Free Control by Lydia Kang Page A

such a beast? Marka walks over to one of the glass cabinets and pulls out a small vial. As she approaches me, I keep my hands clasped together so they won’t tremble.
    She unstoppers the tiny glass bottle, sniffs it delicately, and hands it to me.
    “This is what you smell like.”
    I read the label on the cold glass.
    Fear.
    • • •
    MARKA LEADS ME TO A ROOM down the hall. “Wilbert will show you how things work here. We can talk more tomorrow, after you settle in. Okay?”
    “Okay,” I say. Marka leans toward me as if to give me a hug, and I stiffen. She’s not my mother. I hardly know what that even is. And my dad was a back-whacker, not a hugger. I only reserved hugs for Dyl, and even those were pretty scarce.
    Marka pulls back, her eyes steady on me. “If you need me, just call me through the wall-coms.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Oh, and you should know. Wilbert’s going through a thing lately.”
    “What thing?”
    “Puberty. Seems like he’s never going to recover, but anyway. Just to warn you.”
    She leaves me in front of Wilbert’s closed door. I feel numb, not yet ready to talk to another stranger. I’m a walking anomaly of physics, weighed down by an absence of knowledge.
    I don’t know what my sister’s trait is.
    I don’t know where she is.
    I don’t know how to get her back.
    The door before me opens as I sway closer, still reeling. There’s got to be a way. There has to be. There . . .
    . . . are pictures of half-naked headless women in this room.
    There’s a bed covered in bright blue sheets. On a bedside table is an enormous bottle of anti-nausea medicine, No-PuK. It’s like, gallon sized. But the walls are what have me gaping. They’re plastered with digitized, rotating images of women. I recognize them, because they’re wearing skimpy, low-cut outfits I’ve seen from the tabloids zooming by on the streets at peak ad time. I don’t recognize them by their faces, because they’ve all been digitally removed.
    “Uh, okay,” I say out loud. Maybe it is better that Dyl isn’t here.
    “I see you’ve found my room.”
    I whirl around, my heart exploding in a drumbeat thrill. The kid with two heads is standing behind me, looking sheepish. He’s got sandy-brown hair, lovely hazel eyes, and he waves energetically, as if I’m far away. I try as hard as possible not to stare at the gigantic, faceless other head bulging out of the side of his neck.
    I back away from him. “Oh! Hi. I was just looking for . . . um . . .” Answers, not half-naked, faceless women.
    He waves at the pictures. “I know, everyone thinks I’m weird. I always feel like the models are judging me, so I remove their faces.”
    A girl’s voice pops through the walls. “He likes to objectify their bodies, guilt-free.”
    “Vera!” Wilbert sputters. “This is a private conversation!”
    “It’s a hallway. I can listen if I want to. So how’s our princess doing?”
    “Go away!” Wilbert hollers. I agree. I don’t like the bitchy way she called me “princess.”
    “What’s the No-PuK for?” I ask.
    “I’ve got a very sensitive stomach,” Wilbert says, gently touching his belly.
    “Living gives him motion sickness,” Vera informs me.
    I whisper to Wilbert, “Is she going to listen to my conversations all the time?”
    “Why?” Her voice is adversarial. “What have you got to hide?”
    I’ve got nothing to hide, but there’s plenty I choose not to share—I don’t give a flying fart about what color she is. I’ve just lost everything I’ve ever known and she’s getting all hydrochloric acid on me.
    I point to myself and silently mouth the words
What did I do?
to Wilbert.
    “My guess is, you’re female and you exist. Probably an alpha female thing, like wolves or rats—”
    “If you just called me a rat, I’m going to twist both your heads off,” Vera snaps. I wonder if one of those heads includes mine.
    “VERA! Go AWAY!” Wilbert half whines, half yells.
    “Fine, perv.