“I’m not! Please,” I beg. “Don’t do this.”
He frowns, his reddish eyebrows pulling close as he finally looks at me.
“She attacked a boy. Unprovoked—”
I hold his gaze as I appeal to him. “No . . . it wasn’t like that. . . .”
Pollock sighs and stands, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Is this going to be a problem, Andersen? You’re not the only outfit around. We can—”
“No problem,” he quickly replies, snapping his gaze away from mine.
Pollock smiles and sits back down.
Andersen lowers onto a stool. I crane my neck, watching him as he soaks a piece of gauze with some kind of strong-smelling fluid . . . an antiseptic, I guess. I flinch as he wipes down my neck. If there was ever a doubt, it leaves me now. I know what’s coming.
“Please,” I whimper.
He lifts my head and wipes the back of my neck, fanning my hair out of the way.
“The less you resist, the less it will hurt,” he instructs, not meeting my eyes as he maneuvers a white circular device over me. He cracks it open at a joint with a sharp snap and it comes at me like a great set of jaws. “Don’t move.”
And I don’t. I’m frozen in fear. Shock. Both. I’m not sure. Emotions I’ve never felt before wash through me, take over everything, become everything. All that I am.
He locks it around my neck with a click. It’s tight and uncomfortable and I immediately surge against it, gasping, claustrophobic, my airway constricted. Panic drowns me.
The collar bites into my windpipe and I gag. I’m pinned everywhere. Wrists, ankles, and now my throat. I can’t move. Not without pain.
Andersen places a hand on my forehead and lowers his face until it’s just inches from mine. He talks in a low, soothing voice. “Breathe. I know it’s tight, but you can breathe just fine. See? There you go.” His bright blue eyes lock on mine intently. Even though he’s the one doing this to me, I stare into those eyes, sink into the blue, grab at the hint of kindness greedily.
“Good?” he asks.
No! Not good . . .
“I’m going to begin now and if you struggle there will only be more pain. Do you understand?”
I start to nod and then wince at the movement. Tiny pinpricks of pain radiate all over my throat. The sensation is so severe that the discomfort spreads across my shoulders, down my chest, and up into my face.
A hot tear rolls down my cheek and into my hairline. “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t.”
His hand smoothes my forehead. “Shh. I know you’re frightened, but this will go easier if you just calm down. Relax. Don’t fight it. Think of someplace else. . . .”
I take a moment and try to steady my heart rate with deep breaths through my nose. I take his suggestion and try to think of something else, search for the music that’s usually in my head, but I can only think about what’s happening to me.
Andersen flips a few switches and a low humming starts to drone on the air. He applies some goggles to his face and then slides a pair on me.
He fiddles with my collar, making sure it’s positioned to his liking. He brushes back a few errant strands of hair off my neck. “Now this will hurt. I’m not going to lie, but don’t move no matter what. You don’t want a smeared or smudged imprint.”
I don’t want it at all.
I’m not sure it matters whether it’s neat and tidy or smeared. Still, I hold stiffly and stare straight ahead, my gaze flying blindly over the tiles in the ceiling, blurring with tears.
“Easy now. Relax,” he continues to murmur.
There’s a faint clicking sound and then pain. Red-hot.
It slices into my neck and feels like someone is garroting me. For a moment, I think my head is being severed from my shoulders.
The low droning buzz grows louder, thicker. Like a drill. The instant injection of tiny, vibrating ink-filled needles arches my torso up from the chair.
A shrill movie scream spins through the air, and I realize it’s me. The sound is nearly as startling as the sudden pain. I never knew such a sound could exist inside me.
My body forgets his instructions to relax as the ink bleeds into me. Spasms ripple through me as currents of ink are injected from countless tiny needles deep into my flesh.
“Almost done,” Andersen croons. “Just a few more moments.”
His hand on my head bears me down, holds me still as the imprinting is happening, and I go from a girl who can walk the streets like a normal person to a monster recognized by all.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
* * *
(Agency Interview)
AGENT POLLOCK: So you’re saying she struck you, son?
ZACHARY CLEMENS: Yes, but she was angry. . . . I hurt her . . . said things—
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: She was totally out of control. I—I was afraid she was going to turn on me next. You should have seen the look in her eyes.
AGENT POLLOCK: And you, Zachary? Did you fear for your safety, too?
ZACHARY CLEMENS: I wouldn’t say that—
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: Well, he’s a guy. He’s bigger. I was very afraid. I thought she was going to hit me, too. I’m still afraid of her and what she might do.
ZACHARY CLEMENS: Tori—
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: What, Zac? You want me to lie? You may not want to say how it really went down, but I can’t pretend. You still want to protect her out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, but I’m trying to protect the world from her.
AGENT POLLOCK: Thank you for your concern, Victoria. I know coming forward can’t be easy.
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: You have no idea. She was my best friend. It’s like she died. She was here one moment and now she’s gone. Only I wish she had died. At least others wouldn’t be in danger then.
AGENT POLLOCK: We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Davina Hamilton won’t hurt anyone else.
FOURTEEN
I HARDLY REMEMBER AFTERWARD. IT’S ALL A BLUR. Movements and words I can’t process.
The collar clicks free. Andersen rubs some kind of ointment on my neck and wraps it with clear plastic and then covers it with gauze. I lose sight of the ceiling as he helps me sit up and gives me two aspirin.
I don’t want to sit up. I just want to sink back down with my eyes closed and never get up. Never open my eyes again.
I watch Andersen’s lips move, catching only a word or two. A phrase. Enough to know that he’s giving me aftercare instructions, but I just can’t process. I just don’t care.
Webber takes my arm and I’m moving, walking, my feet barely skimming the ground.
Soon I’m back in the van.
I don’t bother with the buckle. I slouch to the side and lie on the seat, staring sightlessly at the back of the driver’s side seat, my body limp, my limbs merely appendages that don’t even feel like they belong to me . . . and I dimly wonder if that was aspirin he gave me or something else.
I lift a shaking hand to my throat, touching the soft gauze there. Tears well in my eyes, blurring everything around me, washing my world in water.
I sniff, refusing to cry. At least not until I’m alone in my room. No witnesses. I won’t break down in front of Pollock. It’s strange that I can still cling to pride now. Imprinting should have stripped me of that. I jam my eyes closed and hold them that way for a long while, not opening them again until we’ve stopped in front of my house.
We’re not even to the front door before it opens and Mom charges out. “What happened?” She wraps an arm around me just as my knees give out. She struggles to keep me from falling.
Pollock hands Mom a piece of paper. “Aftercare instructions to avoid infection.”
Mom glances from the paper to me, the whites of her eyes red as she gazes at my neck. “You had no right. . . . You’ll be hearing from my attorney—”
Polloc
k angles his head sharply, looking up at my mother who’s got at least three inches on him. “Go ahead, Mrs. Hamilton. Waste your time and money. Get your fancy lawyers. They’ll tell you that we had every right under the Wainwright Act. Your ‘angel’ committed assault. The agency is well within its authority to have her imprinted.”
“Mom,” I croak, my throat muscles crying out at the effort. It hurts to even speak. “I want to go to my room.” I look at her, compelling her to listen, to drop it, to take me away from these men. It doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s done.
Her wild eyes scan me, and I know she’s trying to decide the best thing to do. As calm and accepting as she’s been . . . this happening to me has pushed her over her limit.
If I wasn’t so weary, so beaten, I’d lash out at her. Why is she angry now? What happened to the afternoon Pollock first showed up with the headmaster? Why didn’t she get angry then and do something? Take me away, run off with me to some remote cabin in the mountains where I would have been safe from the world?
Now it’s too late for me.
Mom must read some of this on my face. My knees wobble and she tightens her arm around my waist. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”
We’re on the porch when Pollock calls back, “She can stay home tomorrow, but I’ll expect her back in school the day after. And I expect no more incidents from her in the future.”
Mom stiffens beside me. I hear her inhale and she starts to turn. I know she’s about to respond.
“Don’t,” I hiss, understanding how this game needs to be played. Maybe I didn’t understand before, but I do now. Fighting back— openly fighting back—isn’t the way.
I urge Mom ahead into the house. When the door shuts behind us, I want to weep with relief. I feel safe inside these walls. Finally able to drop my guard. However false the perception, my body turns to lead, almost taking Mom and me both down.
She cries out my name, wrapping her arms around me and heaving me up. “Davy! Davy!” A feat. She doesn’t weigh much more than me.
She manages to slow my descent. The floor rises up to meet me, the tile cool and slick under my cheek. I sigh and press my palms to the tiles, welcoming the chill into my body. My neck burns like fire.
Mom’s voice is frantic above me.
“Just want to lie here . . . for a bit. . . .”
She tugs at my arm. “Let’s get you into bed.”
“Mom! What’s wrong?” I turn my face at the sound of Mitchell’s voice. He clears the foyer and hurries toward us. “Davy? What happened?” His fingers gently brush the gauze covering my neck.
“Mitchell,” I breathe, a slow smile curving my lips. “How are you?”
“Is she high?”
“They must have given her something. Let’s get her to her room.”
Mitchell picks me up and carries me up the stairs and into my room. Mom pulls back the covers. He sets me down and stares at me, his gaze riveted to my neck as Mom slips off my shoes.
“They imprinted her,” he spits the words out. Not a question. A statement. His hands open and shut at his sides like he wants to punch something.
Mom nods, not saying a word.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
I find my voice. “I slapped Zac . . . at a party. . . .”
“You slapped Zac?” Mom sounds appalled.
“He was being . . . jerk.” I giggle at this.
“This is because of Zac?” Mitchell growls. “I’m going to kill him.”
Now I laugh harder. “That would be funny. You ending up . . . killer . . .”
“Mom . . . how could you let them do this?” There are tears in his eyes, and this sobers me. I can’t remember my brother crying. Nothing ever gets to him. Not the fighting with our parents, not getting in trouble at school—not getting kicked out of school. Not flunking out of college and moving into the guesthouse.
It’s not that he was indifferent to all that happening. I know he cared. I know he hated being the “disappointment.” But he never cried. Not like now. Not like he’s crying for me.
“I didn’t have a choice. They just took her. I didn’t know until it was done.”
“You should have stopped them!” He whirls from my bed and faces Mom. “They can’t do this to our Dav!”
“I know!” she explodes, waving her arms through the air at her sides. “But she’s not our Davy anymore!”
This hangs on the air.
Mitchell doesn’t react, and I’m past reacting. I stare at his back. He’s rigid, his spine ramrod-straight, gone is the chronic slouch that is so very him.
Right now, I just want to pull a pillow over my head and hide in my room forever. Even though I can’t. The Agency won’t let me. And I have to finish high school. Not just for them but for me.
And yet there’s some comfort in this bed I’ve slept in all my life, my head resting on my familiar pillow with my stuffed duck staring at me. Dot is faded to a dull yellow now, the polka dots beneath its wings no longer identifiable.
I blink burning eyes. The days of my youth when this duck had been bright and shiny—when I had been bright and shiny—are like a dream. A dream growing dimmer and dimmer with each day. The bed sucks me in deeper and I never want to leave it.
A door slams downstairs.
“Caitlyn!”
Mom inhales at the sound of her name and squares her shoulders like she’s bracing for battle. “Up here, in Davy’s room!”
Footsteps pound the stairs. Then Dad’s in the doorway, panting like he’s run a mile. His hair is wild around his head, like he dragged his hands through the strands. The tie around his neck droops, mangled and twisted, the knot loosened around mid-chest. His suit jacket is missing.
“I came as soon as I got your message. What happened—” His voice dies the instant he sees me.
My eyes well with tears as his gaze lands on me . . . on my neck.
All the life, the last of his energy, bleeds out from him in that one look. Suddenly, he appears smaller, shrunken. A shell of my dad. Empty and dead-eyed.
Just like Mom said: I’m not their Davy anymore.
I’m something else. Not a daughter they can guide through life. They have no control over what happens to me. The Wainwright Agency decides my fate.
I’m relieved when Mom and Dad leave. Mitchell lingers, sinking down beside me on the bed. He touches my back and I flinch.
“Please. Just go.”
I hear his breath, ragged and sharp beside me, and I can’t even summon enough emotion to care that I might have hurt his feelings with my dismissal. The bed lifts back up as he stands.
The door clicks shut after him and I curl into the tightest ball possible, dragging Dot against my chest. Closing my eyes, I stop resisting the fog rolling into my mind. Latching on to a random tune, I wrap myself in it and slide into sleep, where I don’t have to think about anything anymore.
The first time I wake, Mom’s there, trying to force soup on me. Like I have a cold or the flu. Like it’s just a sick day and I’m home from school.
She holds the spoon to me like I’m a baby—or an invalid—in need of feeding. I motion it away with a moan.
“C’mon. You have to eat, Davy.”
“Not hungry,” I mumble, and roll onto my side, facing the window, my head pounding. After a while, I feel her weight lift from the bed.
“I’ll just leave the soup here.”
I don’t bother telling her to take it. I don’t want to eat. I just want to sleep and wake up in the morning like none of this ever happened. Like everything has been a bad dream and I’m the girl I used to be.
The following morning, Mitchell wakes me, shaking my shoulder gently. “C’mon, Davy. We need to remove your gauze.”
My eyes fly open with a gasp. The burning throb in my neck instantly reminds me of everything that’s happened. His fingers brush the edge of the gauze and I give a little yelp and shoot up, pressing as far back as I can into the headboard.<
br />
Mitchell holds his hands up wide in the air like I’m pointing a gun at him. “Hey, Mom showed me the aftercare instruction paper. We should have removed it already. You don’t want to get an infection. We need to clean it.” He holds out his palm. A fat white pill sits there. “And I brought you one of Mom’s pain pills left over from her knee surgery.”
I shake my head and clasp both hands around my neck. “I—I . . . No. Don’t touch me.” I don’t want anyone to touch me.
“Davy—”
“I don’t want to see it.”
He dips his head as though understanding that. “Okay. You don’t have to look at it. Let me take care of it then.”
“No. You don’t understand. I don’t want anyone to see it. Especially you.”
He blinks. “Why not me?”
I punch the mattress beside me. “Because you’re my brother. I don’t want you to see this thing on me!” I motion furiously to my neck.
“Davy, it’s not going to change how I see you.”
“It changes everything!” I hear my words, recognize how shrill my voice sounds, but I don’t care. “Out!” I point to the door.
Mitchell’s lips compress, making him resemble Dad a lot right then, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just rises and turns for the door. I watch him walk away, my heart in my throat, my fingers still clasped around my neck, like he might turn back and try to pry my hands away and see the imprint for himself.
Once the door clicks shut, I slide back down on the bed, my fingers loosely clinging to my throat, still holding my neck as if I can somehow hide what’s there. Cover it up so that no one can ever see it. Even me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
* * *
Imprinting falls under the purview of the State. No civilians or local police agencies may impede a representative operating at the behest of the Wainwright Agency. . . .
—Article 13B of the Wainwright Act
Uninvited Page 12
