The Girl Who Wasn't (3 page)

Marla calls to the two men in the hall
and they file into the office. One stands at the back and takes up
a stance identical to the one he held in the hall. The other man
walks to the curtain hanging on the wall behind Marla’s chair and
pulls it aside.

I gape at the sight of a narrow door.
It is painted the exact same shade as the wall and even though I’ve
rarely seen the view of the east wing from outside the building, I
know a door should not be there.

“
Due to the clandestine
nature of your assignment, Ven, I’m going to ask that you be
discreet about your exit,” Marla says. Clandestine. Ida would be
thrilled.

I rise, wondering briefly what exit
they would’ve offered me had my departure not required discretion.
I never planned on being allowed to walk out the front door at any
rate. Twig City doesn’t have one.

I follow Marla through the narrow
passage that leads outside. The lighting is dim in the alley but it
is crisp and fresher than the re-circulated version inside Twig
City. Marla steps aside as the passage widens and I see my
transportation.

The car is black and sleek and hums
quietly in the alley wedged between the secret door and a brick
security wall that I think hides a Dumpster, judging by the smell.
I cannot help but stare at the complex machine in front of me. I’ve
never seen a car this nice in real life. It’s the second thought I
have upon seeing it. The first is that I am both terrified and
elated to be a passenger.

One of the men hurries ahead and opens
the door as we approach. I begin to climb inside but Marla places a
hand on my elbow and pulls me back. She has been speaking for the
last couple of minutes about protocol and etiquette and how maybe I
“should’ve changed clothes first, but no, there wasn’t time.” I’d
tuned her out but now I give her my attention again. “This is where
we part ways, dear, but good luck,” she says.

“
You’re not coming?” For a
moment I’m paralyzed by the fear that the last familiar face I know
is about to vanish. I bite the inside of my cheek and channel
Lonnie.

Marla shakes her head, oblivious to my
panic. “I have things to do here. But you don’t need me. You’ve
trained for this for years. You’re ready. Now, hurry up and get
going.” She ushers me into the car and before I can think of a
single thing to say, she turns and waddles back through her secret
doorway.

She is gone. It is only me and my
silent security guards.

Inside the car, the leather is warm
underneath my touch. It should be comforting after the chill
outside but it does nothing against the rattling cold that is bone
deep—a side effect of my anxiety. I shiver in the cavelike shell
that feels large enough to accommodate half the sleeping room in
Twig City.

The two men get into the front and the
driver adjusts various gadgets that I cannot see from where I sit.
We ease forward, slowly at first, then faster, the road widening as
we circle. We pass out of the alley. To my left, Twig City rises
up, set at an angle I’ve never seen from my limited, walled-in
view. Metallic lettering runs the length of one side, spelling out
whatever name identifies this place to the outside world, but it
angles away too quickly for me to read.

Then it is gone behind the trees and my
curiosity is replaced by anxiety. I stare out the window with stiff
shoulders and a fast pulse. Adrenaline courses through me. I am
leaving. I am never coming back. No one has said that part, but
it’s the truth. No one ever comes back. I want to scream and laugh
and cry all at once but I do none of those. Instead, I bite my lips
to keep them closed and watch as the ground is eaten up beneath our
tires.

When we ease onto the highway, my
fingers clutch at the edge of the leather seat, holding on in case
of what, I don’t know. At this speed, I’m sure a crash would be
fatal. I’ve been inside a car before, as a training exercise. They
called it “human experience.” We were driven around the track in
the back courtyard until Ida got carsick and we all had to get out
before she threw up on us. While all of the other kids stared out
the window or down at the belt strapping them in, I kept tabs on
the dashboard. The controls and dials were fascinating, as was the
potential for speed. But we never made it past thirty before Ida’s
face turned green.

In this car, a dark partition blocks my
view of the dashboard. I can barely make out the faces of my two
escorts as they stare ahead. They are expressionless, hidden behind
their impenetrable glasses, an effective wall against
communication.

The windows to my right and left are
darkly tinted, staining the scenery beyond with a brown hue from
the painted-on film that is chipped high in one corner. Still, what
I see is awe-inspiring. None of the knowledge my circuits came
embedded with do the scene justice. Those are pictures, facts,
ideas. This is vivid, colorful, fluid.

Open fields. Tall grass. Trees in the
not-far distance. And clear sky above that is so much bigger when
seen from outside the walls of the yard where we play soccer or run
track five days a week. The grass on the side of the road is full
and green, a complete reversal from the patchy, sun-deadened weeds
I’ve grown up with. This is rich and full and beautiful—and
completely worth it, even if it takes me closer to my own
death.

When the scenery changes almost an hour
later, I’m still breathless. The open fields give way to
squared-off walls and boarded-up windows. These are buildings but
like none I’ve seen. They look decayed. Old. Unkempt. Signs are
missing letters or have been painted over. Trash litters the gutter
between the sidewalk and the street. The car slows and then stops,
and I wonder if this is where I’ve been summoned. Where I’ll live.
The thought is sobering. Terrifying.

But then I see the reason for our
pause: Authentics. A stream of them crosses the street at the
intersection in front of us. They are indifferent and unconcerned
with the car bearing down on them. My driver scowls at the
inconvenience.

Most of the Authentics barely look over
as they pass by. The ones who do, a pair of men with scraggly
beards and patchy mustaches, give the driver a mean glare that
lingers even after they’ve turned away and stepped onto the
sidewalk. I am completely caught up by the sight. Their
clothes—rags even by Twig City standards—suggest they’ve been worn
far more than they’ve been washed. And the hollow look in their
eyes is nothing like I expected. Authentics—humans—are so much more
than we are. More feeling, more depth, more life. And yet these
people look dead inside, barely any speck of light shining
through.

As I watch, one of the men raises a
bottle to his lips and takes a long swig. His eyes are glassy and
unfocused, but he looks strangely content. He slouches against the
building before taking another swig.

I’m drawn to another man half-hidden in
the alcove of a doorway. His eyes sweep the length of the car
before settling directly on my window. He grins hungrily and slides
his hand down the front of his pants. He rubs his hand up and down
over a bulge in his crotch. I have no idea what it means, but it
seems to be some sort of lewd invitation.

It takes a moment before I remember the
windows are tinted. He can’t see me. Despite the knowledge, my
cheeks heat in embarrassment and my stomach jumps.

I’ve studied human anatomy enough to
know what he’s touching as he stares. But my understanding of
Authentic behavior is nonexistent. And this man makes my skin crawl
in a way I can’t explain.

Finally, the last of them has crossed
and the way is clear. The car eases forward. I watch the group
gathered on the sidewalk through the back windshield until they
disappear from view.

We pass into what is obviously a nicer
part of town. The windows are made from glass instead of covered in
scuffed planks. The gutters are clear of debris. More people are
out and about. They look cleaner, well-kept. I am grateful for the
window tint. Something about the way these people move—keeping
completely to themselves while managing to look with disdain at
everything else—tells me it would be rude to be caught
staring.

I am distracted by pedestrians in
bright hats and I don’t notice we’re slowing again until we’re
stopped. We pull into an alleyway narrow enough that I feel
squeezed between the two buildings. The driver gets out and
disappears through a side door into the building on our left. The
other man stays with me and I fidget, twisting my fingers together
while we wait in silence. I think we must be here. The place where
I’ll live. Or die.

My stomach knots and unknots
until it is a rhythm I can predict with precision.
One, two, three, knot. One, two, three,
loosen.

I count through it eleven more times
before our driver returns. Beside him is a gray-haired man with a
square jaw. He is broad chested underneath his black jacket and he
carries himself like he’s sure he won’t be questioned. He comes
straight to my door and pulls it open, peering in at me.

“
Ven?” he asks.

“
Yes.”

“
Let’s go.”

He reaches in palm up, offering to help
me out. I don’t want to let him but I’m not sure if it’s wise to
refuse. Gingerly, I place my hand against his and allow him to pull
me to my feet outside the car. His skin is rough and calloused. My
thumb brushes over a scab covering his knuckle. I let go as soon as
I’m on my feet.

Someone shuts the car door behind me. I
stare upward at the massive building that looms in front of me. It
is black as night. Sharp and shiny and taller than any building
I’ve ever seen. Twisted metal runs the length on both sides. It
looks cold. The men approach it comfortably, like they’ve been here
before, but it makes me nervous. This must be it. My new
home.

“
This way,” says the
gray-haired leader. He leads me in through the side door. To my
left is the main entrance leading in from the street front. Large
cutout windows frame a revolving glass door that spins on its own.
A doorman stands just outside, tipping his hat to people who pass.
No one acknowledges him in return.

My escort clears his throat and I turn
back to where he waits for me. His brows are drawn in a look of
impatience. I hurry, concentrating on planting one foot in front of
the other, willing my heart to slow to something more rhythmic,
less like a heart attack. I have no idea what awaits here, but I
think it can’t be good, or everyone wouldn’t be so god awful
serious about it.

The men lead me through a lobby made of
stone floors—some carefully placed fact in my brain tells me it’s a
material called granite—and smooth, onyx-colored walls. I see no
one else and it is cold. Colder than outside. It makes me think of
indifference. And death.

Marla’s words ring in my
ears:
They’ve requested you come and take
her place until the danger has passed.
And
I remember again, I’ve been brought here as living bait.

At the far end of the lobby is a single
elevator compartment. It slides open as soon as the button is
pressed and I wonder if it’s been waiting for us. Once inside, I
catch sight of my reflection in the chrome doors as they slide
shut. My hair is disheveled and wild. My skin is pale, as usual,
but the thing that startles me is my eyes. They are wider than I’ve
ever seen and in the distorted reflection, I can see they are
glassy with shock. I wasn’t aware of my horrified expression, but
there it is. I concentrate on smoothing it out as the elevator
rises higher and higher.

A chime dings and the yellow light
above the door announces we are at the uppermost level. Something
called the penthouse according to the yellow-lit display above my
head. The doors open and I have no more time to gather myself
before the three men are hovering close behind me, effectively
shoving me out.

The hallway is bright—too bright after
the dimness of the car and the elevator. I blink furiously and keep
my chin down, so my hair creates a curtain, a shield between me and
whatever is waiting. It helps warm my neck but does nothing for the
gooseflesh raised along my arms.

Though I have yet to look up, I know
exactly when the hallway ends because the tile just in front of my
feet cuts off and becomes a wall. To my left I see carpet. Plush,
thick threads that look as if my toes might disappear were I to
remove my shoes. It is the color of honey—a sticky treat I’ve had
on toast exactly twice in my whole existence.

I think it is my favorite food but I
don’t know for sure since I’m positive there are more foods like it
out there being kept from us in Twig City.

Someone with fat fingers taps me on the
shoulder. “This way,” grunts the gray-haired man.

I follow him into the carpeted room on
the right, keeping my hair around my face. Through my curtain of
hair, I see the edge of a couch as I make my way.

“
Wait here,” the man
says.

He disappears the way we came, and I
stand and wait. A minute passes. I count the seconds on a mantel
clock, staring at it until I can’t see anything but the ticking
arm.

I am not alone.

I sense it before I see him. Goosebumps
break out along my neck and trail down my back, and I stand
straighter without consciously deciding to do so. Still, I do not
turn. I am trying to identify the reason for my anxiety when the
gray-haired man returns. With a nudge of his hand against my back,
I am ushered forward and ordered to stop directly in front of an
ornate brick fireplace. There is a man standing before it. He is
the reason for my body panicking inside my skin, though he hasn’t
yet moved or spoken.