Nine Years Ago

Kina

"I am four," I say, my body suddenly small, transported to the past yet frustratingly here in the present, too.

In the present, I have long, gangly arms, biceps that brush against my newly growing breasts.

In the past, I feel short and simple, nimble and fierce again. The wind in my mind sweeps across my skin, gooseflesh rippling down my arms.

No no no.

My body cannot betray me. Not here.

Not now.

"And what is happening?" my instructor, Angelica demands, her face severe, brown eyes narrowing at the bottom, the look malevolent. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, cheekbones sharp enough to cut rope.

All of her attention is focused on me. My body flushes.

In spite of the risk, I like being the center of attention.

I did not know this about myself until now.

All eyes in the classroom are on me. Jason smirks, arms crossed over his broad chest, his whole demeanor designed to intimidate. With dark hair and bushy, thick eyebrows that remind me of dangerous predators in the woods outside our door, Jason's body language matches his personality.

In our cohort, I am the weakest. I am the one he targets. I am the one he knows he can defeat.

Watching me squirm is entertainment for him.

It's fun.

"There is a woman. She is smiling," I say, struggling to raise my whisper. Be bold, I tell myself.

Chin up.

Angelica blinks. Reaching up, she scratches the hollow of her eye under the large tortoiseshell glasses she always wears. An epic eye roll from Jason is squelched instantly when he sees my sister on the periphery, watching him. My twin, unlike me, makes people think twice.

She can intimidate, too.

"Is her smile good?" Angelica asks. "The woman."

"Good?" The shake in my voice alarms me. We're never to show fear.

Fear is what we instill in others.

"What emotion is she covering with her smile?"

I am not allowed to close my eyes to conjure the memory of the dream. Weakness is not allowed. To not know the layer beneath the smile is a failure.

And failure means death.

"She is lying. Pretending to like me. I am little. Maybe four?" I say, voice rising with an uncertainty that makes Jason snort.

"Who else is there?" Angelica presses.

My mind's eye roams the memory, seeing myself again. And seeing my mirror image, except in a mirror, left is right and right is left.

"My twin. Glen." The woman is holding both our hands, her nose nuzzling my hair. My past self laughs.

I don't tell Angelica that part of the dream.

"What does Glen say?"

Glen is in the room, her attention diverted from Jason as we talk about her. Even the steady sound of breathing among my classmates disappears. This dream analysis goes beyond any we've done before. My interrogation has no precedent.

We are making it up as we go along.

I hope my self—control can override the chip's detectors.

"She slaps the woman."

Now I am lying.

The chip inside me will tell them I am lying if I let the fear override me. Controlling my emotions means controlling my biochemistry. Mastering this is part of our training.

It is also how I survive training. Until a few years ago, Sally would have been the instructor questioning me. She was softer. Nicer.

That's probably why she was reassigned.

Angelica looks at her phone. She blinks exactly once.

"And then?" she asks, giving me nothing. No clue. No hint. No idea if I am walking into a trap or if I have cleared the hurdle.

I must continue into the unknown.

Armed only with my wits.

My classmate, Judi, the one who sits to my right and has since we began instruction at age four, stares straight ahead. She also sends strength my way. How do I know? Because we're trained to feel tension. To study it. To feel it in the air, like a presence no one else can detect.

I feel her support. It means everything to me.

"The woman grabs the girl's hair in a fist, twisting her fingers like snakes. The nails stretch out, long and fibrous," I lie. I let my heart rate increase, breathing hard to help it for a few seconds then backing off, pressing my tongue against the edges of my teeth, knowing that will calm me. Visualizing the root of my brain, I slow my pulse. I am allowed a slight physiological response to the recounting of the dream.

Anything less would mean I was not quite human.

Anything less could mean I am lying.

Which I am.

In the real dream, she smothered us with kisses, then took us to a lake, blowing bubbles until they drifted out so far. Too far. We wandered into the water, captivated, and when we turned around, the woman was gone.

Calling two names I do not know. Sawyer and Madison.

Two names I can never speak.

Names that make my heart hurt, as if I've heard them in a language that I used to be fluent in but have forgotten. As if I've heard an echo from the past.

In the present, a man slips into the room. He's clothed in all black, a knife on a black belt, his front pressed flat by a flak vest. Eyes the color of dark avocado skins look at me, then at Angelica's phone sitting on her desk. His face twists in a sneer as he rests his hip against the desk, clearly comfortable with his authority.

Romeo expects very little of me.

"Too much," Angelica snaps. "You had a nightmare and it's disturbing you simply to recount it. You are eighteen–almost nineteen–years old. You are mediocre."

Someone in the class snickers.

Romeo turns, pushing up from the desk he's leaning against, his body flying up with the power, halfway down the row of tables before we realize it. Twenty—four of us sit in formation, a U of twelve against the back, six on each side, Angelica at the front, closing the U into a square.

"Mediocre means she is in the middle. How many of you are with her? Too many for laughter. Too many for us," he barks, eyes blazing.

The room stills. Everyone holds their breath.

Everyone except Callum.

He breathes.

He always breathes.

The strong tendon on his neck, underneath the port—wine stain that spreads across his collarbone like a melted rose petal on a peach, tightens. His hair is clipped short, a sandy blond color that complements his pale blue eyes. Our leaders love Callum, but it's not his beauty that they prize.

It's the symmetry of his features.

But most of all, Callum looks just enough like California senator Harwell Bosworth to be a member of his family. And that is a characteristic that instantly elevates Callum above us all.

Romeo whispers in my twin's ear. Glen leaves. Where did he send her?