She had more touches stolen from her than she'd ever freely given away.
She couldn't stand it—how her father would be gazing out the window at the traffic below, then wander over and stroke her scalp with his heavy callused hands. How her mother would be sitting there silent and rigid against the back of a chair and out of nowhere lurch forward to clutch her arm, like simple contact could contain the words no one would utter.
It wasn't just that it hurt. It was that they expected her to appreciate the gesture as something shared, imbued with meaning somehow, when really all it did was force her to stare down her own impotence writ large in hollows of bone and folds of skin that no longer held the shape of a human being. Her parents clung to her as though they thought the tubes weren't enough to tether her to this wasted life—as if she didn't feel the gravity inside and on her at all times, dragging her bodily into cold starch and dull fear and away from even a stopgap promise of a future. Always.
All the same, she couldn't bring herself to deny them that comfort.
Imagining was impossible. She spent hours staring at caches of shadow, unable to coax them into movement or transformation, or her chest into sensation. There was no dread spectre residing in the curtain. The television was not a portal to distant realms. The doctors and nurses administered not adventure but anaesthesia.
Dreaming came as a surprise, then, white noise seeping into a space previously designated vacant, but never quite delivering her anywhere she'd want to be.
She dreamt that the ward would be her mausoleum.
Her hand fumbled under the pillow for the ballpoint she kept there, and she scrawled phrases on her palm. When the ink wouldn't take to her skin, she took to the bed sheets.
In the morning she could not decipher what she had written, but her parents noticed the scratchings on the linen. They started bringing her blank notebooks: soil-dark, multiplication tables on the covers. Every other page a grid. The brand she used to buy in bulk at back-to-school sales, though she had not gone back to school in months and might never. But that was just another thing she didn't get to choose, and she accepted it like all the rest. At least they provided better pens.
The aches in her wrists stopped being merely a side-effect of cellular treason and started becoming the product of labour. She filled the lined pages with passages from her favourite books and half-remembered scripture. She wrote shaky letters to her family, her friends, her past self.
Mostly what she wrote was please.
Chapter 1: They Fight Crime
"Please, the resolution isn't even high enough for you to see them," Rebecca said. She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop propped up on two pillows. Several gel pens were wedged between the toes of her right foot. "Maybe if I'd just showered, but I haven't and I'm wearing the baggiest shirt this side of Pasadena. They could air this live on network television."
The door swung open. A girl strode in, making a beeline for her desk.
"Hey." Rebecca yanked out one earbud and flashed her a winning smile. "Can you tell if I'm wearing a bra?"
The girl ignored her in favour of sifting through the contents of a drawer.
"Is that Contessa? Let me talk to her."
Rebecca made a face at the screen. "Mom, that's really weird. You can't just talk to people's roommates."
Objects knocked into each other as Contessa searched with renewed urgency.
"Why not? We met when she moved in."
Contessa's hand landed on what she'd been looking for, the same instant Rebecca unplugged her audio jack.
"Hello, Contessa," Rebecca's mother said, as Rebecca rotated the laptop.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Costa-Brown."
"Is Rebecca sleeping at regular hours? Is she drinking water? What about her laundry—is she doing it?"
"I don't spend much time in the dorm, myself," said Contessa, "but she's flapping her arms and mouthing 'omertà' at me, so if I were you I would assume the worst."
Rebecca watched in dismay as Contessa cocked her hip against the desk and ran down a bulleted list of all her sordid habits, casually decimating any trust her mother had left in her ability to be a responsible and independent adult.
When the call ended, she straightened, seamlessly resuming her aloof demeanour.
Rebecca glared. "Thanks a lot. Friggin' narc."
"I'm not going to keep tabs on you for your mother."
"I don't want you to!" protested Rebecca. "If you just tell her what she wants to hear, we can be done much faster."
"If I tell her what she doesn't want to hear, she won't ask me again," Contessa countered.
She took a moment to tidy up some papers on her desk, black hair falling in waves over her shoulders. There was something different about her attire, though Rebecca couldn't pinpoint it. White button-down blouse. Bespoke black slacks with matching tie. Probably a blazer waiting in the wings somewhere.
But what was the—
Contessa toyed with her sleeve, and Rebecca caught a glint. Cufflinks!
"Ooh, why are you all dressed up?" she asked. "Model United Nations? Lawyer convention?"
"What would one even do at a lawyer convention?"
"I don't know, compare cards and drinking problems." Rebecca had pulled up the event calendar on the school website. She laughed at the first result. "Only you would watch a judo spar in business casual. When they go to nationals, will it call for a three-piece?"
"If you must know," Contessa said, "I'm attending the National Symposium on Environmental Issues in the auditorium."
Rebecca scrolled down. "This month's topic: the Application of GMOs in Agriculture and Forestry," she read. "Sounds super interesting. Can I come?"
"Your funeral. And mine, I suppose."
Rebecca jumped out of bed, the gel pens clicking against the floor. She bent to slide them out. "Give me a sec. I'll just grab a few things..."
"Rebecca."
She stopped.
Contessa was motioning towards her chest. "Please."
Rebecca grumbled and reached for the bra draped over her chair.
The symposium was a bust.
Rebecca sagged into her seat. She didn't know why she had been expecting to hear a real discussion about the benefits GMOs had to offer—maybe because when she started reading about the environment, she'd cut her teeth on op-eds about eutrophication, had seen photos of the sludge lying in lurid sheets over once-crystal lakes. She had gone on to research mitigation measures, which had given her a sound appreciation for the good that human-engineered bacteria could do.
Meanwhile the representatives onstage, with maybe two exceptions, were all opposed to the idea. Most of them waffled or fixated on the negatives, highlighting toxins and undesired herbicide resistance, and even the ones that agreed there was maybe something at stake refused to commit to one course or the other for their respective organisations. Some spoke only in company boilerplate, while others still exuded an unassailable skepticism.
This, she realised, had to do with the cameras.
The press crew and their tripods were parked in front of and beside the arcing tiers of retractable chairs. According to the program booklet, the speakers were high-profile in their fields and this was a Relatively Big Deal. With how packed the auditorium was, she didn't even know how Contessa had managed to get them optimal vantage points.
Speaking of Contessa—Rebecca suspected the students around her had credit-related incentives. Which begged the question: why was Contessa, an undeclared freshman, here taking notes on a Tuesday? Did she have some hitherto unrevealed zest for Golden Rice? Was she a believer in beta-carotene?
But throughout the talks, her face remained a stern mask of professionalism. Not one grain of rice-passion. Rebecca saw she was bored from various small tells (periodic foot-tapping, fiddling with her eraser, idly sketching the blueprints to some nerve gas-expelling device that possessed an effective radius coinciding with the dimensions of the auditorium), and she took it upon herself to alleviate this through lighthearted conversation.
"So," said Rebecca, "you think in the future, we'll start transplanting human brains into cats?"
Contessa gave her a sidelong glance.
"See, they look like cats, and are furry like cats, and snuggle like cats," she said, "but they don't shit in your shoes."
"What makes you think they won't shit in your shoes just because they have human brains?"
Rebecca paused, mulling it over. "Cyborg cats," she decided.
"Why are you even bringing this up?"
She shrugged and gestured at the stage, where one of the representatives was spouting stats on the effects of genetic pollution on crop yield in sub-Saharan Africa. "They're talking about ethics. It's related."
"No," said Contessa, shortly.
"Really? I think—"
"You think they're talking about ethics?" Contessa asked, arching an eyebrow at her. "What they are talking about is hamstringing scientists. Did you know that certain fledgling research teams started cultivating varieties of bioflora capable of terraforming other planets, but they had to drop those projects because their sponsors deemed them—and I quote—'esoteric hobby-horses'? Yes, a potential long-term solution to overpopulation and scarcity is esoteric. Human lives are esoteric. Years of hard-fought data and development down the drain because the people with the power to change the world as we know it are incapable of seeing the forest for the trees."
"Um..." Rebecca's eyes darted to the panel.
"The public thinks they're talking about ethics," she continued, "because that's the facade they're presenting to the media. What they are doing is making excuses to keep things the way they are, to keep famine and pestilence alive, to keep us locked on this planet until we kill it and ourselves. We are going extinct, but the government would rather divert funding to their short-sighted political masters, and corporations with annual revenue the size of some countries' GDPs would rather pay cowards with science degrees to churn out 'evidence' that tobacco doesn't cause cancer and that diesel is chicken soup for the ozone layer's soul."
Her dark eyes tracked the progress of the camera crew as they weaved their way towards the stage. She spoke quietly, voice rising only for emphasis.
"Look at them. This is just a game. If they spew enough pompous bilge, they get to be smug and get paid. Then they go home to eat three times the number of calories some children see in a week, and they don't even have to think about the disproportionate harm they're doing to developing nations. The opportunity costs alone—"
She broke off. For a moment her gaze slid out of focus, blinded by some glacier-vast terror visible only within the confines of her head. Her hand gripped her pen till the knuckles drained white.
When she spoke again, it was venom that centred her: "They think they're talking about ethics? They're talking about stifling the greatest advances in agriculture since the Green Revolution, and they're patting themselves on the back."
Rebecca felt like she'd just witnessed someone sleepwalk the length of a tightrope. The auditorium suddenly seemed to expand in her vision, lights and ambient chatter rushing up to fill it. Out of her depth, she swallowed. "You," she said, "feel pretty strongly about this."
"I'm merely familiar with the issues."
Privately, Rebecca resolved to pay more attention.
The Q&A session rolled around. Microphone stands were set up along the aisles of the auditorium. There were no takers until there was one, which precipitated a steady trickle of undergrads hoping to impress at least one other person in the room. They would give their own blustering mini-speeches affirming what had just been said, receive inevitable praise from the responding panellist, then strut back to their seats, confident they had contributed.
Rebecca glanced over to see if Contessa would bite. She wasn't even listening.
She was texting, of all things. She'd look up, scan the room and stage, then fire off a string of short messages in rapid succession to unknown numbers. Individuals would stand up without delay, hand on pocket or clutching a folder, and walk up to the mic to ask a question.
When Rebecca noticed the pattern, she reclined as far as she could into the plush back of her seat, and pretended not to be reading over Contessa's shoulder with all the subtle intensity of a military drone. She tried to piece together the fragments but they made no sense. What was '05. Juice. Information desk person emoji.' supposed to mean?
It wasn't until a graduate student asked a question about the "nearly farcical collapse of the supply chain intended to provide relief for the 2011 famine in Chad" following an '11. Logs. Clown face emoji.' from Contessa that things clicked for her.
"Sorry, I know you came here to say that GMOs are evil and spooky," began a blonde girl who had received '95. Pumpkin emoji. Broken heart emoji.'
Affronted, the bespectacled man raised his eyebrows. "Miss, that's not quite an accurate representation of my position."
"I study conspiracy theories for my honors' thesis in sociology, and I wanted to interview you—"
"I'm willing to entertain relevant questions on the topic, perhaps after—"
"Sorry, could you please not interrupt? Thanks, I just need confirmation real quick. This article I found was posted on a GeoCities website in 1995, around... Halloween? I'm using it as one of my primary sources for my thesis on how easily pseudoscience can be used to persuade people of objectively false things."
The man stiffened, his cheeks glowing red under the stage lights.
She made a show of spreading out a stack of print-outs, angling it so the press could see the grainy security footage of a cordoned-off vegetable patch. "Yeah, so, you're the person who wrote that fifty thousand-word blogpost about how being stalked by genetically modified squashes destroyed your marriage."
He cried on camera.
It was like watching a spin doctor operate in real time, with a real scalpel. The initial questions had been softballs involving information that couldn't be quickly proven or disproven, meant to lull the panellists into false comfort. Then the bolder voices came roaring into play, dredging up everything from corporate scandals to personal indiscretions. One representative excused himself mid-session and never came back. The audience's murmuring had long boiled over into outrage.
Rebecca's heart raced her mind. She wasn't sure whether she was thrilled or horrified by the chaos being conducted by the calm staccato of fingers one seat over. She nudged Contessa's arm.
"You're a plant," she whispered at a volume that defeated the point of whispering.
"I'm concerned about plants." Contessa finally locked her phone, squaring it away. "There's a difference."
"Did you dig up dirt on everybody here?"
"What kind of plant would I be if I dug dirt up? You're mixing your metaphors."
In front of them, a young man stepped out into the aisle and walked across the empty stretch of carpet. He addressed the only female scientist on the panel, a black woman in a crisp white coat who Rebecca remembered making some incisive arguments about the merits of biotechnology earlier, smoothly occupying the gap left by her fellow panellist fleeing in humiliation.
"Doctor Sarr," the student said, "I guess—I guess you've convinced me. I don't think anyone has ever contemplated the sheer depth of potential that GMOs represent to the degree that you have. That's not even getting into all the thankless legwork your foundation has been doing for years. You're... honestly, you're a hero."
"That's kind of you to say so," Doctor Sarr said, smiling warmly. Her voice was velvet. "I hope I've earned enough goodwill for you to forgive my confusion. Was there a question in there?"
The audience laughed, releasing some of the tension the panel had built.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Yeah. Sorry. I mean, what do you think we can do today, to make sure research like this goes forward? Is there anything?"
"Absolutely. I would say there are two primary obstacles in my line of work. The first is, of course, funding—those of you who are science majors already understand that."
More laughter.
"The second is public indifference. The powers that be can keep the status quo intact because most people don't understand what we can do, which in turn means there's no interest in seeing it. We need to prove ourselves, and I think you can help us there. This city is considering whether to award a recycling contract to a run-of-the-mill garbage removal company, or to a small waste disposal business that would feed anything collected to a series of bacteria strains created to eat plastic."
She paused to take a sip of water from her glass. "If the program proved to be successful, it could be used as proof of concept. More and more cities could be persuaded to adopt the measure, with the result that less and less non-biodegradable plastic would be dumped into landfills and the oceans. I recommend you contact the city council and let them know your feelings on the subject. In the interest of full disclosure, I must say I've had a hand in the development of those species, and my research foundation would benefit financially if the deal went through."
"Good!" shouted someone, and a few other people clapped.
Another one of Contessa's textees, or a spontaneous expression of feeling? Rebecca couldn't tell anymore. Contessa looked just as cold as before, if not colder, and more tightly wound. Rebecca wanted to hold her hand, maybe offer some reassurance. But she wasn't sure she'd appreciate it.
She directed her attention back to the panel just as it concluded. Most students were leaving, though there were a few pressing forward, presumably to see if they could introduce themselves. Rebecca stood up and threw her hoodie back on, and was surprised to see Contessa hadn't already risen as well.
Instead she lingered, staring across the departing crowd at Doctor Sarr.
Their eyes met for a brief moment. The woman gave her a curt, barely perceptible nod.
Contessa turned away to begin packing up, but Rebecca saw the ghost of a smile flicker over her face.
They loitered in a brightly lit junction between seminar rooms, snacking on the refreshments Contessa had liberated from the buffet table outside the auditorium. The catered tea had been VIP-only until Rebecca ran interference.
"I'm glad I was paying attention," said Rebecca. Her voice was muffled by egg salad sandwich. "If only so I could flatter that guy using his anecdote about teaching underprivileged children how to weave baskets out of banana leaves."
"The way he told it, you would never have guessed that his company mandates the orphanage tour for new employees. It's more hazing than charity," said Contessa. "That was good work, though. He was very taken with you."
"The trick is to compliment the beard first," Rebecca said, stroking her chin sagely. "Like my mom always says, facial hair is fifty percent of a man's self-esteem."
Contessa nibbled at the chocolate icing on an éclair. "I find it more likely she always says you need to separate the light clothes from the darks, but that proverb just isn't as memorable."
"That reminds me, moisturise those kidneys," Rebecca dangled the complimentary water bottle she'd picked up outside along with their goodie bags. "Since you care so much about hydration in front of my mom."
"Are you still bitter about that?"
"Extremely."
Contessa took the bottle from her but didn't drink. She looked more relaxed than she had been, like her shoulders weren't carrying so much.
"Rebecca," she said, "what's your GPA?"
That came out of left field.
"3.7," she replied. She examined Contessa's expression for signs of disdain and, finding none, elaborated, "It's gone down a bit since I picked up a couple of extracurriculars."
"How many?"
"Five."
"All right," Contessa said. "I wish to enlist your aid."
Rebecca's brow furrowed. "...tutoring?"
"No. Neither of us has time or energy for that, and if I did I would spend it studying."
"What do you need, then?"
"I need you to look over my assignments and help me push them to an A. I'm not breaking B+ in a few of my courses."
Rebecca was surprised Contessa struggled in academics, when she'd been so on the ball the past month. Wasn't she a scholarship student? Or was she only receiving financial aid? But there was no wounded pride there, just a frank admission that Rebecca wouldn't say was born of security or humility.
She wouldn't call that a bad thing either.
She chewed on the remains of her sandwich.
"They're all Gen Ed, so you should be fairly familiar with the material, and at least a few of the professors' grading styles. I'll repay you in favours commensurate with the task."
"Nah," said Rebecca.
Contessa nodded like it was a foregone conclusion. "I understand. I'll—"
"No, of course I'll help you out. But you shouldn't feel obligated to pay me back," she said. "Why the formality? We're friends."
She didn't expect the total bewilderment written on Contessa's face in block letters.
When she eventually responded, her voice was reserved, uncomfortable. "I'd... really rather not owe you, Rebecca."
"That's not what I—" Rebecca started. Then she remembered and started bouncing on her heels instead. "If you insist."
Rebecca led her down the winding corridors, arriving at a bulletin board plastered over with posters and announcements. She extricated a flyer from the plastic outbox beside the board and handed it to Contessa, who frowned.
"At the park? The acoustics are going to be terrible."
"It's an amateur production. All of it is going to be terrible," said Rebecca. "Which is why we absolutely need to watch it. I was going to go with a classmate, but she bailed. I still have a friend willing to drive..."
Contessa's frown deepened as she turned the flyer over in her hands. Then she rolled it up and tucked it into the lining of her blazer. "Well, there are worse fates than being sloppy seconds," she said.
Rebecca grinned, hearing nothing but yes.
A/N: The title of this fic is from the poem It Was Like This: You Were Happy by Jane Hirshfield.
Mucho love and thanks to the brilliant maroon_sweater for the invaluable betaing, idea-bouncing and overwhelming support.