CONTROL

CONTROL part 7

“It’s a sneaky lecture. You’re an expert in those.”

“Okay, okay,” I concede, sulking a little. Dyl hops over to my bed, sending foggy, shampoo-scented air my way. Her hand touches my arm. It’s not a hug, but I’ll take it.

“I’m not mad,” she says.

“I know. Not mad, just crazy,” I quip, and she smiles at our inside joke.

“You were crazy first. By birth order.”

I lie down on my bed, and Dyl goes back to hers, pinching on her holo.

At first, the truth of her criticism won’t let me sleep. The bad feeling bounces around my insides, so I turn on my holo to scroll through my favorite cell bio sites. If I had a rock in my hand, I’d drop it just to make sure gravity still worked. I like the reassurance that some universal things don’t change, even on the worst days of my life.

And then I freeze. Dad didn’t want me to immerse myself in science stuff anymore. I can’t disobey him now, not after today. I search for States history channels, but the sites unmoor me. I drift around, not knowing what I’m looking at, or looking for. I wish Dad would tell me where to start. When a yawn threatens to unhinge my jaw, I click off my holo and drift toward sleep. I am half conscious when the murmurs of Dyl and Micah make me open an eye.

They’re deep in a holo conversation. Dyl whispers, “I’m . . . um . . . nearly a thirty-two B, I guess. Why? . . .  Oh. Clothes? That’s so thoughtful of you.”

Ugh. Did I forget to give her the lecture on not discussing bra size with strange guys, under any circumstances?

I turn to the wall and wish for a moment that I didn’t have to be the new police, mother, dietician, and chief financial officer of the family, all at the same time. And then, as soon as the thought comes out, guilt floods me and I drown in bad feeling.

I let the box around my neck do its job and punish my chest with its unmerciful push and pull.

“This is so medieval. Where’s the testing bot? There’s always a bot.” Dyl gnaws her nails so viciously I’m afraid she’ll hit bone before long.

“It’ll be over soon,” I say, trying to be soothing but failing spectacularly. There’s nothing soothing about this room. Dyl won’t stop staring at the antique-grade blood testing equipment on the rickety table before us, as if the needles will jump up to stab her eyeballs if she looks away for a millisecond.

Micah opens the door and we both flinch.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at us.

We don’t smile back.

“Glad the clothes fit,” he says. Dyl’s wearing a sky-blue, flowing skirt and a feminine, snug white tee that clearly shows he picked the right-size bra. I’m in my usual troll-wear of baggy, dark clothes, so he really did get it right. I try not to be freaked that Micah knows my bra size too, which is exists in the micro-XS end of the spectrum.

“Okay, just some questions.” He sits astride a chair and pulls out a data tablet. “So Dyl. Any health problems?”

She brightens. “No.”

“No illnesses recently? Strange symptoms?”

“Nope.”

Micah gives her a smile and Dyl returns the favor. Like a prize racehorse, she’s even showing teeth in perfect, pearly order. She’s passing with flying colors. He studies the electronic tablet. The answers glow, automatically, from her verbal answers. “Your periods are regular?”

At this, she blushes. Not exactly first-date-type conversation material.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Now, Zelia. How about you?”

Oh god. Yes, yes, and I’m a mess. Gah.

“Which question?” I squint at him.

“Any health problems?”

I tell him about my breathing. I should have died as infant. If Dad hadn’t been a doctor, it might not have been picked up. I could have died within a day of being born. Micah pushes out his lower lip, impressed with my flaw.

“And otherwise your health is . . . ?”

“Fine, fine.” I’m starting to get nervous, because what if a nice family rejects both of us because of my imperfections?

“And your periods?”

Damn. “I, uh, haven’t gotten my period yet.”

“This month?” he asks helpfully.

“No, I mean not ever.”

Micah looks truly confused now. He looks down at his tablet, and back at us again.

I shrink into my chair, but there is nowhere to hide from the fact that I am the unequivocal runt of the family.

“Did you ever get tested to find out why?”

“Yeah. They told me that my eggs and ovaries are . . .” God. Don’t make me say it out loud.

“They’re what?”

I can’t look him in the eye. “They’re undeveloped. I have some minor hormone deficiencies . . . no big deal, really.” I mumble so incomprehensibly that Micah has to ask me to repeat myself. My face boils with embarrassment. “I’m deficient, okay?” I snap.

Micah nods at me, the eggless monstrosity who might die at a moment’s notice. Finally, he stands up and smiles, hiding his thoughts from us.

“Okay. I’ll send the tech in for your labs. It will only take a little while.”

“What about a bot?” Dyl fairly squeaks out her plea.

“Or breath-chem tests?” I add. Dyl nods eagerly at my suggestion.

“Oh, that. Well, New Horizons can’t afford breath-chems. And our lab bot has been down for a while. We’re going old-fashioned today.” He scoots out the door pretty fast, as if he anticipates our coming protest.

The next fifteen minutes are a comedy for me and torture for Dyl. The lab tech looks about a hundred years old, with an IQ of a moss-covered pebble. He jabs us with needles, once, twice, and finally gets the blood flowing into the collection capsules, all the while marking down stuff on the e-tablet, which he drops twice because his gnarled hands are so clumsy. By the time he’s done, Dyl is a stunning shade of greenish white, and I’ve got my arm around her.

“The bruises will fade,” I tell her. Dyl shivers under my arm, until I realize she’s not cold, and she’s not crying.

“It’s not that. I have a bad feeling, Zel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, let’s get something to eat. You’re probably just faint from hunger. And that vampire grandpa with bad aim didn’t help.”

The smile I hoped for doesn’t come. Dyl’s quiet despair is almost physical, blanketing both of us as we walk back in our room. She curls up on my bed and lets me tuck her under the sheets.

I punch in an order for some food at the efferent. Hydroponic chicken salad, hot peas with butter, and steaming mini-loaves of cheddar sunseed bread. But she won’t touch any of it. After a few more hours, Dyl is still half catatonic on the bed, and she doesn’t complain when I rub her back gently.

I wish I knew what to do. We’re both afloat in our own brand of uncontrolled misery, and I can’t make it go away. There’s no protocol in my lab files for dealing with grief.

“Come on. Why don’t you listen to some music on your holo. Cheer you up,” I suggest, and she nods. I squeeze her foot under the covers, and she wriggles back in acknowledgment.