The Genetic Code

Chapter 13

Juliette

I look at the girl in the mirror. Her fine fawn hair is swept neatly into a ponytail, large eyes clear and bright. She wears a cleanly pressed white collared blouse and a dark grey tweed skirt with pleats carefully ironed at the sides. Clean black socks cover her toes up to her ankles, and a pair of shiny black boots adorn her petite feet. She's not tall, but she stands with her back straight and neck pulled up.

She looks Normal. She doesn't seem anything but Normal. It's almost as if 'Normal' is stamped across her forehead — It is on her adoption certificate.

But what's that hiding beneath her skin?

What's that coursing in her veins?

What's that infesting her DNA?

Today's the day that I'll finally discover the answer to the million-dollar question; Along with everyone I know and will come to know.

What will they say when they find out? I don't even want to begin to imagine — My thoughts are generally in PG. What I do know is that they'll all be shocked, and expect me to be shocked too, and devastated. But it's hard to be shocked by a fact that you've known your entire life.

I guess I am tired of this game. It's been a long ride: eleven years to be exact. I'm weary. Maybe it's time for me to retire.

Not like I have a choice. I'll be instantly disqualified once my results are out. Or even if I stay in the game, it'll be an instant all-kill. As in, I'm the one getting killed. By all. Is that how it works? I don't really know, I always refuse to pick up the controller when Alex tries to coerce me into playing one of his video games. I don't exactly condone games where the main objective is to go around shooting people, unless your goal in life is to become an assassin, or mobster, or criminal. Who knows? That may be where my life is heading, perhaps I should've picked up that controller and started my training earlier.

I pin the glossy black name tag on the left side of my white blouse, directly over my heart. The letters etched in white read clearly, 'Juliette Aldaine'. Somehow putting that name over my chest makes me feel guilty, as if I'm swearing a lie upon my own beating heart.

I look back at my face in the mirror. This isn't the face of a liar. The girl in the mirror looks so innocent, guileless. Those hazel eyes appear so warm, honest, trustworthy.

How deceiving looks can be.

I turn away from the face of false judgement and stare at my bed in front of me. It's been made, and re-made, and tucked in. The closet leaning against the wall has been organized and re-organized. So have the books on the shelf. That's what you do when you have hours on your hands that were supposed to be spent sleeping.

The clock on my bedside table reads five-thirty. The sun isn't even up yet; no one is. That's what I'm hoping for. My farewells were already spoken yesterday, nicely packaged and sent. I don't want to ruin that pearl of a final memory with too-early greetings and bad morning breath.

I sling my backpack over my shoulders, giving myself a final look in the mirror hanging beside the door. My eyes aren't as puffy anymore and my tear tracks have mostly faded. The only trace left of my crying is my drained appearance. That's not something I can fix, even with makeup. I just hope that the dark can conceal my forlorn expression long enough for me to forcefully mold it into something somewhat brighter by the time the sun comes up.

Slowly creaking the door open to make sure I don't wake my parents in the next room, I tiptoe out of the room and the house, locking the door silently behind me.

I walk down the poorly-lit street, careful not to trip over any cracks in the pavement. The tall street lamps are practically useless, since half of them aren't even operating, and the other half glow so dimly that the light can barely reach the pavement. It's alright, since I'm used to walking this path. It's been the same one for the past eleven years.

Down the street I spot a blur of bright neon lights — The neighborhood convenience store.

I buy an ice cream cone and sit at one end of the high counter by the window overlooking the street, still cast in darkness. I tear the paper wrapping and begin to indulge in the cold treat that my parents used to get me all the time when I was younger, waves of nostalgia hitting me through my taste buds. My gaze shifts from my ice cream cone to the street beyond the glass window.

In the distance, I see a shadow of a figure standing on the pavement on the other side of the road. The street lamp beside the figure shines weakly, doing little to reveal the person's features. A long black silhouette of the figure trails across the pavement, like a stalker prowling in the dark. The person's outfit is odd for the summertime — A black trenchcoat, gloves and top hat. Does that person think she's Sherlock Holmes in London? While the thick coat makes it hard to tell if it's a male or female, the long wavy hair makes it apparent that it's actually a lady under that get-up.

But the thing that makes that lady seem so strange isn't her choice of fashion or her standing alone on the street in the dark — it's her eyes. The fact that, despite the darkness and the hat that conceals most of her face, those two orbs, a light amber almost like a wolf's, seem to glint so prominently through the blackness as she fixes her gaze straight at her target: Me.

I sense movement from the corner of my eye and flick my head to the side to see a boy taking a seat at the other end of the counter, leaving two seats between us. The uniform he's wearing is of the same school as mine. However what grabs my attention is the deep blue blazer that he layers on top of his white shirt. What's a Perfect doing in this kind of neighborhood at this time? This is almost as strange as that lady standing across the street.

When my eyes move upwards to look at his face, I unintentionally let out my shocked gasp. He turns his neck and looks at me, and I instantly regret letting that slip out of my mouth, feeling my face go red but unable to look away.

He doesn't seem to recognize me, simply raising his eyebrows in question at my exclamation, though we just met each other two days ago outside Lucinda's Lair. My face appears pretty much the same since then. His, on the other hand, went from purple and blue to completely flawless in two days. There's not a single trace that I can spot of his bruised face from that day. If I hadn't seen it for myself, I would never have believed that just two days ago he looked like a punching bag.

Is he a vampire or something? He does remind me of one, with his fair skin, distinct features, dark and dashing looks and that air of mystery he has around him. But as of yet I haven't heard of a vampire who eats ice cream.

Dipping his chin downwards, he raises his cone up in mock cheers with a simper, as he unwraps his ice cream and takes a bite out of it. He somehow even makes eating ice cream look cool. Granted, he's probably a conceited asshole as Perfects are, but even if I'm a prudent girl, I'm still a girl, and I have to admit that he has some sort of enigmatic charm about him. What sets me apart from other girls is that I won't blindly fall for that charm, because I know that the person below that aura of allure is probably completely different from who you would expect.

That's how it is with Perfects. Once you peel away the layers of glimmer and glamour, you'll be left with the crust of raw pretension coating an ice-cold heart. Just look at Kera Rosamund: She's the public's sweetheart. Everyone in the city knows her as the graceful heir to Rosamund Technologies, an intelligent, charming girl whom can win over the heart of anyone who is fortunate enough to be graced by her presence. Her middle name is 'Grace'. Literally. Her full name is 'Kera Grace Rosamund.' (It's probably adopted from her great-great grandmother, like her mother's name, Cordelia. Perfects also love to be creative.) Any student within the walls of Trinity Institution will know what a false image that is. We've all been the audiences — or for the most deplorable of us, the victims — of Kera Rosamund's true nature. That's something so contradictory from what you see spoken of her in the media that you wouldn't believe it was the same person under that jewel-encrusted name.

I snap out of my reverie, suddenly remembering that strange lady across the street who was staring at me. I look back out the window, but she's nowhere to be seen.