by Katie French
“Attention, residents,” a tin voice blares from the speaker above us. “All R.P. girls must report to their common room immediately for further instructions. I repeat, all R.P. girls must report to their common room at this time. Floor Nannies, please report to your assigned stations. Thank you.”
The voice cuts off. Nanny Bell and I are left in silence. I pull back and wipe my face. Bell hits the button and the elevator starts moving again. She punches the number five, my floor, with her finger.
“Do you know what this is about?” I ask, trying to see my reflection in the elevator’s brushed metal walls. My face is red and blotchy.
Bell shakes her head. “Haven’t heard. A lockdown drill?”
The elevator dings and the doors pull back. I stride toward the doors and the bright white light of my floor, but Bell’s hand around my wrist stops me. When I turn, she begins a message in sign language, her fingers dancing inside my palm. I struggle to decipher it.
Tell. She pauses to make sure I understand. I nod, and she continues. No one.
She’s right. If the girls or the staff find out, I’ll be lower than useless. I’ll be prey.
Before I can look into her face for comfort, she strides around me and toward the common room, barking at girls going this way and that. Nanny Bell is as strict as they come with everyone but me.
I stand in the open elevator doors until they shut and spring angrily back open when I stick my arm out. My eyes travel down the sterile white hallway toward the noisy common room. I’ve been instructed to go, but my legs won’t move. This day’s been too much.
I take a deep breath and step out of the elevator.
Something hits me on my right shoulder, throwing me forward. I stumble and almost fall. Staggering up, I turn around and wish I hadn’t.
Two feet from me stands the most frightening man I’ve ever seen. His bleached blond hair is long and wild like the mane of a lion. His tan skin looks like a leather bag that’s seen too many years. Blue marks that trace his cheeks in jagged semicircles must be old tattoos, though I’ve never seen anyone marked like that. I know at once he’s not one of us. He’s an outsider.
His lips pull back in a sneer as he sees my fear, revealing gaping holes where most of his teeth should be. The five or six left are sharpened to crude points. His clothes are worn, dirty, and reek of sweat and a spicy herb I’ve never smelled before. The scent is as overpowering as his appearance, and my hand jumps to cover my mouth and nose before I know what I’m doing.
His sneer curls up higher, and he chuckles. He loves that I’m shocked. He’s eating up my fear and wanting seconds.
When I don’t move, his impatience grows. He nods to the left. “Outta the way, Breeder. Got precious cargo comin’ through.”
I don’t like his tone, but I manage to shuffle my frozen frame sideways. He gives a tug to the leather thong he’s been holding in his brown fist, and a girl trips forward.
A girl my age with dead eyes and a dog collar around her throat.
Chapter 3
Janine
I stare at the girl’s face. At the collar. I’ve never seen a more pathetic creature in my sixteen years. The collar should be bad enough, and belonging to this horrible man has to be a fate worse than death, but the bruises and slowly healing scars paint a picture that is more gruesome yet. My eyes travel over the purple skin under her eye, a jagged scar on her neck, a burn mark on her bare bicep. My eyes travel down her tanned flesh to her tattered clothing, skimpy and hardly hiding the bits and pieces this man sells to whoever will pay at the night bazaar.
Her eyes lock onto mine.
The look isn’t desperate, or pleading. It’s more vacant than that. Like she isn’t seeing me. Or, she is, but I’m nothing. I’m a potted plant, a piece of furniture.
The wild man tugs the leather leash, and the girl starts forward. They move past me and toward the common room, leaving me behind in my horror.
I want to scream—to run.
A nanny comes around the corner and points a finger at me. “You. D Hall girl. Get in the common room. Now.”
I do as I’m told. My legs can still work.
The common room is a wall of noise and movement when I get there. All the tattered couches and tables have been shoved to the side. Nannies and orderlies have set up rows and rows of chairs all facing the front of the room. The projector screen is rolled up. No horrible production videos on contagion or the joy of motherhood this time. Why are we here?
An arm is waving at me in the crowd. Sabrina, my roommate, flags me over. Her head, decorated with a big, pink bow today, towers over the rest of the girls in her row. She’s in the back, a habit she formed after many, many complaints of not being able to see past her six-foot-one, two-hundred-pound frame. I scoot by two pregnant girls in their fifth month, before finding the seat Sabrina saved for me.
“So, my bet is a public flogging for Dr. Merriweather,” she says, nodding toward the empty space up front. “What’s yours?”
I try to think of something to say. The horror of seeing that girl still clings to me. “I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Try,” Sabrina says, straightening her precious pink bow tied around her scalp. “Otherwise, this is no fun.”
This is no fun, I think. “Oh, I don’t know. A play Nanny Tracy wrote about the joy of menstruation.”
Her almond-shaped eyes lift with glee. “Oh yes.” She lightly claps her hands and then adopts her Nanny Tracy voice. “‘Girls, your period is your friend. Say it with me: men-stru-ation. Now give your sanitary napkins a hug.’”
I smile, letting Sabrina’s lightness float me for a moment.
When the outsider walks in with the leashed girl in tow, all the conversation is sucked out of the room.
Eyes lock on the slump-shouldered, hollow-eyed girl on the leash. Sabrina’s hand clasps my wrist.
It’s horrible, isn’t it? I want to scream. It’s horrible and we should help her.
I say nothing and sign help into my lap over and over.
Dr. Bashees walks in, a crisp figure in pristine white. He reminds me of a celebrity from before. Though he’s in his mid-fifties, his figure is trim and strong in his tailored, white suit. His tie is the only bit of color he wears, a splash of red so vivid it looks like a drop of blood on a white tablecloth. Today, and every time I’ve ever seen him, his shoulder-length black hair is combed back over his ears and his black goatee is full but shapely. His appearance screams confidence, power, but also a casual privilege. He can take anything he wants from anyone. Especially us.
His polished black shoes click on the tile as he walks toward the wild man and his slave. It’s a study in opposites, Dr. Bashees and this outsider. Though I wonder how different they are on the inside. Both of them are used to putting women on parade.
It’s a dangerous thought, and my skin crawls as it flits through my head. Speaking out about Dr. Bashees would definitely get you put out. Besides, the girls here love him. The girls, of course, who don’t know what I know. What Nanny Bell has taught me.
“Ladies,” Dr. Bashees says, holding out his hands for silence he already has. “We have visitors today. Please give Mr.…” Dr. Bashees looks at the wild man, asking for his name with his eyes.
“They call me Rukus.” He nods and his lion’s mane ripples.
“Rukus.” Dr. Bashees’ mouth quirks. “Please give Mr. Rukus and his…guest your utmost attention. What he has to tell you may be a matter of life and death.”
When Dr. Bashees clicks away and gives Rukus the floor, my insides go cold. I do not want to hear what this man has to say, not today, not ever.
“Hello, ladies,” he says, smirking. “I’m Rukus, and this here’s Dancer.”
He tugs the girl forward. Her body twitches as she steps toward the first row of girls. They lean back as if slavery were catching. Dancer doesn’t seem to see them.
“Dancer used to have a name, used to have a fancy life. She used to be one of you,” he says, his
pointed teeth flashing. “Tell them,” he says twitching the leash.
Her words come out robotic and monotone. “I used to be a Breeder girl. I used to live here. I had a room on B Hall.” When she points a finger out the open common room door, I realize I know her. Not her sunken face, or the sunbaked skin, but if I look past the wildness and the dirt, I remember her. She was older than me and above me with her B Hall status. But if she was B Hall, that means she was a producer. She had babies that lived. Why was she put out?
“I didn’t follow the rules. Dr. Bashees and the nannies tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.” Now her voice has gone whisper quiet. She stops, and Rukus yanks her leash.
“Tell ‘em what your life is like now,” he says, unable to contain his awful smile.
She lifts eyes that are flooded with tears. Eyes that finally see us, see what she used to be, what she used to have. “Now I… Now I…” She drops her head, shakes it. A ragged scar angles out of her hairline.
He tugs the leash hard this time, and the girl’s head snaps up. She grabs the collar. Her eyes are on fire. Rukus’ body tightens and a fist forms in his free hand. Beside me, Sabrina sucks in a worried breath.
Dr. Bashees strides over to Rukus before something awful can happen. The doctor looks like he’s about to hold Rukus back, thinks twice, and clasps his hands instead. “I think that’s enough. Surely, the girls can see for themselves just how…difficult life is outside and how fortunate they are to be with us.” Dr. Bashees offers an embarrassed smile. Rukus frowns. Dancer stands there, shaking.
I sign help her, help her, help her into my lap.
But no one does.
Rukus pulls Dancer down the aisle and out the doors. When she passes, I don’t look up. What a coward I am.
“Well,” Dr. Bashees says, blowing out a breath, “that was…something. Girls, we’d like you to go to your rooms now for quiet reflection. Chores and other hospital duties can resume at lunch.”
We rise silently and file out of the room, still rank with the smell of unwashed human bodies.
I hug close to Sabrina and let her lead me to our room. It’s the spitting image of every other room on this floor: two single beds, white sheets, one closet with a few changes of clothes, one barred window looking out on the parking lot and beyond to the little shanty town that rings the hospital. I fall on my bed, search under my pillow, and find the tattered, yellow crossword puzzle book. Keeping my pillow up to block it from the camera, I scan the clues. Only four unsolved pages left and I’ve been saving them. But I need a distraction. I need to lose myself in neat black and white boxes.
The mattress sags as Sabrina sinks down beside me.
“Can you believe that?” Sabrina whispers near my ear. She smells like antiseptic soap, but there’s a faint sweetness on her breath that makes me wonder if she’s been sneaking rolls from the kitchen again. “Can you believe they brought that crazy man in here? All because some B Hall girls thought it would be funny to break into a storage closet.”
I peel my arm back and look at her. Sabrina is propped up on one elbow, her long legs stretching to the floor. A kind person would call Sabrina statuesque and a cruel person might call her gigantic. She’s bigger than most of the doctors and two thirds of the orderlies. If that weren’t enough, she’s mostly bald from the hormone injections they’ve been giving her to help her keep her current baby. Sabrina’s a dropper. She gets pregnant easily, but she loses the babies around month four or five. She’s only carried one live baby to term. It’s why she has to live on D Hall with me.
“They want to scare us, Sabrina,” I whisper, my eyes flicking to the tiny, black camera in the corner. Auntie taught me that the audio system is not very good. They can always see you, but they can’t always hear you. “They want us to be afraid.”
Sabrina blows out a breath and scratches at the fabric she’s tied around her head. “He looked like a wild animal up there. And did you see Dr. Bashees almost grab him? Probably would’ve gotten rancher’s flu just from that leather jacket.”
“Do you remember that girl?” I whisper.
Sabrina nods. “Just her face, not her name. God, how awful. It’s bad enough to get put out, but then to have to come back, be paraded around… I’d throw myself off the roof first.”
I go silent.
“To have a man touch you like that. God, I bet she just hates him. If I were her, I’d slit his throat in his sleep. I’d take his—”
A noise. I shove my puzzle book and pencil under my pillow. If they knew Nanny Bell taught me to read, we’d be in deep trouble. Slowly, I turn.
There, in the open doorway, stands Brianne, Micha, and Charlene. My gaze travels across their gowns where the embroidered roses, signifying live births, are sewn. Charlene has five roses, Micha has six, and Brianne, Queen Bee Brianne, has eight pink roses embroidered on her shirt.
Sabrina springs up.
Brianne raises one ginger-colored eyebrow. “Didn’t know you could move so fast, turtle. You could take over as courier when this one gets put out.”
I’m frozen. My blood pumps like every inch of me is one giant heart. Does she know?
“You’re supposed to be in your rooms,” Sabrina says, rubbing a hand over her bare head. “If the nannies find out—”
“They know we’re here,” Micha says, tossing back her thick, brown braid. Her stomach has swelled to an enormous size, and I wonder how she even got down the hallway. She’s carrying twins and can’t stop smiling about it. “They know we need our rations.”
Sabrina bristles. “We don’t have anything extra,” she says, taking a step forward. Her form would be intimidating anywhere but in this hospital. Here, all that matters are those taunting swirls of pink thread.
Three pregnant girls glare at Sabrina. She glares back.
“Nanny!” Brianne calls. She’s going to tell them we’ve stolen something, or worse, hurt one of them.
“I have some lotions.” I walk to our shared dresser, open it, and dig to the bottom. Pulling out two tubes Nanny Bell smuggled for me, I offer them to the girls.
Charlene strides forward, snatches the bottles, and hands them to Brianne. She looks them over and drops them in the pocket of her gown. “Generous of you, Janine.” Then her gaze shifts to Sabrina. “What’s your contribution to the cause, turtle?”
Sabrina grinds her teeth. “I told you. I don’t have anything.”
Brianne’s eyes float up to the two-inch pink ribbon circling Sabrina’s head. “That will do for now.”
Sabrina begins to shake. Her hands curl into fists. I grab her arm.
Slowly, painfully, Sabrina slides the pink ribbon off her head. What’s left of her dark hair, just tufts on a barren landscape, spikes up in its wake. She holds the ribbon in her fist. Brianne steps forward and snatches it. My hand is still firm on Sabrina’s arm. If she hits Brianne, a top producer, she’ll be put out for sure.
Brianne steps back. Smirks. Inspects her new prize. “Thanks, turtle. This will look lovely on my new daughter’s head.” Charlene chuckles. Micha rubs her humongous stomach.
When they turn and waddle out, Sabrina rips her arm from my grasp. It’s amazing how strong she is. How she could crush those girls if things were different. She storms to our door and slams it so hard the walls rattle. Then she turns and begins pacing the length of our room.
“I swear to all that is holy, if I get my hands on that girl—”
“Sabrina,” I say, holding my hands out. She strides to me, frowns, swivels, and stomps back the other way.
“They think they’re so special. Well, I’ve got some news for you. Anyone with a uterus can push out a baby. Dogs have babies! Pigs!” Sabrina throws the words at the door like punches. Tears spill from the cracks of her dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“They’ll hear you,” I say, flicking glances between the door’s little window and the camera. “You’ll get bathroom duty. Or worse.”
Sabrina grabs a pillow, pushes it to her face, and
screams. Screams and screams and screams.
Good idea, I think. Inside, I’m screaming, too.
When she’s empty of screams, she lifts her red, tear-streaked face. I sit beside her and run my hand down her back. I smooth lone strands of her hair over her soft scalp and for a moment, I’m gripped by the reality that I may never do this for a child of my own.
“How can you be so calm?” Sabrina asks, her face smooshed into the pillow.
I wipe a tear from her cheek. “I don’t care if they take my things.”
Sabrina blows a dismissive breath into her pillow. “They love it. They love that they can get away with this.”
“It helps to imagine what their stomachs look like. Brianne’s had eight births. It’s gotta look like cottage cheese.”
Sabrina smiles. “Like saggy pizza dough.”
“Like a bread roll left in the drainage ditch for six months.”
Sabrina’s face grows serious. “I wouldn’t make it without you, Jan. I mean it. Don’t ever leave.”
We eat fish.
Fried fish, grilled fish, baked fish. We eat so much fish that sometimes I wonder if we’ll form gills. Glub, glub, glub, Sabrina and I joke. With tanks in the compound outside, fish is one of the only protein sources that the hospital can sustain. Tonight is Tilapia, which I can barely stomach since Francis from B Hall told me they eat fish poop.
Sabrina picks at her food, taking the time to run her hand over her naked head every few minutes. When her eyes flick to Brianne’s table, the anger pulses on her face. I’ve done my best to calm her. I hope she won’t do anything stupid. Not after what we saw earlier.
I want to be angry at Brianne and her flunkies, but I can’t find the energy. Instead, my brain picks away at thoughts of Dr. Bashees paying that wild man to put on a show for us. Bashees wanted a spectacle, a beast and his broken-eyed toy, to teach us a lesson. And it has. The cafeteria is subdued. Talk is quiet, muffled by hands over mouths. Better to say nothing. Then your friends can’t report you to the hospital heads. Most of them think they’ve got it made, but their ignorance isn’t their fault. Nanny Bell’s been telling me about the hospital’s twisted manipulations. That we’re the free ones and those outside are prisoners. And after today, who could blame them? I saw it in their eyes. Poor, poor creature. Aren’t we so lucky to be safe, to be here?
