Memory Girl (31 page)

She means this as a compliment, but I turn away, reminded of my shame. I don't regret helping Nate, but I'm sorry I hurt Rosemarie. I never even told her good-bye. And because of me, she's lost her sister. Forever.

I glance at the closed window, wishing there was a way to repair my mistakes. Not being connected to a Family is like tumbling through the blackness of space, aimless without gravity. As a youth, my role was to learn from the Instructors; as a Family member, my role was to resume a Lost One's role; and even being Returned would have given me a role as a mindless worker droll.

Who am I now
? I spent my childhood training to replace someone else, learning pledges of safety, respect, and honor. But while my born-mates planned for a future with a Family, I ran with the wind and climbed trees to the sky. Always looking, searching, and yearning for a future of my own.

Now my thoughts take wing, flying to new possibilities.

For the first time in my life, I can be anybody.

Even myself.

Lila promises to come back after her morning work hours and tucks my blankets up to my chin, softly touching my cheek. “Sleep, dear Jennza,” she whispers. Surely my mind will never relax enough to sleep. But when I awaken, the curtains have been parted, prisms of golden light shine across the wooden floor, and I smell fresh-baked bread and fried eggs.

“Goodly morn,” a cheerful voice greets.

A petite girl with short brown hair sets a tray on my bedside table. She's several years younger than fifteen (how can that be possible?). With the fidgety movements of a squirrel, she stirs a sugar cube into root coffee and arranges a fork and spoon precisely on each side of an oval dish of honey-frosted bisks, strips of flacon, and eggs. There's also a steaming bowl of cinnamon-swirled hot oats.

“They told me not to talk to you, but wouldn't that just be terribly rude?” she says in a high-energy voice. “I heard you almost got brain-sucked. Did it hurt? Oh, probably not since Lila stopped them and brought you here. I saw her brother just now in the passage, and he's steamed stinkin' mad. Usually Scientist Daniel is all snitty superior to everyone, even the other scis, but Lila can right snap him in his place. I'm Visla Summers.”

I've never heard of a Summers Family. Is she a sister-niece-cousin-daughter-mother of a scientist? Do scientists even have Families?

“Thank you for this.” I gesture to the tray, my mouth watering at the delish smells. “I'm Mil—Jennza.”

“Oh, I know who you are—or at least who you were. I wasn't sure what name to use due to the awkward Return situation. Maybe a combo of both names such as Millza or Jennzy. But I'll call you whatever you prefer. Did you really break that savage murderer Noc out of jail?”

The question slams a fist to my stomach. “He's not a savage.”

“But he's a Noc, isn't he? All of them are as savage as claw beasts. I can't believe you're friendly with one. Does he have fangs and a furry tail? Can he speak our language?”

I shake my head, then firmly change the subject. “Where's Lila?”

“She's conferencing, and you can guess the topic.” Visla doesn't wait for my guess. “You. But rest assured—you're safe with Lila protecting you. She won't let her brother suck out your brains.”

This is reassuring … I think. “Is Lila in trouble for helping me?”

“She's always at the nucleus of trouble but can smooth-talk her way out of any conflict.” Visla giggles. She's a puzzle—her eyes big but her mouth and nose small, as if she's not finished growing. She's short too. If I were standing, not lying in a bed, her head would only reach my chin.

I sit up higher, readjusting the pillow behind my back, then giving in to my growling stomach and tasting a honey bisk. It's even better than it smells, honey melting sweetly on warmed bread. I'm aware of Visla watching me, eager to slam me with more questions, so I ask her one instead. “Why is Lila being so nice to me? Do you know?”

“No one does. You're a mystery among us sistas.”

“Sistas?”

“Assistants. Each scientist has one or more sistas. You can't think this place runs itself, do you? The scis are clever but lacking everyday smarts for menial chores. Without us, they'd starve and stink in unwashed clothes.”

“I thought drolls did all the chores.”

“Drolls only follow orders. Sistas tell them what to do. Drolls are more like machines than human. Nothing up here.” She taps on her head.

“They almost did that do me.”

“Sucking out brains is so repulse! Once Sci Daniel made me hold a vial of brains and I nearly spewed my guts out. You're lucky Lila saved you. She's the nicest sci. Daniel is puffed up with arrogance, Martyn rarely speaks or leaves the lab, and Kataya prefers animals and plants to people.”

I nod, curious about the scientists. I've never thought of them as ordinary people, believing they were almost magical, brilliant and as dazzling as stars in the sky. Lila still seems magical to me, but I realize now that scientists aren't lofty gods; they're human too.

“I could tell you plenty about what goes on here,” Visla says, her little voice huge with pride. “I've been working with the scis for eighty-three years as a sista.”

“After so long, why are you still an assistant—a sista? Why not become a scientist?” I ask.

“Oh, that could never happen.”

“Why not?”

“The scis don't share secrets—not even with each other.”

“How does anyone become a scientist?”

“It's never happened. Although in theory it could.” She
tilts her head as if considering this concept. “It's highly unlikely, but possible with memdenity.”

I rub the tiny scar on my neck. My neck is exposed, no longer covered with thick hair. I miss the warm feeling of hair tumbling down my back. Hair grows back and the scar will fade (or be removed), so I'll appear no different than anyone else on the outside. But memories have changed me in ways that no one can see.

Visla gestures impatiently at my tray. “How can you eat so sluggy? Ramp it up!”

“I've had enough—and it was delicious. Thank you.” I lick honey from my lips, then push away the tray. Looking down at myself, I pluck at the sheer fabric gown I've never seen before and don't remember putting on. “Do you know where my coverings are?”

“If you mean the filthy tunic you had on last night, don't even ask.” Her childlike face scrunches with distaste. “You won't see it again.”

“What will I wear? I don't have any other coverings.”

“You do now.” She goes over to a drawer and opens it in a swift yank. “Pantons, tunics, privacies, boots—everything you'll need.”

“Graces good!” I come beside her. “All of that for me?”

“And much more. You'll find out.” She smiles mysteriously, then glances down at a timepiece on her wrist. “Sci Lila has precise instructions for today.”

“What?”

“I'm to give you a tour. Starting now, if you're ready.”

Ready and eager! I grab coverings and hurry to the privacy room, changing into slate-gray pantons, a blouse the shade of ripe grapes, and a warm black jacket which falls to
my knees. The coverings smell of lavender and newness, as if they were stitched especially for me.

Visla explains that we're on the second level, with rooms for Lila, Kataya, and their assistants. I follow her down a short hall to a door with no handle, only engraved numbers. She taps a “1” and the door slides open to reveal what I think is another room, until I step inside and the whole room moves sideways, then down.
Like the elevator in the Haunted House ride,
I think, remembering a vacation at Disneyland with my parents and little brother. Sunny skies, excited crowds, and ride after ride of joyous whirling, plunging, and splashing. I smell hot buttered popcorn and hear my delighted screams as I careen down a roller coaster. Such a happy memory … I wish I'd really been there.

Visla cranks a lever that slowly lowers us to the first floor. She tells me the compound has three levels; the first floor is where the drolls work and sleep. She opens a door to a room with three rows of crude beds.

“The drolls sleep here. They're permitted six hours each night. They can fall asleep on command.”

“Why don't they have blankets or pillows?”

Visla shrugs. “They never asked.”

How can they when their memories have been stolen
? I think with a surge of anger. I wonder who they were once and where they came from. They can't all be Returned youths, because many are aged more than twenty-five. Unless—and this thought chills me—they
were
youths when they came here but aren't given cease-aging patches, slowly aging till they die.

“The kitchen is also on this floor,” Visla says with a “follow me” gesture. Her smile is so sweet, my anger shifts back
to curiosity. I hurry after her.

The huge kitchen lacks the warmth of Rosemarie's kitchen; the walls are gray, without windows to invite sunshine. Was it only yesterday I worked alongside Rosemarie in her sunshiny bread-smelling kitchen?
Rosemarie.
Is anyone helping her peel potatoes and pick vegs from the garden? She must be so sad—losing Milly again. I wonder … will she miss me too?

Visla gestures for me to follow her down a low-ceilinged passage with shining white walls. “Instead of ceiling lights, our walls are coated in a solar glowing paint,” Visla explains.

“Clever.”

“Sci Martyn created this paint. Come on, we'll start with the kitchen and laundry. Wait till you see how the dishes wash themselves!”

I walk briskly to keep up with her, wishing I could tell Lorelei and Marcus I'm touring the scientists' compound. They'd be stun-smacked. We often spoke of scientists, imagining they lived in a castle floating above clouds and rode unicorns every night. Once we thought we saw their “castle.” The three of us snuck outside at night to our tree platform. I was telling a scary-tale about a wolf-shaped constellation that chased the moon until it grew weary and leapt to the earth in the form of a fiery dog-beast. Marcus shot me that skeptical look, where his brows knit together and his mouth puckers. “Stars are giant, luminous spheres of plasma,” he said. “It's unsensical for stars to transform into dog-beasts.” Lorelei interrupted by pointing into the sky. “If dog-beasts don't exist, what are those lights?”

We stared, open-mouthed, at light flashing from the highest point on the island.

“The scientists,” I cried. “It has to be the scientists!”

When the lights vanished, Marcus declared, “I'm going there someday.”

Lorelei scoffed. “Don't be demental. No one ever goes there.”

“I will,” he insisted. “I'll find the secret way inside their compound.”

“If anyone uncovers scientist secrets,” I said, trying to sound mysterious, “it will be me.”

We all laughed, no one taking me seriously, including myself.

Now I'm living with the scientists—although I'd rather be with my best mates in our favorite tree.

There's a tug on my arm, and I blink to find Visla scowling at me. “Did you hear anything I just said?” she demands.

“Sure,” I lie. “I'm just more interested in seeing where the scientists work.”

“The lab isn't on this level,” she says.

She leads me into a room with large metal containers similar to the chillers Rosemarie uses for storing perishable food, like goat milk, butter, and meat slabs. It's so cold my breath comes out in puffs, and I wrap my arms around myself.

“We always keep a year's supply of food,” Visla explains.

She points to the chillers, but I'm more curious about the dull-eyed man of advanced age lifting boxes to a shelf. He isn't wearing a jacket or gloves and his skin is mottled purple-blue. He's obviously cold but doesn't know it. I want to grab him and shout, “Don't let them do this to you!” But what good would it do? No one is at home in his mind.

Visla chatters on about daily food preparation, seeming
unaware of the droll, as if he's no more alive than one of the boxes he carries.

With a pitying look at the man, I follow Visla. As we turn left down another passage, she says, “I'll show you the laundry.”

“I can already feel the heat.”

“Isn't it brutal?” She tucks a honey-brown curl behind her ear. “Laundry frizzles my hair.”

“My hair used to frizzle too.” I reach for my curls but only find jagged edges. “Not anymore.”

Visla opens a door, releasing a cloud of gray mist. A tumbler machine cleans coverings—Milly would call it a washing machine—and overhead, soggy coverings sway on twine strung across the ceiling, swirling fans blowing hot wind to dry them. Two drolls lift sopping clothes from baskets—women with hair even shorter then mine, their blank faces dripping sweat.