tightens around my bag handle. Fanatical jerks. I hope they get locked up for
a long time and are charged huge fines on top of it.
A male nurse with a shaved head jogs up to me. “Are you hurt? Any bones broken?”
“I—I don’t think so.” I let him guide me by the elbow along the walkway. Mom flanks my other side, murmuring and exclaiming. I hear her words as a distant stream. Those people ought to be ashamed of themselves. I’m thankful those Enforcers were right there. Oh my, you’re bleeding so much. I just can’t understand why those people did that—
Inside the administration building, the nurse leads us to a medical room. He helps me out of my jacket and cleanses my lip wound. After that, he runs diagnostic scans and discovers I have no concussion or broken bones. Not surprising, but I have plenty of bruises, along with my split lip from the sign and a mess of abrasions from the concrete. My lip and knee hurt the worst.
I take a shuddery breath. So insane. I don’t know why that bearded guy bashed me with his sign. No one has hit me unprovoked like that since I was nine when Gramma and Granddad took me to the park by their apartment. There I was, swinging from the monkey bars, back and forth in the sun, having a great old time. When I jumped down, some kid reached out and punched me in the nose. I never found out why he did it. I just remember the pain. The confusion. The scary red blood. Granddad’s soaked cloth handkerchief, and Gramma scolding the boy.
My lip is bleeding almost as much as my nose did that day. I blink watery eyes. In less than a minute, the world has twisted into a scarier and less safe place. It’s freaky how fast those WHA people got riled up and aggressive. Their emotions are too closely tied to their beliefs, I guess. If they keep up this kind of violent stuff, no one will want to be a Reducer anymore.
Even I’m tempted to turn and head home. Go back to my daily jogs, my classes, my normal life. But that wouldn’t solve anything. With the debt collectors’ threat, my life is going to change one way or another. So I’ll stick with my original plan to avoid The Commons. I want to be a Reducer, and I’m not going to let a bunch of fanatical protesters ruin that.
Mom strokes my shoulder. Her breathing is more even now. “I’m glad you don’t have serious injuries, sweetie. I was really frightened there for a bit.”
