Defective

Riordan Bo was ten years old when he finally began to grasp the concept of his Companion Band. Those words had been said a million times since his birth in Colorado Springs and he had only just begun hating them. It felt less like a band and more like a clock embedded in the inside of his wrist, meant to display a countdown in flickering black numbers, accurate down to the second. One of his friends bragged to him at the top of the slide yesterday about how he only had two more years left, and proceeded to whip out his wrist for all to behold. Other boys in their awed semi-circle cried out in words mixed of jealousy and congratulations.

Riordan turned from the group and pulled up his sleeve to stare down at his own numbers, his face darkening. The grim, ever-present digits gawked back at him, five pairs of dead eyes.

00:00:00:00:00

“Marietta Sykes, you’re next, dear,” the school counselor called into the waiting room. Marietta skittered after her through the office door and perched in a plaid chair opposite another, which the counselor came to occupy. A sigh pushed through the woman’s nostrils as she regarded Marietta.

“Mrs. Meyhue tells me you’re being teased again.”

Marietta lowered her head, blinking at her knobby knees.

“Are those girls still saying mean things to you? About your Companion Band?”

Marietta nodded in small rapid jerks, this Michigan mitten keychain she’d clipped to her shoelaces jostling with the motion. Her eyes remained on her knees.

“I didn’t want to have to say this, but you might need to consider wearing gloves, or even a watch – something to cover it up. I wish I could tell you different, Marietta, but you’ll be graduating from elementary school and going to middle school after the summer. If you don’t do something to prevent the teasing, it will only get worse.”

Marietta brought her wrist up to her eyes, skimming her thumb over the digits. They held no pulse.

00:00:00:00:00

Riordan gazed at his reflection in the remnants of breakfast. The bowl quivered in the hum of the dishwasher against the countertop, and his face was distorted in the rippling milk.

“Mom?” he asked, dumping his dish in the sink. “What happened when your numbers ran out?”

“Hmm?” she replied, her gaze flickering over to him for a second. One hand held a mug of steaming tea and the other cradled her newest obsession – an iPad. “Oh, on my Companion Band? You really must call it what it is, darling, or else you’ll get people confused.” She took a liberal sip of the herbal mixture and sighed dreamily. “They stopped when I first met your father, of course. Don’t they teach you about your Bands in school? They must have by now – you're already thirteen, for goodness sake!”

“Yeah, Mom, they have,” he said. “Did you…did you like any other guys before you met dad? Did you date anyone else?”

A horrified expression overcame her delicate features. “Gracious, no! Riordan, where on earth are you getting these ideas? Companion Bands only come in pairs. I didn’t know what your father looked like or who he was, but I knew when I would meet him. No one dates anymore, Riordan, you know that. We just wait for our Companions, and that’s it.”

“Okay,” he said, but his mind drifted elsewhere. Scratching his wrist, he wandered back to his room to don his soccer gear.

00:00:00:00:00

Marietta sat in the dust that called home to the vacant side stairwell of Vicksburg High School, sniffling and shredding her nose with the rough fabric of her favorite Charlotte Russe hoodie. A garment she never left home without, the thick black sleeves hung past her fingers, shielding her Companion Band from searching eyes. Even the heat wave telling of summer’s arrival hadn’t deterred her from donning it that morning. The cuff, flawless in its sole duty, did not prevent the murmurs and stares, and tokens from elementary school pierced the fabric as if it had never existed.

The door shimmied open and Marietta startled, only settling down when she realized it was her friend Jimmie.

“Oh, Mar, what’s happened this time?” she cooed, taking a seat next to the girl and wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Marietta leaned into the familiar presence and worried the sleeve’s worn hem.

“I was in that stupid career planning workshop with Mr. Whitt. He asked us to write down our goals in life and told us to start thinking about how we might get there and achieve them, or whatever. So I wrote mine down and Darcy, the fathead, was sitting next to me, and she snorted in my ear! She stole my paper and told me to keep dreaming! Then she called me defective and I didn’t want to hear any more of it, so I left.”

“What did you write?”

Mar wrung her wrist and sucked back more tears ready to fall.

“To love,” she whispered, voice trembling, “and be loved in return.”

00:00:00:00:00