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Andrew Roller Presents
RESURRECTED GOD
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Chapter One
ÒIÕm hoping to be accepted to either Harvard or Yale,Ó the boy said.
ÒYes,Ó Raj answered. He said it mechanically. He was hoping to be
accepted to Oak College. Not exactly the Ôtop tierÕ. Except, actually, he
wasnÕt hoping to be accepted to Oak College, or any other college, for that
matter. Not anymore.
As he walked down the hall to his next class he saw her. Blonde,
perfect, with long hair that seemed to shimmer, as if she were enveloped
in a halo. He saw who she was standing beside, too. Jim Sandford. ÔJim
Sandford of StanfordÕ they called him now. Football scholarship. What
would he do with that Ninth Grade angel standing beside him when he went
to Stanford?
Raj passed them without looking. The perfect couple. He was dying
to look at her but he didnÕt. He already knew she didnÕt like him. HeÕd
tried asking her out but sheÕd said ÔnoÕ; coldly, icily. Now she was
standing with her head, her beautiful blonde head, nestled against JimÕs
chest. Jim had his football jersey on. She was stroking the number: 13.
Raj knew if he glanced at her there would be trouble. Jim had
already told him that if he caught Raj looking at his girl, heÕd Òbeat the
shit out of your Indian ass.Ó Then Jim had added, rubbing it in, ÒLookism
is a form of sexual harassment, you know.Ó
Raj wondered what Jim thought of statutory rape. Jim had just
turned 18, but the angel stroking his chest was still 14.
ÒWhat a joke,Ó Raj thought to himself. He moved to get out of the
way of one of JimÕs football buddies, who was walking quickly down the
hall.
ÒOut of the way, Indian ass,Ó the boy said, and tried to push Raj, but
Raj was too quick, and managed to avoid him.
ÒAll of my life,Ó Raj thought to himself. He walked on, down the
hall. ÒAll of my life IÕve been teased because I supposedly came from
India.Ó
He turned and walked into the classroom. Mr. Trumpet was standing
at the blackboard. He was portly and bald, and gave a new meaning to the
word ÔshortÕ, but he had a voice like a baritone. He arched one eyebrow as
he saw Raj walk in. With a flourish, Mr. Trumpet lifted his short, fat arm
and looked at his wristwatch. Mr. Trumpet liked everyone to be in their
seat and Òready to go,Ó as he put it, when the hallway bell rang, ending the
break.
Raj heard the bell go off outside the classroom door. He moved
between the rows of desks to get to his seat. Mr. Trumpet cleared his
throat.
Sitting down at his desk, Raj heard Mr. Trumpet begin talking. The
lecture was beginning, but Raj still had to get his things out. Quickly Raj
opened his bookbag and yanked out his notebook so he could begin taking
notes. Today Mr. Trumpet was giving a semester review. It was not
uncommon for the semester review to be on the final, according to the
school grapevine. ÒJust study that semester review he gives, and youÕll
cruise,Ó someone had told Raj at lunch.
Digging in his bookbag, Raj was still trying to find a pen when Mr.
Trumpet began reeling off the various points of the previous semester
that he considered to be ÒOf paramount importanceÓ. Raj found a pencil.
He gasped with relief and threw open his notebook. He pressed his pencil
to the paper to write. Then he realized the pencil had no lead. It had
broken off, jostling around in his book bag.
ÒDamn!Ó Raj muttered to himself. Normally he had several pens that
he used to write, but last night heÕd cleaned out his bookbag and forgotten
to put the pens back in. Now he was stuck with some old pencil that had
somehow been left in the bag, its lead broken off, probably a relic from
his days in junior high. Raj looked at the pencil sharpener, by the door to
the classroom. No way was he going to raise his hand and ask to go use
the pencil sharpener. He could just see himself standing there, grinding
away on the sharpener, while everyone stared at him, looking at his curly
black hair and his brown Indian skin. And his zits.
Pretending to write with the pencil, but actually unable to write
anything at all, Raj half-listened to Mr. TrumpetÕs lecture. He let his mind
drift. ÒIndian,Ó Raj thought to himself. ÒAll my life IÕve thought I was an
orphan adopted from India. Hell, IÕve been teased about it practically
every day! But IÕm not from India.Ó
Did he hate his parents? He wasnÕt sure. They were nice enough, but
theyÕd lied to him. Raj had found the paperwork last night, in his dadÕs
small lab in the garage.
ÒIÕm from Egypt,Ó Raj said to himself. ÒEgypt.Ó
During lunch Raj sat down next to a boy with glasses. ÔSmedley,Õ
they called him. A kid from England who carried a pint of liquor in his
back pocket and was prouder of that than the grades he got.
ÒIÕm from Egypt,Ó Raj said to Smedley. The boy was attempting to
cut a soggy pile of pre-formed turkey slices on his cafeteria food tray.
The turkey was coated with artificial beef gravy. SmedleyÕs plastic knife
and fork werenÕt doing a very good job of cutting the turkey.
ÒDamn!Ó Smedley swore. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled
out a pocket knife. He glanced around, to check that the cafeteria monitor
didnÕt see that heÕd brought a knife to school. Then he applied his pocket
knife to the turkey.
ÒHuh?Ó Smedley asked, as he sliced into his turkey.
ÒIÕm from Egypt,Ó Raj said.
ÒOh,Ó Smedley said.
ÒI found my birth paperwork last night. IÕm not from India, after all.
IÕm from Egypt.Ó
ÒOne colonial possession is as good as another,Ó Smedley replied. He
wiped his pocket knife off on his napkin and slipped it back into his
pocket.
ÒYeah,Ó Raj said. He didnÕt bother to tell him the rest. He looked at
his turkey. He picked up his plastic knife and fork and tried cutting it.
Shoe leather would have cut easier.
ÒMind if I borrow your knife?Ó Raj asked Smedley.
ÒSomeone might see,Ó Smedley answered, and kept his knife in his
pocket.
ÒOh. Yeah,Ó Raj said. He felt a sudden rage. He managed to keep it
under control, but it coursed through him, leaving him throbbing. ÒYou
raped my land!Ó he thought to himself. ÒWhoa,Ó a less emotional voice
cautioned. ÒDonÕt get off on this shit.Ó
Raj was walking by the TeacherÕs Lounge when he heard a T.V. He
turned. He wasnÕt allowed to go into the lounge but he stood at the door,
looking in at the T.V.
ÒMeanwhile, in other news, authorities in Egypt have cracked down
on dissidents claiming to--Ó the announcer was saying, when a teacher
reached over and abruptly changed the channel.
ÒHaving healthy babies is our topic today,Ó a pleasant female voice
intoned. Immediately RajÕs mind remembered the blonde, JimÕs girlfriend.
It was rumored that Jim had gotten her pregnant, though it didnÕt show on
her yet.
In disgust, Raj turned away from the door to the TeacherÕs Lounge.
He walked down the hall. ÒI am...Ó Raj said. But he couldnÕt finish the
sentence, even though he was speaking it only in his mind.
Then he tried again: ÒI am King Tut,Ó he said, and immediately he
thought the name sounded a bit ridiculous. HadnÕt Steve Martin made a
song out of King TutÕs name?
Yet that was his name! It was who he was! The paperwork in his
ÒfatherÕsÓ lab proved it. His parents had tried to give him a normal life,
and theyÕd succeeded. His life was normal. Too normal. He was a loser
with no girlfriend hoping to improve his grades so he could be accepted to
Oak College.
But he was something more. He knew that now. He was a clone. He
had been cloned from King Tut. Raj wondered if the blonde would like him
if she knew he was, quite literally, the son of a king.
As he sat in his next class, Raj let his mind brood. The subject was
one that he needed to pull up his grade in if he expected to get into
college: physics. Raj had never been very good at at science.
ÒWhat I really need,Ó Raj thought to himself, not listening to the
teacher at all, Òis a course in property law.Ó HadnÕt he owned Egypt? His
father, King Tut, had owned Egypt. ÒAm I the son of King Tut, or am I King
Tut himself?Ó Raj thought.
Later, in history class, Raj was again pretending to write with his
broken pencil. He thought back to Smedley in the cafeteria and wished
heÕd asked the boy to borrow a pen. The teacher was giving a history
semester review and Raj perked up when the subject of Egypt was covered:
ÒThe pharaohs tried to cheat death,Ó the teacher told the class. ÒIt
didnÕt work, of course. A few half-rotted corpses are all that remain,
today. During their lifetimes, however, each pharaoh was worshipped as
the living embodiment of God. So they had a good life, even if they didnÕt
manage to beat death.Ó
Mild laughter rippled through the class. Someone raised their hand.
ÒTeacher, isnÕt there something like that today? I read about it in
the paper. Cryogenics, I think its called.Ó
ÒFreezing,Ó the teacher answered. ÒYes, a few wealthy, misguided
souls do freeze themselves when they die, in our society. I canÕt imagine
how they would wind up in Heaven, in that condition, all frozen like an ice
cube. And of course, if they go to Hell...Ó
The teacher didnÕt finish her sentence. She didnÕt have to. There
was more laughter.
ÒBut it worked!Ó Raj felt himself yelling, inside his head. He wanted
to jump up and shout to the class. ÒIt worked and IÕm here and I AM King
Tut, by God!Ó
ÒWell, we tried to keep it from you,Ó RajÕs father told him that
night. Raj looked at him. His ÔfatherÕ was shorter than Raj, and he was
sitting crouched in his chair in the garage, as if trying to avoid having to
divulge a dirty secret. He was white, with English and Catholic Irish blood
in his veins. Raj looked at his fatherÕs arms and then at his own. His were
brown, like the dirt King Tut had been dug out of.
ÒHoney, it wasnÕt exactly legal,Ó RajÕs ÔmotherÕ interjected. She
was a small woman with glasses.
ÒI canÕt believe it,Ó was all Raj could bring himself to say, when his
ÔparentsÕ stopped talking and the silence became unbearable.
ÒIt was... an experiment,Ó RajÕs ÔfatherÕ said.
ÒIt worked,Ó Raj answered.
ÒYes,Ó RajÕs father replied. ÒWe didnÕt expect it to, and we planned
to destroy the embryo.Ó
ÒMy God,Ó Raj said. He thought of the blonde at his school, made
pregnant by Jim, who was rumored to be planning an abortion.
30
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