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1. Kirling <figure> Kirling • kirling—(CURL-ing) n. The government-mandated matching of a soul from a former life (foli) to a current life (culi).
Friday, August 24, 236 A.K.—Ashburn, VA
I’m not a bad soul. The mantra plays through my head as I scan my bedroom for items to pack. Not a bad soul. Not a bad soul. It would be easier to believe if not for the constant reminder coating my bedroom walls.
My eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the perpetual swirling of rainbow colors—the mural Mom painted five years ago after finally caving to my pleas. She can read auras, the palette of energy each person emits, which she depicts in one-of-a-kind portraits for her rich and famous clientele. But mine looks nothing like her usual work, and not just because of the sheer scale of it. Normal people have one to two colors in their auras. I have them all.
We don’t know what that means.
Stop thinking about your messed-up aura and focus on packing. What will you need for your visit to the institute? No matter how many times I’ve checked my list, I can’t shake the feeling I’m forgetting something.
Restless fingers twist my long brunette locks as I scan my room, waiting for something to pop out and scream, Take me with you!
I definitely won’t need any of my old art projects—paintings, holograms, luminous tapestries. Not even sure why I still have them except for their one common attribute: The center of each depicts the symbol I dream about each night, a circle with an X inside of it. I don’t know what that means, either, but I bet my past lives do.
Three more days. I clasp my hands together, using my thumbs to draw the familiar crossroads symbol into my palms. Only three days until my mandatory kirling, when these questions and more will be answered. What’s up with my abnormal aura? Who was I in my previous lives? What should I do for a living? Do I have a soulmate? I yank my hands apart, groaning. Or am I a bad soul, destined to leave the institute in handcuffs?
I flop into my hovering desk chair and spin, taking in the walls again. If I’d inherited some of Mom’s artistic talent or my father’s prowess with numbers and computers, my uncertain future wouldn’t keep me up at night. Unlike me, they didn’t need their kirlings to decide what to do for a living. Dad died before I was born, but Mom said several companies recruited him based on his past lives’ successes. He ended up accepting the generous offer from the same government institute I’ll report to this morning.
I wish he still worked there. It would be nice to see a familiar face.
The notification of yesterday’s notable kirlings pops onto my specs, the high-tech glasses Mom gave me at graduation. I place my foot on the floor, coming to a stop. Maybe, just maybe....
“Sivon, are you ready?” Mom calls up. Her footsteps echo off the wooden stairs, accompanied by her whistled rendition of “Happy Birthday.” The serenade sounds more like a funeral dirge than well wishes.
Hurry, before she gets up here.
Brows furrowed, I wave my finger to scroll through the announcements, searching for one name and one name only—Flavinsky.
Please and Please no simultaneously whisper in my head, vying for dominance.
Almost two years have passed since Flavinsky’s expected kirling. Maybe they’ll finally show up today, and I’ll have one less thing to worry about. Not that I want someone else to be Flavinsky. No one wants to learn they’re the most notoriously tragic soul in kirling history. In a perfect world, Flavinsky would never appear on this list again.
I find the Fs.
F1NA7TC—CFO—three lives
F4521F4—Surgeon—five lives
FAR3ZNH—Celebrity Pastry Chef—three lives
FY201O0—Comedian—four lives
No Flavinsky. I pull in a relieved breath, then hold it through the sinking terror. Is that what my unreadable aura means? Am I Flavinsky?
Mom reaches my doorway. To hide my panic, I turn my back to her, but after eighteen years, I should know better. She can see my aura from any angle.
“Whoa. What’s wrong? You’re like a big gray cloud.” Though my colors constantly shift, like the paint on my walls, she can pick up hints to my mood based on their intensity.
I remove my specs and shove them into an outside pocket of my red duffel bag. With sweaty palms, I tug the sides together and zip it shut. “I’m nervous.”
She approaches and hugs me around the waist, plopping her head onto my shoulder. “I get it. Feels like yesterday I was heading to my own kirling.”
Her sage-like scent of kinetic paint will be sorely missed this week. I fill my lungs to lock it inside.
Mom turns me to face her, offering a compassionate smile. “But you’ve looked forward to this for ages.” She jiggles my shoulders. “And finding out who you were in your past lives won’t change who you are, Sivon. You’ll go in my little Indigo and come out my little Indigo.”
“A grayish Indigo, apparently.” I wish my aura were actually indigo blue and that wasn’t just an endearment.
I was too young to remember, but Mom says she started calling me Indigo after teaching me the colors of the rainbow. She was explaining that most people can’t distinguish indigo light from its neighboring blue and violet. “Kinda like how I can’t interpret your many colors. You’re my little Indigo.”
The name stuck, and my aura is still indecipherable. Mom tells me not to worry about it, but how can I not? If my erratic colors mean I’m a bad soul, these could be the last minutes I’ll spend in my bedroom, and the last time I’ll ever see her.
Mom cups my jaw with her terracotta hands, exactly two shades darker than mine. “I see past the haziness to that beautiful heart of yours. And nothing you learn this week will change how much I love you.”
“Aw, I love you, too, Mom.” I wrap my arms around her shoulders, slipping my hands into her soft chestnut curls. “If I hit the jackpot this week, I promise to share my fortune with you.”
She scoffs and pulls back. “I wouldn’t dream of it. The valuts from your former lives are yours to keep. Don’t you think I would’ve had more kids if I wanted a share of their inheritance?”
“I know, I know.” I nudge her with my elbow. “But a brother or sister would’ve been nice.”
“Psh. You have Vivi and Corah. I couldn’t have given you anyone better if I tried.”
I bite my bottom lip to hold back a smile. Vivi, Corah, and I have been practically inseparable since they moved to our neighborhood ten years ago. Their parents became my second parents, and their older brother treated me the same as his twin sisters—like a nuisance.
But Vivi and Corah left to attend the North American Intelligence College two months ago. And my other friends have started their new lives as well. It sucks being the youngest in my class, the last to be kirled.
My heart twinges. It’s finally my turn. If I’m a good soul, like Vivi and Corah, like most people, I’ll leave the institute with my career path and inheritance, maybe even a soulmate.
But something tells me I’m not like most people, and that something is the mural swirling around my room. I lace my fingers together and knead a circle across my left palm, then cross it with a deep X before switching hands.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come into the city with you?” Mom takes my hands to stop my nervous habit. “I can push back my next sitting.”
I force a smile, hating myself for worrying her. “No, no. I’ll be okay.”
This is it, then. I lift my duffel from the bed, taking one last look around before my gaze settles on the walls. Not a bad soul. Not a bad soul.
Mom embraces me, squeezing harder than she has in years. “I love you, Sivon. No matter what.”
I close my eyes and shudder. Maybe not a good soul either.
