he adds, just as Sonya and Sara
walk back into the room. “I don’t have the time, the energy, or the interest to deal
with your problems. I like to mess with you from time to time because, well, let’s
face it”—he shrugs—“the world is going to hell out there and I suppose if I’m going
to be shot dead before I’m twenty-five, I’d at least like to remember what it’s like
to laugh before I do. But that does not make me your clown or your babysitter. At
the end of the day I do not give two shits about whether or not you and Kent are going
steady. We have a million things to take care of down here, and less than none of
them involve your love life.” A pause. “Is that clear?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“So are you in?” he says.
Another nod.
“I want to hear you say it. If you’re in, you’re all in. No more feeling sorry for
yourself. No more sitting in the training room all day, crying because you can’t break
a metal pipe—”
“How did you kn—”
“Are you in ?”
“I’m in,” I tell him. “I’m in. I promise.”
He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “Good. Meet me outside of the
dining hall tomorrow morning at six a.m.”
“But my hand—”
He waves my words away. “Your hand, nothing. You’ll be fine. You didn’t even break
anything. You messed up your knuckles and your brain freaked out a little and basically
you just fell asleep for three days. I don’t call that an injury,” he says. “I call
that a goddamn vacation.” He stops to consider something. “Do you have any idea how
long it’s been since I’ve gone on vacation —”
“But aren’t we training?” I interrupt him. “I can’t do anything if my hand is wrapped
up, can I?”
“Trust me.” He cocks his head. “You’ll be fine. This … is going to be a little different.”
I stare at him. Wait.
“You can consider it your official welcome to Omega Point,” he says.
“But—”
“Tomorrow. Six a.m.”
I open my mouth to ask another question but he presses a finger to his lips, offers
me a 2-finger salute, and walks backward toward the exit just as Sonya and Sara head
over to my bed.
I watch as he nods good-bye to both of them, pivots on 1 foot, and strides out the
door.
6:00 a.m.
ELEVEN
I catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realize it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon.
Which means 6:00 a.m. is 16 hours from now.
Which means I have a lot of hours to fill.
Which means I have to get dressed.
Because I need to get out of here.
And I really need to talk to Adam.
“Juliette?”
I jolt out of my own head and back to the present moment to find Sonya and Sara staring
at me. “Can we get you anything?” they ask. “Are you feeling well enough to get out
of bed?”
But I look from one set of eyes to another and back again, and instead of answering
their questions, I feel a crippling sense of shame dig into my soul and I can’t help
but revert back to another version of myself. A scared little girl who wants to keep
folding herself in half until she can’t be found anymore.
I keep saying, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry about everything, for all of this,
for all the trouble, for all the damage, really, I’m so, so sorry—”
I hear myself go on and on and on and I can’t get myself to stop.
It’s like a button in my brain is broken, like I’ve developed a disease that forces
me to apologize for everything, for existing, for wanting more than what I’ve been
given, and I can’t stop.
It’s what I do.
I’m always apologizing. Forever apologizing. For who I am and what I never meant to
be and for this body I was born into, this DNA I never asked for, this person I can’t
unbecome. 17 years I’ve spent trying to be different. Every single day. Trying to
be someone else for someone else.
And it never seems to matter.
But then I realize they’re talking to
walk back into the room. “I don’t have the time, the energy, or the interest to deal
with your problems. I like to mess with you from time to time because, well, let’s
face it”—he shrugs—“the world is going to hell out there and I suppose if I’m going
to be shot dead before I’m twenty-five, I’d at least like to remember what it’s like
to laugh before I do. But that does not make me your clown or your babysitter. At
the end of the day I do not give two shits about whether or not you and Kent are going
steady. We have a million things to take care of down here, and less than none of
them involve your love life.” A pause. “Is that clear?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“So are you in?” he says.
Another nod.
“I want to hear you say it. If you’re in, you’re all in. No more feeling sorry for
yourself. No more sitting in the training room all day, crying because you can’t break
a metal pipe—”
“How did you kn—”
“Are you in ?”
“I’m in,” I tell him. “I’m in. I promise.”
He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “Good. Meet me outside of the
dining hall tomorrow morning at six a.m.”
“But my hand—”
He waves my words away. “Your hand, nothing. You’ll be fine. You didn’t even break
anything. You messed up your knuckles and your brain freaked out a little and basically
you just fell asleep for three days. I don’t call that an injury,” he says. “I call
that a goddamn vacation.” He stops to consider something. “Do you have any idea how
long it’s been since I’ve gone on vacation —”
“But aren’t we training?” I interrupt him. “I can’t do anything if my hand is wrapped
up, can I?”
“Trust me.” He cocks his head. “You’ll be fine. This … is going to be a little different.”
I stare at him. Wait.
“You can consider it your official welcome to Omega Point,” he says.
“But—”
“Tomorrow. Six a.m.”
I open my mouth to ask another question but he presses a finger to his lips, offers
me a 2-finger salute, and walks backward toward the exit just as Sonya and Sara head
over to my bed.
I watch as he nods good-bye to both of them, pivots on 1 foot, and strides out the
door.
6:00 a.m.
ELEVEN
I catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realize it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon.
Which means 6:00 a.m. is 16 hours from now.
Which means I have a lot of hours to fill.
Which means I have to get dressed.
Because I need to get out of here.
And I really need to talk to Adam.
“Juliette?”
I jolt out of my own head and back to the present moment to find Sonya and Sara staring
at me. “Can we get you anything?” they ask. “Are you feeling well enough to get out
of bed?”
But I look from one set of eyes to another and back again, and instead of answering
their questions, I feel a crippling sense of shame dig into my soul and I can’t help
but revert back to another version of myself. A scared little girl who wants to keep
folding herself in half until she can’t be found anymore.
I keep saying, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry about everything, for all of this,
for all the trouble, for all the damage, really, I’m so, so sorry—”
I hear myself go on and on and on and I can’t get myself to stop.
It’s like a button in my brain is broken, like I’ve developed a disease that forces
me to apologize for everything, for existing, for wanting more than what I’ve been
given, and I can’t stop.
It’s what I do.
I’m always apologizing. Forever apologizing. For who I am and what I never meant to
be and for this body I was born into, this DNA I never asked for, this person I can’t
unbecome. 17 years I’ve spent trying to be different. Every single day. Trying to
be someone else for someone else.
And it never seems to matter.
But then I realize they’re talking to
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