Gattaca Meets Black Swan
by Melissa Rose Rogers
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Japeth smiles at me across the table. I order beef pho, and he orders pork. The black ceiling hides the air-conditioning ductwork but makes the room claustrophobic. With the red walls, I feel like a bull with a flag waving in front of it. The calm from my shower is gone.
“What’s bothering you?” Japeth says, redirecting my gaze from my steaming bowl.
“Those darn fouettés,” I lie.
“If it’s something else, you know you can trust me.” Japeth pauses blowing on his spoon. The aroma of the star anise, ginger, and fish sauce wafts toward me.
“I know,” is all I manage to get out.
“How about you come back to my place after this and we talk? It’ll be more relaxed.”
The last time we went back to his place, we hooked up. I hate hooking up with someone I work with but, against my better judgment, I find myself agreeing.
* * *
At Japeth’s place, he passes me another hard cider. The cool liquid fills my mouth, but I still feel hollow.
“I’m gonna need a ride home.” I laugh, but it sounds empty.
“You could stay.” Japeth’s eyes sparkle in the soft lighting. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I know it’s not the fouettés. It’s what’s making your fouettés off-kilter.”
Something snaps in me, probably on account of the hard cider, and I can’t resist telling him. A little voice inside me says the truth will set me free. “Okay. I’m worried because someone told me a League inspector will be watching us.”
“You’re worried about the League? You don’t juice.”
“I don’t like them sniffing around.”
“No one likes them.” He sips his drink.
“I can trust you,” I begin.
“Of course.” He takes another sip.
“Well, I’m genetically enhanced.”
Japeth about spits out his drink. “That’s illegal.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“How did your parents even find a doctor?”
“It’s not illegal everywhere.”
“You’re a fake then? Serge calls you Fonteyn; maybe you’re her clone.” Suspicion and betrayal fill his eyes.
“No. All of my genes are my own. They just manipulated the DNA to make the best possible me.”
“Why?” He gulps down the rest of his bottle.
“My brother has a heart condition. They didn’t want that for me.” I, too, chug the rest of my drink.
“No wonder you’re nervous.” He laughs without joy.
“What should I do?”
“I don’t know,” Japeth says. Suddenly he’s much closer to me. “I always thought you were good, but now I know why.” He runs a finger down my cheek. The betrayal in his eyes softens. “Thank you for telling me.” Again, it’s probably the alcohol fueling this.
* * *
Today was the technical rehearsal. I’m exhausted. Part of me was nervous for a few days after Julia’s prediction, but we never did see an investigator. I’ve gone through several pairs of shoes since then.
“Good job, everyone,” Serge says. “Go home. Drink lots of water. Get some rest. I need your absolute best for the dress rehearsal tomorrow.”
He looks like he’s about to continue his pep talk, but stares behind us toward the back of the studio. Curious, I turn, as do many of the other dancers.
A gaunt man in a beige suit with an attaché case approaches.
“Can I help you?” Serge asks, his voice tinged with annoyance.
“My name is Isaac Kaftan and I’m here from the LPD. Per regulation guidelines, I need samples from five dancers.” He’s much slimmer than I expected; no wonder lifting Julia injured him. His hair is slicked like a mobster’s and his complexion sallow; something weaselly about him churns my stomach. Julia seems to be the only one happy to see him.
League guidelines limit the number of dancers allowed to be tested at one time. Supposedly it’s due to expense and negotiations from the collective bargaining agreement among the various ballet corps, but I think they assume most dancers are taking something and don’t want to cripple a company all at once.
Isaac shows Serge his identification and surveys us coldly.
Serge crosses his arms and the vein in the middle of his forehead pops up. “Opening night is two days from now. My dancers are all tired after the technical rehearsal and need rest.”
“I’m aware,” Isaac says. “Per guidelines, tonight was chosen so as to not cause needless inconvenience. Please be reminded that, at my discretion, I am able to choose hours before a performance.”
Serge opens his mouth as if to argue, but then shuts it. The League may sanction a corps master for perceived obstruction or noncompliance.
Isaac turns back to all forty of us dancers.
“You,” Isaac says, pointing to a male soloist, who steps forward. I swallow. My pulse pounds in my temples.
“You,” he says, pointing behind me to a female dancer.
Don’t act suspicious, I think, looking at my shoes. It doesn’t work. Isaac points to me. I can’t process what he’s saying anymore. He points to someone else, but my panic engulfs me; I can’t register who he’s selected. I can hardly breathe. The room is spinning. He selects one last dancer before opening his attaché and pulling out laboratory sample cups with neon orange lids.
“Relieve yourselves into these. Urine samples must reach the sixty millilitre line. If you cannot provide a large enough sample, let me know, and I will seal your partial sample. You will be required to provide more until it is an adequate amount. I really hope you can pee, or it’ll be a long night.
“Refusal to provide a sample will be submitted to the Adjudication Committee, and they may choose to view it as a positive test. At this juncture, that would mean six weeks of ineligibility, during which time you will not be able to perform or make any media appearances for which you will receive compensation, and a fine will be assessed by the Adjudication Committee.
“Per guidelines, I’m required to inform you that all samples will be held for up to ten years and may be re-analyzed at any time in case advances are made in detection technology.”
He motions us toward the men’s locker room. Serge leads the way, and we five dancers follow, clutching our sealed sample cups. Even though the layout is almost identical to the women’s locker room — except for urinals replacing a couple of toilets — it’s weird entering this forbidden territory.
I sit on a toilet and break the cup’s seal. My hands shake as I move to collect the urine. When I pull back the cup, there’s a reddish tint to it: I’m on my period. That’s when it feels like the earth has opened up to swallow me. Urine doesn’t make for the best DNA samples.
I’ve been nervous in the past about being tested, but I’ve not been on my period. I can’t give this sample: if — no, when — they test for genetic engineering, my parents could go to jail and my career will be over. Nothing about me is botched, there are no off-target effects from the changes but, with advances in DNA cleavage detection, it’s like the tape that used to splice celluloid cinema film reels together — visible up close, but not noticeable on the big screen. My face tingles as sweat drips down my spine. I close my eyes trying to think of what to do.
That’s when Serge starts laying into Isaac. Through the gap in the stall, I see Isaac isn’t looking. This is my chance, I think.
“Pssst,” I hiss at the stall next to mine. “I don’t have enough of a sample. We’re all tired. I don’t want to be here late. Help me out?”
The reply is a firm “No,” before that toilet flushes and the stall door clangs.
I have to refuse: I can’t give them evidence. I pour out the sample into the toilet, wipe, and flush.
I hand Isaac the empty sample cup. “I can’t do it.”
He sighs. “Go drink water. Somebody always has to stretch this out.”
“No, I’m refusing to give the sample.” I swallow.
Serge sucks in sharply, his face pinching together. “You can’t do this to me,” he shouts. “Opening night is in two days.”
“I’m really sorry.” I sound phony.
“You know the consequences,” Isaac says. “Fill out this paperwork for Adjudication to review. They may consider this a positive result requiring sanction.”
Nodding, I take it.
“Get out!” Serge points toward the door.
“Bring back the paperwork, or they’ll demand to see you in person,” Isaac says.
I scurry out to find Japeth waiting.
“You okay?”
“No. I refused to give the sample,” I say.
“What? Why?” The pitch of his voice goes up, and he clutches his head.
“I’m on my period,” I say in a low voice. “They can’t have a sample with my blood in it.”
“Did you even think about how this affects me?” He leans against the wall, nostrils flaring, hands trembling.
“I’m sorry. I know this is bad, but it’s one season. If they knew what you know, it would ruin my life.”
“You’re ruining my life. Serge will give our roles to understudies. What about next time? Will you ruin that, too?”
One of the other dancers exits the locker room.
I step closer lowering my voice and fighting back tears. “No. I promise. I’m going to switch to birth control that stops periods so this won’t happen again.”
Japeth punches the wall, not hard enough to hurt himself, but enough to startle me. I run away. In the lobby, the poster for Swan Lake catches my eye. My hand hovers over the paper.
Protecting my parents and my career may have just cost me my partner, my friend.
Copyright © 2020 by Melissa Rose Rogers
