Joan the Made (Throwbacks Series, Book 1)

Chapter 3

Mom or Dad knock softly on my door a few times, but I ignore them. At some point one of them—probably Dad—tries the handle, but I had a dead bolt installed after one of Dad's friends wandered into my room one night when I was eleven and I had to hit him over the head with my first-place science fair trophy. The dead bolt has a tiny video camera, motion detector, and speaker that I control with my phone. No one ever got in my room again.

I sob into my pillow, hating myself for being so weak. It reminds me of the many other times I cried on this bed, when I was hungry and lonely. The memory makes me cry harder, but after a while, it starts to feel like self-pity, and the tears dry up.

When I'm empty, I blow my nose and unwrap the bandage on my wrist, which is swollen. The design of the lavaliere is supposed to be elegant, but to me, it looks like a shackle.

I can't stay in my room for another minute, or I'll go crazy. I pull on a sweatshirt to cover my bandage and use my dead-bolt camera to see if my parents are still out there. The hall is empty, which means they already gave up on trying to talk to me.

I open the door slowly, pausing at the little creak that one of the hinges always makes. Mom is asleep out of the range of my camera, her head leaned back against the wall. Finding her there melts a little of the frozen part of my heart. A strand of hair has fallen on her face, and I tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes are swollen, and I feel a little sick when I remember telling her that I didn't believe she loved me.

Her eyes flutter open, and she leaps up and hugs me. Instead of pushing her away like I usually do, I let myself accept the comfort that her arms bring.

She leads me to the kitchen, where Dad is making pancakes, even though it's almost midnight.

"We were worried that you might run away," Dad says, his voice rough.

"Not tonight."

I think of the many nights I sat at that kitchen table, wondering if Mom and Dad would return from their latest weekend bender. They aren't perfect parents—maybe not even good ones—but they always came home.

"I'm still mad, but I'm also sorry. I know you love me," I say.

Mom starts crying again, and Dad's eyes well up, too. I can't watch them fall apart—it's a sight I'm too familiar with. I interrogate them instead.

"How much did Strand Corporation pay you to have me?" I ask.

"You have to see it like we did," Mom pleads. "Your dad and I couldn't have children of our own, so we were going to use a donor egg. When Strand asked us to choose a cloned embryo in return for a house, it was like all of our dreams were coming true at once."

Our house isn't a mansion, but Ballard is a neighborhood with an excellent school district in a safe part of town. And I bought it for us, it seems.

"Maybe I'll charge you rent then," I joke, and Mom's face relaxes a little.

Dad drums his fingers on the table. "Without Strand's offer, we would never have been able to live in a place like this. We'd have been holed up in our old roach-infested apartment for the rest of our lives. I admit, we wanted better for ourselves, but we wanted better for our child, too."

I wonder if they would have had enough money to buy Amp if Strand hadn't given them a mortgage-free house, but I decide to keep my loud mouth shut for once.

"Why didn't you tell me that I'm a Throwback?" I ask. "Did Strand forbid you?"

"No," Mom whispers. "We were going to tell you when you were ten, but at that time, we were . . ."

"In no shape to tell you," Dad finishes for her.

"You were drugged out of your minds, you mean," I say. "Fine, then why didn't you tell me two years ago when you were clean?"