CONTROL

CONTROL part 6

After only a minute, a door opens in the back of the room. Two guys wearing ID badges around their necks walk in. One of them—tall, with broad shoulders and an aquiline nose— scans a list of names on his holo. He points at us while speaking to his younger coworker. “Take them to level F. There’s a vacated double there. I have to find singles for these two,” he says, motioning toward the brother-sister pair.

The younger guy steps closer to us. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black sweater. His short hair is perfectly mussed, exactly the way that Dyl likes. She takes notice, pocketing Dad’s ring and wiping her nose. I don’t even think she’s consciously doing it, but her posture straightens out.

Though I know she’s still sad—it’s in her face—it must be some innate reaction she’s been born with that only showed up a few months ago. The ability to react to cute guys like this. I am clearly missing this gene, because the reactive posture I have right now is a I’d rather be anywhere but here schlump, complete with a matching, lost facial expression.

The guy in black nods his head, acknowledging us. His light-brown locks splay across his forehead. “Come with me.”

Dyl stands up briskly to follow him. I shake my head. I want to follow because I want someone to take me away from the horror of the last two hours. Dyl wants to follow him because he’s cute. I want to tell her to be wary, but now is probably not the time for a lecture on the dangers of teen heartthrobs.

The guy lopes down the hallway. His holo is on now, and though I can’t see the face, the voice on the other end tells me it’s the same guy from the other room.

“Get them situated. The director will talk to them herself once all the data is in.”

“Shall I order the usual?” our guys asks. His voice is surprisingly soothing and calm.

“Yes, but let them rest first. Tomorrow we’ll do the tests.”

“Excuse me?” I interrupt, as politely as possible. “What tests?”

He stops and turns, and for the first time, we both get a better look at him. He’s pretty tall, towering over Dyl, who shifts her feet from side to side. She does this when she’s nervous. He stares down at her with a pair of warm amber-brown eyes, and smiles, then gives me an equal serving of perfect white teeth. There’s one dimple on the left. From the melting expression on Dyl’s face, I’m guessing that, for her, dimples equal trustworthy.

“It’s just standard stuff, to make sure you guys are healthy and find a suitable family. Nothing to worry about. Everybody gets it done.”

“Everybody?” Dyl says, her eyes wide. She hates needles, even the microneedle patches that you can hardly feel.

“Actually, I got tested too. I was in your shoes five years ago, so I know what it’s like.”

Both of us shut our mouths, feeling bad. He turns and leads us to a transport. Before long, he’s showing us into a bare-bones apartment with two beds, a table, and a bathroom. On the wall is a small metal door—an old but apparently functioning food service efferent, preloaded with food supplies so we can have fresh meals at the touch of a few buttons.

My caffeine buzz is wearing off, only to be replaced with a spectacular pounding headache. Combined with the lack of sleep from the past week and the realization that our new home doesn’t include Dad, I’m feeling pretty horrific now. I must look green or something, because the boy puts his hand on my arm.

“Are you okay?” His hand is so warm, it sends a strange tingle in my skin and I step back, embarrassed at the redness in my cheeks.

“Not really.” It’s not really his problem. In two seconds when he leaves, he’ll forget us.

He studies me for a moment. “Every day gets a little easier. You’ll see.”

The canned feel-good line does nothing for me, but it works on Dyl and she practically liquefies, crying fresh tears. The guy closes the distance to pat her back, and she melts right into him. I don’t know whether to be jealous or disgusted. It hurts that she turned to a stranger for comfort rather than me. After way too long, they pull apart, and Dyl wipes her eyes.

“I’m sorry. Thanks,” she says, and edges closer to me. I put a protective hand on her shoulder. The guy doles out another kind smile.

“Hey, you have nothing to be sorry about. I was in worse shape than you two when it happened to me.” His smile disappears for a fraction of a moment, but soon his face returns to its normal beatific state. “Well, rest up. You have an allotment of three meals and three snacks for the efferent. I’ll come get you guys in the morning. There’s a ton of screenwork to do tomorrow.”

“And the tests.” Dyl can’t hide the crinkle above her nose, as if she can smell the needles from here.

“You’ll be just fine.” He smiles at us both. “I’m Micah.”

Dyl opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off before she can introduce herself. “I know you both, Dylia and Zelia Benten. Your names rhyme.”

Normally, I hate that. Dyl and I are more than a singsong-y, awful poem. But Micah says it a way that is a hundred percent complimentary. Finally, he takes a step closer to Dyl and hovers next to her for a moment. Her eyes glaze over, and she’s in some faraway place where there’s no Dad to mourn, no nagging sister.

“Freesia. Nice.” And with that, he’s gone.

And from the look of her puppy-dog eyes, so is Dyl.

CHAPTER 3

After a scorching hot shower, I pull on the scratchy generic loungewear provided in the room. There’s even matching granny underwear. How thrilling. The bed, a lumpy affair with sandpaper-ish bedcovers is the best thing I’ve seen in days. I reach around my neck to put on my necklace, the black box pendant dangling heavily at my throat. In a second, my chest wall rises and falls without my permission. I’m so ready for this box to take over so I can pass out.

Dyl showers too, but won’t wear the clothes. Instead, she keeps her skimpy towel wrapped about her. Without the makeup and trendy clothes, her age shows for once. She’s lovely and fragile. Like the girl who used to climb into my bed, press her cheek against mine, and watch cartoons with me on my holo.

“You look nice without makeup,” I say between the regimented breaths of my necklace.

“Please, Zel. No lectures,” she says, combing her damp hair with her fingertips.

“I’m not lecturing you.”