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  at me, at us," Edna said. "Like we're going to fall over

  any minute. It's really bad. I don't think I'm going to get

  sick, but... It's like people are afraid to touch me."

  "I know," Letitia said.

  "Why is that?" Edna said, voice trembling.

  "I don't know," Letitia said. Edna just stood before her,

  hands limp.

  "Was it our fault?" she asked.

  "No. You know that."

  'Please tell me."

  "Tell you what'?"

  "What we can do to make it right."

  Letitia looked at her for a moment, and then extended her

  arms, took her by the shoulders, drew her closer, and hugged

  her. "Remember," she said.

  Five days before graduation, Letitia asked Rutger if she

  could give a speech at the ceremonies. Rutger sat behind his

  desk, folded his hands, and said, "Why?"

  "Because there are some things nobody's saying," Letitia

  told him. "And they should be said. If nobody else will say

  them, then..." She swallowed hard. "Maybe I can."

  He regarded her dubiously for a moment. "You really

  think there's something important that you can say?"

  She faced him down. Nodded.

  "Write the speech," he said. "Show it to me."

  She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. He read it

  carefully, shook his head--she thought at first in denial--and

  then handed it back to her.

  Waiting in the wings to go on stage, Letitia Blakely

  listened to the low murmur of the young crowd in the auditorium.

  She avoided the spot near the curtain.

  Rutger acted as master of ceremonies. The proceedings

  were somber, low-energy. She began to feel as if she were

  making a terrible mistake. She was too young to say these

  things; it would sound horribly awkward, even childish.

  Rutger made his opening remarks, then introduced her and

  motioned for her to come on stage. Letitia deliberately walked

  through the spot near the curtain, paused briefly, closed her eyes

  and took a deep breath, as if to infuse herself with whatever

  remained there of Reena. She walked past Miss Darcy, who

  seemed to glare at her.

  Her throat seized. She rubbed her neck quickly, blinked at

  the bright lights on the catwalk overhead, tried to see the faces

  beyond the lights. They were just smudges in great darkness.

  She glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw Miss Darcy

  nodding, Go ahead.

  "This has been a bad time for all of us," she began, voice

  high and scratchy. She cleared her throat. "I've lost a lot a

  friends, and so have you. Maybe you've lost sons and daughters.

  I think, even from there, looking at me, you can tell I'm

  not.., designed. I'm natural. I don't have to wonder whether I'll get sick and die. But I..." She cleared her throat again. It

  wasn't getting easier. "I thought someone like me could tell

  you something important.

  "People have made mistakes, bad mistakes. But you are

  not the mistakes. I mean.., they weren't mistaken to make

  you. I can only dream about doing some of the things you'll do.

  Some of you are made to live in space for a long tine, and I

  can't do that. Some of you will think things-I can't, and go

  places I won't.., travel to see the stars. We're different in a lot of ways, but I just thought it was important to tell you..."

  She wasn't following the prepared speech. She couldn't.

  "I love you. I don't care what the others say. We love you. You

  are very important. Please don't forget that. And don't forget

  what it costs us all."

  The silence was complete. She felt like slinking away.

  Instead, she straightened, thanked them, hearing not a word,

  not a restless whisper, then bowed her head from the catwalk

  glare and the interstellar darkness beyond.

  Miss Darcy, stiff and formal, reached her arm out as Letitia

  passed by. They shook hands firmly, and Letitia saw, for the

  first time, that Miss Darcy looked upon her as an equal.

  Letitia stood backstage while the ceremonies continued,

  examining the old wood floor, the curtains, counterweights, and

  flies, the catwalk.

  It seemed very long ago, she had dreamed what she felt

  now, this unspecified love, not for family, not for herself. Love

  for something she could not have known back then; love for

  children not her own, yet hers none the less. Brothers.

  Sisters.

  Family.

  (ebook v1.1 Separated from short story anthology ‘Tangents’, page titles and #s removed, some paragraph formatting added , converted to rtf, quick spell check done)