The Dead, Chapter 1

	The snug visor and headphones keep everything out, everything except for the fanciful colors and cheer drawn from deep within the magicless box.  Life is best this way, comfortable and secluded, with my increasingly mounting stack of failures safely out of sight and out of mind.
	“Kate, what did I say earlier?” says the intruder.  “I know you're on break but you can't keep laying around all day.  Get off whatever it is you're doing and get downstairs.  I've still got a bunch of things I need to do to get ready and I need your help.”
	Only out of sight.  Goodbye, everyone, be well.  I'll see you later.  And wait for me, my sweet, we'll be together again, soon.
	“Okay, Mom.”
	The soothing exit cadence comes followed by low level static and reverb.  The sublime recedes as the screen goes blank, revealing my darkened, shade drawn room and its soft, eggshell semi-gloss walls.  Reliable, boring normality.  Trying to fill the resulting emptiness with another cookie from the package on my bedside table, but only finding crumbs.
	“I'll never understand why you insist on wasting your time like this,” the woman says, but she isn't interested in hearing an answer.  Yep, she's already turning to leave, but even if she knew there's nothing she'd care to do about it, anyway.  “Now, hurry up.”  The parting remark thrown over her shoulder.
	“Coming, Mom.”
	Rummaging around to find something with fewer wrinkles for today's oh-so-important, once in a lifetime event.  An event of newly discovered importance – only discovered this year, naturally, not earlier when it may have had some relevance.  The smell filling the house making my mouth water and my stomach clench.  The smell of my first proper meal in weeks.  Wait, weeks?  That can't be right.  Something's off.  Doing a slow, counterclockwise spin.  What's this sense of deja vu?
	Sitting back down on the bed.  Cushioned and soft.  So much better than that uncomfortable, splintery wood.  Everything's normal.  The bedroom from my childhood, now converted into a guest room.  Maybe that's the disconnect.  It's familiar, but it's been twisted enough to seem strange.  Trying to shake the feeling and getting back up.  Shouldn't keep her waiting.
	“Finally,” my mother says, “your father just called and said they should be here pretty soon so I need you to hustle.  You need to put out dishes and then there're some decorations that have to go up. Your sister's bringing a few friends so make sure there's enough plates.”
	A few friends.  That probably means three.  Six chairs at the dining room table.  Dad, Mom, her, her friends, and then me, which means there aren't going to be enough chairs.  Okay, good.  A ready-made excuse to grab some food and graciously duck out.  Everyone will be satisfied.  Six place settings.  Six plates, six bowls, six forks, six spoons, six-
	“Kate, what're you doing?”
	Setting the table, what does it look like?
	Not giving that response.  It wasn't a question and she isn't expecting an answer.  At least half of what everyone says is like that.  They're not making conversation, they're producing sounds to get attention, and it's usually a stalling tactic to give the brain time to magic up whatever new nugget of wisdom they simply have to show off.
	“Didn't I say she was bringing friends?  We're not doing it in here.”  My mother gesturing with her half filled wineglass.  “Forget about the plates, focus instead on setting up decorations in the living room.  Make it look nice.”
	“Okay.”
	So much for malicious compliance.  Let's see, the decorations.  Looks like standard fare.  First, the banner.  My hand freezing.  No, don't put that up.  Something bad is going to happen when it goes up.  Hold off on that as long as possible.
	First, the balloons.  A few different colors.  Tape some up here.  Hang some there, and there, and there. Streamers.  Space them out roughly equidistant.  A pinwheel, uh, device.  How does this work?  Maybe put it here.  Anything else in the package? A couple smaller balloons.  Nothing left.  Trying to quell the somersaults in my stomach by doing a circuit around the coffee table.  That's all that's left.  Placing the banner right in the middle.  Happy 16th Birthday!!!
	The pressure of my thumb on the final spot of tape unleashing disaster.  The front door behind me crashing open, causing a caterwauling calamity to enter the house.  An entire horde.  Bip bip bip bip bip.  Snapping selfies and sharing the latest gossip.  Seeping in and staying congealed near the space occupied by the birthday girl's new shoes.  Spreading out with each additional step, but generally remaining in a self contained pool, inward focused and inward focusing, but every so often one of them surreptitiously shooting me a glance.
	How many friends did she invite?
	Behind them, completely overloaded, the man carrying the bags.
	“Dad, you need help?”
	“Yeah, uh, thanks, Kate.  Oh, there was a letter in the box for you.”
	The envelope, pinched between two fingers, extended from a shopping bag laden arm.  Undoubtedly another rejection.  It has to be, right?
	“Daddy,” an upbeat voice chimes, “let me help you with those, too.  Oh, and thank you so much.”
	“Of course, pumpkin, anything for you.  Happy birthday.”
	The girl beaming at him.  At her friends.  “I'll be right back.  C'mon Kate.”
	At least she's in a good mood.  Well, who wouldn't be?  Everyone's been bending over backwards for her since breakfast, and now she's back with a haul from her shopping trip.  Following a couple steps behind and heading to her room.
	“Where do you want me to put this?”
	“Doesn't matter.  Wherever.”  The girl tossing the bags in a heap on her bed before spinning around.  Tone flat and stone faced.  “I thought we agreed you weren't coming to my party.”
	“I hadn't been planning on it, but Mom told me to decorate.  It must be nice, I never realized a sixteenth birthday was so important until you started going on about it.”
	“That's 'cause you don't actually know anything.  And there's no need to be jealous, when you were sixteen you coulda pushed for it, if you wanted one.  I mean, you could've done something like that if you weren't a complete sperg and all your friends weren't imaginary.  If I threw a party and no one came I'd die from embarrassment, but that'd probably just be another day in your life.”
	“I guess-” Tightness clutching my chest and blood thudding in my ears.  “I guess it's a good thing I get to live vicariously through you, then, Ms. Popular.  I hope my being around doesn't embarrass you on your big day.”
	“It won't.”
	“I-” The tenseness easing its grip.  “Well, good.  I never wanted to embarrass you.”
	“No, you don't get it.”  Rolling her eyes.  “I know that's a shock, you not getting something. You're not going to embarrass me today because I'm not gonna let you.  You're gonna stay up here and I'm gonna tell them you're feeling sick.  My friends breathing your air for a couple moments is bad enough, but the absolute last thing I need some frumpy looking lesbo showing up in any of my pictures.”
	Trying to come up with a retort - a counter, an excuse, even an insult – but nothing coming to mind and nothing coming out.  The birthday girl curling her upper lip.
	“And you know why you're gonna do what I say?” she says.
	“Why's that?”  Barely a whisper.
	“Because of that.”  Pointing at the unopened letter in my hand.  “I know you've been lying about all those supposed acceptances you got.  What, you think I don't know where you've been hiding them?  How do you think Mom and Dad are going to react when they find out the only offers you've received don't even have a scholarship attached?”
	She knows about- but, of course she does.  That revelation should be surprising – it seems like it was surprising - but at the moment it seems totally expected.  Normal.  Banal.  As far as the envelope in my hand, it's definitely thin, but for some reason I'm almost positive it's going to be my golden ticket outta here.  Her expression, that curled lip, I never noticed it before before.  She's isn't happy about the prospect of blackmailing me.  It's nothing more than distaste and frustration.
	“I hope it's worth it, these friends of yours.”
	Opening her mouth to reply, but then merely glowering.  Several moments later a couple knocks on the open door signaling our mother's presence.
	“Girls, what's taking so long?  Everyone's waiting for you downstairs.”
	“Coming.”  Light and sweet, the birthday girl's scowl vanishing as if it never was.  “Oh, Kate said she wasn't feeling well and she wants to lay down for a bit.  Right, Kate?”
	“Uh...”
	My input, or lack thereof, as unnecessary as always.
	“No, I don't think so,” my mother immediately says and then gesturing with her refilled wineglass.  “Nice try, Kate, but I'm not going to buy that excuse.  You're not abandoning your sister during her special day just to get back to your games.”
	“Mom, if she says she's not feeling well-”
	“No, sweetie, don't indulge her.  You've made it clear how important today is and we're all going to be here for that.  That's what family's for.”
	“I, th-thanks Mom,” the princess turned frog croaks out.
	Following them again, a few steps behind.
	The anxiety and trepidation that should be raging and swirling during the trip back down the stairs is notably absent.  Even my typical, low level anxiety due to a slew of strangers being in the house is gone.  Instead, the only thing holding my attention is the tantalizing smell of food.  Actual food.  How long's it been?  Weeks.  Weeks of dried, preserved, and somewhat rotten food.  Weeks of an omnipresent, rocking motion.  Weeks of getting splinters from sleeping on the deck with only a thin blanket.  Weeks of cramped quarters and no baths.  Weeks of defecating in a bucket.
	Weeks?  That seems right, but... whatever, it doesn't matter, lemme at the food.
	Oh, right, her friends.  Painted flamingos exuding a fluoride stare from beneath prison bar eyelashes.  Pollen on their cheeks and poisonous centipedes for lips.  The same as before, but different this time.  Utterly unintimidating.  The birthday girl rejoining the stand, hiding her fingertips under the hem of her shirt, knuckles white.
	“Everyone,” she says, “this is my sister, Kate.  She's socially a little, um, but she doesn't mean anything by it.  Apparently she's, like, super smart.  She's graduating college this year and she's already gotten accepted into all sorts of places.  Isn't that right, Kate?  Like that letter you got today, where'd you get into now?”
	This isn't awkward, but I remember that it definitely was.  Huddling at the edge of the room, holding my breath and hiding my eyes.  Trying to be invisible.  Back then she decided to try and punish me for daring to exist within her presence, but that was that time and this is not exactly a repeat.  Read it and weep.
	Tearing open the letter.  A singular page.  Are acceptances this short?  Why was I so certain I'm going to be accepted?  Did I screw up?  Delusional, on top of everything else.
	“Kate?”
	Don't hyperventilate.

Ms. Kathleen Wolfe,
Thank you for expressing your interest in joining our ongoing project at the Institute for the Transcendence of Humanoid Zoology and Interstellar Research.  Based on the documentation that you have provided, we are pleased to announce that you are qualified to be accepted to the Ithzir Academy.  Congratulations.  However, in order to-

	The letter pulled from my hand, mid sentence.  It's an acceptance.  I'm not crazy.  That's a relief.
	The snatchette's eyebrows going up.  “You applied to Ithzir?”  Her eyebrows knitting together.  “You got accepted to Ithzir.”  Relaxing.  “I guess I always figured you for a space cadet.”
	“What's Ithzir?” says one of her friends.
	“You haven't seen the advertising?” says another.  “It's that offworld research colony.  Supposedly they're only accepting the best of the best for the program.”
	“Let me see that letter,” says my mother.  Another snatch and eyeball scan.  “Kate, I'm a little shocked.  I thought you wanted to do graduate work.  Aren't you busy on that project with Professor, um...”
	Professor Sleazebag.  No letter of recommendation and no collaborating credit without performing some extracurriculars.  And he's married, with children.  Doubly a sleaze.  Men are such scum.  He probably wouldn't have held up his end of the bargain.
	“I've had enough school.”
	“But Ithzir?  Are you sure something like this is what you want?  From what this letter says there's a lot you still need to do before you're officially accepted.  It's-”  A sharp intake of breath.  “Kate!  Do you have any idea how much this costs?  There's absolutely no way we can even begin to afford this.  Even if you took out a loan you'd be in debt forever.”
	“How much is it?” asks my father, as he comes over to examine the sheet of paper.  Blanching at the sum.  “That's completely outrageous.  Kate, honey, I completely understand why you may want to hold off on pursuing any more schooling.  If you'd rather get a job, I'm certain your brother could put in a good word for you at his firm, get you in on the ground level.”
	“You really should've taken a few more accounting classes,” my mother unhelpfully adds.  “There's still a semester left, so maybe schedule a couple.  Anyway,” putting her hands together, and managing to crumple the letter while doing so, “we'll talk about this later, because today isn't about you.  We have a birthday to celebrate.”
	Doesn't listen to me.  Doesn't read the letter.  Oh, maybe she read some of the words in some kind of order and gleaned some sort of meaning, but she didn't actually read it.  Not a surprise, right now she's primarily concerned with her favorite daughter's once in a lifetime event.
	“That isn't the cost.”
	“Kate, didn't I just say...?  Listen, I know you may not care about this, but your sister and her friends certainly do.  Okay, you know what, if you want hold off we can have a talk about your attitude.  If that number isn't the cost, then what is it?  It has too many digits to be a postal code.”
	“That's how much they're going to pay me.”
	A pause.  Uncrumpling and smoothing out the letter.  Starting from the top.  A few of my sister's friends fidgeting, their whispers amongst each other muffled in the oppressive atmosphere.  My mother reaching the bottom of the letter, then doing another quick scan.  Giving my father a glance before looking at me.
	“Kate,” she says, “if this is what you want to do, you need to understand that you have a lot of work to do.  This is a huge amount of-”  Pausing, once more.  “Opportunity.  For you.  But you've still got an interview you need to get through just to get accepted, and then you need to meet the standards of the program once you're in.  I'd recommend you start focusing on something a little more relevant to the real world than what you've been doing.  Focus on your issue.  Focus on making a good impression.  Smile more, be friendlier.  I know that's never been your strong suit, but fake it till you make it.”
	That's never really been my issue.
	“Okay.”
	Her finger poking in my direction.  “And you're going to start working on that right now.”
	“Okay.”
	“Good.”  My mother turning to address my silently seething sibling and all her friends.  “I'm sorry you had to witness that little family, um, discussion.”  Bringing her hands together, once again.  “I know!  Let's get the cake.  Kate, I want you to lead the song.”
	The letter handed off to my father to puruse before she leaves the room and returns with a frosted, multi-layered cake.
	“Happy Birthday to You.”
	Not weak and unsure, this time around.
	“Happy Birthday to You.”
	Not staring at the floor, wishing it would swallow me up.
	“Happy Birthday Dear hmmhmm”
	You should look a little happier.  Today's your once-in-a-lifetime, special occasion, after all.  You're even getting the gift that you wanted most.  And that I wanted most.
	“Happy Birthday to You.”
	The candles being blown out.  Yaaay!  Clap clap clap.  Knife slicing into frosting. And slices divvied up.  Waiting for my share, but no plate being offered.
	“No cake for you - or anything else, for that matter - you're going on a diet.”
	“What?”
	“According to that letter there are physical standards you need to meet.  If you're really interested in doing this then you need to start on that.  The last time you played sports was probably ten years ago, and just in the last year you've gained a bunch of weight.”
	“But-”
	“Yeah, you've really been porking up lately,” says my father, prompting snickers.  My sister, across the way, using a finger to turn her nose into a snout.
	“So no food for you,” reiterates my mother, “but you still need to stick around for your sister's birthday.”

***

	A particularly violent lurch interrupting my nightmare.  Two years.  It's been roughly two years since getting that letter, since struggling through the Academy, since getting shipped all the way out here.  It's been four months since I arrived.  Only four?  It feels much longer than that.  Throwing out my arm as another rolling lurch threatened to put my face into the wall for a second time.
	“Kate,” says a voice outside my cell, a voice belonging to the person most responsible for my most immediate distress.  Why's she here?  She should be locked up in her own cell, not outside mine reaching her hand in.  Well, not she, but easier to think of her that way, especially since none of the regular rules seem to apply when she's around.  Shaking off the bad memories and lingering sluggishness.  As bad as things may have turned out, being here as I am is infinitely better than being there as I was.
	“What do you want, Lucy?”