The hair rises on my arms and my pulse quickens. I feel suddenly naked. Watched.
Kori closes the compact and slips it back in her purse as she rises to her feet. “That’s all from me. You likely won’t see me again for a very long time, either once your lifestream gets picked up, or to remove the tracker when your probation has been served. In the meantime, my work will continue on your behalf from the Elite city. It was great meeting you, Claire, and I wish us both the best.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I force myself to say.
With that, she leaves me alone with Mr. Smith. I turn my attention to him, seeing subtle movement pass over his head.
He seems to catch sight of the roving camera out of the corner of his eye, a look of distaste pulling the corners of his lips. “Now that that’s settled,” he says, “we have your secondary sentence.”
My stomach drops. “Secondary?”
“Like Ms. Wan said, being a Reality candidate doesn’t guarantee you’ll get a show of your own, which makes it a light sentence in ratio to your debt. Most probationary sentences that involve being a candidate for Reality viewing require a secondary sentence.”
I nod, unable to speak.
He looks at the flat panel of his computer screen. “You will serve as a subject for psychological study for Dr. Geraldine Shelia.”
My mind spins, trying to make sense of his words. Psychological study. Is that...experimentation? Drug testing? “What does that mean?”
Mr. Smith’s face goes soft, showing a hint of sympathy. “It’s nothing to worry about. Honestly, I think you got off easy here too. The judges probably read your file, and seeing what happened to your mother and father, probably thought time with a psychiatrist would be good for you.”
“So it isn’t...” My eyes are wide, and I can’t bring myself to finish my sentence.
“It isn’t anything harmful, if that’s what you’re thinking. You meet with Dr. Shelia tomorrow, and every Wednesday to follow, for an hour.”
My relief is mingled with disappointment. An hour spent each week with Dr. Shelia means an hour spent not working. An hour not dedicated to my eventual freedom from probation.
Mr. Smith slides a rectangular metal badge across his desk. “This is your pass into the Select District, for work use and your appointments with Dr. Shelia only. It will also provide access to the four city buildings you have clearance to enter: Salish Diner, Great Northwest Hotel, Four Corners Bistro, and the Select Health and Disease Prevention building. This,” he passes me another badge, this one plastic, “is the key to your apartment. Further information has been sent to your reader.”
I reach for the badges and tuck them into the pocket of my jacket.
He rises to his feet, and I rise to mine. “Good luck, Claire Harper.” I move to the door. My fingers touch the handle, but before I can turn it, he speaks again, his words coming out fast, as if he needs to say them before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry for what happened to your parents.”
I look back at him, surprised.
“I have a daughter almost your age,” is all he says before he returns to his seat, eyes back on his computer screen.
“Thank you,” I whisper, too quiet for him to hear, and leave the room.
CHAPTER THREE
The sky is dark by the time I exit the building. After the anxiety I felt all day waiting to hear my sentence, I’m left with nothing but bone-crushing exhaustion. Other than that, I can’t tell if I feel relief or fear or sadness. I’m just numb.
I walk down the streets leading away from the Public Citizen Probation building toward the heart of the Public District before I realize I’m not sure where I’m going. Since Mom died, I’ve been staying in a temporary group home for citizens like me—uprooted, demoted, awaiting probationary sentencing. Now that I’ve received what I need to move forward, I won’t be returning there. I have an assigned apartment now, and everything I own—nothing more than clothes in a backpack—will have been transferred there already.
I stop at the corner of the next street and pull out my reader. It’s old and dented, with a few scratches over the screen. Heavy too, compared to the lightweight readers and hologram-based devices I used when I was a Select and Elite. But as a Public, this is what I’m allowed. The screen illuminates with its garish glow, revealing only a few icons—one for approved files, another for communication, a calendar, a clock. The memory has been wiped since I became a probationary citizen, so I know the communication icon will be empty of all contacts. Not that it had many in it before.
I pull up the files and see one for each of my new jobs and one with my housing information. I open that one, studying the address, clicking on it to open a map.
My new apartment is in the Fourth Public Housing Center, building seven. The walk there takes almost an hour. By the time I reach building seven, the streets have gone quiet. Curfew is looming ahead, and no one wants to cut it close if they can help it. I know I don’t. Especially now that I’ve been stripped of my rights as a citizen.
I pull out my reader to remind myself of the floor and room number, then make my way up three flights of stairs to room 86. With a swipe of my keycard over the panel above the handle, the door pops open. Inside, it’s pitch-black. Dank odors flood my nostrils, making me gag. I breathe through my mouth, coughing as I move my hand over the nearest wall, searching for a light panel. A dim light illuminates the corner of the room, adding a buzzing sound to aggravate my already overwhelmed senses.
I close the door behind me and rush to the window at the other side of the room to open it. It only swings outward an inch, but any air is better than the stagnant odor I’m breathing now. I turn back to take in my surroundings. My apartment can be crossed in no more than three strides from wall to wall. On one side of the room is a desk, a heating plate, a miniature fridge, and a mirror. On the other side is a narrow bed with simple, brown blankets and a stiff-looking pillow. No bathroom. No shower. The facilities must be communal then.
I move to the desk and find my backpack underneath. My throat constricts as I reach for it, and I hug it tight to my chest as if this one piece of my past can link me to all that I’ve lost. All that I’ll never have again.
I expect tears to come, but they don’t. There’s still nothing but that unsettling numbness.
With a sigh, I set the backpack on top of the desk. As I do, I glimpse myself in the mirror, which gives me a startle. Looking back at me is a face with dull, pale skin, cheeks and nose flushed pink from walking outside. My blue eyes are bloodshot with dark purple circles hanging underneath. Wisps of my pale blonde hair have escaped my ponytail, leaving a halo of frizz around my head. I look awful. Like a walking corpse.
I bark a laugh—a reaction that startles me almost as much as my appearance—then turn away from the mirror and bring my backpack to the bed instead. Springs creak beneath my thighs as I sit and unpack my things: two pairs of faded jeans, a few pairs of socks, plain loose t-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of worn sneakers. The inventory takes a disappointingly short amount of time, and I put my clothes in one of the desk drawers.
The light flickers, reminding me that the electricity will go off an hour after curfew. Only in the coldest months does it stay on all day, and even then, it’s only for some meager heat. It’s the end of summer now, so I’m not worried about the cold. Still, with curfew approaching, I should find the bathroom facilities before it’s too late.
When I finish my thorough search of building seven, locating all the bathrooms, showers, and exits, I return to my room and pull up my calendar on my reader. Work doesn’t start until Thursday, so I’ll have tomorrow morning off until my meeting with Dr. Shelia. My stomach churns at the thought.
I’ve never met with a psychiatrist, so I’m not sure what to expect. I hope Mr. Smith was right. I hope she can help me. Because if I am to survive the next four-to-six years working off my probation, it might be nice to do it while feeling anything other than this numbness. Or th
e pain lurking beneath it.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring mindlessly at the opposite wall when the light dims, then goes out. I kick off my boots, peel off my jeans and shirt, then lay back on my bed and pull the covers over me. Exhaustion tugs at my body, dragging my bones deep into the recesses of the mattress. Still, no matter how tired I am, I can’t seem to close my eyes.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sound of footsteps pounding past my door wakes me from sleep—if you can call it that. It was more like an hour or two of drifting lightly in and out of consciousness. I haven’t slept a full night since Mom died. I suppose that’s normal. When my dad died, I cried myself to sleep every night for at least a month, and sleep was fitful at best.
Footsteps continue to stream past my door, the sound of Public citizens starting their day, going to their assigned jobs. I wonder how many are on probation like me. How many have similar sentences as mine. How many have invisible cameras circling them at all hours of the day. I freeze, realizing this is the first time I’ve thought about the cameras since leaving my probation officer. I haven’t caught a glimpse of one since then to remind me of them. My eyes dart around me, trying to spot one. Nothing.
I pull myself from bed and check the clock on my reader. Anxiety tickles my chest as I wonder what to do with myself until my appointment with Dr. Shelia. At age seventeen, I’d normally be at school. Now that I’m emancipated, my education is over. I almost wish I’d been assigned to start work first thing, instead of having today off. Even so, I suppose it’s best I make use of it.
It doesn’t take me long to shower and get ready, throwing my hair back into a messy bun before slipping my sneakers on. Outside my room, building seven looks nearly as dim as it did in the dark. Dozens and dozens of floors—thirty, if I’m counting correctly—reach high above me, blocking the light of the rising sun, creating a semicircle of gray walls and tiny windows surrounding a bare cement courtyard. I leave through the nearest stairwell and find myself amongst several similar buildings that make up the Fourth Public Housing Center.
Once on the main street, I can see clusters of buildings that make up the other housing centers nearby. My eyes catch a familiar building toward the west, and I avert my gaze. That will be the Second Public Housing Center. Where I lived with my mom for the last two years.
After a few turns, I find what I’m looking for—a grocery store. I hate to buy anything I don’t need, since I know every credit I spend just gets added to my pile of debt. However, I can’t deny that I need to eat.
I buy a meager selection of groceries and take the long way back to my building, exploring my new neighborhood. There isn’t much to see. A couple grocery stores. A rundown diner. An abandoned laundromat. A few crumbling buildings that no longer serve a purpose here in the Public District, remnants of an earlier time.
It makes me wonder what Seattle was like before the war. We never learned much about our country’s history before World War Three in school. We were mostly taught how our early forefathers suffered, how they gathered survivors from the decimated lands that we now call the outlands and created new societies in the cities that remained intact. We learned how the wealthy Elites generously saved and provided for those who couldn’t take care of themselves.
The Elites are the reason I—or any Public citizen—even have a home. Or so I’ve been told my entire life. They are the ones who donate a portion of their income to the Tithe, which in turn is offered to anyone in need of financial assistance. What I wasn’t taught growing up was how suddenly you can find yourself in need of the Tithe. Or how quickly you can become buried beneath its weight.
When I return to my room, my stomach is growling. I pour water in a pot I find in one of the desk drawers and warm it over the heating plate, then use the boiling liquid to reconstitute the noodles I’ve bought. Without tasting it, I devour the bland meal, then find myself growing anxious yet again. I still have hours until my meeting with Dr. Shelia.
With nothing else to do, I decide to leave for the Select District early. It’s been two years since I’ve lived there, so it wouldn’t be a bad idea to acquaint myself with the rail stops and locations of all my jobs. Since I have more than enough time on my hands, I walk to the edge of the Public District instead of taking the bus, then scan my badge to access the rail platform. Once onboard the long, sleek railcar, the Select city comes into view, like it did from the elevator yesterday. This time, the sun is high in the sky, turning the city into a shimmering summer oasis.
I sigh, remembering what it was like to live there. Clean homes. Open spaces. Fresh water. Private bathrooms.
My mom.
My dad.
I jolt upright as the rail comes to a stop, then make my way out the doors to the platform. Scanning my badge as I exit the station, I’m met with the bright lights of the city. The Select District doesn’t have nearly as strict rations for electricity as the Public District, so streetlights, signs, and advertisements assault my senses at every turn. The buses here are fast and elegant, nothing like the slow, bulky vehicles in the Public District. And here there are cars, weaving around the buses, zooming past the sidewalks. Bodies brush by, jostling me, and not one set of eyes glances my way. It’s loud. It’s busy. It’s chaotic. And I love it. The Select city makes me feel like I’m home. It makes me feel slightly better than numb.
I follow the map on my reader, locating each place of interest. The Salish Diner on Sixth and Stewart, the Great Northwest Hotel a few blocks over on Eighth, Four Corners Bistro up the hill on Fifteenth and Pine. All are within walking distance or a short bus ride for days when I’m scheduled back-to-back. I hope I’m scheduled back-to-back. The more I work, the more I earn. The more I earn, the faster I serve my probation. The sooner this is all over.
After I locate all my new places of employment, I head to the Select Health and Disease Prevention building for my meeting with Dr. Shelia. I’m an hour early when I arrive, but I make my way inside anyway. The building is immense and brightly lit, with glossy floors and white walls. Everything about it says clean and safe to me, simply for its contrast with even the nicest buildings in the Public District.
I make my way to the oversized hologram near the elevators where the directory is projected. There I find Dr. Shelia’s name along with her floor and room number. I ride the elevator to the twentieth floor, then find room fourteen. The door to the clinic is frosted glass, and beyond it I find a bright windowless waiting room with modern-yet-minimal decor.
“Claire Harper?” asks the girl at the front desk. I nod, and she hands me a slim reader to fill out an intake form on. My throat constricts as I enter my personal information. Height. Weight. Citizenship. Family history. Medical history. Probationary details. The ease I felt from entering the city has been wiped away, replaced with the more familiar anxiety. It grows as I wait, my heart racing as I bite my already chewed-off nails.
“Dr. Shelia will see you now.” I look up, finding the girl from the desk standing over me. “Are you ready?”
I nod and follow her out of the waiting room down a short hall. There are only four doors in this hall, and the farthest one down is of frosted glass like the entry to the clinic. My legs feel like jelly as we approach it, and I fear my knees will give out and send me toppling to the floor. The girl stops when she reaches the door. “Go inside. Dr. Shelia will be with you shortly.”
I enter the room and hear the door close behind me. My legs still shake, but at least my breathing is growing less ragged as I take in my surroundings. There’s a wide, white desk, a chair, and a long, white couch. I take a seat there, shoving my hands beneath my thighs to control their shaking. The walls of the office are bare, aside from the single window at the far end of the room and a few professional certificates. No pictures. No trinkets. It feels clean. Sterile, more like.
A tap sounds on the door, and I can see a misty shadow through the frosted glass. As it opens, an older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, enters. She wears
a pair of slim, tan slacks, black leather flats with a Stella Song buckle, and a white blouse. Her clothing style is simple, but there’s no mistaking their quality. She’s an Elite. I study her face as she takes a seat in the chair at her desk. Her hair is cropped short, a mixture of brown and gray. Her eyes are a pale blue lined with wrinkles. They crinkle even more when she smiles at me, although I can’t help but feel that her smile looks forced. “Hello, Claire. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I lie.
“I’ve read your files and your intake form. Today’s meeting won’t take long. It’s more to prepare us for our time together.” She squints her eyes and studies me. “You’ve chosen to work three jobs.”
She didn’t phrase it like a question, but still I say, “Yes.”
“Isn’t that a little much for your first introduction to the workplace?”
I shake my head and rattle off the same explanation I gave to Mr. Smith. “I’m committed to working off my probation as soon as possible.”
“I respect that. But you could still accomplish such a thing while easing into it. Perhaps you could start with one job at a time and add the others once you are used to the first.”
I remember my restlessness and anxiety earlier today. “No, that’s not necessary. I want to work.”
She sighs. “Very well. But if it becomes a problem, I want you to tell me. You may have been assigned to work with me as a probationary sentence, but your privileges are the same as if you were a Select or Elite patient of mine. I am here to advocate for you, if need be.”
I’m surprised by this, but I keep quiet.
She squints at me again, and I shift beneath her gaze. “How is your sleep?”
Twisting Minds Page 2
