Remake Read online

  I know it’s not fair to ask him. It’s my burden, not his. But . . .

  “Theron?”

  His hand squeezes my shoulder. “Nine, you’re my best friend. You will always be my best friend, whether you’re a male or a female. I’m not going to disappear either way. You don’t need to worry.”

  His touch is a comfort. I wonder if this closeness will feel different when I’m Remade. If he will feel different.

  “I’m not worried,” I say. Not about Theron leaving me. Theron at my side is the one thing I’m certain of. I just thought maybe he saw something in me that I couldn’t.

  “You’re the only thing I’ve got too, you know.” His fingers poke at my arm. “You and your skin spots . . . all mine.”

  “Oh, please don’t mention the freckles. I’ve had enough freckle talk today.”

  “Don’t mock the spots. I love the spots. They are flecks of paint on the canvas of your skin. A living masterpiece. My very own magnum opus.”

  I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing.

  “I’m serious,” he says, biting back a smile. “Imagine the sky void of stars. Without them, there would be no reason to look up.”

  “Nice,” I say. “Aren’t there, like, three visible stars in the sky?”

  “Not outside of the province. If you get far enough from the lights, you can see hundreds of them. Thousands, even.”

  “Thousands?” I raise an eyebrow. Neither of us has ever left Freedom, so I know it’s impossible for him to know this. But I smile and let him continue.

  “Yes,” he says. “Every one of them unique and special.”

  I roll my eyes. “Just like me?”

  “No. Just like your spots.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, you shut up.” Theron leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Seriously, shut up and go to sleep.”

  I watch him climb into his bed. He drifts to sleep and falls into his familiar pattern of snore-breathe-whistle that I’d recognize anywhere. And just like that my somber mood is chased away. It’s magic, what Theron can do sometimes. He is strength and comfort and surety and humor and love.

  Why couldn’t I have been Made like that?

  * * *

  It’s dark, but I’ve lived in this building my entire life so I feel my way easily through the halls. Theron and I have had plenty of night adventures sneaking into the kitchen for the chocolate stashed behind the dish machines. I’ve never roamed at night by myself before though, so this is a little unnerving.

  I find the room and am grateful the automatic doors don’t shut off at night. When I walk in I nearly knock over the metal stand holding the flat computer screen. It wobbles for a second then settles back into place. I glide my finger over the display and it comes to life, recognizing my print immediately. The screen temporarily blinds me, and I blink several times as my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. There, exactly as they were earlier in the day, are the words that continue to haunt me.

  Male or female?

  I sigh and quickly scan through the questions until I find the one with an answer I do know.

  Trade?

  My list of Trade choices is longer than some Batchers because of my high academic scores. Healer, Farmer, Teacher, Seeker, Techie . . . the list goes on and on. But there’s only one thing I want to do for the rest of my life. Without hesitating, I select what I want to become.

  Maker.

  If there’s any Trade that will give me a clue as to why I am the way I am—and the power to not let it happen again—this is it.

  For the first time in a long while, I wake with a smile. Theron is asleep, his face inches from mine. The little scab must’ve snuck into my bed early this morning. My foot catches on twisted sheets as I try to roll away from him.

  Theron moans in his sleep, draping his arm over my shoulder, trapping me.

  “Theron, I have to pee.”

  “No, I don’t.” His voice is groggy, but his lips give him away. He can’t hide his playful grin.

  “Let me go, you idiot.”

  “C’mon, Nine. You’re not an idiot.” He’s clearly awake now, though he keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Five more minutes.”

  “I’m serious,” I say. “I’ll pee all over you.”

  “Go ahead. It’s all good.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Warning me?” Theron’s eyes open. “What will you do?” His arms are vise-like, and I can’t move.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine,” I say. “Five minutes.”

  His grip loosens slightly, and I slide my hand up his spine, stopping between his shoulder blades. I find just the right spot and apply pressure with my fingers.

  “Aaah! That tickles.” Theron flails backward and off the bed.

  I’m still tangled in the sheets and fall with him. “I tried to warn you,” I say, scrambling off.

  His laughter fills the room. I can’t help but beam as I run to the toilets, but my face falls when I get there. Cree and Bristol are at the washbasins. Cree removes a bandage from her swollen nose and tosses it in the refuse. They both glare at me through the mirrors. I lower my head and hurry into a toilet stall. I really, really do have to pee.

  When I come out, they’re still there. I clean my hands and face, then turn to them head on, digging deep for any bravado I can muster. “Lookin’ good, Cree,” I say, hoping my words mask the slight tremor in my voice. “You get a new haircut or something?”

  Cree sneers and steps forward.

  I stand firm. I can’t back down now.

  Theron walks in and spreads his arms. “Hey, it’s like a Batch reunion in here. My best friend, my worst enemy, and the dog we’ll eat for breakfast.”

  After a glare in my direction, Bristol and Cree walk out, not waiting for another confrontation with Theron.

  I give a half smile before smoothing my expression. “Theron?”

  “Hmm?” he asks from behind a stall door.

  “I made another choice on the computer last night.”

  “What’d you choose?”

  “My Trade.” I bite my lip, suddenly nervous about telling him, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like things will be different between us because of it. It won’t affect how we are together. But I value his opinion over every other, even my own, and I want to make sure he’s okay with it.

  He exits and washes at the basin, then turns to me, his face serious and warm. “Well?”

  I’m bold and say it plainly. “Maker.”

  He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to explain.

  “I want to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” I look down at my freckled arms and tug on my tank top. “They can’t possibly know what something like this . . . can do to a person.” My lips tremble, and I turn away, crossing and uncrossing my arms.

  He reaches for my hand and holds it, studying it for a minute. Sliding his fingers into mine, he turns my hand back and forth as though memorizing every part of it. His silence makes me nervous.

  Say something.

  Theron brings my hand to his lips and keeps it there. He finally looks up. “You’re not a mistake.” He touches my face, the tips of his fingers lingering on my spots. “Sometimes I think you’re the most deliberate thing I’ve ever seen. The rest of us are just shadows of what could be.”

  He pulls me close, and I nod against him. He’s told me the same thing a thousand different ways. It doesn’t change what others think or say, though.

  Theron sighs against my ear. “A Maker, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever met a Maker before.” He pulls back to look at my face but still holds me close. “I think it’s a great idea, Nine.” He smiles and taps his fingers on my shoulder. “While you’re at it, maybe you can figure out a way to program Cree’s mouth shut.”

  I smile. A Trade chosen. It’s something.

  * * *

  The Teacher grunts as Theron and I walk in, and I know we’re late. She doesn’t look familiar. It’s not that unusual since Teac
hers rotate daily, but I don’t know if she’ll give us a hard time about it. I silently slide into my usual workstation opposite Theron and swipe my finger across the computer screen that doubles as a desk surface. Words appear in the far left corner. Batch #1372. Member #9. Provincial History.

  I sneak a glance at the Teacher, but she just yawns and looks at her transmitter device as though checking the time. Our tardiness is forgotten. Searching the rest of the room, I notice smiles are wider and talk is louder than is usual for my Batch. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air, and I can’t help but grin too. The next hour will be the last academic module we’ll ever have to attend. It makes me that more anxious to finally be Remade, even though I still don’t know what gender I want to be.

  I slide in my earpiece and catch a familiar high-pitched female voice mid-sentence. “ . . . Made and equal stay / Beyond our given Remake day.”

  Theron makes faces at me as he mouths the rest of the familiar refrain since we can all hear it at the same time. “Free to choose and free to live / Our lives to Freedom we will give.” He pretends to flip his non-existent long hair behind his shoulder and waves his hand in a way that I know is meant to be feminine, matching the voice we just heard.

  A couple of Batchers laugh in reaction, but my smile falls slightly. What is it that makes something feminine? Or masculine? If gender is just an accessory, why do people—including Theron—act as if there’s more to it? I glance at the Teacher and wonder what she thinks, but I won’t ask. Because her answer will be the same as every other Remade adult I’ve questioned in the past: there is no difference. Which is just another way of saying they don’t know either.

  Theron curses and slams his palm against his computer screen repeatedly. This time I join in with the others laughing at him. His computer stalled. Again. The Teacher rolls her eyes and flicks her finger toward me. Theron grins and jumps on the desk-screens, sliding to my side without bothering to walk around. He bumps me over so we’re sharing my chair and plugs his own earpiece into my computer.

  I elbow him in the side. “I think you break your computer on purpose.”

  He gives me an innocent look. “Why would I ever do that?”

  “Um . . . because you like cheating off my answers, you scab.”

  “We don’t even have questions to answer today,” he says, his hands up in defense. “It’s just a listen-and-recite history module. And a boring one too.”

  “Force of habit, then.” I elbow him again but smile so he knows I don’t mind.

  “Don’t distract me with your pretty face.” He narrows his eyes at me, all serious, and taps the screen. “We’ve got important things to learn . . . like how to achieve world peace and unity.”

  I nod and try to focus on our lesson, but I’m anxious to get out of here like everyone else. This module’s just the same old information about how overpopulation nearly destroyed the earth and how Batches are the only way to control the population now. Theron pretends to fall asleep, and I’m almost tempted to do it for real.

  Halfway through the lesson, a man in a dark gray suit appears in the doorway. By his clothes and the way his head tilts up, I know he must be a cabinet member—one of the leaders that work directly under the Prime Maker, head of our province. This man walks into the room followed by a small girl. Or woman, I guess, since she has a full head of straight black hair. Her eyes are wide and nervous and her frame so slight, I’d have guessed she was younger than me if she wasn’t obviously Remade.

  After speaking with the Teacher, the man glances around the room before his eyes settle on me and pause. His nostrils widen slightly, almost threatening. I look away and try to focus on the history module, but the man and small woman stop in front of Theron’s broken computer, making it hard to ignore them. He speaks to her in short, clipped phrases as he points to the desk and gives her instructions on fixing the computer. I catch bits of her quiet response, something about how the terminals will keep breaking and how they never give her the right tools for the job. He grabs her arm and whispers something in her ear. She nods obediently without saying anything more. They finally leave, but not before the man gives me another scathing look.

  I’m not sure how one becomes a member of the Prime Maker’s cabinet. I don’t remember seeing it as a Trade option on the computer last night when I selected Maker, but I could be wrong. Of the eight cabinet members of our province, six are male. Are males more prone to leadership positions than females? Our Prime Maker is female, so I don’t think that’s necessarily true. And I’ve never noticed an imbalance of males versus females in any other Trade. Maybe there isn’t a deeper meaning to gender beyond the physical.

  When the lesson is over, I nudge Theron’s shoulder to silence his pretend snores and yank my earpiece out. The Teacher excuses us, and our Batch erupts into cheers, thrilled to be one step closer to our Remake. As we leave the room, I see the small woman standing outside alone. She holds a container of tools in one hand and seems to be waiting for all of us to leave so she can enter. Her Trade obviously involves fixing computers, though I don’t know why she had to be escorted by a cabinet member or why he gave me such strange looks.

  I shake it off, deciding he must have been surprised to see a freckled girl among the Batch, that’s all. It just surprised him. I’m used to being singled out as other; I don’t know why I let it bother me this time.

  As we walk past the woman, her eyes brighten and the corners of her lips twitch as though she wants to smile at the sight of me. Not a cruel or nasty smile, but the kind that brightens your whole face. Like seeing me changed her day from miserable to hopeful. But I must be imagining it. How could the way I look make anyone happy?

  I wrap my arm around Theron’s waist. “I have a surprise for you,” I say.

  “For me?” He feigns shock as we walk back to our sleeping quarters.

  I slip my hand under my mattress and pull out two blue laminated cards. A picture of each of our faces is on one side. A red five-pointed star inside a white circle—the symbol of our Freedom province—is on the other.

  “Passes to Freedom Central?” Theron grabs the cards from my hand and holds them up to the light, as though verifying they’re real. “How did you get these?”

  “I have my ways,” I say, snatching them back. My ways may or may not involve flirting with the eatery manager and working extra dish cleaning hours for a month. “I’m not completely helpless, you know.”

  “I knew there was a reason I loved you.” He pinches my chin and smiles at me.

  “And here I thought I was just a warm body to snuggle with on sleepless mornings.” I wave the passes in front of him with a grin. “They’re only good for today, though.”

  “Then what are we still doing here?” Theron grabs my hand, and we fly out of the room.

  Main and Center Streets are usually off-limits to Batch members, and except for a few unfounded rumors of rogue Batch kids getting beyond the gates a time or two, I don’t know anyone who’s been there. I wish we had something else to wear besides our tanks and sweats, but the eatery manager assured me no one would care, as long as we had our passes.

  As we reach the gates, I can’t contain my excitement and squeeze Theron’s hand while humming under my breath. The nightspots in central Freedom are supposed to be nuclear, and the people wilder than ever.

  The line is long but it moves quickly. Still, the man in front of me complains to the guard, wondering why there’s only one on duty today instead of three. The guard just shrugs her shoulders like it’s no big deal, and then it’s my turn.

  “Party time,” Theron whispers to me as I hand the guard my pass.

  I scan my fingertip across a portable identifier screen and wait while the female guard looks back and forth between me and the picture on the pass. She finally returns it with a smirk and says, “Have fun.”

  “Thanks.” I slip past the metal gate and wait for Theron on the other side.

  “Can you feel it?” he asks when he’
s beside me again.

  “Feel what?”

  “Freedom.”

  I’m not sure if he means the name of our province or our lack of restrictions for the day. “And what is freedom supposed to feel like?”

  He presses a fist against my chest. Thump, thump, thump—he applies pressure to match my heartbeat. “It’s like your heart is about to explode right out of your chest. And if you can jump high enough, you’ll just keep going higher and higher. The Earth can’t hold you down ’cause you’re on such a high.”

  “I love that about you, Theron, that underneath all this”—I mock punch him on the arm—“you’re just a hopeless, sentimental poet.”

  “I’m just perceptive,” he says. “I can’t help my cleverness.”

  “What’s first on the agenda, oh wise and wonderful sage?” It’s strange having the rest of the day to ourselves with no Trade visits or academic modules to attend anymore. Just a two-day countdown until our Remake. I slide my fingers into Theron’s and turn toward Freedom Central.

  The street is filled with adults of all ages. Some look no older than me. Others don’t—like the man standing in front of an antique bookshop window; he stoops with age and gray hair falls to his shoulders. He wears a silky robe with shimmering red and purple threads. Another man walks past us with sharpened teeth. The woman he holds hands with has bright blue hair sticking straight into the air, converging in a single point. Everyone I see is colorful . . . their skin, their clothes, their hair. It’s beautiful, especially compared to the dull gray and white of my everyday life.

  “Let’s eat,” Theron says. “I’m starving.”

  The smell of fresh bread reaches my nose, and my stomach grumbles. “This way,” I say, leading him to an eatery nearby. We each have fifty points on our Freedom passes, more than enough to pay for a day full of mischief. We order fresh bread and honey, a large bowl of some creamy soup, and a giant piece of chocolate cake. Theron lets me finish off his frosting. The florescent green drinks they bring us give my head a slight buzz. After a few sips, I push it to the side. “It’s a little too early to start losing my wits,” I say.