by Carol Riggs
My lip trembles, and I bite it to keep it steady.
I plod toward the MT shelter. Before I reach it, I sink onto a street-side bench in a heap. Nearby vendorbots and ads shout. Men and women in business suits pass by, along with teens on Thanksgiving break and mothers with children. They move around me, their lives far, far from me.
Pressure grows in my throat. A force behind my eyes makes them prickle. I spring twin leaks, and tears run down my face and plop onto my sweatpants. I dash the tears away with my fingers, but they keep coming.
Gone. Dead. I’ve died.
The words circle inside me like a broken merry-go-round, taunting me, splintering me. Last night my real body lay in peaceful suspended animation. Unsuspecting. Deep-sleeping and secure, until 0720. Then, the explosion. My body was consumed, ravaged by the blast. Did it happen all at once? Limb by limb? I envision the flare devouring my long brown hair, roaring over my hipbones and protester wounds. Incinerating that little scar on my leg that I got when I was ten and flipped Granddad’s pocketknife in the air and missed catching it.
Gone, completely gone.
It’s not just me, either. Tons of other Reducers are in the same situation. Vonn’s lost his body, too. No more Superguy. He’ll be stranded as Matt Williams for the rest of his life. His lanky figure and those adorable dimple dents have been snuffed out.
And Jodine. My gut lurches. Jodine’s parents have lost her forever. If Denver’s backup files were sabotaged, her brainmap file with her consciousness and her soul is gone.
All she’d wanted to do was lose weight, and now her life has been destroyed.
So not fair.
The words Vonn and I sang last week mock me, pound holes in my head—
Life’s not fair, got no hair. Roll me out the door, Ma.
I’m a complete idiot. If only I’d listened to Granddad when he said this job was too risky. If I hadn’t lied to Mom and Dad after the riot attack and not been stubborn about continuing my assignment, I’d be restored to my own self by now. My body would still be alive.
Now it’s too late.
After an unknown length of time, I force myself to get up and trudge to the shelter. When the MT arrives, I sag onto a seat, hunching away from the invasion of the security cameras. I shouldn’t have trusted Leo and his added security measures, or the fail-safe plan of the backup files. It was all too risky. If the Institute and ERT hadn’t existed in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
With stiff fingers, I send a text home, along with texts to Blair and Krista. I ask if they’ve heard the news, and tell them yeah, I’m alive, even though my body has died. That I’m not sure what will happen now and I’ll try to come back home soon.
I cry through the rest of the ride, until the MT deposits me in the Green Zone. The walk to the Kowalczyks’ and down their drive stretches light-years, the balconies and pillars of the house rising up like something in a surreal dream. My body feels disconnected. At the door, I press my hand onto the ID pad, and cringe. Have the Kowalczyks heard the news yet? I don’t want to be the one to tell them.
Broken sobs fill the air as I walk into the living room. Mrs. K. sits on the sofa with Nettie, weeping into a wad of tissues, her usually sophisticated face blotchy. Crumpled tissues lie scattered across the TV platform and the carpet.
Nettie looks up at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Did you—” She stops, her mouth open but no words coming out.
“I saw the building when I went for weigh-in,” I manage to say.
Mrs. K. glances up. She scans me, and then bursts into a fresh storm of tears.
I bolt to my room. Shaking, I stumble into the bathroom and splash water on my face. I can’t even imagine how Mrs. K. feels, seeing Jodine’s body when her daughter doesn’t exist anymore.
I’m so out of place, so blatantly wrong here. But I can’t help being where I am, inside this body. I don’t want it. I’d give it back if I only could. I don’t want to go home to live with Mom, Dad, and Granddad, looking like someone else. How can I hang out with Blair and Krista when I look this different? How can I finish school? Being a Reducer was only bearable knowing I’d be able to return to my own body when I was done with my assignment. To be myself. Totally. I can’t be me without my own body. It’s too much a part of the real me.
I blot my face with a towel and stare into the mirror. For the rest of my life I’ll look like this. The hazel eyes in the mirror grow watery. Even if I manage to shed sixty-plus pounds, I’ll always be freckled and kinky-haired.
Haze it all, this gnarly hair. I refuse to live another minute with this much of it.
I yank open a drawer in the sink cabinet and snatch up a pair of scissors. I hack away, sending coiled brown chunks onto the counter and into the sink. When I finish, my hair hangs nearer my shoulders than my waist. I shove the severed curls into the garbage chute and make a beeline for the closet.
My stomach’s growling, and I’m going to thwart it for good.
I seize the white box and cart it through the living room. Luckily, Nettie and Mrs. K. have vacated the sofa. They aren’t in the kitchen, either. I thump to the incinerator and set aside the red sweater and the silver case. Candy bars, nuts, popcorn, chips, and pepperoni sticks whoosh into nonexistence in seconds.
There. No more temptation in this box.
I wonder if the Kowalczyks are aware of that small but dangerous section of high-fat, mega-calorie snack food downstairs. Tempting things like that shouldn’t even exist when someone in the house is dieting.
Back in the bedroom, I toss the box with its reduced contents back into the closet, and discover a message flashing on my phone. I sink to the bed. It’s from Krista.
Oh. My. Gosh. Blair and I have been bawling all morning. What will you do? What do you LOOK like?? See you soon. Let us know when. Love ya.
I barely finish reading that when my phone rings.
It’s Dad.
I heard the news, Morgan.
I picture his face, warm and familiar as a well-loved sweater, and nearly disintegrate into tears again.
Daddy?
I take a sharp gulp of air. Daddy. I haven’t called him that in years. My throat constricts as I read his words.
I don’t know what to say, honey. I got your text, then a message from Mr. Behr. When I came home, I found Granddad watching a newsvid of the bombing with a horrible look on his face.
You’re off work?
I took the rest of the week off. Mom’s here, too, even though the band wanted to start up a new local gig since Philadelphia didn’t work out. Granddad’s off smoking on the balcony. Everyone’s worried about you. How are you holding up?
I try to breathe through my nose, but my nostrils seem way too small.
My body’s gone.
Yes. But you’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Mr. Behr says you’ll be able to come home soon.
I’m still overweight, Daddy.
My voice falters on the last word, and the dam of my control breaks. I sob into the phone. The voice-to-text app writes [Crying.] and goes motionless.
Dad lets me cry. After a while he texts some more.
I love you, kiddo. No matter what your body looks like. As soon as Mr. Behr gives the okay, I’ll come meet you and ride home with you on the MT. He said probably tomorrow morning. Is that all right?
Yes. I love you, Dad.
After our good-byes, my eyes fill again. I want to go home now.
Noon comes and goes. I skip lunch, staying in the bedroom. I could play Masters of the Cyberverse, but nothing on my silver elf’s agenda sounds appealing. Instead, I stare out my room’s auto-windows and watch winter freeze the hedges and bushes. I wish I could text or call Vonn for some needed word-hugs, but I can’t. All I have is my Institute phone, and Leo would see our messages. I’m stuck with being in isolation right now.
An hour past normal dinnertime, I venture into the kitchen. It stands vacant with a single light glowing above the sink. An e-note flashes
on the screen by the food elevator. I trudge over. Nettie apparently placed a plate of leftovers in the fridge for me.
Right as the PlasmaWave oven beeps, Nettie walks in and slips a glass into the autowasher. Without saying a word, she enfolds me in a hug. I throw my arms around her, and we stand together for a moment or two until her arms fall away.
“Good night,” Nettie murmurs and leaves the kitchen.
I wonder if the hug was for me or Jodine.
Emptiness descends again. I pick at my meal at the counter island. It’s no use. I put down my fork. For once, I’m not hungry. I scrape the remains into the incinerator and return to the bedroom. As I slip into a nightshirt, I hear a message alert on my phone.
It’s an official email from Leo.
To Reducers, and the families of Loaners and Reducers. My deepest condolences. Our Reducers in the Los Angeles branch have been affected by the bombing of the Institute’s administration building, by the deaths of their bodies in suspended animation. Our Loaners have been affected by the loss of our data files and the simultaneous corruption of our backup files in Denver. Because of this latter sabotage, no Loaner will be able to reoccupy his or her rightful body. They will each be pronounced deceased. Condolence settlements for the families are being arranged.
Jodine. Deceased. Blinking, I look across the room for a while before I can keep reading.
Reducers, you will now permanently reside in your Loaner bodies. You will be paid for the weight you’ve lost up to this point, plus a condolence settlement. Since your real bodies and ID chips have been destroyed in the bombing, your files, accounts, and education certificates will be officially reset to your current ID chip and handprint. We’ll work with you regarding these legal details. Please feel free to stay in the dorms and continue using the Clinic for your weight loss, free of charge. You may return to your own homes whenever you wish. We ask for your patience and understanding as we ease you into your new lives.
He makes everything sound easy and organized. Which is not how it feels.
Be assured that we are investigating the source of this crime. The perpetrators will be apprehended and dealt with severely. Thank you.
That’s the end of the message.
I shake my head. Even if my ID gets changed to let all the scanners in the world know that this body belongs to Morgan Dey, it won’t feel like me. I don’t want to look like a Kowalczyk. I want to be Morgan Dey, inside and out. And the settlement payment? All the credits in the universe can’t make up for the loss of my body.
The events of the day weigh on me, pressing and crushing me.
“Lights off,” I say, the words cracking.
I let my phone clatter onto the desk. I’m so tired. Tonight, the soft gathering of stuffed animals looks more inviting than the bed. I drag a blanket to the window seat and curl up, then scoop a teddy bear into my arms. Surrounded by furry paws, legs, and snouts in the semi-darkness, I catch a glimpse of the green airbot hovering by the doorway. My gaze follows its bobbing shape for a minute.
Right now, I don’t mind if the critter wants my company instead of air filtering.
“Down here, kid,” I say, patting the cushion I’m lying on. “Lower. Right now I need you next to me.”
Chapter 20
My room alarm speaks to me in a buttery voice. “Good morning, it’s oh-six-hundred.”
I moan, groggy with sleep. Why didn’t I disengage the alarm?
“Turn off,” I say.
The green airbot gives a cough-like whir and lifts off from a stuffed giraffe, floating toward the ceiling. Animals enclose me in a fuzzy hug, and I’m cozy for a split second until memories of yesterday scatter my comfort far and wide.
Bombs. Explosions. Destruction. Death. Stuck forever in Jodine’s body, a body that’s not mine—
I thrash from under the blanket and fling it onto the bed. Tears spring into my eyes. I slug a pillow a few times, then scream into it. My voice grows hoarse.
It’s no use. No amount of head-bashing or screaming will change things.
I’m trapped. Forever.
I shuffle into the bathroom. My eyelids are puffy and scratchy, as if broken glass lies underneath. I’m not charged up about exercising this morning, yet at the same time I could use a session of sweating and slamming some weights around. Something gritty. Something numbing. Something to do until Dad calls and arranges our trip home.
I pull on sweats and plod downstairs. Surprisingly, the gym isn’t vacant. Mrs. K. sits at one of the resistance machines, not moving, wearing turquoise sweats and a washed-out expression.
“I’ll come back later, Mrs. Kowalczyk.”
Mrs. K. turns her head in slow motion. “Don’t. I’m not doing anything in here, anyway.” Her gaze lands on my hair. “You cut it?” Her voice is stretched thin over the words.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It’s still long, just not as long.” I’m so blazing stupid. I should’ve waited to cut it until I wasn’t living with the Kowalczyks.
To my dismay, Mrs. K.’s face crumples, and she begins to cry. “I never appreciated her. Not her appearance, especially not her weight. Her vidgames, her clothes, her singing, her painting—” She breaks off, crying too hard to say more.
I take a seat on the base of the treadmill machine, my mind blank as to what to say.
After another minute, Mrs. K. blows her nose on a tissue. When she speaks, she sounds stuffy and nasally. “I wanted her to be slender, you know. I wanted her to be a painter like me. Not a singer, even though I knew her voice was lovely. I wanted to go shopping with her and buy stylish skinny clothes together, and she really didn’t care about that. She had her own, more casual style. But after a while, she only fit into those revolting navy sweats.”
“My mom likes to go shopping with me,” I say. “Nothing personal, but it’s more fun to go with friends.”
Mrs. K. sniffles. “Jodine never had many friends, either. That snake of a girl, Noni, certainly didn’t count.”
I stay silent. I’m not supposed to know about Noni.
“The thing I feel the worst about,” Mrs. K. begins, then stops. Fresh tears trail down her face and drip off her chin. “I—I can’t believe how insensitive I was to her. She surprised me once, showing me the painting I told you about. It was her first try at a still life, the first time she’d painted anything besides abstract shapes and colors when I let her play around on old canvases. All I could see were the mistakes, not her effort. I told her it wasn’t very good.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think the painting looks that great, either.”
Mrs. K. snaps her head up, and her eyes squinch smaller. “How do you know?”
“It’s hanging in her closet. I mean, I guess it’s the same painting. White vase, some grapes, an apple.”
“I want to see it.” Mrs. K. rises like a shot from the resistance machine.
I lead her upstairs to Jodine’s room. In the closet, I point to the painting. “There, see? It has my—I mean her—initials on it.”
Mrs. K. makes a raw, animal noise. She takes the painting off the wall and cradles it against her chest. “Thank you for letting me know about this. I hope you can get together with your family soon.”
I lean against the closet doorframe and watch her leave the bedroom with the painting. Something deep inside me rushes to the surface, and I feel my mouth curl into a broad, trembling smile. After all these years, she not only appreciates the painting, she wants it. All that work wasn’t for nothing.
It’s a belated but rewarding acceptance. And how nice Mrs. K. said she hoped I got back together with my family soon.
Wait a minute. I give myself a hard mental shake. Oh, man, I’m going crazy. I’m not the one who made that painting, and Mrs. K. isn’t my mother. I drifted into major Jodine mode for a few seconds. Traces of her are much, much too alive and well in this body—that wasn’t just a residual memory. I need to leave this house and get away from things that trigger this type of
freaky blending. If that will even make a difference.
I sure hope so. I won’t be able to stay sane if I’m not ever totally myself again.
Back in the bedroom, I find my phone and text Dad. He answers right away.
I’m finishing breakfast. I got the okay from Mr. Behr to bring you home. Shall I meet you at the MT shelter at Alameda Street, by the Institute?
Sure, if you want to ride that far.
It’s fine, kiddo. I can be there in about an hour. Uh, what do you look like?
I cringe. Weird question to hear from my own father.
Heavy. Shoulder-length curly hair and freckles. Green sweats. Can’t miss me.
Okay. I asked Granddad if he wanted to come, but he’s being reclusive. We just got notice he was awarded a room at the retirement home, and he’s busy starting to pack. You can help us move him in on Saturday if you want.
Sure. See you soon.
I sign off, trying not to think of Granddad leaving. Or what he thinks about my situation. At least I’ll get to see him before he moves out, but I have an awful feeling he prefers packing to seeing me in my new body. I think he’s as afraid as I am what his reaction will be.
I’m done here. Who cares about working out this morning? I send a text to Blair and Krista, force myself to clean up Jodine’s room, and return the stuffed animals to the bed. I blow a sad kiss to the green airbot. In the kitchen, I nibble breakfast and discover a note that says Nettie is visiting her brother. Our hug last night was good-bye, then, which kind of sucks. I speak a message, thanking her for the friendship and food, then dictate a farewell for Dr. and Mrs. K.
I check my phone. It’s ten minutes before my regular meeting time with Vonn at the park. If I hurry, I might be able to catch him before I ride to the Red Zone. If he even shows up.
I take the MT and rush down the sidewalk to our normal meeting place. The image of Vonn’s real face bobs in my mind. Superguy. Do I care that he isn’t ever going to be that hot again? A teensy bit, yes, but not as much as I would’ve expected.
