TWENTY-THREE
AFTER AN HOUR AND A HALF OF SPEED AND AGILITY drills, we’re released. It’s Independent Study, so this is our time to work on areas where we need particular improvement. For me, the list feels endless. I could go to the firing range and practice shooting. I could work in the lab with Gil. We all need above average programming and tech knowledge. There’s also a room with musical instruments for me to practice. They don’t want me to get rusty. Although that’s the area I’m least worried about.
Or I could just work out. That’s probably where I need the most help . . . building my strength. Not being so weak.
Releasing a great gust of breath, I drag a hand through my hair, tugging my ponytail, and collapse on the bed. It’s tempting to not get up. Only I must. I don’t want to fall behind. I can’t. The threat of being sent to a detention camp—or worse—is there, hanging over me like a dark cloud.
With a moan, I pull myself up off the bed and drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. Even though my muscles are shot and my limbs feel like pudding, I lower myself to the ground, making sure my nose brushes the floor. I have a flash of Zac doing this in my bedroom. A lifetime ago. Trying to impress me, I’m sure, and it worked, every time. I remember how awed I’d been that he could make it look easy even after he completed fifty.
With a pained grunt, I push myself. Up and down, up and down. Again and again, until my body trembles with exertion. I pass fifty.
And keep going. Because I won’t be a target. I won’t be the puny one that needs Sean and Gil looking out for me. If I’m that person, I’ll never make it in this program. I’ll never be the person I’m meant to be.
I’ll be the mindless monster the DNA test says I am.
And that can’t be right. I’m not that.
I’m not.
“Tell me about yourself, Davy.”
My attention snaps to the therapist. She sits several seats to my left, about halfway down in the middle of our circle. Gil is to my right and Sean to my immediate left. His hand holds his ankle across his knee.
I’d been staring at that broad hand ever since we sat down. The light spattering of gold hairs on the back. The veins beneath the tanned flesh. It’s strong and capable, tempting me to put my trust in him. Except I have to be strong in my own right, too. Allies are well and good, but I can’t be weak, either.
The counselor looks at me, waiting.
I’m the first person in Conditioning she’s addressed and this catches me off guard since there are twelve of us in the circle. I guess I thought I’d get to hear others talk first. They call this Conditioning, but it’s just group therapy.
The session is part of our training, and I don’t know what to do. I haven’t figured out what it is they want to hear. I want to give them what they want so I can get their seal of approval and start leading a normal life again. Or close to normal anyway.
Moistening my lips, I study her carefully. The serene expression. The flawless skin. It looks like she’s never stepped in the sun.
I need to say the right thing. I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. She stares at me patiently.
Worse than her stare are the eleven others, all watching, waiting. I slide my gaze to Sean and Gil, relieved that we managed to go to Conditioning together—and then feel annoyed at myself. My overwhelming relief doesn’t say much for my independence. I know everyone thinks of us as friends—a clique. Sabine, too. My shadow. Except right now. She got stuck in another Conditioning session. I’ve felt the eyes on us, measuring, sorting us into whatever category they think it is we belong in. Other cliques have started to form. Only a random few keep to themselves.
I say dumbly, “I’m from Texas.”
The therapist looks at me with disappointment. She expects more.
Zoe yawns and stretches her arms above her head. Her T-shirt stretches taut over small, bra-free breasts, revealing a sliver of flat belly.
Several of the boys watch the redhead, varying expressions on their faces. Hunger. Contempt. She drops her arms, a catlike smile on her makeup-free face. She wiggles in her chair as if settling in and trying to get even more comfortable. The action is inherently satisfied. She curls a finger around a bright red strand, pleased at the attention she’s getting.
It’s in her, too, I think. The kill gene. A part of her is capable of terrible things even though she looks like a regular girl. I glance around the circle. There’s nothing about any of us that screams danger. No sign. No warning. A whisper slithers inside me. Except the few of us with imprints on our necks. Except me.
The counselor’s pen scratches something in her notes, and my heart stutters nervously. “What kind of things do you want to know?” I ask, vowing to be more accommodating.
The counselor’s eyes squint at me through the lenses of her glasses. “Well. For starters, what did you do to get imprinted?” She motions to my neck with her pen.
I’m sure she knows—that it’s in that file sitting on her lap. She just wants to hear me say it. I struggle not to fidget beneath her stare.
“I might have hit a guy.”
This gets me a few chuckles. Not Sean though. His expression doesn’t crack.
“Tell us about that.” The counselor angles her head, the tip of her pen coming to rest on her chin.
Again, I’m at a loss for words, wondering what it is she truly wants to hear from me. What the right thing is to say.
“How did you feel when you hit this boy?” she prods.
Furious. Hurt. “Shocked . . . that I did that,” I respond. Not a lie. It was mortifying to lose control like that in front of the kids I’d known all my life.
She scrawls on her pad. “No fear for consequences then? Were you worried about that?”
“Yes,” I lie because it seems like what she wants to hear.
“But remorse? For the boy? That wasn’t present?”
I see Zac’s face. Feel his hands roaming me, urging me to have sex with him . . . hear his words ruining the love I thought we shared.
She asks again. “Did you regret striking that boy?”
I snort. I can’t help the sound escaping. Or the words: “No. He deserved it.”
“And do you often feel like expressing yourself physically? With violence?”
I stare, thinking I’ve said too much already. This isn’t going well.
She sighs, her voice slightly louder as she asks, “Did it feel good? Hitting that boy?”
My mouth works. Everything inside me urges denial. An ordinary person would never admit to such a thing. It would horrify people. But I’m not here because I’m ordinary. They don’t want ordinary from me. But before I figure out what it is they do want and respond, someone else does.
“Hell. Doesn’t it always feel good to ram your fist in some asshole’s face?” A boy with hair like straw—the color, the texture, that way it juts all around his head—interjects. He stares at me. “Let me guess. It was some ‘normal’ kid, too? Right? Getting all up in your shit? Acting so superior. Like they’re allowed to do whatever they want to us.”
“And that justifies you lashing out?” The therapist glances down at her clipboard and flips a page. “Dylan, is it?”
“Hell, yeah, it justifies it.” Dylan nods. “I want to stomp all over them.”
She nods, and there’s no judgment in her gaze. Quite possibly, I detect a little gleam of approval.
“I see you have an imprint, too. How did you come by it, Dylan?”
Relieved that she’s moved on to someone else, I lean back in my chair.
“Last year, I was hanging out at an arcade with a friend, and the manager made us leave. Said we were too loud. I could tell he thought we were a couple punks.”
She waves her pen in a small circle. “And you hit him?”
He smiles. “You could say that.”
No one speaks for a moment, watching Dylan. His hand clenches in a fist on his lap and you can tell he’s battling his memories.
“What happened?” the therapist prompts.
“We waited for him that night in the parking lot. Cracked his ribs. Dislocated his jaw.” He chuckles. “Asshole was begging us to stop at the end.” His smile turns into something twisted. It chills my blood. “I had to serve six months in juvie, but it was worth it for the look on his face before we messed it up.”
I realize I’m holding my breath. I release it slowly, trying to look normal, unaffected by the story. Everyone sits quietly, scrutinizing Dylan. I wonder how many of them think what he just described is wrong.
The therapist’s voice scratches the thick silence. “Do you think you have a problem taking instructions, Dylan?”
He shrugs. “I never liked doing what my caseworker told me to do.”
She taps the paper. “Yes, you have a history of insubordination. But I see you were on your school’s football team at one time. You must have taken commands from your coaches.”
“Well. Yeah. But I liked playing ball.”
“So you did what they said because you wanted to play.”
“Right.”
“Hm. Interesting. And now you like stomping all over people.”