In a futuristic society where people are differentiated and valued based on the purity of their genes, can a person define for themselves who they really are? Or does The Gene Test provide the answer for them?
Depression... Addiction... Criminality...
I stare out of the window, watching the buildings whir past. My large duffle bag sits on the seat next to mine, and I place one hand over it while absentmindedly using my other to fiddle with my eyebrows.
I'd survived that camp, and now I'm on the bus finally going back home. I'm going to see my parents again. And tomorrow, when I go back to school, I'm going to see Alex again.
While at that camp I had a lot of time to think, and I really need to have a long talk with him, and sort things out. I want to patch things with him. I need to. I can't leave things the way they are now. I'm really dreading it though — talking to him, trying to explain everything. My stomach flips just thinking about it. I don't know if I'll be able to say it. I'm not good at expressing what I'm really feeling, and I may just end up blabbering a bunch of useless words that don't make sense to him, which he can't decipher my real meaning from, and it might make things worse instead.
Whatever. I'll cross that street when I get to it. Right now, we're on a familiar street... His street. I lean the weight of my head on my palm, and watch the familiar landscape. A scene plays in my head:
Alex says goodbye to me, and gets down from the bus. It's his stop. He steps down onto the street, and runs towards the back of the bus, where I'm sitting. He waves at me frantically with both hands over his head as the bus departs, a huge goofy smile on his face. I watch him with my hand on the glass, as he gets further and further away. He keeps waving until I can't see him anymore.
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That fond memory makes my heart feel warm, as I place my hand gently on the cool glass, and look down to the streets at...
Alex?
At first I think I'm seeing things, but there's no doubt it's him. If the white jacket with 'Swim Team' written on the back isn't enough of a giveaway, those Nike Air sneakers with the blue graduated swish seal the deal. But... what's that clutched tightly in his hand? A bottle?
I notice that he's stumbling as he walks, as if the ground he's walking on is filled with bumps and cracks so that he can barely keep within a straight line. He sways his head, and nearly falls down before clumsily catching himself. Is he... drunk?
My hand reaches forward and slams on the button to signal for the bus driver to stop just as we're arriving at the next bus stop. I grab my bag off the seat, and hop off the bus in a fluster.
I rush after him, and call out his name, "Alex!" He doesn't respond. I sigh in irritation. "Alexander Blackwood!" I yell, louder. He spins around in a stupor, and glares at me with his eyes squinting.
"Who're you?" he slurs his words. Oh, he's definitely drunk. I can smell the stench of booze from here.
"It's Juliette," I say gently.
"Oh," he answers. "You." He points at me with the hand holding the neck of the bottle. "You," he repeats. "You are a bad person." I barely make out the words through his garbled speech.
