Genesis Girl (Blank Slate #1) - Jennifer Bardsley Page 0,8

and still feel normal.

Right now it feels like my scarf is strangling me. I rip it off my neck and gasp for breath.

It took me forever to decide what to wear. Dressing for criminals was not covered in school. I finally settled on a bundled-up number with a scarf, tank top, leather jacket, and my high-heeled boots. With my hat and glasses, I’m almost entirely shrouded in white.

By now we’re in the parking lot of the county jail. “Good luck then, Ms. Blanca.” Alan opens the door for me and nods.

I smile back weakly and step into the light. Heat hits my cheeks, and I feel like I’m on fire. The sunshine is blazing! I can barely see it’s so bright. I stumble a bit as I walk up the path.

Grime, sweat, and desperation; the odors assault me as soon as I enter the precinct. The public waiting area is packed with people, some of them so covered in tattoos that their skin is no longer visible. Most of them stare at video screens coming from their finger-chips. The rest gaze into space, totally wacked out on drugs.

I head straight for the VIP section because Headmaster Russell made some calls before I came over. He knows all the right people. Even though I’m protected by privacy glass, I pull up my scarf anyway. I keep my glasses on too, like I’m an old-time movie star.

But the VIP section isn’t as a great as it sounds. The officer on duty is middle-aged, nondescript, and lumpy in places she shouldn’t be lumpy. She sits at the counter, too engrossed in her palm game to do her job. I hear tinny music emanating from the speakers in her thumbs. She completely ignores me after several minutes of me patiently waiting.

That is her first mistake.

I clear my throat. “I’m here to drop charges against Seth McNeal.”

“Name?” she says, clicking on her palm. She’s got fake purple eyelashes and insolence emanating from every pore.

“Blanca.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t have a last name. I’m a Vestal.”

“Don’t be a wise-ass,” she says.

That was her second mistake.

The officer holds out her hand, trying to scan me.

“I can’t be scanned because I don’t have finger-chips,” I say. “I told you, I’m a Vestal.”

Finally, the officer looks up. “No way.” Then realization dawns as her scan fails. “You’re unreadable!” she blurts, examining me closer. “Show me your wrist.”

I fight to stay composed. I smooth my expression and hold out my left arm, pulling back my sleeve.

She picks up my wrist in her technology infested hands and rubs my platinum cuff. “Oh my God! It’s really you! You’re the Vestal from the picture!”

I withdraw my hand and wipe it on my clean, white jeans. I’ll have the maid bleach them when I get home. This tech-addict never should have touched me.

That is her third mistake.

“4-3-8-5-7-2-9.”

“What?”

“4-3-8-5-7-2-9,” I say again. “Your badge number. I’m memorizing it.”

“What do you need to know my badge number for?”

“I have a responsibility.”

“Huh?”

I look at her right in the eyes. “Technology is no excuse to be rude. I hope you get help for your addiction.”

“What?”

“People matter, not your palm. Now please get me what I need so I can drop the charges against Seth McNeal.”

Paperwork, forms, an old-fashioned pen—she has to hunt them down because I refuse to type. She scrambles, but it’s too late.

Tech-addicts need to be cleaned from the inside out. That’s what Barbelo Nemo wrote. Vestals have a responsibility to avenge all wrongs, especially when our honor is assaulted. When I get home to the manor, I’ll write Headmaster Russell a letter and tell him Officer 4385729 ignored me, called me a “wise-ass,” and touched me without permission. He’ll want to know.

But right now, I need to focus.

The new officer who leads me through the corridors to the jail cells is refreshingly obsequious.

“There’re no cameras in here, Ms. Vestal. And the walls are lined with lead, so you’ll be safe.” The officer pauses and smiles at me shyly. “I’ve never met a Vestal before. My mom told me that they bless people. Is that true?”

“Yes.” I smile. “Would you like to be blessed?”

“If you don’t mind,” the officer asks, sheepishly.

“Of course not. What’s your name?”

“Stanley Francis.”

We are standing at the door to the jail cells. The room is gray and stale.

I look at Stanley full in the face. “Stanley Francis, you have a hard road. In so many ways, it’s difficult being you. But I know that you can do it. You have everything you need to