She was half-blood. Half-foreign, even if she herself had been born in the Americas. Was that the reason for her strangeness? Foreigners weren’t allowed into the country anymore—hadn’t been for ages—and all the war refugees who’d come long ago were now dead. Most foreign blood still existing in the country was diluted. But there were groups, people said. There were immigrants who’d refused to integrate, preserving their bloodlines, their otherness, when they should have embraced the safety the Americas offered from the destruction wreaked by the hybrids overseas.
Had one of Hally’s parents come from a community like that?
“I wonder,” Hally said, then fell quiet.
Addie didn’t press. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts. But I was listening, and I waited for Hally to continue.
“I wonder,” she said again after a moment. “I wonder who’s going to be dominant when they settle, Robby or Will.”
“Hmm?” Addie said. “Oh, Robby, I think. He’s starting to control things more.”
“It’s not always who you think it is,” Hally said, lifting her eyes from the ground. The little white gems studding her glasses frames caught the yellow light and winked. “It’s all science, isn’t it? Brain connections and neuron strength and stuff set up before you’re even born. You can’t tell those things just by watching people.”
Addie shrugged and looked away. “Yeah, I guess so.”
She changed the subject, and they chatted about school and the latest movie until we reached Hally’s neighborhood. There was a big black wrought-iron gate leading into it, and a skinny boy about our age stood beyond the bars.
He glanced up as we neared, but didn’t say anything, and Hally rolled her eyes when she noticed him. They looked alike; he had her tan skin and dark curls and brown eyes. We’d heard about Hally’s older brother, but we’d never seen him before. Addie stopped walking a good dozen yards from the gate, so we didn’t really get a close look at him today, either.
“Bye,” Hally said over her shoulder and smiled. Behind her, the boy finished inputting something into a keypad and the gate yawned open. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Addie waved. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
We waited until Hally and her brother were almost out of sight before turning and heading homeward, this time alone. But not really alone. Addie and I are never alone.
<What was that all about?> Addie kicked our feet as she walked. <Inviting herself babysitting with us? We hardly know her.>
<I told you. Maybe she’s lonely> I said. <Maybe she wants to be friends.>
<All of a sudden? After three years?>
<Why not?>
Addie hesitated. <Well, we can’t be. You know that, Eva. I can’t be friends with her. Not at school.>
Not where people might see.
<And what was that with Robby and Will?> Addie’s irritation mounted inside us. She let a car rattle by, then darted across the street. <Asking Robby about Will? Where was she going with that? They’re about to settle. Confuse them, and they might get delayed. They might—> She didn’t complete her sentence, but she didn’t need to.
They might turn out like us.
For years, our parents had struggled to discover why their daughters weren’t settling like normal. They blamed everyone from our preschool teacher (too unstructured) to our doctors (why was nothing working?) to our friends (had they settled late? Were they encouraging this strange behavior?). In the darkest hours of the night, they fired blame at each other and themselves.
But worse than the blame was the fear—the fear that if we didn’t settle, there would come the day when we weren’t allowed home from the hospital. We’d grown up with the threat of it ringing in our ears, dreading the deadline of our tenth birthday.
Our parents had begged. We’d heard them through hospital doors, pleading for more time, just a little more time: It will happen. It’s already working. It’ll happen soon—please!
I don’t know what else happened behind those doors. I don’t know what convinced those doctors and officials in the end, but our mother and father emerged from that room exhausted and white.
And they told us we had a little more time.
Two years later, I was declared gone.
Our shadow was long now, our legs heavy. Strands of our hair gleamed golden in the wan light, and Addie gathered them all into a loose ponytail, holding it off our neck in the unrelenting heat.
<Let’s watch a movie tonight> I said, fusing a smile to my voice. <We don’t have much homework.>
<Yeah, okay> Addie said.
<Don’t worry about Will and Robby. They’ll be fine. Lyle was fine, wasn’t he?>
<Yeah> she said. <Yeah, I know.>
Neither of us mentioned all the ways in which Lyle wasn’t fine. The days when he didn’t want to do anything but lie half-awake in bed. The hours each week he spent hooked up to the dialysis machine, his blood cycling out of his body before being injected back in.
Lyle was sick, but he wasn’t hybrid sick, and that made all the difference.
We walked in silence, inner and outer. I felt the dark, brooding mists of Addie’s thoughts drifting against my own. Sometimes, if I concentrated hard enough, I fancied I could almost grasp what she was thinking about. But not today.
In a way, I was glad. It meant she couldn’t grasp what I was thinking about, either.
She couldn’t know I was dreading, dreading, dreading the day Will and Robby did settle. The day we’d go to babysit and find just one little boy smiling up at us.
Lupside, where we’d lived for the last three years, was known for absolutely nothing. Whenever anyone wanted to do anything that couldn’t be taken care of at the strip mall or the smattering of grocery stores, they went to the nearby city of Bessimir.
Bessimir was known for exactly one thing, and that was the history museum.
Addie laughed quietly with the girl next to us as our class stood sweating outside the museum doors. Summer hadn’t even started its true battle against spring, but boys were already complaining about their mandatory long pants while girls’ skirt hems climbed along with the thermostat.
“Listen up,” Ms. Stimp shouted, which got about half the class to actually shut up and pay attention. For anyone who’d grown up around this area, visiting Bessimir’s history museum was as much a part of life as going to the pool in the summer or to the theater for the monthly movie release. The building, officially named the Brian Doulanger History of the Americas Museum after some rich old man who’d first donated money for its construction, was almost universally referred to as “the museum,” as if there were no others in the world. In two years, Addie and I had gone twice with two different history classes, and each visit had left us sick to our stomach.
Already, I could feel a stiffness in our muscles, a strain in Addie’s smile as the teacher handed out our student passes. Because no matter what it was called, Bessimir’s history museum was interested in only one thing, and that was the tale of the Americas’ century-and-a-half-long battle against the hybrids.
The blast of air-conditioning as we entered the building made Addie shiver and raised goose bumps on our skin but didn’t ease the knot in our gut. Three stories tall, the museum erupted into a grand, open foyer just beyond the ticket counter, the two upper floors visible if one tilted