Kill School: Slice (2 page)

Stepping
across the threshold of our townhome, with darkness all around me, is like
stepping into another reality. My heart pounds so fast, that I fear it will burst
through my chest. My mother walks toward her Personal Rapid Transit with
confidence, her white heels clicking on the pavement. As she nears the PRT, it
beeps to life and the doors open, one on each side as if it is expecting both
of us.

The streetlights turn on in response to the PRT, leaving us
under an umbrella of light. Once we are inside, the PRT’s doors close and the
GPS lights up. It has already mapped directions to the Wright’s house, taken
from Mom’s pager. The trip will take us to the outskirts of town, eight miles up
into the mountains. All Mom has to do is give the signal, and we will begin to
move.

“You ready?” Mom asks.

I stare into the haloed street for a moment.
White oak trees tower above the neat row of townhomes.
Birch, poplar, and pine trees shadow the park across the street. Our ancestors
brought the trees here, hoping to save all of the different kinds. Like Noah’s
Ark, they brought the animals here, too.

“Aria?” Mom asks. “You want to go back inside?”

I glance at Dad, who stands in the door clutching Baby. His
face is shadowed from the light inside the townhome. Baby cries and he turns to
go back inside.

“No. I want to go. I’m ready.”

Mom presses a red button and the PRT begins to move. It
takes us silently down the row of townhomes, illuminating each one as we pass. Microdrones
flitter across our path like fireflies. Tiny cameras track our movements as we
progress down the street. Everything we do is recorded in case we witness or
are part of a termination.

I feel giddy travelling with my mom in this bubble of
light.
I’ve often watched my mother drive away
under the light umbrella. I relax into the comfortable seat and watch the streetlights
turn on as the PRT approaches and off when it passes. Our existence is much
like a light that never goes off unless someone kills it.

“What are you thinking about?” Mom switches her side of the
glass window to mirror mode checks her always-perfect makeup. I wish I had her
skin tone, coffee with a dose of cream. Mine is pale, bordering on olive green
at times. Where Mom exudes warmth, I exude sickness.

Our eyes connect in the mirror before she switches the mirror
mode back to the window. I could tell her that I was wondering why I had
inherited so much of Dad, but that wouldn’t be the truth.

Instead, I frown and say, “My birthday.” It’s what hides
behind my every thought.

Mom pats my leg, but doesn’t say anything. She opens her
medical bag and searches through it.

A warm voice from the GPS lets us know we will be turning,
in case we want to brace ourselves. The curve takes us out of the city and up
the mountain. The streetlights no longer light our paths, but I can see the
city lights from our position high above. This must be what birds feel like
when they soar through the air. Spectacular.

The higher we climb, the more I can see. I think I see a
light across the lake, but my mother’s head is still buried in her bag so I
cannot ask her if she saw it too.

Finally, Mom raises her head from her bag and hands me a bracelet.

“Happy birthday,” she says. “I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

I hold the bracelet in my hand. I know what it is. It’s
what Mom used to hold her token many years ago. My hands shake as I turn it
over and examine the small space that will hold my token.

“Mom.” I can’t get the words out to say thank you. I’m
afraid my voice will catch in my throat.

“You don’t like it?” Mom asks. “You want to pick your own.
I understand. It’s old fashioned. An antique. You kids have your own taste.
It’s such an important piece of jewelry. You can get something else.”

“Mom, stop. I love it. This is the only one I will wear.”

The warm voice from the GPS lets us know that our
destination is three minutes away. I clasp the bracelet on my wrist and watch
the moonlight flood over the tall trees and dirt road. The GPS shows our
destination by a flashing red dot. I cast my eyes around as if I expect to see
the house highlighted by the flashing light of the GPS.

The PRT pulls up in front of a small wooden shack and
confirms our destination. Mom and I look around before she presses the green
button to open the doors.
A mist covers the
yard and travels up the porch to where I see a girl standing. She leans against
the porch post with her arms folded across her chest. From here, I can see
she’s slender, too thin.

Mom grabs her medical bag and fiddles with the handle,
something she does when she is nervous. I wonder if she’s worried about the
girl, who is around my age. From the glint of the moon, I can see a token
dangling from a chain around her neck. Perhaps that is why the microdrones seem
so excited.

A cold breeze crosses my face as we exit the pod. The mist swirls
away from our feet, as if we are here to catch it. Dozens of microdrones
flicker around us and larger ones hover in the sky. In the city, with all the
lights, the drones aren’t so noticeable. Here, they turn the dark woods into a
magical wonderland.  

The PRT’s doors close behind us and it goes into hibernate
mode, leaving the moon to light our way to the house.

Mom has turned back into the confident doctor. She holds
her bag high as she makes her way to the house, pulling out her high heels when
they stick in the mud. The girl moves her hip against the porch rail as we
approach. She appears to be my age, but her makeup and clothes make her look
much older. 

“Doctor’s here,” the girl hollers through the screen door.

The girl’s eyes quickly travel to my bracelet and I know
she thinks I have my token already. She reminds me of the kids who come back
from training camp, a pile of mixed up emotions, anxiety, anger, and resentment.

The girl’s eyes are locked on my bracelet, as if flames are
going to pop out of it and strike her dead. I want to reassure her, to tell her
I don’t have mine yet, but I don’t know if she’s thinking of me as a target. I’d
rather pretend that I could kill anyone in her family if she dares touch mine.

A man appears in the doorway. He’s tall, almost as tall as
the doorframe, and wears a dirtied and ripped shirt.

“Come quick.” The man ushers mom inside. I move to follow
her, but the girl stops me.

“You won’t fit in there,” the girl says. She steps in front
of me in a protective gesture. The moonlight exposes a black and blue bruise
under her eye.

Mom has already gone inside, without considering me. She is
in full doctor mode, ready to take care of her patient and nothing else. She
has forgotten about me, her daughter, in the dark for the first time.

“My mom wants me to see.”

I peer over the girl’s shoulder. Stacks of boxes, empty
bottles, and bags of garbage are crammed everywhere. It looks as if someone is
moving out and in at the same time.

A woman lies on the couch, a sheet covering her pregnant
body. Several more children sit around her in various states of shock. I count
at least four before a male voice asks me what I am doing.

I turn around to see a tall, muscular boy standing in the
yard. He wears a white tee shirt, though the air is cold. The most unusual
thing about him is the color of his hair. I have never seen blonde hair before
and can’t take my eyes from his wavy blonde locks. The boy looks nothing like
the girl. I doubt he is her brother.

“What do you want to see?” asks the boy.

He can’t be much older than I am, but his tone is one of
such authority that it gives me goosebumps. I gulp, blush, and step away from
the door. I’m not sure what my mom wanted me to see. A birth? The night?

“My mom’s in there,” I say. My voice sounds pathetic. Why
should I care?

The boy wears black terry cloth wristbands. Most likely one
is hiding a token. He moves like a mountain lion as he approaches the porch,
all sly, and silent.

“She’s the doctor’s kid,” the girl says. Her eyes brighten
with the approach of the boy. It’s not love she feels for him, something else.
Reverence. Like he is breathing life into her with every step.

“She doesn’t look like the doctor’s kid,” he says. He must
have been watching us from the shadows.

The boy glances at my bracelet. “What color are you?” he
asks.

I touch the bracelet. The question feels odd, although I
can expect to answer it a thousand times once I have the real thing.

“I don’t have my token yet.”

The girl smiles as if she’s relieved.

“Mine’s red. Ruby red,” she says.

The girl’s eyes drift toward the boy. She reminds me of a
puppy who’s done something bad the way she looks at him, all guilty and wanting
reassurance. He smiles and nods imperceptibly, as if he doesn’t want me to see.

Ruby red. Birth to five. I think of the kids in the house. Now
I understand why she looks so uncomfortable. It must be hard to know she has to
kill someone so young, especially with so many younger sisters and brothers. I couldn’t
imagine terminating Baby.

“What color is yours?” I ask the boy. My voice sounds
hollow and stupid. What a dumb question and one I have asked many times before.

The boy comes closer. He pulls out a token from his
wristband. Turquoise. Same color as my brother. He could terminate me right
now. I shuffle my feet and look toward the PRT.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.” His eyes cover my
body, as if he’s sizing me up to determine which way to kill me. An arrow to
the heart, a slice of my neck, or a bullet in my brain. He has no visible
weapons.

“Thanks,” I say as I pull my shirt closer around my body.
“You can’t kill me for another few days,” I add. “I’m not yet sixteen.”

He laughs and looks over to the girl. She is chewing the
tip of her thumbnail. We stay like this, each in our own private thoughts. No
one speaks. No one smiles. The only sounds come from the girl’s raspy breaths,
the soft buzz of the microdrones, and the occasional pebble thrown from the
boy’s hand.

The cry of a baby breaks our uncomfortable silence. I feel
a lump in my throat. A new life has entered our world. My mom has done her job.

The boy briefly smiles and then looks sullen. He nods at
the girl. The boy steps to my side as we watch the girl disappear into the house
to greet her new sibling.

“Don’t be scared,” the boy says. His fingers briefly touch
my shoulder blade. His height and his size make me feel vulnerable. His words
make no sense.

A woman screams. It is the most heart wrenching tone I’ve
ever heard. The woman screams again and then sobs. My jaw drops and I feel
dizzy. The boy catches me before I fall to my knees.
Don’t be scared.
Of
what? He knows and I can guess.

A man shouts. Glass breaks. A thud. Hysterical crying.
Voices yelling.

The father is furious. “It was a boy,” he yells.

I hear a thud and the unmistakable sound of a slap against
flesh. The children whimper. “What’s wrong mommy?” one whines. “Why isn’t the
baby moving?”

I focus on the boy next to me. He faces the door. His
profile is near perfection, perfect narrow nose, and angular jaw. His blonde
hair shines gold in the moonlight. I want to find out
why
. Why did he
let the girl do it?

My mother rushes out of the house. A spray of blood covers
her white shirt. She carries her shoes in one hand and her medical bag in the other.
The blonde boy looks puzzled by the blood, as if that amount of screaming
shouldn’t have produced any. Come on. There are probably pools of blood all
over the place, on the floor, splattered on the walls and ceiling.

The microdrones are swarming now. One hits me and stings my
flesh like a mosquito bite. Mom knocks into the boy, glares at him, and pushes
her medical bag into the small of my back.

“Get in the PRT. Now,” Mom says.

I know what happened inside. The girl used her token to
terminate her newborn brother. Legal murder.

Before I can follow my mother, the boy grabs my shoulders
and stops me.

“She needed me here.” His eyes search mine for understanding.
“It’s my job to help out.”

“You just let her kill a baby.” I scowl and push his hands
away.

“I’m a counselor.” His tone turns cold and hollow. “She
asked me here as a favor.”

“Then why aren’t you with her now?” I scowl and cover my
ears, trying to block out the incessant screaming.

My mother yanks me away from him. “We have to go.” She
gives the boy one last look. “Stay away from her.”

“You’ll be up next,” the boy says. “We all have to do it
some time.” He strides into the house. Shortly after, his voice rises above
everyone else’s and then there is silence.

I can’t get into the PRT fast enough. Mom and I enter at
the same time. She tosses her bloodstained coat in the back and presses the
home button. The doors close, leaving us in a bubble of safety. The PRT glides
down the shack’s gravel driveway. Soon, we are back on our way down the
mountain. Neither of us speaks. Both of us ride in silence to the waiting
umbrella of streetlights.