by Kat Zhang
“I do,” Addie said, too quickly. “But it’s okay. I mean—”
“Okay, in the future I’ll—” Emalia said.
The two of them looked at each other awkwardly.
“Kitty showed me your new drawing yesterday.” The thin, golden bracelets on Emalia’s wrists clinked as she reached for the cereal box. “It was lovely. You’re such a fantastic artist, Addie.”
Addie pinned a smile to our lips. “Thanks.”
Emalia was always complimenting us like this. Your hair looks so pretty in a bun, she’d say, or You’ve got such lovely eyes. Each of Addie’s sketches, even the doodles she drew for Kitty’s amusement, got a verbal round of applause.
In return, we tried to compliment Emalia, too. It wasn’t hard or anything. She wore delicate, pale-gold sandals and faded pink blouses. She always found the most interesting places to order food from, coming home with white Styrofoam boxes from all over the city. But our conversations with Emalia never got beyond that. We spoke in a language of comments on the weather, polite greetings, and slight smiles, all underlaid with a sense of Not Quite Knowing What to Do.
Emalia had only fostered one other escaped hybrid before, a twelve-year-old girl who stayed three weeks before Peter found her a more permanent family down south. Emalia herself was in her midtwenties. She and Sophie had managed to remain hidden all these years, escaping institutionalization. They and Peter had connected mostly by chance.
Maybe that was why Emalia acted as if she didn’t know how to handle us. As if, poked too hard, we might break.
Addie leaned against the counter. “When’s the meeting going to be?”
“With Peter? Tomorrow night. Why?”
“I want to go.”
Emalia tipped some cereal into a bowl, her smile hesitant. “It’s going to be at Peter’s apartment, Addie. Like usual.”
“That’s barely a five-minute walk.”
“You aren’t supposed to be—”
“It’ll be nighttime. No one would see us.” Addie fixed the woman with our stare. “Emalia, I need to talk with him. I want to know what’s going on.”
Nornand’s hybrid wing had shut down, but its patients had been shipped elsewhere instead of being set free. Peter had promised we’d work to rescue them. But if anything had been done, Addie and I hadn’t been told.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Emalia said, “and I’m sure Peter will drop by here at some point.”
“It’s a five-minute walk,” Addie repeated. “A five-minute walk in the dark.”
The coffee machine beeped. Emalia hurried toward it. “I’ll ask Peter when I see him. How about that? I’ll tell him you want very badly to go, and we’ll see what he says.”
Aloud, though, she just murmured, “Okay.”
“Okay.” Emalia smiled and nodded at the pot of coffee. The smell, usually heady and comforting, now made us feel slightly sick. “You sure you don’t want just a little bit? It’s nice to have something hot when the morning’s chilly.”
Addie shook her head and turned away.
It was chilly outside. We weren’t going to be outside.
THREE
Addie and I were back in bed, curled against a pillow, when Emalia left for the airport. We hovered between wakefulness and dreams, the corners of the world worn soft.
The knock at the front door split us from sleep. Addie startled upright, automatically checking on Kitty and Nina. They were still asleep, huddled beneath their blanket so far we could just barely see their eyes.
The knock came again. I caught the glint of red light on the nightstand, where Addie had tossed our chip before collapsing into bed. It glowed steadily now, an indication its twin was near.
We had to be calm. We couldn’t keep jumping like this, fearing every knock at the door was someone coming to snatch us away.
I didn’t have to ask Addie to ease control to me. I took charge of our limbs as she let them go, hurrying into the living room and opening the front door.
The morning sunlight caught Ryan’s skin, giving it a glow like burnished gold. His dark curls stuck up in ways that laughed at gravity. He reached toward us, like he might touch our arm, brush his fingers against our skin. He didn’t. His hand dropped back to his side. “I wasn’t sure if you would be awake this early.”
“We couldn’t sleep,” I said.
“It’s summer break.” A wryness twisted Ryan’s smile. “We should be sleeping in.”
I drew him to the sofa. He’d brought a small paper bag with him—probably containing yet another invention—and he set it on the floor beside his feet.
“Well, we did skip all our finals,” I said.
Addie’s amusement colored the space between us. It relaxed me a little. Being with Ryan—talking with Ryan—I always kept one finger on the pulse of Addie’s mood.
Ryan laughed. “That’s what keeps you up at night?”
“You’re the one who should be worried,” I said, mock solemn. “You’re going to be a senior next semester. You should be applying to colleges soon.”
His smile slipped, and I winced. Ryan and Devon ought to be applying to colleges soon. But it would be enough of a miracle just to get us into a classroom in the fall. Even if Peter and the others decided that it was safe to let us out of the building by then, there were more things to be faked: immunization records, transcripts . . .
Besides, where would they go? There was a college downtown, but that was about it. It would be too dangerous, surely, to send him away by himself.
“Guess I’ll just have to repeat eleventh grade, then.” Ryan’s shrug was as lazy and exaggerated as his smile. He glanced at me sideways. “Be the same age as everyone else in the class for once.”
Our shoulders relaxed. I laughed, leaning toward him. “Oh, the horror.”
For a moment, it was just Ryan and me, looking at each other. A stillness. Twelve inches between us. Twelve inches of morning sunlight and Addie’s growing unease and the sound of traffic from four floors down. It would have taken him a second to break that distance. It would have taken me less. But the twelve inches remained. A foot of distance, filled with all the reasons why we couldn’t.
There came another knock.
“Hally?” I asked Ryan, frowning. Unlike their brothers, Hally and Lissa weren’t morning people. It was nearing eight now, which meant they’d usually be asleep for another two or three hours at least.
Ryan stood, but motioned for me to stay seated. Before he could take a step toward the door, someone called out, “It’s me, guys. Let me in?”
It wasn’t Hally’s voice, but it was familiar nonetheless. Ryan threw me a look that was half relief, half exasperation, then crossed to open the door. “Hey, what’s up?”
Jackson strolled inside. Over time, I’d learned to differentiate between Jackson and Vincent—Vince. I discovered the subtle traits that separated the two souls despite their ownership of the same lanky frame, the identical shaggy, brown hair and pale blue eyes. Vince was the one who made me blush. Who seemed to always be making fun of me—of everyone. Who was never out of jokes. Maybe that was why he and Jackson were forever smiling.
But this was Jackson. I was sure. It was the way he looked at Addie and me that made it clear—like he wasn’t just looking, but studying. As if there would be a test later on Addie and Eva Tamsyn, and he was making sure he’d do well.
He’d visited Addie and me frequently since our escape, playing tour guide to our new life. It was through him that we’d learned about Emalia’s past, and Peter’s, and Henri’s.
“Hey, Jackson,” I said, and was rewarded with a grin.
Jackson and Vince were familiar and safe. The girl who entered next was a stranger.
She was just a little older than Jackson—perhaps nineteen—with dark eyes, thick, brown hair, and long, blunt bangs. A faded denim
jacket sat bulkily on narrow shoulders, dwarfing her dancerlike frame. Jackson opened his mouth like he was going to introduce her, but she beat him to it.
“I’m Sabine.” She stuck out her hand. Her smile softened some of the gesture’s formality, but not all of it. Her grip was cool and firm, stronger than I’d expected from someone barely taller than we were.
It had been weeks since we’d met anyone new. I couldn’t help staring at her, studying everything from the missing gold button on her jacket to the scuffs on her turquoise ballet flats. Her nails were cut almost to the quick, but smooth, not like she’d bitten them.
I looked away, but too late. Sabine’s eyes caught ours, and she smiled. Not disparagingly, though. Gently, like she understood.
“Josie and I have seen you around before,” she said. “When you guys were still staying at Peter’s place.”
Josie and I. Josie and Sabine, then—the two souls who shared this body. I still wasn’t used to the easy way hybrids here referred to themselves. Of course, they only did it in private, among other members of Underground, but it seemed like such a risk to even speak the names aloud.
“It’s Eva and Addie, right?” Sabine said. “And Ryan and Devon?” She turned to him. “We were just up at your place, but no one answered the door. Jackson’s been talking about these inventions you make. They sound amazing. Which was the one you were telling me about yesterday, Jackson? The clock—”
Ryan cut Sabine off with a harried smile. “I’m just messing around. It’s something to do.”
“I figured you guys were bored.” She looked around the apartment, as if she could flip through the days we’d spent cooped up here as easily as I flipped through Addie’s sketchbook. “Everyone goes through this when they first escape. It’s like quarantine. But you guys are planning to stay, right?”
“Stay?” Ryan asked.
Sabine nodded. “In Anchoit, I mean. You’re not going to let Peter ship you off somewhere?”
“No,” I said quickly. I looked toward Ryan. “Not if it would mean getting separated.”
“It probably would,” Jackson said. “Peter and them, they’ve got connections with sympathetic families across a pretty wide net, but they’re spread out. I doubt they’d be able to place you all in the same area. Especially since . . .” He looked at Ryan, then shrugged awkwardly. “Well, you know.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I know.”
Placing Ryan and Hally would mean finding a family that looked like them. They were only half-foreign, on their father’s side—and their father wasn’t even really foreign; he’d been born in the Americas—but it still came through in the olive complexion of their skin, the shape of their brows, the large, deep-set look of their eyes, the curve of their chins. At least one member of any foster family would have to look like them. A nonforeign family adopting a foreign child would draw more attention than it was worth.
“We’re staying,” I said.
We had three more years before we were eighteen. Of course, couldn’t Emalia forge us papers saying whatever she wanted? We could be eighteen in a few months, if need be. We could be eighteen right now.
“You guys can always come stay with us,” Sabine said. I looked at her in surprise. We’d only just met, and she was offering us a place to live? “I share an apartment with a friend of ours. There isn’t an extra room, but there’s a couch someone can use, and we could fit mattresses if we rearranged some furniture.”
“I’d offer my place, too,” Jackson said, “but it’s smaller. And between my roommate and me—”
“Between his roommate and him, they keep the place a complete dump,” Sabine said, laughing.
Jackson spread his hands and shrugged. “We’re busy people.”
Jackson and Vince worked part-time jobs all around the city. To date, we’d heard him refer to waiting tables, walking dogs, manning food stands at the park, and working in grocery stores. He seemed to lose jobs as quickly as he gained them.
He had to keep working. No one else was supporting him. But watching him smile now, he looked like any other eighteen-year-old boy on summer vacation. Never mind that he and Vince no longer attended school. They didn’t see the point. Neither, I supposed, did they have the time.
The phone rang before I could thank Sabine for her offer. Emalia had instructed us to take calls. Most of the time, it was just a telemarketer. The chance of someone recognizing our voice was small—smaller than the chance of Emalia or Peter needing to get in contact.
I smiled apologetically at the others as I answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey.” A boy’s voice, gruff and urgent. “Are you Eva? Addie? One of them?”
Our eyes flew to Ryan, who was halfway across the room before I managed to say, “What? Sorry, who is this?”
Who is it? Ryan mouthed. Behind him, Sabine and Jackson had gone still, both staring at us.
Our heart pounded. Should I hang up?
No. No, that was stupid.
“It’s Christoph,” the boy said. “Is Sabine there? Can you put her on?”
Slowly, I took the phone from our ear and covered the speaker. Our voice was halting. I forced it steadier. “Do you know someone named Christoph?”
Sabine sighed and nodded. I found myself relaxing slightly as I handed her the phone. “Hey, Christoph. Next time, you could try not scaring everyone to death, you know?” She paused as he said something. Her exasperation melted away. “Which station? Okay, thanks.” She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Then she took a sharp breath, opened them again, and hung up. “Mind if we turn on the television?”
I shook our head. At her touch, the TV flickered on with its usual grainy quality.
On the screen was Jenson.
FOUR
Our muscles, bones, organs liquified.
Jenson.
Jenson of the review board. Jenson of the dark suits and creased pants and never-ruffled voice.
Jenson, who had chosen Hally and Lissa for surgery. Whose cool, steel voice frightened us more than Mr. Conivent’s silk. A man who didn’t need Mr. Conivent’s slick smiles or ready excuses. Who had watched us like he owned us.
He looked just as I remembered. Dark hair. Light eyes. Suit jacket. Not young and not old, and brutal in the way a panther was brutal—claws retracted inside soft paws. He stood before a podium, his expression crafted from a block of marble. A band of text ran across the bottom of the screen: Mark Jenson, Director of the Administration for Hybrid Affairs for Sector Two. Nationwide address.
Director for all of Sector Two? The Americas were divided into states, which were grouped into four sectors: two in the northern continent, and two in the southern. The president presided over us all, but lesser government heads watched over each sector. I’d known Jenson was part of the review board that had come to examine Nornand—I’d seen the importance the clinic had put on his visit—but I hadn’t realized just how powerful he was.
“Our country was formed as a haven for the single-souled,” Jenson said. “Since the first rise of civilization, the hybrids have thought themselves better—smarter, more able. For thousands of years, our ancestors were subjugated to slave labor and then near–slave labor, to monstrous and inhuman treatment. Finally, they took a stand. They fought for their right—our right—to be free of hybrid rule.” He paused. “The Americas were truly a new world—colonized, perhaps, by hybrids, but built on the backs of the single-souled. We fought for and won this land during the Revolution. It is our haven in a world gone mad. And as such, it must be protected.”
Our initial sickness hadn’t faded, only soured and curdled.
“In past times, when th
e world was a more barbaric place, the hybrids were able to maintain their power through sheer brutality and superior numbers. But today, we can see them for what they truly are: mercurial in mood, unstable in action. That is, if they do not simply succumb to insanity. Who but the insane could so savagely treat their fellow human beings for thousands of years? Who but the unstable would continue to fight endless wars, until they’d all but driven themselves into the ground?”
Ryan had come to stand beside us, slipping his fingers through ours. We felt the heat of his arm through his sleeve. It wasn’t until he gently squeezed back that I realized I was crushing his fingers.
Jenson stared out from the television screen. It felt like he was talking specifically to us. To me. “We’ve long closed our borders to the hybrids overseas. But unfortunately, that didn’t solve the problem of the ones being born into our midst. For a long time, the institutions were our best solution to the hybrid condition. Institutionalization allowed hybrids to be secured and cared for away from those they might harm. It allowed them to be protected from themselves. But times are changing. As a country, we improve and move forward, discovering better ways to resolve our problems. And that is what I wish to introduce to you today—the next step in our answer to the hybrid issue: not containment, but a cure.”
A cure.
A cure was what they’d been looking for at Nornand. Child after child had died on the operating table in search of a cure. Jaime Cortae—thirteen years old, funny, brilliant—had gone under the knife and lost a part of himself he would never get back. All because they’d been searching for a cure.
Surely, they hadn’t changed their minds so quickly. Surely, Dr. Lyanne had been right. But Dr. Lyanne’s hand in our escape had been discovered soon after the breakout, and she’d had to flee. Since then, she’d been in hiding just as much as the rest of us.
