by J. Andersen
My phone beeps. It’s Mom. B home by dinner.
Sure, no problem. I can’t afford to miss another dinner. If so, I’ll rack up a demerit on my record and will be escorted wherever I go by a member of The Institute’s police force. I think I’ll avoid that.
I’m trying to text back when a tall, lanky body steps into my path, practically running into me. I’m about to mumble something snide until I look up and see Micah. This bumping into each other is becoming a habit.
“Oh, sorry,” I say as I attempt to step around him.
He sidesteps, but quickly falls in line with me. I’m still looking at my phone, trying to ignore him through the muddle of my brain. I mean, sure I like him and all, but after today, I need some alone time. Though I am curious to know why he milled around outside the class today like a Peeping Tom.
We’re quiet for another few steps. Then he sighs lightly and runs his hand through his hair. It flops back into the same place on his forehead when he releases it. His voice sounds tentative, and he sticks out his neck and whispers a little. “You okay after that class?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” I curl my shoulders around myself in a miserable attempt to hide the truth, the truth I want to ask Gran about.
His hand hovers behind my back as if he’s not quite sure if he should touch me or not. “No reason,” he says. His hair falls in his eyes again.
Maybe you should just cut your hair, I think. But then I wouldn’t be able to admire his hand-in-hair habit or that little neck flick that makes his chiseled jaw stick out. It’s a nice distraction from my worries.
Micah’s feet fall into step alongside mine. “I know a first disposal can be a little rough. Seen it happen hundreds of times.” His eyes glisten in the light, but he blinks the glaze away. “I mean, I know it’s just tissue,” he adds as an afterthought, “but it still can have an effect on certain types of people.”
“Really, Micah, I’m fine. Thanks for your concern, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not that type of person.” It sounds authentic even if it is a fib. The sweaty palms and queasy stomach I’ve been fighting since class prove to me he’s probably right. I can’t say I feel the disposal was wrong, just strange. Foreign. New.
“Can I walk you to where you’re going?”
So much for shrugging him off. I can see I’m not going to win this one, so I give in. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” Maybe alone time isn’t what I needed anyway. Wasn’t I headed to visit Gran in the first place? Not like I’d be alone there, anyway. And I have to admit, his presence calms my nerves.
We’re halfway across the grass before he asks, “So, where are you going?”
I snicker. “Sorry, um, I’m headed to visit my gran.”
“And you don’t mind the company?”
“No, in fact, Gran loves meeting new people.” A chance to talk about something else is nice. “It’ll give her something to gossip about for days. She’s one of the last remaining Wombers, you know.”
“Really? A Natural born?”
“Yeah. She’s my great-grandmother, and I have to warn you. She’s a little senile. She’ll probably say some crazy stuff.” The lie slips easily past my lips. It’s become second nature. “Some days are better than others. She could be non-communicative or she could be chatting to Van Gogh.”
“Van Gogh?”
“She has a print in her room of Starry Night. She talks to it. Tells rambling stories about the old days, at least until someone comes to give her extra meds she doesn’t need. They think drugging her up till she can barely function is the best option.” Staring at my feet suddenly seems like the right thing to do. Adding that bit about the meds wasn’t smart. Micah could assume I’m against medicating my gran, which would mean I’m against the policy of The Institute. I have to be more careful.
We’re quiet as we walk the rest of the way there. Passing the soldiers in their drill formations with Saul at the front makes my silence even louder. And when I see him and Micah make eye contact as we pass, I want to curl up into a ball and roll away. But thankfully, nothing happens and no one says anything.
***
A few minutes later, we’re standing outside Gran’s room. Leaning on the door, I poke my head inside. “Gran, it’s me, Kate.”
She’s sitting in her bed covered with a thin blanket. “Katie-Did!” she squeals.
Normally, my visit would allow her time to be herself if I could get her out of her assigned room, but I sharply shake my head to let her know that’s not the case today. Today, she has to keep up her senile act.
“I brought a visitor.”
A look of disappointment flashes across her cheeks, but she understands. Our visits are becoming fewer and fewer thanks to the increased surveillance at The Institute. The only place we can talk now is by the river. Since the lawns crawl with soldiers, a simple walk over the grounds is too dangerous for a normal chat anymore.
When I was younger, I used to visit at least three days a week. We’d stroll around the campus or sit by the river, and Gran would tell me stories about her childhood. A time when nobody had to watch their backs. Some days she’d tell me things she’d overheard that morning. “They’re disposing a larger batch of embryos today, Katie-Did,” she had said. “One doc said they’ll just have to randomly choose since so many were healthy. To think that someone’s future is in the hands of one doctor’s opinion. Maybe when you’re a Creation Engineer, you can stop all that nonsense.” Another time she told me about the meds. “You know Mitzy Hart, the Womber from down the hall?” she asked me that day. “She overheard something the nurses were saying and tried to tell her son about it when he came to visit. The next day she was so drugged up, she couldn’t even speak. They’ve kept her like that ever since. I know; I was visiting her when it happened.” It had to be true. Ms. Hart never uttered a word and lived in a medicated haze until she was discharged a year later.
After that incident, we began to see changes. More patrol officers in the hallways. Surveillance cameras in all the rooms. Our talks became fewer, and we had to be more creative with our communication. It was then Gran started pulling the dementia bit. She thought she might be able to observe better if they didn’t think she could understand. It took years to perfect the act and to get to the point where the doctors recognized the signs. I knew better then, and I know better now. So when she goes into one of her rants, I listen carefully, sure she’s giving me information on something she’s overheard. I’m usually right.
Moments later, Micah pulls a chair around for me to sit, and we nestle in on opposite sides of the bed. A glance around the room reveals bare walls. They’ve even taken down her painting, the sole bright spot in this dismal place. I make the introductions. “Gran, this is Micah. He’s my lab assistant at school.” I motion with my hand. Her head sways in his direction, and her eyes stare emptily at his face. “Micah, Gran. One of the last surviving Wombers.”
Reaching out his hand, Micah offers his greeting. She places her wrinkled hand in his, and he lightly kisses it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dennard.”
I must be imagining things, but for a second, I swear Gran’s eyes sparkle at him.
“A true gentleman treats a woman with respect. ‘Looking at the stars always makes me dream.’ Until the stars are gone,” she says. “I want my stars back.” The pendant around her neck glints against the florescent lighting, a small turtle with a jade shell. She caresses it with her fingertips as she talks. “I want the stars. I need to see the stars. They took them. Said they were broken. They do not like broken stars!”
Micah leans halfway over the bed, looking extremely uncomfortable. “What’s she talking about?”
“Not sure,” I lie. The Van Gogh is missing, and she knows it. It’s one of the few things she actually owns. That and her pendant. Everything else was stripped from her possession when she came to live here. I h
ave to get it back for her. Or, at least, find one like it. “I’ll take you to see the stars sometime soon, Gran. I promise.”
Micah has eased back into his seat and looks slightly more comfortable. “Mrs. Dennard, when I was a kid, my dad used to take me outside to look at the stars. Have you ever seen the pictures in the stars?”
Her eyes grow wide, and she examines his face. “Words. In the stars. I read words in the stars.”
“No, not words. Pictures. Like the great bear or Orion, the hunter. It’s like a connect-the-dots.”
“Words. I read words in the stars.” Gran’s growing increasingly frantic as she looks back and forth from Micah to me. “I need my stars.”
I lay my hand on her arm. “It’s okay, Gran. I’ll get your stars. Micah was just telling you stories.” My touch calms her. She lays her head back on the pillow and closes her eyes for a minute. When she opens them, she looks at Micah again. This time, she sounds entirely lucid.
“Who are you?”
With a smile he says, “I’m Kate’s friend.”
She rolls her head toward me. “He’s handsome. A handsome boy. A handsome boy for my Katie-Did.” Her shaky hands pull Micah’s hand toward mine where she places his on top of mine over her lap. “There, that’s better.”
The look on Micah’s face is a mix of embarrassment and contentment. I smile and pull my hand out from under his, but Gran sees the motion and replaces my hand on top of his before turning to him. “You take care of my Katie-Did, you hear? A strong, handsome boy like you can take care of her.”
He nods and covers her hand with his free one. “I will, Ms. Dennard. I promise.” Then he looks at me and shrugs.
“Maybe we should get going,” I suggest. “She’s not doing well today.”
“Sure. No problem.” Micah steps into the hallway as I take a moment to tuck the blankets around Gran’s legs again.
“We have to go, Gran. I’ll come back soon, okay?” Unexpectedly, Gran’s hand snakes out from under the blanket and grabs my wrist.
“Kate, things are going to be right as rain,” she whispers. “He’s unmarked. Like me.” She puts something cold and hard in my hand and closes my fingers around it. Opening my hand, I see the necklace that usually hangs around her neck.
“Gran, I can’t take this.” But she closes my fingers around it once more.
“Go,” she says.
I don’t argue because right then a nurse comes in to check on her. I slip the necklace over my head and tuck it in my shirt. It’s not till I get to where Micah is standing that I remember what she said about him. But I know it’s impossible. An ID tattoo isn’t exactly something you can hide.
Perhaps Gran really is going senile because she obviously doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Must be she didn’t see his mark. Micah’s back is turned, and though his hair curls over his neck, the black barcode is clearly imprinted at the base of his skull. Obviously, she’s wrong.
Our feet hit the grass, and we walk without a sound for a moment. Then I let out an awkward snicker. “You’ll never guess what my gran said to me just as we were leaving.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s so absurd, you’ll laugh.”
He smiles. “What is it?”
“She told me you were unmarked. Isn’t that crazy?”
His laugh is slow and uneasy. Then he raises his dark eyebrows at me, and I nearly forget what we’re talking about for a second. All the colors of the earth blur by in a muddled mix, and all I see is his face. “Must be she didn’t see my tattoo,” he says. “Guess that means I need a haircut.” He grins and runs his long fingers through the back of his hair, grabbing a handful of messy curls, lifting them high enough for me to get a good look before scratching the back of his head. It’s the same as the rest of ours. About an inch and a half long with lines varying in width. His number is inked underneath. 1105103.
Man, I wish I could run my fingers through those curls. “Heh, yeah, I guess not.” I shake my head. This whole conversation is awkward, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up. No need to make anyone uncomfortable. Not to mention it’s another thing I should’ve kept to myself. What is it about Micah that makes my brain want to reveal secrets I’ve kept from everyone I know? I change the subject before I get myself into any more trouble. “So, where’re you headed now?”
“Home, then back to the lab for the evening class. I have some research to do later, too. You?”
“Home for dinner. Mom was specific about being home tonight. She must have something planned.” I leave out the part about any possible demerits.
“Well, in that case,” Micah says, “I’ll leave you here.”
We’re standing at a break in pavement where the sidewalk splits into two paths. “Oh, right. Have a good night, then.”
“You, too.” He takes off down the path, and I’m ashamed to admit, I watch him until he disappears behind a patch of trees before turning to walk home.
With each step, I find myself chanting his number in my head. 1105103. 1105103. 1105103. There’s something strange about that number. Something not quite right. By the time I open the door to the smells of my mother setting the evening meal on the table, I still haven’t figured it out.
THIRTEEN
APOLOGIES WITH GIFTS
Code of Conduct and Ethics: The Institute—Sector 4, USA
Section 2 Article 7.3: Respect one another’s property. Crimes such as theft, defamation, or vandalism will lead to severe justice with the possibility of jail time.
DURING THE NEXT LAB, Micah whispers he has something for me.
“What is it?”
“A surprise,” he says, “But I promise you’ll love it.”
Right. Because he already knows me well enough to buy me gifts. I doubt it. Positive thinking today, Kate.
When there’s a break in the lab procedure, we head to the back room and sit while the tests finish running. Some of the other students, including Taryn and her partner, lounge on couches to wait out the thirty minutes we have for the chemicals to set.
I’m just about to sit next to her when Micah grabs my elbow and says, “Hang on. I have to show you something.”
I give him a fake annoyed look even though I secretly want to jump into his arms. “Right now?”
He raises his dark eyebrows as if to say, “Um, yes, remember I have something for you.”
“Oh, right.” I turn to Taryn. “Be right back.”
She cocks her head, confused.
“Tell you later,” I mouth silently.
“You better,” she mouths back.
Micah ushers me into a tiny storage room and shuts the door behind us. Turning to me, he puts his finger to his lips. With an extension pole, he slowly pushes the camera just inside the door so the lens is pointing toward the far wall. Propping the pole against the doorway, he turns to me and smiles. “If we stay near the door, they won’t see us. The cameras in these storage rooms are older. They don’t record sound.”
I smile and finger the necklace Gran gave me that hangs around my neck.
“What?”
“Do you realize what people are going to think when we come out of here? Okay, not all people. Just Taryn.”
A mischievous smirk pulls back across his face. “I guess we better make sure your hair is all nice and neat when we leave then, shouldn’t we?”
Oh dear, that’s not what I expect him to say, and I immediately feel the red rush of heat spread across my cheeks. The wink he adds sends the heat down over my arms and legs, but I manage a subtle smile and quickly change the subject. “So what’s this big surprise?”
“First, I need to make sure you’re okay with bending the rules a little.”
That’s an odd question. “What do you mean, ‘bending the rules’?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing major. No
thing that’ll get us in trouble if you don’t say anything, which I’m thinking you won’t. But if you’d rather not chance it, just say so, and I’ll forget all about it.”
Okay, way too confusing. “Just tell me. I’m not going to say anything to get you in trouble unless you’re a total psycho freak who’s brought a gun in here to try to kill me.”
Micah smiles and reaches into the pocket of his bag. I take one step back, just in case. But when I see what he’s holding, I jump toward him and toss my arms around his neck before I realize how inappropriate this is. Code of Conduct and Ethics: The Institute—Sector 4, USA Section 5 Article 5.13: Public displays of affection are strictly prohibited. Infractions of this rule will be subject to a personal escort and community service.
I awkwardly pull away, relaxing when I see the grin on Micah’s face. His fingertips linger on my hip.
I take the slightly squished pumpkin scone from Meg’s Café out of his hands and bring it to my nose to smell. “Oh my goodness! How did you get this? It’s fresh! Why did you …? I’m confused.” I stumble over my words.
His grin grows wider, obviously content with my overreaction. “Let’s just say I have connections. I wanted to make up for the awkwardness the other night by the river. Thought maybe a little gift might earn me some bonus points.”
“You totally get bonus points. And a gold star.”
“What do I get when I get five gold stars?” Brushing the crumbs off his hands, he continues, “I know you probably had a scone this morning, but it won’t hurt to have an extra, now and then, without recording it into the database. The Institute doesn’t have to know everything.”
His face holds something mysterious. Like he’s said more in that statement than he intended.
“Agreed.” I bite into the soft, spicy dough. It tastes dangerous as it melts in my mouth. I’ve always wanted to do this. Eat extra without recording it, but until now, there’s been no way to acquire extras. The pre-portioned meals and anything purchased at a restaurant or café makes it impossible to do this. Makes me wonder why we have to record at all, but I suppose the tracking system is just another way to make sure the people are doing what they’re supposed to be doing. All I know is that if we miss a day or two, we receive a warning notice on our compacts. If we miss more, our food portions will be diminished and our treat allowance will be revoked. So it’s wisest to suck up the inconvenience of it and give The Institute what it wants.
