The Replaced

by Kimberly Derting

  The inside of the library was nothing like the outside. And while it barely resembled a Barbie Dreamhouse, it was hardly like a library either, at least not the library we’d had back in Burlington, which had these enormous windows and tall ceilings, state-of-the-art computers, and neatly organized shelves and displays.

  This place was dark and dusty, and the books were scattered around in almost total disarray. If there was a system—Dewey decimal or otherwise—it wasn’t apparent. The only similarity I could see between this and the Burlington Library was the fact that it called itself a library. That, and the fact that there were, indeed, books.

  Still, I was surprised by the guy who came down the stairs to greet us. He didn’t look all nerdy and bookish, which despite not being library-ish, was the kind of Norman Bates vibe I’d expected in a place like this. But instead of wearing a sweater vest and bow tie, this guy had on baggy jeans and a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt. He looked like someone’s slacker brother who should be stuffing his face with Cheetos and playing Xbox in the basement.

  “So, let me know if you need help finding anything. Nonfiction’s in the back . . .” He pointed through an opening that might have once been a dining room or a living room, but now had stacks of disorganized shelves covering the walls. “And fiction’s through there.” Again, he pointed, this time through another opening, on the opposite side of the stairs. “If you need to use the computer, lemme know—I’ll give you today’s password.” He nodded at a desk in the corner. Next to the desk, a sign read:

  We’re sorry!

  Due to national security concerns, we are unable to tell you if your

  internet surfing habits, passwords, and email content are being

  monitored by federal agents; please act appropriately.

  My breath snagged in the back of my throat at the mention of federal agents, but the guy just shrugged and said, “Patriot Act,” like that explained everything. Then he threw in, “Just try to stay off the porn sites. Gives us all kinds of viruses.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Simon, just the tiniest bit, making it clear I doubted the guy was talking to Natty and me. Simon scowled back, letting me know he didn’t think I was funny, even the tiniest bit.

  Natty didn’t hesitate, and took off toward the fiction section, while Simon stayed with me. I was tempted to ask for the computer password so I could maybe go to my dad’s old online forums, those weird conspiracy theory sites he used to frequent. I doubted he’d risk visiting them now, but there was a part of me that thought if only I could spend a minute or two in the places he used to spend hours-days-months of his life before I’d returned, maybe the ache I felt to see him might dull, even if it was only temporary. Even if whatever connection I’d feel wasn’t real.

  But I was equally nervous that somehow Agent Truman might expect it and be monitoring those sites, waiting for me to slip up like that so he could track us down.

  “Thanks,” I told the librarian politely as I made my way, instead, to the nonfiction section.

  I examined the jumbled collection of books that included everything from local history to crafts to finances. I paused when I reached the meager section on relationships, and I ran my finger over a spine with an image of a couple kissing.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  I hadn’t even realized Simon was standing right behind me until then, and I dropped my hand.

  “What if he doesn’t come back?” He went on, not waiting for me to admit that I knew exactly who he meant. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but eventually you have to ask yourself: When is enough enough? When do you give up?”

  I hugged myself tightly as I turned to face him, wondering why he was bringing this up now. My stomach and my throat clenched painfully.

  I’d already asked myself that same question a hundred times: When would I give up? Problem was, there was no good answer.

  I took in every detail of Simon’s face, like it might somehow make a difference in the way I answered—his dark lashes, the golden specks that floated in his strange eyes, the curve of his full lips. He watched me with a kind of fascinated intensity that made me hyperaware of the way I held myself, and made me notice the way I pressed my toes against the bottom of my shoes. I traced my tongue back and forth along the roof of my mouth—a nervous habit.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “You didn’t know what would happen to him. I should have told you what they did—the DNA replacement—so you could make an informed decision.”

  I shuddered, because I wasn’t sure it would have made a difference. Tyler would have died if I hadn’t let him be taken. Could I really have let that happen, even knowing he wouldn’t come back fully human?

  “You did what you thought was best.” Simon’s voice was lower, huskier now. “But at some point you have to forgive yourself.” His words were hypnotic.

  The moment I licked my lips, I regretted the action. There was something about the way Simon was looking at me, about the way he was watching my mouth a little too closely, his eyes darting back and forth to mine, almost like he was asking—no, begging—me for permission. I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea, and I was afraid I’d just sent out some sort of kiss-me signal. I swallowed super hard, my mouth feeling like it was suddenly stuffed with cotton. “What if I can’t forgive myself?”

  “Kyra.” His hand nudged my chin upward and I literally thought my heart would explode like the trophy case at the bowling alley. “You get that the two of you weren’t together for that long, don’t you?” He scowled down at me.

  It took several seconds before his words finally penetrated my brain, probably because my feelings were so mixed up. But once they did, I recoiled, shoving away from him. “Wait. What are you trying to say?”

  Simon wasn’t nearly as confused, and he repeated, “I said, it’s not like you were together all that long, you and your boyfriend.”

  “Are you being serious right now? You think that makes a difference, how long we were together?”

  “I’m just saying isn’t it possible your feelings for him . . . how strong you think you feel might have at least something to do with guilt?” His shrug was almost too much, and my mood shifted. “Think about it, Kyra. You almost killed him, and then you had to send him away to aliens to be forever transformed. That would be tough on anyone. It would make anyone see things . . . differently. I can see why you’re having a hard time moving on.” His smile was probably meant to be sympathetic, but it had the exact opposite effect, and I felt myself losing it.

  “And by moving on, you mean getting over him, is that it?” I poked Simon in the chest, glad when he winced. “And then what? You think you can just jump in and take his place? What do you want me to say, Simon? That I’d rather be with some bossy jerk who keeps secrets and thinks he knows what’s best for everyone? That if you just give me a few more days, I’ll be over Tyler and you can step in and take his place?” My hair whipped against my cheeks as somewhere in the room I heard something crash to the ground. “Well, I won’t. And you can’t. It’s not that simple. I’ve known Tyler his whole life. His brother and I were best friends way before he was my boyfriend. Not everything is about—”

  I was about to explain a hundred different reasons why I’d never get over Tyler, when I saw the book slam into the back of Simon’s head. “Jesus—what the . . . ? Did you see that?” His hand shot up to the base of his skull. And then with an incredulous look, he asked, “Did . . . you . . . did you do that?”

  I was about to deny it, because there was no way it was me, when I looked down at my hand. It was still outstretched.

  My eyes got huge when I realized what I’d been thinking right before that book had pegged Simon in the head. Because that was almost exactly it, what I’d been wishing for: something to throw at him.

  Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been the softball I’d imagined, but I suppose a book was a pretty good substitute.

  He stood there watching me, and his eyes moved from
my face to my hand and he stopped rubbing the place where the book had smacked him. “You were pissed, weren’t you?” He took a step closer. Too close. “Think about the other times it happened—today at the bowling alley, yesterday in the central lab, that night when Agent Truman had your dad at gunpoint. Were you mad then, too?”

  I tried to think back. Mad? Was it really that simple? It made me sound like a Neanderthal, but that didn’t make it untrue.

  I was always sort of pissed at Agent Truman.

  But what about that first time it had happened? At the minimart, when Tyler had been back at the motel burning up with fever, had I been pissed then, too?

  No, not pissed, just out of my mind with worry, and completely racked with guilt because it had been my fault he was sick. I’d been absolutely-utterly-hopelessly desperate to get my hands on some Tylenol to bring his fever down. I’d been frustrated . . . almost to the point of being panicked.

  Maybe that was the key. Maybe it didn’t have to be angry so much as just worked up in general. Pissed . . . panicked . . . agitated . . . whatever it was that made my adrenaline pump.

  So why, then, hadn’t this uncanny ability of mine manifested itself in the alley when Agent Truman had Simon, Willow, and me cornered? What had been different about then?

  It took me a second to put my finger on it, but it was there: fear.

  It hadn’t been anger then, it had been full-on terror—a tail-between-my-legs, cowering kind of fear.

  At the bowling alley, when I’d been freaking out that Agent Truman might find out we were there, I’d been . . . desperate to stop that from happening.

  Desperate. Panicked. One hundred percent freaked out.

  It was as if I’d been zapped with ten thousand volts and juiced up with steroids, all at the same time.

  “Try it again,” Simon coaxed.

  I whirled around, concentrating as hard as I could on the haphazard stacks around me. At a row of old encyclopedias, and magazines and journals, at the uneven spines of hardcovers and paperbacks all shoved in together.

  “Get mad,” Simon coached, as if I hadn’t thought of that myself. I conjured up an image of Agent Truman as I squeezed my hands into fists, thinking of all the things he’d done to ruin my life—convincing my mom I was hazardous to be around, hauling my father up to Devil’s Hole that night and using him the same way he’d used the promise of Tyler being alive to bait me. I pictured his smug face and the way he’d looked, standing on my doorstep that very first day in his starched suit, which was almost the exact same way he’d looked when he’d shot Willow with those beanbag bullets.

  I glared at the pages of the open book at my feet, the one that had hit Simon in the head, as I pictured the agent’s arrogant face, but nothing happened. The pages didn’t budge. Not so much as a rustle.

  “Get pissed, Kyra.”

  “I’m trying,” I shot back. I didn’t need him telling me what I should do—I understood what he’d said. Maybe I just wasn’t the kind of person who could get mad at the drop of a hat. Maybe I didn’t have a big enough chip on my shoulder.

  He got in my face. “You know he’s never coming back, don’t you? Tyler? And it’s all because of you.” His words were crisp and cutting. I recoiled. And when he said, “You killed him,” I felt my fists clench into tense balls.

  I wanted to hit him, and I wanted to turn away so he couldn’t see the way my eyes burned. His face blurred in front of me. It was bad enough that I’d beaten myself up about Tyler, and what might’ve happened to him, every single second he’d been gone—I didn’t need Simon shoving it in my face.

  The book tore through the air from behind my head, whizzing past my ear so fast I could feel the draft. It slammed hard against the wall, sounding like a rock, and then it dropped to the floor.

  I tried to tell myself to stop, but all I could think was: I killed Tyler . . .

  . . . I killed Tyler . . .

  . . . I killed Tyler . . .

  And each time those words rang through my head, another book shot off the shelves, and another . . . and another.

  Footsteps shuffled upstairs, and Simon’s fingers closed over mine. “Okay,” he said. “Enough for now. We can’t let anyone see you.” He squeezed my hand, silently telling me I’d done well.

  I didn’t know about that because all I could think was that other thing: I’d killed Tyler.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, as if he’d read my mind, and he didn’t let go of my hand, even when Natty came into the room, her eyes wide.

  “What’s going on in here?” Her nervous glance shot to the books strewn around the floor, and then over her shoulder.

  “You kids okay down there?” the librarian called from the top of the stairs. “Need anything?”

  My pulse echoed in my ears, and my throat felt tight and raw.

  “We’re okay!” Simon called back to him. “We’ll let you know if we need help!”

  We were all still for a second as we waited to see if he might come down anyway. But then there was more shuffling, and his footsteps, along the creaky old floorboards, moved away from us.

  “This might not’ve been the best place to practice. We probably should’ve chosen someplace a little more . . . soundproof,” Simon said, shifting into action and picking up fallen books. “We need to clean this mess up and get out of here. Who knows what he heard and who he might’ve called.”

  We did our best to put everything back where it belonged, but the order was tough to figure out. There was a book on military strategy that I dropped on a table on our way out the door, and another that totally didn’t belong in the nonfiction section at all.

  It was a small paperback that I recognized right away, a book I’d seen in school probably, but that I’d also heard Tyler mention: Slaughterhouse-Five. I had no idea what it was about, but without thinking, I shoved it in my back pocket.

  “Oh, shoot,” Natty said, pausing when Simon and I were already on the porch. “I left the backpack.”

  We definitely couldn’t leave the backpack behind. It had our fake IDs, some cash, and a few other things Simon thought we might need if our vehicle was discovered and we had to make a run for it. “I’ll be right back,” Natty said as she disappeared back into the library.

  Outside, it was still daylight, but according to my new pink wristwatch, we were down to our last thirty-six minutes. Totally manageable.

  Nervous to be alone with Simon again, especially after what had just happened back there, I cleared my throat, then crossed and uncrossed my arms. “Look,” I started, meaning to bury the hatchet once and for all. “I’m sorry about that. Back there. With the book . . .”

  “I guess we’ll have to work on that temper of yours.” Simon was lounging with his back against one of the tall pillars of the porch, and watching me closely.

  I meant to tell him he had it all wrong, that I’d have to find some other ways to tap into this weird ability of mine because I couldn’t walk around being all wound up all the time, but I never got the chance because that’s when I spied the patrol car. Not that it was hard to see, coming right down the street the way it was.

  I had no way of knowing if they were looking for us because of the incident at the bowling alley, or if the librarian actually had heard the commotion downstairs and called the cops, or if it was just a giant coincidence, and these guys were on their way to someplace else entirely. But panic set in, making it damn near impossible to breathe.

  Simon and I were sitting ducks. We had no place to go, and whoever was in that car would easily spot us.

  So, I did the only thing I could come up with.

  “Follow my lead,” I gasped as I launched myself at Simon. I wrapped my arms around his neck and crushed myself against him. I pressed my lips to his, pretty much demanding that he kiss me back.

  I thought he might protest, maybe even ask what the hell I was doing since he hadn’t seen the cop car the way I had. But he didn’t. He was either smart enough to recogniz
e I had a plan, or he was completely willing to disregard the fact that I’d just assaulted him with a book, and he let me kiss him.

  But I was the one who was really taken by surprise.

  Simon’s lips were a million times softer than I expected they’d be, even though I told myself I’d never thought of them at all. And there was this brief moment, just the shortest of pauses, during which I swear I felt his breath catch in the back of his throat, right before his entire body relaxed and one of his arms slipped around my waist. That was when he tugged me even closer to him.

  When his lips parted, and his tongue brushed mine, I nearly abandoned my plan altogether—to hell with saving our asses!

  Simon totally should’ve known better. Everyone knew the first rule of fake kissing: no tongue.

  But my instincts for self-preservation kicked in, and I knew there was no backing out now. Not without knowing for sure if we were still being watched or not. The only chance we stood of pulling this off was to fully-totally-absolutely commit.

  We had to become one of those couples I’d always rolled my eyes at in the school hallways—the ones who went at it so unabashedly, they made you wish you could stab your own mind’s eye out.

  Slipping my hand from the back of his neck, I tested the feel of his skin, tracing the line of his jaw, which was slightly, but not totally, stubbled. I ran the pad of my thumb over it, and breathed in the scent of him—something like leather and cigarette smoke from the bowling alley and the onion-y taste of his breath.

  Simon explored as well, letting his tongue trace the inside edge of my lower lip.

  I trembled, which had nothing at all to do with the way his fingers feathered along my spine, or the way his teeth grazed my lip, or the feel of his body pressed against mine, and I swore I heard him let out a low, breathy chuckle. Part of me wanted to stomp on his foot for being so bigheaded, but I was too busy trying to play the hero, so instead I kept up the performance of two teens who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  I pressed my palm flat against his chest, mapping the hard lines and lean muscles, probing and testing. The swirling in my stomach was surely a bad reaction to the fried foods I’d choked down at the bowling alley, and definitely not at all to Simon.