The Girl Who Wasn't (5 page)

“
I get to end the threat
against my daughter and you get to experience life as it exists in
the outside world. All of the luxury and extravagance your genetic
makeup craves. For however long your experience lasts,” he
adds.

I can only stare at him. Did he really
just say that my payment for dying is to sleep in a nice
bed?

In that moment I hate him. And her. The
girl I’m supposed to be. The girl I’m supposed to die for. I would
give all of the pecan ice cream in the world to be back in Twig
City, playing tennis with Ida and Lonnie. In that moment I decide
that no matter what happens, I will hate Titus and Raven Rogen.
Until the day I die.

***

My lunch in Rogen Tower is served in a
dining hall so ornate and hollow, I think my voice will echo if I
so much as whisper. The food set in front of me by a silent maid
with white streaks in her brown hair is succulent. I know this by
the smell alone. Even before I bite into the chicken breast covered
in cream, I know it will be the most delicious chicken I have ever
tasted. I am not wrong.

The food makes me think of the
vitamin-infused fruits and green vegetables Lonnie and Ida are
eating without me.

I eat alone and am full long before the
food is gone. Before I’ve finished wiping my mouth with the linen
napkin, the maid retrieves my plate and Gus reappears in the
doorway. I think he’s been waiting outside, not wanting the
pressure of making conversation if he stayed in sight.

After lunch, I am led to a room Gus
calls the parlor. Heavy curtains obscure the sunlight that presses
against the glass behind them. I imagine warmth in the light. It
feels cold in the shadows and deep cushions inside this room. There
is a bookcase on one wall, laden with large albums. Gus retrieves a
stack and sets them on the floor next to me.

“
What are these?” I
ask.

“
Your history,” he
says.

“
What are they
for?”

“
They will show you the
names and faces of the people Raven knows.”

I gape at the stack of albums that
reaches past my knee. “You want me to memorize all of
them?”

“
Yes.”

Before I can protest, he walks
out.

I sink down to the floor, wondering how
in the world I’m supposed to teach myself all the faces these
albums contain. I peel open the cover on the first album and blink
at a face that is so exactly like mine, I wonder if it’s me and
I’ve simply forgotten the memory captured on film. But it’s her. I
see the difference in the eyes, and the smile that is entirely too
free for someone who grew up in Twig City. It’s slightly crooked on
one side and already I distrust her. Already I hate her.

There is movement in the doorway. I
look up, expecting Gus or even Titus. Instead, it is a boy I’ve
never seen before. He is close to my age, twenty at most. His light
hair is cropped close to his head and lays flat. I peg him for a
soldier, though he doesn’t wear any uniform. I take in the curve of
his biceps and the subtle planes of his chest and abs through the
white tee he wears. My pulse jumps erratically and I forget to
exhale. The sight of his expression, the stiffness in his stance,
snaps me out of my daydreaming. His hands are tucked deep in his
corduroy pockets and he is scowling.

My voice gets stuck in my throat.
Partly because he is a boy and I have almost zero experience
conversing with males. And partly because he is so beautiful and
Authentic and one hundred percent untouchable that it makes my
cheeks burn.

“
Um, can I help you?” I ask
when he doesn’t speak.

He gives me a disbelieving look and
then shakes his head. “I think you have it backwards.”

“
Have what—”

“
The helping part,” he cuts
in. “I’m apparently the one giving the help.” He doesn’t sound
happy about it.

“
I’m sorry, who are you?” I
ask, my irritation pricking at his tone.

“
Linc Crawford.”

“
Linc Crawford.” I repeat
it, turning it over on my tongue, still trying to understand the
reason for his distaste.

He pushes off the frame and steps into
the room. “They say you have amnesia from that fall the other
day.”

I recall the story Titus told me he’s
given the staff. “That’s right.”

“
I’m supposed to show you
these albums. See if it’ll help you remember.” He sits down so
close to me, our shoulders are almost touching. He pulls the album
from my lap to his. The sudden closeness startles me and I am quick
to cover my discomfort with conversation.

“
Do you work for Titus?” I
ask. “I mean … my father?”

“
I’m your security detail,”
he says in a rough voice.

I press my lips together and leave it
at that. I’ve already botched this enough and his tone is clear. He
doesn’t want to talk to me any more than necessary for the job. I
take my cue from him and concentrate on the assignment at
hand.

Linc begins to show me the albums and
we fall into a rhythm. He points to a face, says a name, I repeat
it. We go slowly. After each page, he asks who I remember. I’m able
to recall a senator and his wife. This makes me happy but Linc
doesn’t react. Just turns the page and starts on the next set of
faces.

“
I’m not doing very well, am
I?” I say after several pages of faces I’ve already
forgotten.

He shrugs. “I get paid either
way.”

My shoulders stiffen as his biting tone
finally gets to me. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the
bed.”

“
Whatever. Let’s just get
this done.”

“
Fine,” I say through tight
lips.

I no longer care that the blue in his
eyes makes me think of cloudless skies or that he smells like wind
and soap and something else I can’t identify. Or that I want to
touch the scar on the back of his left hand. Instead, I force
myself to memorize politicians and social climbers and the elite
among a society I’ve never stepped foot in.

When we’ve finished, Linc rises and
walks to the doorway, arching a brow as he glances over his
shoulder. “You coming?” he asks.

“
Um, shouldn’t we put these
away?” I ask, waving at the albums scattered about.

His forehead crinkles. It’s clear I’ve
said something wrong. “No, the maid will get them. Come
on.”

“
Where are we
going?”

“
Tea.”

I follow him out with a backward glance
at the mess. Cleaning up is something Authentic Raven wouldn’t care
about. I see that now. Linc leads me back into the room with the
fireplace. Titus is already there, seated at a small table by a
window, sipping something steamy from a delicate glass cup. He
doesn’t look up from his newspaper when I enter but I have no doubt
he knows I am here.

Linc stops inside the doorway and waves
me forward. I take the seat across from Titus, scooting my chair
back as far from the table as I dare. When I turn back, Linc is
gone.

Titus and I are alone.

He fills the cup in front of me with an
amber liquid that steams as it leaves the spout. Tea, I assume.
I’ve never had it. I begin to lift the cup to my mouth but Titus
stops me. “You take your tea with sugar.”

My hand falters as I set the cup down
with a clink against the saucer. I fumble with the assortment of
glassware until I pick out the sugar and load a spoonful into my
cup. My movements are quick and jerky, giving away the anxiety
coiling inside me.

“
Did you have a chance to
look over the albums?” he asks, abruptly setting his paper aside to
look at me. His gaze is direct, challenging, offensive.

“
Yes, sir.”

“
And? Do you feel confident
about your ability to identify those within your social
circle?”

It is not my social circle. It is hers.
But I say only, “I believe so.”

“
You believe so?”

“
I—I think I need more time.
I wasn’t able to remember very many. Can’t we just tell everyone I
still have amnesia? That way I won’t have to remember—”

“
Maybe I haven’t made myself
clear. You do not have a choice in the matter of your role here.
You were bred for this purpose. You were made to be her and so you
shall. The fact that you benefit from this arrangement is merely a
fortunate bonus. You will not return home if you displease me. If
you fail, you will be terminated.”

I am speechless. I suspected as much
but to hear him say it so carelessly, as if I’m nothing more than a
tool, a weapon, an accessory … But he is right. I am not human. I
am not Authentic. I mean nothing.

“
I understand,” I say
quietly.

His gaze sharpens and I let my hair
fall over the side of my face. “Something else to work on,” he
says, “is your attitude. My daughter is sure of herself and lowers
her face to no one. Including me.”

Again, there is the unmistakable hint
of challenge. I force my chin up and out and meet his stare. “Yes,
sir,” I say, packing as much acid into the last word as
possible.

He nods, as if my answer—the vehemence
in my tone—is exactly what he wanted to hear. “You will work again
with Linc this afternoon. Learn the names and faces. There is a
party tomorrow night, a fundraiser I am sponsoring for a senator,
and you will be there as her or you will be finished
here.”

He tosses a linen napkin from his lap
onto the table and strides out with heavy footsteps. I am rigid in
my chair, staring at nothing while I concentrate on expanding my
lungs in and out in a way that counteracts the hyperventilation
threatening.

I am relieved to be left alone,
although I have no doubt I’m being monitored. My attention wanders
to the window. Through the gauzy curtains I see a clear blue sky
lit by cheerful sunshine. It is so opposite to what it feels like
inside these walls and I wish again to be home in Twig City. At
least there my prison includes fresh air. Here, I feel suffocated,
as if the air is thick enough to choke out the real me I’ve buried
deep inside. Soon, all that will be left is her.

I finish the tea, mostly because it
prolongs what comes next. Titus said I need to study the albums
again and while I’m not upset to spend more time with Linc, the
fact that he already hates me—hates her—suggests I will end up
angry again for reasons I can never explain to him.

When he comes for me, his stance is the
same—stiff shoulders, pocketed hands. Despite his aversion, my
pulse trips over itself and my hand trembles as I set the cup
aside. He is a magnet, his polarity a strange and drawing force no
matter how much he tries to repel me.

“
Time for round two,” he
says from the doorway. “You ready?”

I nod and push back from the table,
happy to leave this room behind.

We return to the parlor where the
albums have been neatly restacked into small piles on the rug. I
sink down to the floor and pick up the first one. Linc remains
standing and when I look up at him, he is watching me with creases
over his brows.

“
What?” I ask.

“
You must’ve really hit your
head,” he says, sinking down next to me.

“
Why’s that?”

“
Because Raven Rogen never
sits on the floor.”

My cheeks burn. I’ve made another
error. I return my attention to the album in my lap. I scan faces,
commit them to memory, and repeat them for Linc who nods or frowns
accordingly.

“
This man looks sick,” I
say, pointing to a photo of a dark-haired young man in a bright
purple shirt. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. Heavy circles ring
his eyes. His frame is frail and, even with the long sleeves, I can
see the delicate curvature of his bones through thin flesh as he
raises a half-empty glass. Behind him, a party rages. The darkness
is broken by twinkling lights that only serve to blur the
background.

“
He’s on excess,” Linc
says.

“
Excess? As in too much of
something?”

“
That’s one way to look at
it,” he agrees. “It’s a drug.”

“
What sort of
drug?”

“
Basically, it’s an amped-up
version of ecstasy. It started out as a dirty version called XS, as
in ‘ecstasy on steroids.’ Street kids throwing together whatever
they had left over from the latest rave. Then the rich crowd got a
hold of it. Cleaned it up, which basically means they laced with
the good stuff. They renamed it Excess and now it’s the big
thing.”

“
What’s ecstasy?” I
ask.

He quirks a brow and studies me. I’m
supposed to know this. “It’s a drug. Usually a pill, although I’ve
seen it in powder form as well. It heightens your senses, most
specifically touch. It makes you feel things more intensely.” The
weight of his gaze grows heavier, pressing around me like a
tangible force. I become aware of how close his face is to mine. He
goes on in a low voice, “Couples like it because it enhances
sex.”

Sex. The word jolts me. It’s a clinical
term I’ve heard used by my anatomy instructor. A way to describe
the human reproductive process. It felt cold and factual then. Now,
with the way Linc looks at me as he says it, his voice seductive
soft, I have an impression of something else. Without warning, an
ache flares inside me. It starts in my breasts, hardening my
nipples, and travels lower, ending between my thighs. My breath
hitches.