What’s Left of Me. Kat Zhang
They’ll come; if they find out—”
“They won’t find out,” Devon said.
The public service announcements. The videos we watched every year on Independence Day, depicting the chaos that had swept across Europe and Asia. The president’s speeches. All those museum trips.
“I have to go,” Addie said. She stood so suddenly, Lissa remained crouching, only her eyes moving up with us.
“I have to go,” Addie repeated.
<Addie—>
She shook our head. “I have to leave.”
“Wait.” Lissa jumped to her feet.
Our hands flew up, palms outward, warding her off. “Bye, Hally—Lissa—Hally. I’m sorry, but I’m going home now, okay? I have to go home.” She backed up, stumbling all the way t the end of the hall. Lissa started forward, but Devon grabbed her shoulder.
“Devon—” Lissa said.
He shook his head and turned to us. “Don’t tell anyone.” His eyebrows lowered. “Promise it. Swear it.”
Our throat was dry.
“Swear it,” Devon said.
<Addie> I said. <Addie, don’t leave. Please.>
But Addie just swallowed and nodded.
“I promise,” she whispered. She twisted around and darted down the stairs.
She ran the whole way home.
“Addie? Is that you?” Mom called when we opened the front door. Addie didn’t reply, and after a moment, Mom stuck her head out from the kitchen. “I thought you were eating at a friend’s house?”
Addie shrugged. She cleaned our shoes on the welcome mat, the rhythm of the action grinding the bristles flat.
“Is something wrong?” Mom said, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she walked over.
“No,” Addie said. “Nothing. Why aren’t you and Lyle at the hospital yet?”
Lyle wandered in from the kitchen, too, and we automatically looked him over, checking his skinny arms and legs for bruising. We were always terrified each bruise would develop into something worse. That was the way it always seemed to be with Lyle—food poisoning that had developed into kidney trouble, which had resulted in kidney failure. He was pale, as always, but otherwise seemed okay.
“It’s not even five yet, Addie,” he said, throwing himself on the floor and pulling on his shoes. “We were watching TV. Did you see the news?” He looked up, his face a mix of anxiety and excitement, eagerness and fear. “The museum caught on fire! And flooded, too! They said everybody could have gotten all electrocuted, like zzzzz—” He tensed and jerked back and forth, miming the throes of someone being zapped by electricity. Addie flinched. “They said hybrids did it. Only they haven’t caught them yet—”
“Lyle.” Mom gave him a look. “Don’t be morbid.”
We’d gone all cold.
“What’s morbid mean?” Lyle said.
Mom looked like she was about to explain, but then she caught sight of our face. “Addie, are you all right?” She frowned. “What happened to your shirt?”
“I’m fine,” Addie said, fending off her touch. “I—I just realized I’ve got a lot of homework tonight.” She avoided the second question altogether. We’d been so worried about our shirt before. Now it hardly seemed to matter.
Hybrids? Hybrids were responsible for the destruction at the museum?
Mom raised an eyebrow. “On a Friday?”
“Yeah,” Addie said. She didn’t seem to realize what she was saying. We both looked at Mom, but I didn’t think Addie saw a thing. “I—I’m going to go upstairs now.”
“There are leftovers in the fridge,” Mom called after us. “Dad will be home around—”
Addie shut our door and fell into bed, kicking off our shoes and burying our head in our arms.
<Oh, God> she whispered, and it was almost a plea.
If hybrids were being blamed for the flood and fire at the history museum, and if said hybrids hadn’t been caught yet, then … I couldn’t even imagine the frenzy that would sweep the city. It would reach us here in the outskirts for sure. Everyone would be on alert, nerves raw, quick to accuse. That was the thing about hybrids. You couldn’t tell just by looking at them.
The Mullans would be the first to have fingers jabbed in their direction, with their foreign blood and strange ways. No one with a shred of sense would have anything to do with them now.
But still, but still.
I could see Hally’s brother standing in the hallway, could remember his eyes on us, remember every word that had come out of his mouth. He’d said I could move again. He’d said they could teach me.
What if he and his sister were taken away? I might spend every burning second of the rest of my life thinking back on this day, ruing the things I did not say, the action I did not take, the chance I failed to seize.
<We’re going back> I said quietly.
Addie didn’t even reply. We lay there, our face pressed into the crook of our elbow.
<We’re going back, Addie> I said.
Devon’s words were red-hot coals inside me, searing away three years of tenuous acceptance. The fire screamed to get out, to escape from the throat, the skin, the eyes that were mine as much as Addie’s. But it couldn’t.
<Can you even hear what you’re saying?> Addie demanded.
Normally, I wouldn’t have responded. I’d learned not to speak whenever I felt like this. To stay quiet and make myself pretend I didn’t care. It was the only way I could keep from going insane, to not die from the want—the need—to move my own limbs. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t scream. I could only be quiet and let myself go numb. Then, at least, I wouldn’t have to feel anymore, wouldn’t have to endlessly crave what I could never have.
But not today. I couldn’t stay quiet today.
<Yes> I said. <I hear it, and you hear it. But no one else does, do they?>
Addie shifted so we faced the wall. <Eva, can … Can you imagine what would happen to us if anyone found out?>
<I know> I said. <I know, but—>
<We’re safe> Addie said. <For the first time since we were six years old, we’re safe, and you want to throw that away?>
My voice had turned pleading, but I was too desperate to care. <This could be my only chance, Addie. I have to risk it—>
<It’s not just your risk> Addie said.
<You don’t understand, Addie> I said. <You can’t. You never will.>
Our eyes squeezed shut. <I can’t go back> Addie said. <I just can’t. I can’t.>
<But I have to!>
<Well, you don’t really have a choice, do you?> Addie said.
It was as if she’d sliced the tendons connecting us, leaving me raw and reeling. For a long, long moment, I couldn’t find any words.
<Fine> I finally spat. <Whatever you want. Obviously I don’t matter at all.>
Once, a few months after our thirteenth birthday, I disappeared.
Only for five or six hours, though it had seemed timeless to me. This was the year Lyle fell sick. The year we found out his kidneys were failing him, that