The Girl Who Wasn't Page 8

  I kick him and he moves away.

  The meal passes with small talk that I don’t quite understand. Daniel mentions “the business.” Titus replies it is booming and Daniel agrees. “Of course it is. The poor are growing more and more volatile. You’d think having nothing would crush their spirit, not the opposite.” Distaste coats his words.

  “They’ll tire eventually,” Titus says. “In the meantime, our greatest defense is concealment of our … transitions.” He glances my way and then falls silent. They don’t want me to hear this.

  Daniel seems to understand and they change the subject, discussing a party for a senator. They speculate about elections and polls and the hot topics being shouted from soapboxes. I catch the words “city segregation” and lose my appetite as I remember the stumbling man Linc and I narrowly avoided the other night.

  Titus wants to ban people like that from this part of the city. I can’t help the small sliver of relief that brings—the prospect of not bearing witness to such wanting. But then I realize how completely opposite of compassionate that would be, and my appetite vanishes. I set my utensils aside and fold my hands in my lap. I will not eat. I will not be party to this conversation, even through acquiescence.

  After dinner, Titus leaves us alone and Daniel and I go into the parlor. I am nervous. Not because of Daniel but because Linc shadows us. I want to speak to him, to find out where he’s been or if anything new has come to light about my attackers, but I know that would be a mistake.

  I sit primly on the edge of a high-backed chair, but Daniel immediately waves me over to the small space left on the loveseat beside him. “What are you doing all the way over there, kitten? Daddy won’t bother us for a while.” He says the words slowly, suggestively, and every nerve ending jumps as I settle next to him.

  Invisible insects crawl over my skin as he slides his arm around me and pulls me close. He is smiling down at me, his lips twisted in a way that belies any warmth behind the gesture. “Come here.”

  His hands move fast. The one wrapped around my shoulders draws me close, pinning me between the couch and his chest. The other fumbles with the button on my jacket. When he’s freed it, he slides his hand along my blouse and squeezes my breast. His smile is predatory. I am terrified into silence. There is no way to stop him without completely giving myself away. But to let him continue would be to give up much more than my real name.

  His hands move in slow circles, cupping and rubbing my breasts. Through the fabric of my bra, he catches my nipple between his finger and thumb and pinches it to the point of pain. A small sound escapes my lips and I shift in my seat. It’s taken as encouragement and his advances escalate.

  He reaches for the hem of my blouse and rips it free from my belt line. I feel him pull it aside and reach for my skin underneath.

  “Daniel—”

  His mouth is slimy and hard when it captures mine. Nothing like what I’ve imagined a kiss to be. I’ve spent so much time daydreaming over the single contact of Linc’s hand on my leg that the reality is harshly disappointing. Instead of warmth or heady anticipation, my insides are cold. My lips move slow or not at all and when he finally lets me go to take a breath, my eyes water in relief.

  This isn’t what I thought it would be. Then again, Daniel isn’t who I wanted to try it with. Daniel’s knuckles brush roughly over the bruise on my cheek, reminding me where my loyalty is supposed to lie.

  I swallow but it lodges in my throat and I can feel Linc watching us from near the doorway. His expression twists into something I cannot bear. I know then I cannot do this. I cannot be this version of Authentic Raven.

  I shove Daniel away and straighten my back so that our bodies are no longer pressing together from hip to shoulder. “I’m not feeling very well,” I say.

  He frowns but looks more angry than concerned. “What’s the problem?”

  I rack my brain for a good-enough reason to bolt from the room. When I don’t answer, he says, “You’re not still thinking about that incident from last night, are you?” He leans closer and winds his arm around my shoulders again.

  That incident. Someone tried to murder me, and Daniel has referred to it as that incident. My chest burns with indignation. My fingertips tingle with it. I jump to my feet and stare down at him, uncaring what the correct response is or if I am out of character.

  “I think you should go now.”

  He stands too and smiles slyly. “I love it when you make me work for it, Rav,” he says. His voice is rough with desire. Before I can react, he grabs and yanks me against him. His hands press against my lower back, sliding toward my ass. His mouth is hovering over mine and I know what he intends to do. I refuse to let him.

  The anger is hot, spilling out. I shove him. “Get away from me,” I hiss. From the corner of my eye, I see Linc take a step toward us. Daniel doesn’t notice. He’s too busy accepting my rejection—something he’s probably never experienced, judging by the expression on his face.

  “Seriously?” Daniel gapes at me. “Is it your time of the month or something?”

  I concentrate on breathing in and out slowly because this stupid boy is not worth blowing my cover. He is not worth dying over.

  Although it’s a product of my rage, my voice shakes as I say, “I will not ask you again.”

  Before Daniel can respond, Linc cuts in. “The lady asked you to leave. I think it’s best if you comply.”

  Daniel whips his head around. For the first time, he seems to notice how Linc has positioned himself. His shoulders stiffen. “Are you threatening me, GI Joe? Because that wouldn’t be very smart.”

  “I’m simply reiterating the lady’s request.” Linc’s tone is even, giving nothing away, but I see his fingers curl slightly inward.

  Linc and Daniel regard one another. The air is heavy with tension. Finally, Daniel blinks and mutters under his breath. I catch the words “replaced” and “early” before he grabs his jacket off the arm of the sofa and stomps out.

  I don’t move until I hear the outer door—the one that will take him to the elevator—opening and closing behind him.

  When I move to leave, Linc steps into my path, blocking me. I don’t want to look at him. If I see pity in his expression, I think I’ll lose it. All of the layers I’ve stacked so carefully between me and the rest of the world feel cracked and broken. My wall is close to crumbling in this moment and I refuse to let him see that. To let Titus hear about it. He is not worth dying over, either.

  “Are you all right?”

  It’s anger I hear in his voice, not concern, and that intrigues me. I raise my face to his. There is more anger there. And something else, but it is not pity or suspicion as I feared. I exhale.

  “I’ll be fine,” I manage.

  “Are you sure? Because you’ve never—” He breaks off, his expression clouding.

  “I’ve never what?”

  He is silent and unwilling to look at me. Suddenly, I need to know what it is Authentic Raven has never done. And why he’s noticed.

  “You’ve never turned down a boy,” he says quietly.

  My cheeks heat but this time it is not from anger. “Oh.” My face burns with an emotion that feels foreign. I sidestep him and make for my bedroom. By the time I’m inside, I realize what it is that made me flee from his words. It is shame.

  I am ashamed for something I’ve never done.

  Chapter Seven

  Titus is not at breakfast the next morning. It is a welcome relief until Maria brings me the note he’s left in his absence:

  Your early dismissal of Daniel last evening leads me to believe you are not yourself after all the excitement of the past few days. Gus will escort you to the gym after breakfast. Exercise is paramount to mental health. –Titus

  Revulsion courses through me as I realize even Raven’s father condones her exploits. I read the words three times before I am convinced there is no hidden threat. Titus doesn’t know what happened last night. Not truly.

  The las
t line is a stark reminder of what I am—and gives me pause. It is the same slogan painted in block letters above the gym doors and on multiple walls throughout Twig City. I wonder how Titus knows so much about where I come from.

  I am no longer hungry but I’ll need the calories now, so I fold the paper and lay it aside while I finish eating. The routine of exercise is nothing new, but I’m still weak from the hit I sustained on the rooftop—and the one Titus dealt me when I got home. Plus I haven’t been sleeping well. I doubt any of this will matter to Gus.

  I swallow the rest of my eggs without chewing and chase it with juice. Gus is there before my plate has been cleared. Wishing he were Linc, I rise and follow him out. He leads me down a hall I don’t recognize and we take a flight of stairs down to a lower level I didn’t know existed as part of this apartment. I pay close attention to details like doors and exit signs before I curse myself for the futility.

  Although I know I’m imagining it, I swear I can feel the GPS in my arm pulsing to the beat of my heart as I walk. Taunting me. Reminding me there is no escape. Only duty and purpose.

  “You can change here,” Gus says.

  I’m left alone in a small room with a cabinet full of sports bras and Lycra shorts. There isn’t enough material on either for my taste, and when I emerge, I feel naked. Gus gives me a cursory glance but the other two guards who’ve positioned themselves near the exits give me a thorough once-over that makes my skin crawl. I do my best to ignore them and follow Gus to a wall-mounted cabinet that contains fencing equipment.

  My experience with this particular sport is limited. The equipment in Twig City is second-rate because the women get the men’s hand-me-downs. The foils are all dull by the time they reach us, dangerous in their disrepair. Lonnie loves it, though, so I am often talked into it against my better judgment. I usually walk away with some bruise or another when we abandon the foils and it deteriorates into a wrestling match.

  Lonnie loves to wrestle. Ida always fusses at that.

  I grit my teeth and force my concentration back to the equipment Gus is handing me. I slide the gloves on and wiggle my fingers until they’re properly fitted. My injured cheek smarts as I slide the mask over my face. It smells stale, not of sweat but as if it hasn’t been used in a while. I wonder if Authentic Raven is a skilled fencer. I am tempted to ask Gus so I know what level of skill to strive for, but I keep silent. I remember my encounter with Titus and how Gus stood by and watched in silence. I don’t want to talk to him any more than I would Titus.

  The door opens and a girl enters. I’ve never seen her before. She is young with dark features and reminds me of the kitchen staff with her olive skin tone and full lips. She spots Gus and then me and begins to make her way over. She is dressed like me, although she has a shirt covering her torso where my halter leaves my abdomen bare.

  “Raven, this is Sofia. She is your fencing partner,” Gus says.

  We offer matching dips of our chin, and then Gus shoves a foil into my hand and walks off. Sofia pays me no attention as she goes about adorning herself with protective equipment. She is all business, absorbed in her preparations.

  I look to Gus and the unnamed security guard who stands to his left. I wonder where Linc is. I haven’t seen him all morning. His absence makes me nervous. My fears are infinite. That he’s somewhere else, fighting and killing for Titus, or otherwise in danger. That he has been removed from my protection detail against his will—or that he’s asked to be reassigned. After our conversation last night, I think it is likely his choice to avoid me.

  A thousand different things could be keeping him away. None of them should matter. He shouldn’t matter, but I can’t help that he does. It’s a problem I haven’t quite figured out yet.

  Soft footsteps behind me alert me that Sofia is ready. I turn and find her watching me through the screen of her mask.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she mutters.

  Her expression teeters on boredom but I can feel Gus watching, and I know this is a test, one of a million small things that mean nothing—unless I botch it. I face Sofia and press my teeth together, determined to show myself at least capable.

  I swing up and around with my foil, testing the weight of it in my hand. I focus on how it feels, how I feel with it in motion. Gus and the security guard are no longer on my radar. Sofia is nothing more than an oncoming blade. I stare just past her temple, allowing my peripheral to capture abstract movement rather than specifics just like Lonnie always says. My reflexes take over, our thrusts and steps a tandem and spontaneous dance.

  I shift my weight from front to back.

  I parry and cross, driving Sofia back as she advances. Perspiration dots my lip. Inside my mask, it’s stuffy. Several minutes pass, and it isn’t obvious that I’m losing, but I am. I know it and by the certainty of her movements, Sofia knows it too.

  I am winded. The rise and fall of my chest has graduated from rhythmic and deliberate to a lung-screaming necessity. I feel Sofia’s jabs begin to change. She is more aggressive, sensing my exhaustion. It won’t be long now.

  “That’ll be all, Sofia,” Gus calls, ending my defeat inches early.

  Sofia immediately steps back and lowers her foil. I do the same. “Have you been taking private lessons?” she demands.

  I wince and, without confirming or denying, I ask, “Why?”

  I remove my gloves, too afraid to do the same with the mask. She doesn’t move an inch toward removing her own equipment. She’s too busy sizing me up. “Your form is … cleaner.”

  “What do you mean?” My voice is muffled. I’m sweating inside the faceplate but I don’t dare take it off. Not now when the truth could be clearly displayed.

  Sofia’s eyes dart to Gus as if she doesn’t quite believe my act. “Last time we fenced, you took a chunk out of my face with your nails. This time, nothing.” Her eyes narrow. “You seriously don’t remember any of this?”

  When I don’t answer, Sofia huffs, stripping her mask and gear off as she stalks out.

  When she’s gone, I remove my own mask and shake my hair out behind me in a move I hope is practiced enough to appear confident and unruffled.

  Gus frowns at me. “You don’t fence?”

  “My experience is limited.”

  “Hmm. What do you do?” he asks in a way that implies he doesn’t expect anything worthwhile. It grates on me. I want to prove him wrong.

  “Tennis,” I say finally, knowing it will make me think of Lonnie and Ida but it is easily my best sport.

  “Tomorrow you play tennis,” he says. “For today, just run laps.”

  He’s already walking toward Sofia. She’s removed all of her gear and now stands near the exit watching me in concentration, arms crossed over her chest. When Gus catches her eye, her expression clears and she gives him her attention.

  “Laps? Where?” I ask.

  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Through there is the track,” he says without looking back.

  I head for the door where a lone security guard stands. He holds it open for me as I approach. I look up to nod him thanks, but he is looking so far through me, I wonder how he even knows I am here. I pass by without a word and fresh air, crisp and cold, hits my face in a blast of wind.

  My elation is so sharp it hurts my chest. I had no idea I was so close to outside or I would’ve tried harder to get here. Set before me is a track, exactly as Gus said. The far side juts up to a high railing and then a drop-off where this portion of roof ends. To my left are giant air handlers. Their purr reminds me of the humming pipes of Twig City. To my right is a set of stairs that leads up to the next level of rooftop. I can just make out the net of a tennis court as I pass by.

  It takes me a moment to realize I am alone. I’m so used to a shadow. Between a room full of Imitations in Twig City or my full escort of guards and cameras at Rogen Tower, privacy feels foreign. Out here with the wind blowing, the expanse of blue sky so big I feel dwarfed underneath it, the aloneness is so amaz
ing I can taste it on my tongue.

  My feet hit the black rubber of the track and immediately I pick up speed. My head aches from the strain of the fencing match. The security guard watches me through the small window in the door, but I am alone out here. The only warm body, the only heart beating on this roof, and it makes me want to run.

  After three laps, my headache graduates to explosive.

  Another dozen yards and I cannot put one foot in front of the other without wincing. The pounding of my feet is like a gong between my temples. I’ve never experienced such horrific pain, not even when the plugs were pulled and I was woken from the incubator. Even then, the very air on my skin stung; everything felt raw and new. But this … this is like nothing else. All I can think is how to make it stop.

  Two more steps. Could Titus have hit my kill switch? Is this what it feels like to terminate?

  Imitations do not die because, scientifically speaking, we do not actually live. But I know termination must be painful or why would we fear it? If all that exists on the other side is oblivion—no consequences, no higher power, no answering for wrong actions—then why else would I care whether I stay or go? It must be pain. Fear of pain. The staggering headache that beats in my skull makes a convincing argument.

  I make it to the gate that leads off the track and stumble. I grab onto the railing and hang over it, gasping and blinking profusely against the white-hot agony that has taken up residence behind my lids. My chest heaves, pulling oxygen in and out while I try to maintain a standing position. My knees threaten to buckle. It seems all my body’s energy is being sent to the nerve center in my brain, so it can scream at me lest I forgot how much this actually hurts.

  Someone’s hands close around my arms, guiding me slowly toward the door. My feet move sluggishly. It hurts too much to do it on my own so I allow the help even though I hate the contact.

  I am vaguely disappointed when I pass through the doorway and the crisp air against my bare skin evaporates, replaced by the faux warmth of the gym. I let the hands direct me and fight the urge to scream. Every footfall feels like a hammer inside my head.