Free Portrait of a Donor: A Starters Story by Lissa Price

Portrait of a Donor
A Starters Story
    I hate marshals, with their ZipTasers and guns, but I have no choice other than to
     sit and face one. This one looks like he’s about 100, maybe 150. His white hair is
     trimmed short, and like most marshals, he’s muscular. I perch on a chair on the other
     side of a fancy white desk in Doris’s office at Prime Destinations. She’s never going
     to use it again. As of tonight, the body rental business is over.
    Is that a good thing? I’m not sure. But it’s not up to me. I’m just a Starter and
     one of their many body donors, now out of a job.
    The marshal focuses on his airscreen, finishing up notes from the last donor interviewee.
     I’m wearing a short silvery-green illusion dress—Doris’s choice, not mine—and I’m
     freezing my butt off. It’s all about looks, everything sexy and shiny. My long black
     hair has been perfectly straightened, but my makeup—heavier than I would choose—has
     to be smudged by now. It’s past ten p.m. and I’m exhausted. I just want to get out
     of this chaos. Everyone who ever had business with the body bank seems to be here
     tonight, the night Prime was taken down.
    I turn to my left and see the next Starter to be questioned. He waits nervously, bumping
     the doorjamb with his shoe. He’s an East Indian guy, with smoky, smoldering eyes almost
     too pretty to belong to a boy. We look at each other, and for a second, the fear disappears
     from his face and he gives me a half smile.
    “State your name and age.” The marshal’s stern voice makes my muscles tense.
    Marshals. I just want to get out of here. If I could run away, I would, but they’re
     crawling all over the place. They hate all Starters but especially some of us who
     aren’t perfectly chalk white. I read the shift in their eyes as soon as they see the
     color of my skin. I call it “the black eye.”
    “Briona Johnson. Sixteen.”
    “And you were an employee of Prime Destinations?”
    “No,” I say. “Just a donor.”
    He’s trying to trick me. Catch me admitting I was working for them so he can lock
     me up.
    He squints. “But you were paid, weren’t you?”
    “No. They were going to give me a stipend for volunteering my body.” I smile and make
     an effort not to appear smug.
    “So you were paid,” he says without any fear of looking smug.
    “Do you see any money in my hand?” I spread my palms. “You’re shutting them down now.
     Who’s going to pay me my hard-earned cash? My … stipend.”
    He leans forward. “You were sleeping, girlie. Sure wish I could get paid to sleep.”
    If only he knew about the memories I have to relive every day. Memories of what my
     renter did in my body. Secrets. Lies. Guns.
    But I’m not about to tell him that. They’ve already got Doris in cuffs—she’s the PD
     employee who took over my body. I don’t want to give them any excuse to lock me up
     too.
    They always find a way to blame the Starter.
    I hear a noise outside the office. I turn and see Smoky Eyes still waiting, his arms
     folded. He looks away, pretending he’s not listening. Past him, there’s the source
     of the noise. Ender renters shuffle past the door as they’re escorted down the hallway.
     Will the marshals arrest them? Doubt it. They weren’t working for PD, just using their
     services. Besides, they’re old and rich. It’s always the Starters like me who suffer.
    “Do you have a legal guardian?” The marshal taps his airscreen and then stares at
     me.
    “Yes. My grandma.”
    I make a point of returning his stare. It makes the lie more convincing.
    “What is her address?” he asks.
    I hesitate. I haven’t had to answer that for several months. I used to have a false
     address memorized, but now my mind goes blank. What can I say?
    Something draws the marshal’s attention. A second, thinner marshal stands in the doorway.
    “We’ve got to move this line,” the thin marshal says, “or we’ll be here until