Shattered Girls (Broken Dolls Book 2) (3 page)

I don’t got it. I’m not stubborn, I’m just curious. Besides, Gabby’s Modern History class is dull, and so is the teacher. Telling Gabby I’d rather sleep in her bag was easy. Escaping into the corridor proved difficult.

I keep to the shadows and the walls, excited to walk the halls on my own. I hate using Gabby as transport and now with the robot excuse, it won’t be a big deal if I get caught. All I want is freedom.

“Hello, Ella.” A man in a gray cardigan and glasses appears from nowhere.

“Hello,” I squeak. I’ve never felt so small. “You’re not a teacher here.”

He crouches and readjusts his glasses. “I’m not. I’m Devin’s uncle, Chris.”

I glance at him sideways. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

His chuckle is contagious. “Far from it. I work for an important company.”

“How important?” I pick at my plastic nails.

“Important enough. And you… You’ve been getting a lot of attention lately. How does that make you feel?”

“You sound like a psychologist!” I giggle, but he doesn’t respond, so I continue. “Umm, it’s nice to be noticed, I suppose. But I don’t like living a lie.”

Chris pulls a handkerchief from his sleeves and wipes his nose. “A lie? What lie?”

I stop. What am I thinking? I can’t go telling a stranger I’m a human who chose to be a doll. It’s easier if he just believes I’m a robot.

“Ella?” he says when I don’t respond. “What lie?”

“Nothing,” I say. No way would I betray Gabby like this.

He hums an unrecognizable tune. “Ella, do you think I could question your mechanics? It’s quite extraordinary how you operate.”

“Ah, I don’t know about that stuff. They programmed me not to know so I don’t go tugging at a wire or something. I really should leave, Mr. Chris.”

“Pity that! Do you need a lift back to class, little one?”

“No, thank you. I’m exploring.”

He stands and grins. “What a remarkable girl you are. Take care, Ella. I’m sure we will meet again.”

On my tiptoes, I wave goodbye as he exits the school. I smile wistfully and continue down the halls.

What a nice man.

Five Years Later

used to like watching the sunsets on the beach. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my freedom, but it’s not fun anymore. How can it be, when Gabby curls her knees to her chest and sobs for half an hour? Nobody should be sad on their sixteenth birthday.

“Gabby?” I rest my hands on her knee. I can’t believe she’s sixteen. Her cheeks are narrower, her hair is shorter, and her voice is maturing. She tries to make me age with her, but I don’t know why. Every March 31st, she wishes me a Happy Birthday and paints my face to look slightly older. She detaches my limbs and replaces them with longer ones, but I’m probably only an inch taller after five years.

Her phone vibrates in the sand, lighting up her face. She reluctantly answers, hitting loudspeaker so I can listen.

“Maddox?” She croaks. “Everything okay?”

“No. No, it freaking isn’t! Chelsea didn’t come home from school today. Have you seen her?”

Chelsea? I gasp. Maddox’s little sister is a real sweetheart—cheeky, and a little slow, but I like her.

“Holy crap, are you serious? No, I haven’t. Can I do something?”

“No. No, just… look, I know we don’t talk much anymore since that formal
―
”

“—the formal where Wyatt convinced you to make out with me? The formal where you distracted me as Angela threw a bucket of mud on me while Sasha filmed it? The formal that destroyed the dress that belonged to my grandmother? Hmm… nah, that formal doesn’t ring a bell…”

“God, do you have to be such a jerk about everything?! Fine. You know what? Be that way. Just…just let me know if you see her. Please.”

Gabby refuses to respond. I point at the phone to remind her that it’s her turn to speak, just in case she’s silently suffering from memory lapse or something. Instead, she throws the phone as far as she can. It skips along the sand and lands just shy of the tide.

“Well, that was a silly thing to do.” I chase after it. When I reach it, I heave it back to Gabby, the hike long and tedious. Thank goodness I’m a doll because that would’ve been a serious workout. “Don’t throw expensive things around! And don’t just hang up on someone. That’s so rude. You’re the one who just stopped talking to him, remember? You stopped talking to everyone…”

“Go play, Ella.” Gabby sniffs, wiping away tears. “Make up some new choreography.”

“I don’t feel like dancing today.” I climb into her lap when she stretches out her legs. “Just because I’m dressed in a multicolored tutu doesn’t mean I
always
want to dance. I’m allowed days off!”

Gabby doesn’t respond; instead she hiccups and strokes my bun.

“Could we
please
go to Denny’s?” I bat my eyelashes. “It’s your birthday. We need to do something!”

“No.”

“Is it Maddox?”

“It’s… it’s everything, all right? My parental units are too busy to spend time with me. Do they hate me? ‘Cause people totally hate me. It’s like they think I’m this sickie psycho who will infect them. This Typhoid Mary thing, right? Can’t they wake up? The epidemic was all propaganda! It wasn’t as viral as they made it out to be! I’m
cured
, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe the epidemic was the Illuminati trying to control the population, and they’re annoyed they failed,” I try.

“Yeah, and you are a laugh a minute, Ella! Seriously, I can’t deal with that vile disease. You and Grandpa were the only ones who understood me, who cared that I was sick. Now, he’s not even around.” She stares at the waves.

My neck creaks when I look up at her. “The professor still cares about us,” I say sympathetically. “He left to… to, you know, pursue his dreams. And to end sickness. He’s doing a good thing, Gabby. Besides, you have me! I can sit on your desk and learn things at school now. I hated being in that cramped bag and peeking through the pockets. This whole pretending to be a robot thing was a genius idea.”

“If anyone knew you were really human—”

“—they won’t find out.” I pat her thumb. “People just think you have the coolest toy in the world that can help with the homework.”

Gabby cracks a small smile and picks up sand, running it through the gaps in her fingers. “I don’t blame you, you know. They shouldn’t have filmed you.”

I shrug. “I went viral on the internet. It’s every teenager’s dream!”

“But you’re not a teenager…” Gabby mumbles, sweeping her golden hair behind her ear. It’s the same color as the sun’s reflection on the waves. I like it.

I don’t reply. Gabby’s been particularly snappy lately, and I don’t want to aggravate her further. She pushes herself up. “Let’s go. Dinner’s almost on.” She lifts me onto her shoulder, my parrot on a pirate shtick. “It’s Thursday, so I’m guessing spaghetti. Yum!”

“Spaghetti looks messy.”

“That’s half the allure.”

Gabby trudges through the sand, visibly saddened to leave behind the calming waves. I’m not bothered—after all, there’s always tomorrow.

She ungracefully shuffles up the cemented stairs until we hit road. The street is empty, and the stores are closed. It’s amazing how quickly the world shuts down.

“I don’t want to go home.” Gabby kicks a pebble. “Pam and Jason will be going at each other again.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that,” I say quietly, removing my hand to shake out sand from the socket.

“It’s the only way to grab their attention lately.”

“They’re not here right now,” I say, “so you don’t need to do that. They’re your parents; you should treat them as such.”

“And you’re…” Her eyes flash when she turns to me, her frown turning sympathetic. She sighs and shakes her head. “No one’s who they think they are.”

I don’t know what she means. Maybe she’s depressed. I could find some pills in the medicine cabinet. One of them is bound to help.

“Can we walk down Main Street?” I shift uncomfortably when Gabby turns into a dimly lit street.

“Why?”

“Because the TV reported six local girls missing last night. I don’t want you to be number seven.”

Gabby pauses at the intersection. She knows I have a point. Her usual shortcut shaves ten minutes off our walk, but the Main Street route promises lights and people—two things that render darkness less terrifying. Reluctantly, she turns around and continues down Main Street, tucking her hands into her hoodie pockets.

Riding on Gabby’s shoulder is what it must be like for a human to ride an elephant or camel. Her strides are unpredictable and bumpy, so I have to hold onto her ear for balance. No one looks at me. The town is used to Gabby having a “robot” on her shoulder.

We stop at a store window with dozens of dolls smiling blankly at us through their plastic prison boxes.

They spot us and wave, banging on their boxes to get our attention. It’s awful. I know they’re robots just like what I pretend to be, but it’s unsettling to see my own kind like this, waiting to be adopted.

“They’re just toys,” Gabby says. “They’re not human.”

“They
seem
so real.” I gaze deep into the eyes of a chef who looks just like me. Wide, questioning eyes and a coy smile. “These dolls are pretty popular now, aren’t they?”

“The Devil Dolls?”

“They’re not called that.”

“I know they’re not, but let’s face it. They coincided with your video. As soon as people saw you, there was a demand for interactive toys. A couple of years later, and
bam
, they’re for sale. And
still
no hoverboards.”

The racecar driver doll sits down and waggles his feet, defeat written across his face.

“We can’t take you home!” I say apologetically. “You’re too expensive. Plus, I like being the only one!”

“Well, you’re not the only one,” Gabby mutters, pulling away from the store window, muffled “aww’s” coming from the dolls as we leave. “The professor sold his concept to the medical corporations, didn’t he? There could be loads of mini-Ella’s running around while they heal.”

I cringe. “I don’t like being reminded of the past. I was never human, and I was never sick, okay? I’m a doll, and that’s that! Besides, they wouldn’t be
selling
the dolls if they were sick!” Immediately, I feel bad for snapping and resort to changing the subject, clumsily and transparently, the moment she glimpses her reflection out of the corner of her eye. “You know, I don’t think you’ve changed much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re taller and lankier, but you still look the same. It must be nice to grow. You know, like, naturally,” I say.

“It’s not nice at all.” She turns the corner onto a street with only two streetlights. Our street.

“Why isn’t it nice?”

Gabby kicks at the gravel, her trainers wearing at the toe. I can tell she’s unsettled by how still the night is. “Being a kid is fun, and I think being an adult could be all right. It’s just this middle stage. People are confused, mean, and dumb. Plus, boys are all ugly at this age. Their noses get too big for their face or something.”

I giggle, excited that she’s managed to make a joke. Surely depressed people don’t joke. That’s why the comedians on TV are so funny; they’re too happy to be sad. That means Gabby
must
be okay! “Having a big nose means you’ll make lots of money. That’s what the psychic told the man on TV.”