Little Orphan Amy!
by Amy K
The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2010 Amy Komori. All rights reserved.
Chapter One:
Liz Phair’s Second Album
I still had no real identity, but once we got back from Florida, Mrs. Komori immediately started building a fake one for me. The idea was that as soon as Mrs. Komori could swing it, Amy Komori would become a real live girl, with a Social Security number, a school record and a past. Mr. Komori had been a lawyer, and Mrs. Komori had connections, so she knew what records were needed and what wheels to grease.
The initial discussion—“This is what I’m going to do.”—ended with a debate on whether or not I should go to school in the fall. I was against it; after all, I'd already been and graduated. But Mrs. Komori insisted it'd enable me to create a life. Maybe becoming socialized would help me forge some kind of compromise between my body and my mind. After that, I left it to her.
"Hey, think of the grades you'll make," Emily told me later that night. "You already know all that shit."
“Think of all the stupid things I’ll have to put up with,” I said. “Getting up early, obeying rules, passing tests, eating crappy cafeteria food, making friends, figuring out social cliques.”
“You did all that when you were in school?”
“I tried to. Kinda, I guess.”
“You must’ve been a little kiss-ass. A total brown-noser.”
“I wasn’t. I got in trouble a lot, too.”
“I didn’t. I got away with everything. Therefore, you must also have been stupid.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Bullshitter. You did not get away with everything. You told me about the time you and that girl whatshername got caught leaving school grounds—“
“It’s like when you lost your rod, you totally lost your sense of humor, too.”
“I—“ Damn, it was always so easy for Emily to put me on. I was helpless against her.
Mrs. Komori worked all day, then made dinner for us and spent her evenings doing paperwork at the dining room table. I burned with curiosity as to where she came up with all this information. As far as the system goes, a person is information. Without that, you weren’t a person. I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and asked her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she told me. “In order to do this, I’m having to call in a lot of favors from people and it’s difficult keeping everything straight. So what I’m doing is, I’m using a lot of my own little biographical details. It’s easier for me to remember my own life than make up one up for you. Is… is that okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
What did it matter? I was just shocked an upstanding citizen like Mrs. Komori would do something for my sake that was what you might call "somewhat dodgy." As in "totally fucking illegal in all fifty states, Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands." A big ass federal crime. Not that we were going to use it for outright fraud. Well, I suppose someone could argue that point in criminal court, but we weren’t out to scam little old ladies. Just the United States as a whole. For all intents and purposes, Martin was as dead as Kurt Cobain. Deader, even, because at least Cobain left a musical legacy. All Martin left was a broken lease. So why did Amy Komori have to be his corpse?
I looked over Mrs. Komori’s shoulder at the piles of paper. Reading her neat handwriting, I learned I’d just turned twelve years old and was whip-smart, as Liz Phair might have it. Mrs. Komori apparently started first grade at 5 years old, the little nerd; this meant Amy did, too, and was also a nerd. Based on transposed details from Mrs. Komori’s childhood, I discovered that at Amy's previous school, she took advanced placement classes, was active in both the Glee and Science clubs and the Gifted Program. The only thing Amy’s biography gleaned from my own was her ability to play guitar somewhat as evidenced by her short stint in the school’s mariachi band. That last bit was my singular contribution.
As I read the notes and letters, tragedy entered into it— Amy Komori wasn’t exactly Mrs. Komori’s niece: she was the daughter of some distant relatives, orphaned at a young age. Traffic accident. She’d lived with a series of foster parents until Mrs. Komori learned of her pitiful existence and enfolded her back into the loving embrace of family. What a lucky child.
“What are you gonna tell like your real relatives, Mrs. Komori?” I asked. “I mean, they’ll kinda know you didn’t adopt me from any other branch of Komoris. And even if you did, it went through pretty fu—uh—freakin’ fast.”
“Oh, I’ll figure something out,” she said. “Um… the less you know about this part of it, the better.”
“You want me to…”
“A little privacy, yeah.”
I left the dining room and went back to my room. Somewhere down the hallway, Mrs. Komori was creating me. A girl of paper was forming on that dining room table, and she was me and I was her, and I’d be her flesh and that was that. I'd start back to school in the fall. But first, there was the last month or so of summer, and a lot of things to work out in my head.
Emily knocked and came in. She sat on the corner of my bed and said, “Mom’s pretty busy, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s giving birth to me.”
We both laughed a little at that.
“I’m an orphan, apparently. I’m not sure if I’m adopted or just living with you guys.”
“Well, that makes sense. I mean, no one’s ever going to believe you’re my natural sister. You don’t look anything like me.”
“Well, she’s still gonna have a lot of ‘splainin’ to do, mang,” I said, aping Al Pacino in “Scarface,” which had been on TV the night before.
“Jou don’ worry jour leetle head about that, mang,” Emily teased. She ruffled my hair. “Oh fuck me, what a mop.”
“Lemme introduce jou to… I kinda… wish I did look more like you.”
“Really? Why?”
“I dunno. I don’t wanna open up a whole can of dead worms or anything, but I didn’t date you ‘cause of your brilliant mind.”
“Oh, fuck you. You did so.”
“Okay, that was part of it.”
“’Cause I am a fuckin’ genius. I can do all kinds of maths and scientifical junk.”
I smiled mysteriously and said no more. But it was true. I did kind of wish I looked more like Emily. Maybe we truly could be sisters, then. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I wished I looked like any girl, but there it was.
“You look…” Emily said, and she searched for a suitable adjective. “Well, I don’t want to insult you by saying cute. You’re a really good looking kid, Marty-boy.”
“I look half starved.”
“You’re an orphan. All the coolest orphans look that way. Oliver Twist, Annie… um… that… other one…”
“There is no other one.”
“Yeah, that one!”
The phone was ringing and Emily hopped off the bed to answer it. It was Darla or someone and then I was alone to fend for myself during the long hot dog days before fall and school.