The Lost Girl (11 page)

“I’ll ask. Thanks.”

He turns for the door, then stops and looks back. “Who are you?”

“Amarra.” He doesn’t look satisfied. Hesitating, I add: “An echo of Amarra.”

“Is she there?”

It’s almost funny. Is she here? As though my body is a house and everyone is knocking. They want to know if she’s home.

“I am,” I answer, and let him make of that what he will.

He nods. “Good night.”

The door shuts behind him. My shoulders drop. I realize how stiff, how tense they have been all evening. There’s a stabbing ache between my shoulder blades. I relax now that I am alone. Now I can take off the mask. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again.

I face the room squarely, taking in every stark detail of the life a girl has lost. It’s a funny sort of word to use at a time like this,
lost
. You lose your keys. Your phone. Your favorite shoes. And often you find those things again, days or weeks later, under the sofa or buried in the back of a closet. But it isn’t quite the same for a lost life. A lost girl. Can you find
those
things again?

Everything—from the clothes strewn on the bed to the photographs on the desk to the books on the shelves—breathes of somebody else’s world. Where has she gone? Her clothes are here, her ancient teddy bear, her computer. Nothing has been touched. The room smells of a girl, but it’s not me. She wore something with a soft mango scent. If I listen, I can almost hear her voice. On the phone with Sonya or Jaya. Brushing Sasha’s hair. Giggling with Ray on the bed, shushing him so her parents won’t hear them. Where is she?

By the time I’m finished unpacking, there are two nearly identical sets of clothes in the room. I’ll have to pack her things up and put them away in the back of the closet. I can see why they let me bring my own things. The thought of wearing her actual clothes is sickening. The thought of making this room my own, of using her money and sleeping by her teddy bear, is appalling. How do other echoes stand this?

But I don’t have a choice. I promised to be Amarra for Mina Ma, and I will. I’ll do my best. But I don’t want Eva to disappear.

Over the next few days, the family and I circle one another, feeling our way in the dark. Only Alisha acts no different from how she would otherwise. She seems frenzied, joyous, filled with the kind of thrill you must only feel when you find something you were afraid you’d lost forever. I watch her when she isn’t looking. Does she
really
believe she sees Amarra when she looks in my eyes?

Nikhil doesn’t say much to me. He is not unfriendly, simply content to keep his distance. From what I have learned of him, I know he’s wise for his age. He can see me exactly as I am. I will have to earn his trust.

Sasha is different. Her world is uncomplicated. Once her shyness wears off, she’s the one who crawls onto my lap and asks me to braid her hair; she throws roasted peppers at me when her parents aren’t looking; she sits beside me, inching closer and closer, while I watch telly.
No, TV.
I have to start saying that now. I think Sasha knows I am not her sister, but she accepts me as I am: I am just another person she now lives with. She is the only one with whom I can be Eva and not be caught doing so. She laughs at my vocabulary. She loves the word
mint
, which I teach her to use in the context of something wonderful, and she goes around telling people they look
minty
. She is the one thing that is not difficult in this new world.

When I have been in Bangalore a week, Neil has a question for me over dinner.

“How do you feel about going to school on Monday?”

I feel no pressure from him. He’s encouraging me to go but is giving me the option to say no. Everybody else at the table, except Sasha, goes still.

“Neil, give her time to adjust,” Alisha protests. “The accident was hugely traumatic! And she must still feel disoriented in the new body—”

“If she needs time, she only has to ask,” he says reasonably, carefully avoiding confronting her about the “new body” part. “But you know Amarra’s friends have been asking after her.”

I look at him, horrified. My stomach tightens painfully. School. Her friends. I gulp.
Ray.

The fear grates on me. I didn’t come here to be a coward. I came here to be convincing. I made a promise to Mina Ma that I’d do my best. I have to do everything Amarra would have done, and she would have been dying to see her friends again. She would have longed to see Ray.

So I say just the opposite of what I really want to do. “I’m okay,” I tell Alisha. “I want to see everyone. I’ll go to school.”

4
Illusion

W
e walk to the bus stop together, Nikhil, Sasha, and I. With each step, I feel a little sicker, my schoolbag heavier.

I’ve got a ham sandwich in my bag, a packet of crisps (
chips
, I have to remember to call them chips like they do here), a chocolate bar, a copy of Amarra’s schedule, and the books that seemed to fit the lessons she has on Monday. I am prepared but not prepared. I don’t know what to expect. What if they take one look at me and, like Neil, realize I’m a fake?

The only difference is that Neil knows Amarra’s echo exists. Her friends don’t. They’ll have no reason to question who I am.

Unless I make a mistake.

“It’s a private school,” says Nikhil, quite out of the blue. His voice is mild. “International. It’s quite small, about five hundred kids. So everyone knows who everyone else is, you know?”

Great. That’s all I need. To
not
be anonymous. But I appreciate the warning.

“You’ll be in the high school bit. Your classroom door is supposed to be yellow, but I think it’s more like the color of puke. The watercooler by the football field’s always broken, so don’t try using it ’cause Amarra always knew it was broken and used the one in the high school courtyard instead.” He hesitates. “You probably know most things already. But I just thought there might be stuff you never learned.”

“I never knew about the watercooler,” I say softly. “Thank you.”

He will never look at me and see Amarra. I understand that he’s telling me so. Nikhil reminds me of Sean, not physically, but in that sense of a boy older than his years. The comparison is so painful I have to turn away.

When I’ve recovered, I smile at him. He either doesn’t see it or pretends he hasn’t. I mention the heat. I’ve never known heat like this.

“Nik,” says Sasha, “will you play the swinging game with me?”

“Yeah, sure, Sash.”

Nikhil holds out a hand, and Sasha grabs it. She reaches with her other hand for one of mine. She hangs off our arms, giggling and kicking her legs up. I laugh in spite of myself, and a furtive grin flickers across Nikhil’s face, and this is how we arrive at the bus stop.

The trip on the bus is less stressful than I expected. It gives me more time to brace myself for our arrival at school. I know one of Amarra’s best friends, Jaya, is on the same bus, but she doesn’t turn up. I’d recognize her if I saw her. Straight haired and friendly, the kindest of them. Then there’s Sonya, who hates her nose, is loud, and has a temper. Responsible for that messy haircut. Then there are a few other names that often cropped up in her journal pages. And Ray, of course.

I close my eyes and let the humid air through the bus window hit my face. Air is not like this in England, so heavy and warm and salty. The city passes by in dust, concrete, and trees. I watch vendors hawking their wares by the roadside. Corn on the cob, green mangoes, coconuts, fat gooseberries wrapped in newspaper and spiced with lime and chili powder. As each thing passes me by, my tongue tingles, tasting the phantom flavors.

I’ve never been to school. I don’t know how I am going to figure out the classroom politics or get used to the atmosphere. I wish I had a road map or how-to book.

Suddenly it’s as if Sean is sitting right beside me, his jean-clad knees braced up against the seat in front of us, his eyes twinkling.

“Ask me nicely,” he says, “and maybe I’ll write a play about it. It would sell out in hours, don’t you think? Gripping things, how-to guides.”

I turn my head back to the window, tears prickling my eyes. I reach blindly for the bracelet clasped around my wrist. Shells woven together. Touching it makes me feel better.

When we get to school, I move as though I’m in a trance, following pictures in my head. It’s a simple enough campus to find your way around. It’s pretty, with its courtyards and trees and an open green soccer field. The grass is overgrown, stamped down by all the feet that have run there. Over the field, sparrows arc through the air and disappear into the sky. I watch enviously. If you fly fast and far enough, is it possible to vanish forever?

I find my way to the high school, a courtyard of its own surrounded by classrooms, a stairway leading up to an open terrace. There’s so much light and color.

There are people around my age everywhere, chattering, laughing, vanishing in and out of classrooms, frantically scribbling last night’s homework. My hands are clammy, and sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I glance at the faces around me, recognizing several from photographs.

“Amarra!”

I stop in my tracks and turn.

“You’re back,” says a boy standing a few feet behind me. “We thought it’d be a while longer before we saw you, the way your mother was going on about your injuries. You look okay, no scars or anything. Feel all right?”

I nod.

“Cool,” he says. “Glad you’re okay.” He turns back to his friends, most of whom are glowering at him.

“Can’t believe you mentioned injuries and scars,” someone hisses. “Seriously?”

The first boy is bewildered. “What?”

A girl, rummaging through her schoolbag on the ground, glances up. She has thick, wavy hair and beady, birdlike brown eyes. She’s pretty in a sturdy, snub-nosed way. “You are tactful as always, Sam,” she says. Her voice is high and clear. “Tact
bleeds
out of you.”

“Says you,” one of the other boys scoffs good-naturedly. “You wouldn’t know tact if it bit you.”

“Was it
me
who accosted the poor girl first thing in the morning?
I’ve
got better manners than that, unlike
some
people—cough, Sam, cough. As if anyone would bombard somebody so early. I can’t even process basic math before lunchtime.”

I slip away. I flip through my memories to find their names. The boy is Sam.
Samir
. The girl?
Lekha
. I remember now. She sat in class photos with her chin in her hands. She has the brightest eyes, like there is always something to laugh about. Neither one featured much in Amarra’s journal pages, but it’s a small class and they all know one another.

Nikhil’s tip about the yellowish door helps. I take a shaky breath and go in. Of the twenty-three people I know are in this class, most have settled down already. I brace myself for instant discovery.

Instead, a girl approaches me, pointy-faced and sharp-eyed. “Hey,” she says. She’s trying to be gentle, but her voice is loud. I wince, convinced it will draw everybody’s attention. “You recognize me, don’t you?”

What an odd question. My heart skips uneasily. Does she know?

“Sonya,” I say.

“Yay!” she says happily, tucking her arm in mine. “I
knew
it’d be fine.” I stare at her, brow tense, and she explains, “Oh, your mom told us. You know? About the head injury? She said you’ve been having trouble remembering stuff, so to be gentle with you. But I knew you couldn’t have, like, forgotten
us
.” She tightens her grip on my arm. Her lip trembles. “I cried so much when I heard. You’re okay, right?”

Incredibly, Alisha has given me room for mistakes, diminished my chances of exposure. Amarra’s acting different? Blame it on her head injury. Amarra can’t remember something big? It’s that memory problem.

I clear my throat, trying to find a suitably Amarra-like reply. All I can come up with is “Oh, sure. I’ll be fine.”

I’m doing a poor job. I struggle to pull myself together, to regain my wits and force myself to get used to lying.

“Come on,” says Sonya. “You should sit down, rest. Your mom will kill me if you collapse or something.”

We slip into their usual places at the back of the classroom. The seating’s not assigned, but people pick their favorite spots and stay there most of the year. I spot pencil scribbles on Amarra’s desk, notes between Sonya, Amarra, and Jaya—and there, scratched into the wood at the edge of the desk, the names
AMARRA
and
RAY
with a slightly demented-looking heart scratched in between.

I swallow. She was just a girl who did sweet, silly normal things like scratch her boyfriend’s name into wood. Then she went away, and none of these people who loved her know that she never came back.

I’m lucky. I don’t have to speak much. Sonya does most of it for me. She flings books onto her desk, chattering nonstop. “Have you seen Ray? He looks rotten. Serves him right—I mean, seriously, he could have killed you! You haven’t talked to him, have you? Your mom told me she didn’t want anyone disturbing you while you recovered, so I guess that includes Ray. She’s not happy with him right now. He’s a dumbass. Is your cell still broken? I’m sick of calling the house.”

Cell?
It throws me for a split-second before I remember. Cell phone. All my guardians called it the British
mobile
.

“I think I’m getting a new phone sometime this week.”

“Good. Do you know how weird it is not being able to talk to you for hours every evening?”

I try to hide my alarm. “God, I know,” I say. I rub my clammy palms on my knees. I could give myself away at any second. Head injuries don’t make someone’s skin almost a different color, for a start—a life in another climate does. Amarra’s accent was never hugely different from mine, but her speech pattern was more like Sonya’s. I’m not sure my tongue wants to work its way around the word
dumbass
.

Sonya is still chirping on. “Amarra, you and I need to have a serious talk about this almost-getting-yourself-killed hoopla. I don’t want to get all mushy, but I really, really hate the world without you, so could you kindly refrain from doing it ever again?”

The words stick in my throat, but I make myself say them. “Okay,” I say, forcing a twisted grin. “I promise.”

Sonya makes me “pinkie promise.” I comply, my jaw aching from biting back the urge to be sick all over her. I pull myself together. I
have
to do this.

“Ray’s not sitting with us,” Sonya pipes up, a little too loudly. “That was weird. He stood at the door staring at you, like he couldn’t believe you were actually here. Then he made this funny face and went and sat in the middle.” It takes all my willpower, but I don’t look around for him. “Does he think you’re pissed off about the accident? Or is he doing his angst thing and blaming himself? I won’t be surprised if he makes like a tortured vampire and tells you he’s too dangerous for you.” Before I can reply, she straightens slightly. “Damn, she’s here.”

A teacher walks in. Mrs. Singh, all bones and elbows and sour faced. She’s in charge of the eleventh grade, and she also teaches English Literature. Very few people like her. According to Amarra, she’s too strict and she has a twisted sense of humor.

Everybody falls silent and settles into their places. Mrs. Singh opens her class register. As she runs through the names, she makes the odd dry remark, including casting serious doubt on Sonya’s claim that Jaya is sick today. When she gets to Amarra’s name, she sniffs and says, “Oh. I see you’ve recovered, Amarra. How nice to have you back,” in a tone that doesn’t sound like she takes pleasure in seeing any of us.

I suppose I should be grateful. If she knew what I was, she might have followed my name with “Well, children, I’m sure you’ve noticed Amarra’s echo by now. Remember, we must try to treat her like we did dear, departed Amarra and not like the unnatural life-stealing stain upon our world that she is. Is that clear?”

At the sound of my name, a black-haired boy two rows ahead of us stiffens. He turns his head to look back at me, then turns quickly forward again as our eyes meet. I catch a glimpse of his profile—flawless like marble; gorgeous.

Ray.

Why did he go sit there? I wipe my damp palms on my skirt, wishing I could see into his head, work out what he’s thinking. I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t come straight to Amarra, hug her, hold her. Unless he knows that I am not the girl he loved.

I swallow hard, trying to make my heart slow down. It isn’t necessarily
that
. He could just be hunched up there blaming himself for the accident, like Sonya thinks he is, convincing himself Amarra’s better off without him. Sonya seems to think Ray capable of such tortured angst.

“Enough dawdling,” says Mrs. Singh, banging her register closed. “Anyone doing economics needs to be out of here in one minute. Mr. Fernandes isn’t in school, so you’ll have the class upstairs with a sub. Literature students, stay where you are—Karan, pull your trousers up this instant. I won’t stand for this nonsense of wearing one’s trousers below one’s bottom.”

“I have stupid economics,” says Sonya to me. “Will you be okay?”

I nod. She collects her things and disappears with half the class. I study Amarra’s schedule, memorizing it. She had three different lessons on Mondays. Double English Lit, then a break, followed by double geography, lunch, two free periods, and a single slot of English language. I know what she had been learning before she died. I learned it too.

I search Amarra’s bag until I find
Macbeth
and
Wuthering Heights
, her notebook, and her locker keys, which will give me access to everything else. The rest of the class, the ones still here, go through a similar ritual. I take note of the way they tuck their hair behind their ears or slouch in their chairs. Their conversations drift around me.

“Did you manage to finish chapter six?”

“I couldn’t be bothered. It’s such a stupid book. I mean, it’s not like anybody acts like this is real life—”

“It’s meant to be
gothic
, you idiot, you know, like Keats—”

“Personally”—I recognize the owner of this voice. Lekha, bright-eyed and wise-voiced—“I think you’re being absolute Palestines about this. Don’t you have any sense of Victorian culture at all?”

“Did you just call me a country?”

“No, I called you a person with no sense of culture.”

“No, you called me a Palestine. That’s a country.”

“Is it really?” says Lekha, sounding fascinated. “How odd. I always thought the country was called Philistine.”

I smother a giggle in spite of myself. Then, from two rows ahead of me, I hear: “Why is she sitting by herself, do you think?”