Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) Read Free Page A

surprisingly well, maybe because the woman looked so comfortable. Her only jewelry was an antique-looking brass key, worn on a black velvet choker. She had ash blonde, salon-perfect hair, but there was something wrong with it, something about the roots.
    Deputy Director Brewer was a foot or so behind her and to the left. He didn’t look pleased. That was nothing new. The deputy director never looked pleased if he had any possible way to avoid it.
    “Hello,” said the woman. She was smiling. That made me nervous. “I’m Dr. Ciara Bloomfield, from Human Resources. I’m here to perform a full evaluation on your team and determine whether there’s anything the ATI Management Bureau can do to help you keep functioning at your best. Is Henrietta Marchen here?”
    She knew I was a seven-oh-nine; it was written all over my files, going back to my birth. It was still nice of her to pretend she couldn’t tell on sight. “I’m Henrietta Marchen,” I said, dropping my half-eaten donut back into the box. “Pleasure.”
    “The pleasure’s all mine,” she said. “Would you like to come with me?”
    No. “Sure,” I said. I cast a reassuring look back at my team, who didn’t look reassured at all, before I followed Ciara out of the bullpen.
    # # #
    We wound up in one of the interrogation rooms. I wondered whether Ciara realized the mirror behind her was a two-way, designed to allow for observation. I decided she had to know. If she was high up enough in Human Resources to be doing employee reviews, she would have encountered this sort of setup before.
    She waited until I was seated before producing a file and setting it on the table between us. “I want you to feel safe in this room. Whatever you say is entirely between us here.”
    Between us, and whoever was on the other side of the glass. I leaned back in my seat and just looked at her. I was aware of how disturbing my appearance could be to people who weren’t used to dealing with me: There’s a reason almost all representations of Snow White add a little color to her skin. “Dead white” is not a shade humans are supposed to come in.
    “Now, Henrietta, according to your file, you prefer to be called ‘Henry.’ Is that correct?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Is there a particular reason?”
    I forced myself not to sigh. “I’ve manifested the coloration associated with my narrative since birth. I’ve never been capable of going outside without sunglasses and high-proof sunscreen. Most of my medical issues in grade school stemmed from my ‘forgetting’ to reapply before recess, because I was trying to be like all the other kids.” The rest of my medical issues in grade school had arisen from the other kids. They had a finely tuned sense of what was right and what was wrong, and when I’d failed to be the Snow White they thought they were entitled to—when I was brash and bossy, instead of meek, sweet, and inclined to bake cookies for everyone in my class—they’d been more than happy to show me the error of my ways. Because nothing says, “gosh, I wish you were nicer” like kicking your classmates in the teeth.
    “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Ciara.
    “I didn’t want to have an old-fashioned name to go with being considered ‘funny looking.’”
    “This didn’t have anything to do with your brother?” Ciara looked at me earnestly. “According to his file, Gerald Marchen started insisting on male pronouns at the age of eight, and was living full time as a male by the age of fourteen. Did you choose a male name for yourself out of solidarity?”
    “Yes,” I said. I didn’t hesitate. I was sure there was something in my file that confirmed exactly that, possibly clipped to a note from my adoptive father, Andrew Briggs, one that went into detail about how I’d perverted and twisted my sister into becoming my brother in my attempt to escape from my story. Mr. Briggs had never been able to cope with the fact that Gerry had always been