The Perfect Outcast

Death means they no longer exist.”
“But what happens to the bodies?”
Miss Rhonda seemed surprised at the question, as if she’d never thought of it before. “Well they—” she broke off, frowning. “The dead bodies are—”
She stood still for a moment, eyebrows knitted, then flashed a smile. “Moving right along,” she dodged, ignoring their confused faces. “Father Sampson, as we know, wanted his world to be free of pain, and this he achieved. Immortality makes conception between men and women impossible but also unnecessary, as he forms life from his ageless serum. As a result, we enjoy the pleasures of intimacy without the inconvenience of pregnancy and childbirth.” The class burst into giggles again.
Miss Rhonda rolled her eyes and went on. “Now, Father Sampson is aware endless life can get dull without variety, so he enjoys being creative with the lives he forms.”
Zelma snorted and whispered, “Especially his women. He molds them twenty years in advance.” The girls around her stifled their laughter.
Miss Rhonda’s eyes snapped to Zelma. “What did you say?”
A long, frigid pause followed, and Alina held her breath. Zelma dropped her eyes.
Miss Rhonda flounced over to Zelma and hovered above her. “Did I hear you say something disrespectful about Father Sampson?” Miss Rhonda’s lips turned white, her willowy figure taut and forbidding.
The cold silence lingered. “Um, no,” Zelma panted, her voice barely audible.
Miss Rhonda circled the desk, her face hard as stone. “Perhaps you’d like to stand and repeat your little joke so the proper punishment can be administered.”
Zelma flushed and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Forgive me.”
Miss Rhonda’s bangles tinkled as she rested her hands on Zelma’s desk. “Mocking Father Sampson is unforgivable,” she hissed. “Say something like that again, and I’ll make certain he hears of it. Maybe that will teach you to watch your words.”
Zelma nodded, her pretty cheeks a bright shade of pink. Miss Rhonda glowered a moment longer, then turned to the class and continued as if no interruption had occurred.
“Look around our room, for example,” she said, waving her hand over the class. “You’ll notice none of us is alike. Skin, hair, and eye color differ. We have tall and short, black and white, blond and brown. Father Sampson is creative with hair color, so occasionally you’ll see a redhead. However, he doesn’t use the same creativity in people as he does in animals. He likes his people to resemble the humans of Carthem, but perfected and beautified.”
Flora’s hand shot up in the air. She spoke before Miss Rhonda could call on her.
“Why doesn’t Father Sampson experiment more with people? I have lots of friends who want a different hair color, like blue or pink. I’ve heard caretakers can give requests for their wards. What if I request one with purple hair?”
The class giggled, but Flora didn’t flinch, showing absolute sincerity. Alina’s face grew warm. She didn’t know caretakers could request how their wards looked.
“First of all,” Miss Rhonda stressed, “it’s unlikely any of you will raise a child. There are thousands of applicants each year, and only a handful are approved. But as a matter of fact, Father Sampson has experimented with people and that’s why he now chooses not to. This happens to be what our lesson is on today. Swipe to page sixteen.”
Panels clicked throughout the room, and Alina grabbed hers with wet palms. She didn’t like the direction of this lesson.
“Around the time each of you were being formed,” Miss Rhonda explained, “Father Sampson was under enormous pressure to produce more variety in babies. So, he decided to experiment. Unfortunately, his first batch went drastically wrong. He repaired the damage as best he could, but one case was severely affected.”
Miss Rhonda glanced at Alina before continuing. “He was unable to alter the serum cells without disfiguring the child, who continues to grow abnormally to this day. He learned a hard lesson and now wishes the case to be known—a reminder of what can go wrong when we desire too much.”
Miss Rhonda didn’t need to say more. She fixed a sharp glare on Alina, and every eye in the classroom followed. Alina went crimson and felt the dreaded lump form in her throat.
This information didn’t surprise her. She suspected something had gone amiss during her commencement. But she’d always hoped to be wrong.
Now everyone in Pria would know. She’d be labeled as Father Sampson’s biggest—and only—error. The heavy disappointment threatened to choke her.

Alina stared at her panel and blinked her eyes. No tears. Not one. If one slips out, the rest will follow.
After biology was history. Could she endure another class? She couldn’t risk stopping at the bathroom—the tears would surely come. If only she could sneak through the back door of the school and run to Jade’s work, into the comfort of her arms.
No, not to Jade. Not about this.
Alina stared blankly at the screen until class ended, then kept her eyes on the ground and fidgeted with her necklace as she walked to history class. She’d walked those hallways enough to know what occupied them: a kaleidoscope of bright fabrics, red lipstick, and designer jeans hugging slim legs and backsides. Musical laughter rang through her ears and voices spoke over each other, trying to be heard. The chatter abated when Alina walked by. Even the smacking of couples kissing ceased as they watched her under plumes of lashes. A few noses wrinkled as if ugliness smelled bad. As if, drenched in their zesty perfumes, they even knew what a bad smell was.
She ducked into the classroom and found her seat, hiding her face as she clicked on her panel. History was her least favorite subject, and as she struggled to focus, she made the mistake of glancing around the room.
She met eyes with Eris, the red-haired beauty Alina once asked to play with, and who hadn’t stopped tormenting her since. At only eight years old, Eris discovered the exhilarating—if temporary—buoyancy that came from sinking another.
The encounter happened on the annual