WHAT’S LEFT
OF ME
THE HYBRID CHRONICLES
KAT ZHANG
Dedication
For my mother and father, in thanks for everything they have taught me about life
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Addie and I were born into the same body, our souls’ ghostly fingers entwined before we gasped our very first breath. Our earliest years together were also our happiest. Then came the worries—the tightness around our parents’ mouths, the frowns lining our kindergarten teacher’s forehead, the question everyone whispered when they thought we couldn’t hear.
Why aren’t they settling?
Settling.
We tried to form the word in our five-year-old mouth, tasting it on our tongue.
Set—Tull—Ling.
We knew what it meant. Kind of. It meant one of us was supposed to take control. It meant the other was supposed to fade away. I know now that it means much, much more than that. But at five, Addie and I were still naive, still oblivious.
The varnish of innocence began wearing away by first grade. Our gray-haired guidance counselor made the first scratch.
“You know, dearies, settling isn’t scary,” she’d say as we watched her thin, lipstick-reddened mouth. “It might seem like it now, but it happens to everyone. The recessive soul, whichever one of you it is, will simply . . . go to sleep.”
She never mentioned who she thought would survive, but she didn’t need to. By first grade, everyone believed Addie had been born the dominant soul. She could move us left when I wanted to go right, refuse to open her mouth when I wanted to eat, cry No when I wanted so desperately to say Yes. She could do it all with so little effort, and as time passed, I grew ever weaker while her control increased.
But I could still force my way through at times—and I did. When Mom asked about our day, I pulled together all my strength to tell her my version of things. When we played hide-and-seek, I made us duck behind the hedges instead of run for home base. At eight, I jerked us while bringing Dad his coffee. The burns left scars on our hands.
The more my strength waned, the fiercer I scrabbled to hold on, lashing out in any way I could, trying to convince myself I wasn’t going to disappear. Addie hated me for it. I couldn’t help myself. I remembered the freedom I used to have—never complete, of course, but I remembered when I could ask our mother for a drink of water, for a kiss when we fell, for a hug.
Addie shouted whenever we fought.
And for a long time, I believed that someday, I would.
We saw our first specialist at six. Specialists who were a lot pushier than the guidance counselor. Specialists who did their little tests, asked their little questions, and charged their not-so-little fees. By the time our younger brothers reached settling age, Addie and I had been through two therapists and four types of medication, all trying to do what nature should have already done: Get rid of the recessive soul.
Get rid of me.
Our parents were so relieved when my outbursts began disappearing, when the doctors came back with positive reports in their hands. They tried to keep it concealed, but we heard the sighed Finallys outside our door hours after they’d kissed us good night. For years, we’d been the thorn of the neighborhood, the dirty little secret that wasn’t so secret. The girls who just wouldn’t settle.
Nobody knew how in the middle of the night, Addie let me come out and walk around our bedroom with the last of my strength, touching the cold windowpanes and crying my own tears.
she’d whispered then. And I knew she really was, despite everything she’d said before. But that didn’t change anything.
I was terrified. I was eleven years old, and though I’d been told my entire short life that it was only natural for the recessive soul to fade away, I didn’t want to go. I wanted twenty thousand more sunrises, three thousand more hot summer days at the pool. I wanted to know what it was like to have a first kiss. The other recessives were lucky to have disappeared at four or five. They knew less.
Maybe that’s why things turned out the way they did. I wanted life too badly. I refused to let go. I didn’t completely fade away.
My motor controls vanished, yes, but I remained, trapped in our head. Watching, listening, but paralyzed.
Nobody but Addie and I knew, and Addie wasn’t about to tell. By this time, we knew what awaited kids who never settled, who became hybrids. Our head was filled with images of the institutions where they were squirreled away—never to return.
Eventually, the doctors gave us a clean bill of health. The guidance counselor bid us good-bye with a pleased little smile. Our parents were ecstatic. They packed everything up and moved us four hours away to a new state, a new neighborhood. One where no one knew who we were. Where we could be more than That Family With The Strange Little Girl.
I remember seeing our new home for the first time, looking over our little brother’s head and through his car window at the tiny, off-white house with the dark-shingled roof. Lyle cried at the sight of it, so old and shabby, the garden rampant with weeds. In the frenzy of our parents calming him down and unloading the moving truck and lugging in suitcases, Addie and I had been left alone for a moment—given a minute to just stand in the winter cold and breathe in the sharp air.
After so many years, things were finally the way they were supposed to be. Our parents could look other people in the eye again. Lyle could be around Addie in public again. We joined a seventh-grade class that didn’t know about all the years we’d spent huddled at our desk, wishing we could disappear.
They could be a normal family, with normal worries. They could be happy.
They.
They didn’t realize it wasn’t they at all. It was still us.
I was still there.
“Addie and Eva, Eva and Addie,” Mom used to sing when we were little, picking us up and swinging us through the air. “My little girls.”
Now when we helped make dinner, Dad only asked, “Addie, what would you like tonight?”
No one used my name anymore. It wasn’t Addie and Eva, Eva and Addie. It was just Addie, Addie, Addie.
One little girl, not two.
One
The end-of-school bell blasted everyone from their seats. People loosened their ties, slapped shut books, shoved folders and pencils into backpacks. A buzz of conversation nearly drowned out the teacher as she yelled reminders about tomorrow’s field trip. Addie was almost out the door when I said
Addie said, pushi
ng her way through the hall. Our history teacher always gave us looks like she knew the secret in our head, pinching her lips and frowning at us when she thought we weren’t watching. Maybe I was just being paranoid. But maybe not. Still, doing poorly in her class would only bring more trouble.
The school rang with noise—lockers slamming, people laughing—but I heard Addie’s voice perfectly in the quiet space linking our minds. There, it was peaceful for now, though I could feel the start of Addie’s irritation like a dark splash in the corner.
“Addie!” someone shouted, and Addie half-turned. “Addie—wait up!”
We’d been so lost in our argument we hadn’t even noticed the girl chasing after us. It was Hally Mullan, one hand pushing up her glasses, the other trying to wrap a hair tie around her dark curls. She shoved past a tight-knit group of students before making it to our side with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Addie groaned, but silently, so that only I could hear.
“You’re a really fast walker,” Hally said and smiled as if she and Addie were friends.
Addie shrugged. “I didn’t know you were following me.”
Hally’s smile didn’t dim. But then, she was the kind of person who laughed in the face of a hurricane. In another body, another life, she wouldn’t have been stuck chasing after someone like us in the hallway. She was too pretty for that, with those long eyelashes and olive skin, and too quick to laugh. But there was a difference written into her face, into the set of her cheekbones and the slant of her nose. This only added to the strangeness about her, an aura that broadcasted Not Quite Right. Addie had always stayed away. We had enough problems pretending to be normal.
There was no easy way to avoid Hally now, though. She fell into step beside us, her book bag slung over one shoulder. “So, excited about the field trip?”
“Not really,” Addie said.
“Me neither,” Hally said cheerfully. “Are you busy today?”
“Kind of,” Addie said. She managed to keep our voice bland despite Hally’s dogged high spirits, but our fingers tugged at the bottom of our blouse. It had fit at the beginning of the year, when we’d bought all new uniforms for high school, but we’d grown taller since then. Our parents hadn’t noticed, not with—well, not with everything that was happening with Lyle—and we hadn’t said anything.
“Want to come over?” Hally said.
Addie’s smile was strained. As far as we knew, Hally had never asked anyone over. Most likely, no one would go. Aloud, Addie said, “Can’t. I’ve got to babysit.”
“For the Woodards?” Hally asked. “Rob and Lucy?”
“Robby and Will and Lucy,” Addie said. “But yeah, the Woodards.”
Hally’s dimples deepened. “I love those kids. They use the pool in my neighborhood all the time. Can I come?”
Addie hesitated. “I don’t know if their parents would like that.”
“Are they still there when you arrive?” Hally said, and when Addie nodded, added, “We can ask, then, right?”
Addie said, and I knew I ought to agree. But Hally kept smiling and smiling, even when I knew the expression on our face was getting less and less friendly.
I said instead.
Addie had her friends, and I, at very least, had Addie. Hally seemed to have no one at all.
“I don’t expect to get paid or anything, of course,” Hally was saying now. “I’ll just come keep you company, you know?”
I said.
“Well . . .” Addie said.
“Great!” Hally grabbed our hand and didn’t seem to notice Addie flinch in surprise. “I have so much to talk to you about.”
The TV was blaring when Addie opened the Woodards’ front door, Hally following close behind. Mr. Woodard grabbed his briefcase and keys when he saw us. “Kids are in the living room, Addie.” He hurried out the door, saying over his shoulder as he went, “Call if you need anything.”
“This is Hally Mul—” Addie tried to say, but he was already gone, leaving us alone with Hally in the foyer.
“He didn’t even notice me,” Hally said.
Addie rolled her eyes. “I guess I’m not surprised. He’s always like that.”
We’d been babysitting Will, Robby, and Lucy for a while now—even before Mom had reduced her hours at work to care for Lyle—but Mr. Woodard still had moments when he forgot Addie’s name. Our parents weren’t the only ones in town with too much work and too little time.
The living room TV was tuned to a cartoon featuring a pink rabbit and two rather enormous mice. Lyle used to watch the same thing when he was younger, but at ten, he claimed to have outgrown it.
Apparently seven-year-olds were still allowed to watch cartoons, though, because Lucy lay on the carpet, her legs waving back and forth. Her little brother sat beside her, equally engrossed.
“He’s Will right now,” Lucy said without turning around. The cartoon ended, replaced by a public service announcement, and Addie looked away. We’d seen enough PSAs. At the old hospital we’d gone to, they’d played them on a loop—endless rounds of good-looking men and women with friendly voices and nice smiles reminding us to always be on the lookout for hybrids hiding somewhere, pretending to be normal. People who’d escaped hospitalization. People like Addie and me.
Just call the number on the screen, they always said, displaying perfect white teeth. Just one call, for the safety of your children, your family, your country.
They never said exactly what would happen after that call, but I guess they didn’t need to. Everyone already knew. Hybrids were too unstable to just leave alone, so calls usually led to investigations, which sometimes led to raids. We’d only ever seen one on the news or in the videos they showed us in Government class, but it was more than enough.
Will jumped up and headed for us, casting a confused and rather suspicious glance at Hally. She smiled at him.
“Hi, Will.” She dropped into a squat despite her skirt. We’d gone straight to the Woodards’ from school, not even stopping to change out of our uniforms. “I’m Hally. Do you remember me?”
Lucy finally looked away from the television screen. She frowned. “I remember you. My mom says—”
Will jerked on the bottom of our skirt and cut Lucy off before she could finish. “We’re hungry.”
“They’re not really,” Lucy said. “I just gave them a cookie. They want another one.” She climbed to her feet, revealing the box of cookies she’d been hiding from view. “Are you going to play with us?” she asked Hally.
Hally smiled at her. “I’m here to help babysit.”
“Who? Will and Robby?” Lucy said. “They don’t need two people.” She stared at us, daring someone to say that she, at seven, still needed a babysitter.
“Hally’s here to keep me company,” Addie said quickly. She picked Will up, and he wrapped his arms around our neck, setting his tiny chin on our shoulder. His baby-fine hair tickled our cheek.
Hally grinned and wiggled her fingers at him. “How old are you now, Will?”
Will hid his face.
“Three and a half,” Addie said. “They should be settling in a year or so.” She readjusted Will in our arms and forced a smile onto our face. “Isn’t that right, Will? Are you going to settle soon?”
“He’s Robby now,” Lucy said. She’d grabbed her box of cookies again and munched on one as she spoke.
Everyone looked at the little boy. He reached toward his sister, oblivious to our scrutiny.
I said. I’d always been better at differentiating between Robby and Will, even if Addie denied it. Maybe it was because I didn’t have to focus on moving our body or speaking to other people. I could simply watch and listen and notice all the t
iny little ticks that marked one soul from the other.
“Robby?” Addie said.
The toddler wriggled again, and Addie set him down. He ran over to his sister. Lucy dangled what remained of her cookie in front of his face.
“No!” he said. “We don’t want that one. We want a new one.”
Lucy stuck her tongue out at him. “Will would’ve taken it.”
“Would not!” he cried.
“Would too. Right, Will?”
Robby’s face screwed up. “No.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Lucy said.
I said.
To my surprise, Hally got there before we did, plucking a cookie from the box and dropping it into Robby’s outstretched hands.
“There.” She crouched down again, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Is that better?”
Robby blinked. His eyes shifted between Hally and his new prize. Then he grinned shyly and bit into the cookie, crumbs cascading down his shirt.
“Say thank you,” Lucy told him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“No problem,” Hally said. She smiled. “Do you like chocolate chip? I do. They’re my favorite.”
A small nod. Even Robby was a little subdued around strangers. He took another bite of his cookie.
“And what about Will?” Hally said. “What kind of cookies does he like?”
Robby gave a sort of half shrug, then said softly, “Same kind as me.”
Hally’s voice was even quieter when she spoke again. “Would you miss him, Robby? If Will went away?”
“How about we go into the kitchen?” Addie jerked the box of cookies from Lucy’s hand, inciting a cry of outrage. “Come on, Lucy—don’t let Robby eat that in the living room. Your mom will kill me if you get crumbs on the rug.”
Addie grabbed Robby’s hand, pulling him away from Hally. But she didn’t do it fast enough. Robby had time to turn. He had time to look at Hally, still crouching there on the ground, and whisper, “Yes.”
Two