by Marie Lu
I wrinkle my nose at the thought of people clawing over canned food, and Metias catches me. “June. Don’t judge like that.”
I erase my expression, feeling guilty. “Do you think we’ll be late for my orientation, then?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve left a message for Drake’s officials already. Let’s hope it’s not a big deal.”
I smile. As we inch along through the slums, I focus on the churning water wheels along the shoreline. The morning sun paints a sheet of gold across the lake’s surface. “After today,” I say, “you’ll have to call me Cadet Iparis.”
Metias can’t help laughing at that. “The whole city’s patrols are murmuring about you, Cadet Iparis—I still can’t believe my baby sister’s officially a Drake University student. How about that?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Now, this doesn’t mean that anything changes. You don’t get any extra privileges. You come home on time. You tell me if you need to stay late for any homework. You definitely are not allowed to hang out with any of your older classmates after school unless it’s something related to class—”
I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue at him. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious, June. You call me if you need anything. Understand? Don’t make me worry about you more than I already do.”
We travel in silence for a moment. “Do you think Mom and Dad would’ve been proud of me?” I say after a while.
Metias looks at me again through the mirror. Even though we’re twelve years, four months, and twenty-three days apart, there’s no doubt that we’re related. We have the same eyes, dark brown with hints of gold, the same dark hair and tanned skin. “Mom and Dad would’ve loved to see you inducted into Drake,” he says quietly. “The whole country is proud of you. I’m proud of you. Very, very proud.”
His approval fills my heart with warmth. I tuck my knees up to my chin and smile. “Love you,” I say.
Metias smiles back at me. “Love you too. Keep at it, Junebug—someday, you’ll shake the Republic to its very core. You’ll be absolutely unforgettable. I know it.”
After a full forty-one minutes, we finally get through the traffic in Lake and speed off through Batalla sector toward the university. Metias hurries me along through the campus grounds. We can hear the music of the morning pledge blaring out across the university, and I know orientation is already under way. I’d read somewhere that Drake takes tardiness very seriously—and if that’s the case, I’m already in trouble on my first day.
All the other students have gathered on the main campus quad for the ceremony, and Metias and I have no choice but to make a bit of an entrance. As the university’s president continues his speech on stage, my brother ushers me toward my seat as quietly as he can, but the irritated looks from professors are obvious. I know what they’re thinking: Maybe the Republic should’ve assigned June and Metias an official guardian instead of letting the older brother raise his sister. Maybe he just can’t handle it.
Metias returns their looks with an apologetic expression. I hold my breath, fighting back a desire to defend my brother. It’s not easy to single-handedly raise a baby sister when Metias is only twenty-four and the captain of a Los Angeles patrol. And it’s even harder to raise a girl like me. But I keep my head down and take a seat near the back. Once Metias sees me properly settled down, he taps his soldier’s cap once in a good-bye salute. “Have a good time,” he whispers to me. “Keep your chin up, don’t be intimidated. And stick up for yourself, like how I taught you. Understand?”
“Don’t worry,” I reply with a smile, even though butterflies are starting to flutter in my stomach.
Metias smiles briefly in return, and then hurries off to the rest of his duties. I’m left to face the university alone.
The orientation is, as expected, boring. I look around and study my new classmates while the speakers drone on. Will any of them want to be friends with me? A familiar sense of hope hits me. The first year I’d skipped was second grade, and since then, I’d skipped three other grades. Each time, I’d hoped that skipping a grade and forcing myself into a class full of new students might give me another chance at making friends. Now I’m in a new school again, and the probability of bonding with some students early in the year should be high. Many of the freshmen must be from outside Los Angeles; they’ll need friends too. I have a shot.
By the time we’ve finished sitting through all of the speeches, it’s nine minutes before 1100 hours, and my stomach has started growling. Beside me, the other students (all at least a year ahead of me, judging from the colors of their uniforms’ stripes, which means I’ve seated myself with the sophomores instead of the freshmen) look unbothered. Maybe older students don’t get hungry so early in the day. I feel a little embarrassed, then try to forget about food. A couple of the students cast smirks and raised eyebrows in my direction, emphasizing the fact that I don’t look like I belong. I stay in my seat, my back straight, and try to remind myself of what Metias said. Keep your chin up, don’t be intimidated.
Orientation finally ends and we all start heading off to our first class of the day. I stay toward the back of a group of students and let my earpiece tune into the campus’s map. The place is huge—at least ten times the size of my high school—and I quickly make note of which buildings the students in my grade level are clustering around. If I get lost on campus today, at least I’ll know which buildings will probably have my classes.
Suddenly, someone shoves me from behind. I stumble forward and barely catch myself before hitting the pavement, but in the process I knock over another student. We both tumble down. “I’m sorry,” I gasp out, scrambling back onto my feet and reaching a hand out to the other girl. She takes it gratefully. But when she sees who pushed us, she just shifts her eyes away and leaves me behind. I frown. When I turn around, I see a boy (sophomore level, judging by the gold stripes running along his uniform’s sleeves, which means he’s at least seventeen years old) with his head thrown back, laughing at the expression on my face. He keeps walking with a group of his friends. “Sorry,” he says as he brushes past me, his shoulder purposely knocking me off balance. “Didn’t see you.”
I bite my lip as snickers rise from those nearby. Only a few actually look at me sympathetically, and when I do meet their eyes, they dart away. Just like the girl I’d helped up. I grit my teeth. It isn’t as if I’m new to teasing, but throughout grade and high school, I knew to let the taunts slide and keep a low profile in order to survive. I became an expert at evasion, and it worked . . . back then. But this isn’t high school—this is Drake University. I already know that I can’t go through Drake’s training by keeping my temper down and taking the punishment. I am officially a soldier-in-training; I’m going to fight for the Republic someday. And even though this boy is easily the same height as my brother, I can’t let him push me around on day one and then expect Drake to see me as a potential officer—especially not with all of these students looking on. I have to start earning my respect today.
Metias’s words come back to me. Stick up for yourself, like how I taught you. He’d started training me early, after I came home one day with a black eye and a gash on my arm.
So instead of letting the boy who pushed me walk right on past, I hurl an insult back at him. “Get some glasses, then. A blind person could’ve seen me walking there.”
The boy looks at me, his eyebrows raised in surprise, the conversation with his friends paused in midair. I swallow hard. Suddenly I wonder if I made the right choice—but it’s too late now.
“You’re that twelve-year-old, aren’t you? June Iparis?” he finally says, his hands in his pockets. The tight smile on his lips reminds me of twisted wire. When I hesitate, he tilts his chin at me. “Well, speak up. Why so shy now?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I reply.
“They did say you were a cocky one, thinking you’re a big shot now that you’ve made it into Drake on account of your family’s money.”
A small crowd of curious s
tudents have gathered around us, and the boy’s gang of friends are making some sort of joke at my expense. I wish my uniform fit better—Drake had hurriedly ordered a uniform tailored to fit me, but it’s still not quite right, and the sleeves bunch loosely around my wrists. I hope it isn’t too noticeable.
“I’m on scholarship,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm, just like how Metias taught me.
“Oh, is that so?” The boy opens his mouth in an expression of mock admiration. “Congratulations, little girl—did they take pity on you because of what happened to your parents? Well, we all know how you really got in. If your last name wasn’t Iparis and your brother didn’t slip a wad of cash to the admin officials, and if they didn’t fake your talents for some sensationalist news, I bet you’d still be sitting in your little grade school chair.”
They’ll say things to provoke you, Metias told me. But don’t let yourself be the first to throw a punch. Don’t let them get the best of you. Not that I’m actually strong enough to take anyone down, of course, but Metias’s words help keep my temper from bubbling over. I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t sound too different from how you must have gotten in,” I say, looking him up and down. His smile wavers—the crowd shifts uneasily, and several laugh at the idea of a twelve-year-old talking back to a six-foot-tall sophomore. “Your hands look too soft to have handled enough weapons over the years, and your buzz cut is too long. That would never pass in an inspection. In order for you to have received your ranking today with such a lazy haircut, I bet your parents paid off some admins.”
The boy’s mouth quivers in irritation. He takes a step toward me and raises a hand. At first it looks like he might hit me, but he probably realizes that would look bad. So instead he tries to push me over. I see his hand coming long before he can do it, and I dodge him effortlessly. It throws him off balance; he stumbles forward a step. I can’t help smiling a little—what a slow soldier. Maybe everything I said was correct; maybe he did bribe his way into the university after all.
He whirls on me. This time, the irritation in his eyes gives way to rage. He lunges for me again—his fist flies toward me. I dance out of the way again. More and more spectators have rushed over to watch (I wonder if this sophomore is known on campus for pushing others around), and as they look on with wide eyes, I dodge a third strike from the boy. This time I whirl around behind his back, and when he flinches, thinking I’m going to strike, he trips over his own feet. He falls onto the pavement and scrapes up one of his cheeks. His friends have stopped laughing, but giggles do come from several of the other onlookers.
The boy hops to his feet and tries again—this time in earnest, his eyes intense with concentration. I duck and roll, then dart to the side, then spin in a circle—all of his intended blows breeze right past me. My confidence starts to rise as some in the crowd watch me with fascination. This isn’t so hard, I think as I tease the boy, hiding behind his back on light feet. If this is all I have to worry about on campus, then—
My confidence distracts me too much. When I’m not careful, the boy finally catches me on my shoulder and sends me tumbling to the ground. I land hard on my back, and all the air in my lungs rushes out in one whoosh. He’s going to hit me again. But before I can dodge my way out of this one, someone comes rushing into our makeshift circle.
“What’s going on here?” a voice barks above me. Instantly the crowd scatters. “Cadets! Back to business, all of you—have you all forgotten the reports against you for tardiness? Get to your classes!”
I wince as I get to my feet. My shoulder feels like it ran right into a brick wall. I suppose it’s not that far off, actually. The person who broke up our fight looks like a young officer, and now she folds her arms and regards both of us.
The boy holds up his hands in defense. “She provoked me. You’ve heard the warnings about this girl before—”
“Yes,” the officer cuts him off, “and responding to a twelve-year-old child’s provocations is truly a sign of a mature sophomore.” The boy flushes at her words. “Get to your dean secretary’s office. You’ll be lucky if you’re not suspended for a week after this.”
The boy does as she says, but not before casting an ugly look in my direction. Good riddance. I don’t even know his name.
I’m about to thank the officer when she cuts me off with a glare. “On your feet and at attention, cadet,” she snaps. I hurry into the stance. The officer puts her hands behind her and sneers at me. “Harion High warned us about you, you know. They said that even though you could handle the coursework at Drake, you might not be mature enough to survive the rest of the university. And it looks like they’re right.”
“But I didn’t even touch him,” I say.
“You were right in the middle of a fight with him,” the officer replies, gesturing around her. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
“No, you didn’t. Did you ever see me strike him?”
A small hint of frustration appears in the officer’s eyes. “Do we really need to debate this, Iparis? An entire crowd of students witnessed the two of you, and I should think that’s plenty of evidence for your secretary to deal with.”
I shake my head. “With all due respect, ma’am, what the other students saw was a sophomore boy who tried over and over again to hit me but failed. They also saw me spend the entire time ducking and dodging. I never put a finger on him. And until that last hit that you saw, he also didn’t lay a finger on me.”
To my pleasant surprise, the officer hesitates for a second. Everything I said does match what she actually saw. I press on. “It can’t be a fight between the two of us if I never even touched him, right?”
She searches my face, and behind her irritated expression lies some small, subtle hint of admiration. Somehow, I’ve managed to impress her. “I’ll let your dean secretary decide what to do with you,” she finally replies, although she doesn’t sound as harsh as she did a second ago. “Her name is Ms. Whitaker, and she’s in Albott Hall. Say what you will in defense of yourself, cadet, but if every day turns out to be like this first day, then Drake just might have to send you right back to high school. I have my eye on you. Understand?”
I mutter a response and head off toward my dean’s building. When I glance over my shoulder, the officer is still standing there, watching me go. She places a call on her earpiece and I wonder if she’s talking about me.
Despite all my pleading, I’m hit with a report for the whole thing. I stare miserably at the gold slip of paper as I sit at the back of my last afternoon class (Republic History 2080–2100), hoping that the students several seats down from me don’t notice. Slapped with a report on my very first day at Drake. Based on my own research about the university, if a student got more than five reports in one year, she would be placed on leave—a nice way of saying that she’d been suspended for the following year and required to attend a series of disciplinary classes at a boot camp. If a student got more than five reports after that, then she’d be expelled. Apparently I’ve given myself a head start on suspension. Metias won’t be happy to hear about this—although I don’t think I can get into that much trouble with him. He’d been the one who wanted me to stand up for myself, right? I’d done nothing wrong. I’d only defended myself. Still, the whole ordeal makes my stomach churn . . . I thought I was being so clever, that doing what I did would leave some sort of impression on my elders, that it would help my standing in the class and put me on a better track to becoming an officer. What was I thinking? Why would the Republic want such a rebellious soldier as one of their officers? At this rate, I’ll be lucky to make it through my first year without getting suspended, and I’m sure I’ll run into that boy again. What do I do next time?
“Hey,” somebody whispers from the row behind me. “Kid.” I turn around. It’s a girl with two long braids tied back into a bun behind her head.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“I saw what you did out there in the quad today.” She smiles. “Nice job. I didn’t think
I’d ever see a twelve-year-old get the better of someone like Patrick Stanson.”
Her words lift my mood a little, and despite my report, I sit up straighter in my chair and smile back. “Thanks,” I reply. “I don’t think Drake will want to see me doing that again, though.”
“Are you kidding?” The girl laughs and nudges her friend. “You heard it was posted in the classroom, right?” Her friend nods.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Rumor has it that your name’s been added to the class Intermediate Defense 231. Some people saw it on their updated attendance rosters in their course tablets.” She waits for a second, as if to see my reaction, but when I just continue staring blankly at her, she sighs and makes a circular gesture with one hand. “Intermediate Defense. You know that class is only for sophomores, right?”
I blink. Only for sophomores. Had the young officer who’d sent me off to my dean secretary put in a word for me? Had she actually seen something in me, something I’d been trying to put on display? I think back to that hint of admiration on her face, her hesitation at scolding me in the end. Maybe what I did was a good idea after all. I smile in the darkness of the classroom. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I tell the girl gratefully. “Otherwise I’m pretty sure I would’ve gone to the wrong lecture hall tomorrow.”
The class ends—the professor dismisses us, and the girl’s friends all rise and start making their way out of their aisle. The girl looks at me again and shrugs. “No problem,” she says with a smile. Before I can reply, she utters a quick “Bye!” and scurries off to join her group. I watch her go for a second.
My happiness fades. I’m grateful to her for the moment of friendship, but a moment isn’t friendship . . . and as I adjust my own bag across my shoulders and head into the hall, I come to the slow realization that this might never change. I’m twelve years old. Everyone else in my class is at least sixteen. No matter how nice some of them are to me, who’s going to want a twelve-year-old tagging along with them? What could I possibly talk with them about? What would I have in common with any of them? I don’t have anything in common with them, I admit to myself as I step back into the glare of the afternoon sun. And when all’s said and done, I’m pretty sure I will be spending the next four years alone.
