Perfects

Perfects

A morning always starts as normal. Before seven AM, it's normal for at least one oldie to die before they roll out of bed. It's also normal for at least one baby to be delivered per neighborhood before teeth are brushed and breakfast is warm.

And Sunnyside Retirement Hills was no different. Just like all communities for the old, their 200 or 210 year old citizens were lost daily. But they were made up with by the babies. They were delivered daily by the baby bots. The baby bots were extreamly efficiant. Every single baby was delivered before your eyes trembled open.

Slowly, though, Clara's eyes did flicker open. She felt for her hairbrush, which she kept on the bedstand beside her bed. She groped, her hand slapping the table once, twice, then a desperate third, fourth, fifth time, until she snatched it up in her hand.

She swung her legs over the bed, and bounced over to her mirror, where she uttered a gasp.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no! Why today? How on earth am I going to fix my hair? This is a total mess!"

Clara began to survay the tangled mass on top of her head. "Why didn't mom and dad order me with normal hair? It would make my life ten times easier."

She began to rip through her tangles and snarls, pulling out plenty of hair in the process. She also brushed through every curl and wave. She messed with her part, and tried to remove, once again, the cowlick that fed her bangs into her eye. Then she pulled out a straightener. She pulled it over every inch of her scalp. Then, she brought a hand of water onto her steaming head, flattening every flyaway.

Then she studied herself in the mirrior, and, satisfied, went of to find clothes.

"Clara, you know the rules. No lipstick at the breakfast table."

"Ugh, mom, why do you care? Your ruining my life!" Clara stormed off to wash off her lipstick.

"And take off the heels, while your at it!"

"Mom!"

"Fine, never mind." Eva Jones said in a non-shouting tone.

"Do you think I was to rough on her, Bob?"

"No, Eva. If Lea followed the rules and Hope followed the rules, and now Ace and Sara have taken to them and are only in middle grades, well, Clara should be following the rules."

"Bob, your right."

"I know I am."

Ace and Sara and James all showed up for breakfast, but Clara stayed locked up in her room, ignoring everyone's pleas to come out and eat. Not surprisingly. Every average day in Sunnyside started like this.

It was normal.

Just the way Clara liked it.

School was also perfectly normal. She was doing okay. All eighties, which wasn't perfect, but her parents had ordered a perfect child. One who would get all perfect grades and have perfect manners and be good at everything. Clara could be, she just didn't want to. One thing the programmers didn't think of was that the children had free will. She chose to do bad on tests, chose to lash out, chose to break out of her mold. Who really wanted to be perfect? Because from there, how could you possibly improve?

Math dragged by, and so did Language.

She was happy to get her lunch period. She talked to her friend Emma, and ate her specially programmed meal.

She took a test in the afternoon, on advanced physics, then left to go home. There was just one thing she saw on the board while she took the five minute tram home.

You could be a carrier.

She stared, and read the sign over and over again.

She'd heard of the carriers before. They were practically royalty. Families would pay huge sums of cash to girls, and have them give birth to their child. All the girl did was have the specially programed egg implanted, and spend some months pregnant. Clara thought about it. It didn't take too long to give birth. Only nine months. And the sum. Then she could afford her next year of school on her own.

And they let any girl not yet in the workforce be a carrier. She could have five babies to term before she was even done with her basic schooling. With that money, she could afford five years of secondary schooling. Which made her more likely to get a good job.

It sounded more and more like a good idea.

She got home that afternoon with images of babies floating in her head.

At dinner, Ckara sat there staring at her plate. Ace and Sarah were talking animatedly about a boy in their class who would most likely be stuck with manual labor instead of a job.

Clara tuned them out and instead focused on the dimming of their artificial sun. The dome was pretty, but it didn't have a sun. And only the richest of people could afford a view of the ocean from their homes. Those people were usually the few politicians, the people who ran the world.

All the other people had to deal with places like Sunnyside.

James nudged her. "Clar, are you listening?"

"What?"

"I'm having the end of the potatoes. Do you want any?" he asked.

"No." she said, shaking her head.

She sat there, mushing the potatoes on her plate, before she made up her mind. "I want to be a carrier."

Everyone stopped what they were saying and looked at her.

"Yes, that's right, you heard me correctly."

"But honey," said her mother, "why?"

"The sums, partly. And I might as well do it now well I can. I know there will be amy number of babies for me to carry. Everyone now wants live births instead of those lab births."

"Why would you want to carry someone else's baby, though?" asked her father.

"Because I can." said Clara. "So why not?"

Her mother shook her head. "Go to your room and think this over. I don't want you making the wrong decision and regretting it later."

She stomped into her room, slamming the door.

She was making the right decision. Helping people, making money off it, and also acting out. It was definitly worth it to go through with the transplantation. Then she would be a carrier, and feel like she'd done something with her life. Because what use is there in living if you do nothing for the next generation? She would merely be paying her dues early.

And what point is there in hapiness if you never get to experience pain? she thought bitterly.

She hated this world with it's rounded edges where everything was done for you.

She wanted to do things for herself. Becoming a carrier was the first of them.