Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  I stare back at her, not sure how to respond.

  “You know I’m right. If you work yourself to the bone, you won’t survive probation. It’s happened before to citizens older and more seasoned than you. As your psychiatrist, I can’t let that happen.”

  Again, she’s speaking to me like I’m more than my status. Like my life might be more important than the debt I owe. But I’m a Public citizen. No. A probationary citizen. I don’t have the luxury to think like that. I’ve grown up knowing this. Public citizens are a drain on society. Probationaries aren’t citizens at all. The longer I remain one, the longer I let my mom’s sacrifice go without purpose.

  Rise up, my sweet one. You are worth more than this.

  My mom didn’t let herself die so I could spend the rest of my life slowly working off the price of her illness. She wanted me to rise in the rungs. To be more. To live the life she wanted for me. She thought I was worth that.

  I want to say this, but Dr. Shelia speaks first. “Consider what I’ve said. I’m going to have you take home your medication, regardless of whether you decide to take it. I want you to think about keeping only one job.” I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand to quiet me. “At least until your mental health has significantly improved. After that, you can build back up to the amount of work you can handle.”

  My shoulders slump. I feel fine, I want to say. I don’t care what those brain images show, I know I can do this. But those words would be lies. I’m not fine, and I know it. I hallucinated last night and nearly got myself killed or seriously injured at best.

  “Don’t forget what I told you, Claire. I’m your advocate. If you decide to quit any of your jobs, you can tell me and I will dissolve your contracts on your behalf. As your psychiatrist, I have that power, considering your mental and physical state, not to mention your age. You won’t be penalized for quitting.”

  I may not be penalized, but I’ll extend my probation. That’s penalty enough. However, I don’t have the energy to argue my point. My point is weak next to Dr. Shelia’s conviction.

  I leave her office with a promise that I’ll consider what she said. The new medication is stuffed in my backpack, it’s eight hundred credit price tag feeling like a lead weight. Anxiety tickles my chest as I ride the rail home, Dr. Shelia’s words echoing in my head.

  If you work yourself to the bone, you won’t survive probation.

  You won’t survive probation.

  You won’t survive.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dr. Shelia’s warning continues to haunt me as I step off the rail and onto the platform in the Public District. My mind clears quickly when I nearly collide with an enforcer.

  “Badge,” he says through his black helmet, extending a gloved hand toward me.

  I blink back at him, suddenly immobile. It isn’t my first time meeting an enforcer. They patrol every district day and night, although the Public District hosts more enforcers than any other. However, this is the first time I’ve been stopped by one since receiving my clearance to enter the Select District for work.

  “Badge,” he says again, his voice thick with irritation.

  This snaps me out of my stupor, and I fumble in my pockets, searching for my city badge. My hands tremble as I hand it to him. He passes it back and forth over the scanner on his wrist, and I hold my breath, waiting what feels like an eternity for the green light I hope will come. If it isn’t green, it’s red. If it’s red...

  The scanner flashes green for a split-second along with a short beep. I let out a sigh of relief as he hands me my badge. At least now I know my city clearance has been updated. Without another word, the enforcer pushes my shoulder, allowing me to file past as he moves on to the next person.

  I feel lighter on my feet as I move on, my earlier conversation with Dr. Shelia forgotten. The sun is nearly past the horizon, giving off just enough light for me to traverse the busy streets with ease. Curfew is over an hour away, so I walk without hurry, without fear.

  I’m halfway to the housing centers when I sense someone near me, much nearer than what commonly constitutes as proper space between two strangers walking home. I turn, readying a glare, and see a vaguely familiar grin. It’s him. Darren.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Following me again?”

  “I said hi this time!”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m not annoyed. Not really. “For someone who’s trying to convince me he isn’t a creep, you aren’t doing the best job.”

  “How so?”

  I turn my head toward him, taking in his appearance now that I can see him clearly. The hood of his dark green jacket is down, revealing a head of dark, curly hair that seems overlong in places. His eyes are a dark gray, framed by long lashes and a spattering of freckles over his nose and upper cheeks. His skin is a dark caramel, a color that makes me think of fall leaves and soil and all the earthly things I rarely see in the districts. Things you’d only see in the outlands. He’s smiling at me with the crooked smile I remember from last night. It’s a struggle to keep my face from mirroring his.

  “First of all,” I say with narrowed eyes, “you could stop sneaking up behind me.”

  “It isn’t my fault you’ve been ahead of me twice now,” he says. “I saw you on the rail again.”

  “Why didn’t you approach me then?”

  “I got held up by the enforcer, like everyone else. By the time I was free, you were nowhere in sight. How do you move so fast on those short little legs?”

  I realize he does seem to be struggling to keep up with my pace, even though he’s significantly taller than me. But I’ve always been a fast walker. “So, what? Did you jog after me or something?”

  He grins. “Pretty much.”

  “Why?” I don’t know why I keep snapping at him. In all honesty, I’m amused by his presence. Maybe my banter with the laundry women has stayed with me. Then again...didn’t this bold and feisty mood start last night with him?

  Darren considers my question, brow furrowed as if he’s equally perplexed. He shrugs. “After last night, I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “That was worth running across town for?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says, eyes locking on mine. I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. He returns his gaze ahead. “Besides, I didn’t run. Running would be stalkerish. It was more of a light jog. Or a fast walk.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Fast-walking after a girl is less stalkerish?”

  He joins my laughter. “I’m not selling this whole I’m not a creep thing, am I?”

  “No, but I admire the effort.”

  “Good. Can I walk you home?”

  I want to retort that we’re already walking, or something else equally as sassy, but I stop myself. Now that we’ve broken the ice, I find I no longer need the shell of witty banter between us.

  I slow my pace as we continue our way home. Not too slow, however, so we don’t attract the attention of enforcers. The Public District is not a place for a leisurely stroll. It is a place for going to and from your assigned places of business—work, home, shopping for necessities, or other approved activities. As long as Darren and I don’t look like we’re having too much fun, we’ll be fine.

  He tells me about himself. His story sounds a lot like mine; he’s a probationary citizen, his parents died and left him with inherited debt. However, his parents died when he was young, and he grew up in the foster system, living in group homes until he came of age at eighteen. He’s nineteen now and has been working off his probation for a little over a year. He works two jobs in the city—janitorial at two different tech buildings—and serves as a test subject for pharmaceuticals.

  My eyes go wide when he tells me this. I always thought being a test subject would be one of the most terrifying probationary sentences to have. “What kind of pharmaceuticals do they test on you?”

  “I think I got lucky. I’ve been testing a couple different antidepressants, which I probably need an
yway, and only have to meet with a group of chemists twice a month to have the results analyzed. Other people with similar sentences don’t have it nearly as easy as I do.” He pales a little, some of his easy humor draining from his face.

  “It makes me feel like I have it easy too,” I say. I tell him about Dr. Shelia, our two meetings so far, the medications I’ve been prescribed, and the fears she voiced concerning my wellbeing.

  “Last night was the first night you’ve slept in two weeks?” Darren looks at me as if I have two heads. “I can’t imagine what that would be like. Some days, sleep is the only thing I like about my life.”

  I frown, surprised to hear the bitter edge in his voice. With his casual demeanor and kind smile, it’s hard to imagine him being an even remotely unhappy person. Maybe those antidepressants work, I think to myself. It makes me wonder if I should try the ones Dr. Shelia prescribed for me after all.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Darren asks, shaking me from my thoughts. “About sleep? Are you going to do what the doc says and quit some of your jobs?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. This has been my plan, ever since I realized my mom was dying. I vowed to work every day, all day if I could, until my probation was paid off. After that, I’ll move up in the rungs until I return to Select status.”

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What will you do once you’re a Select again?”

  The question catches me so off guard, I find myself speechless. I never thought to consider what I wanted to do after I was a Select, only that I wanted to become one again. Rise up. That’s my only goal. Become better than this.

  Darren can see through my silence. “Shouldn’t you have a reason to work yourself so hard, not just a plan?”

  “Well, what’s your reason?” I ask, my tone defensive.

  “That’s easy. Work off my probation, start earning real credits, save them, cash them out for survival necessities, then move to the outlands.”

  I pause, my heart quickening. No one talks about the outlands like that. We are all taught in school that the cities are the only safe places to live, that the outlands are toxic from the chemical warfare that ravaged most of the country. The only usable lands outside the cities are the pharms that grow our food, and only farmers and chemists are allowed there. And even under the most careful of circumstances, accidents can happen.

  Hazmat suits fail.

  People die.

  Darren stops and turns toward me when he sees I’m no longer next to him. He throws his head back with a laugh. “I’m just kidding, Claire.”

  The way he says my name, with so much joy, so much ease, loosens the grip of fear from my chest. “You shouldn’t joke about that,” I whisper as I return to his side. “There’s...something else I should tell you about me.”

  His brows knit together. “What is it?”

  I keep my voice low as we continue walking. “I’m being monitored. My primary active sentence is Reality candidate.”

  His expression relaxes as he nods his understanding. “I see.”

  I look up at him, studying his reaction. “Does that make you uncomfortable? Talking to me, I mean?”

  He cocks his head. “Why would I feel uncomfortable about that?”

  “You know...everything we say, everything we’re doing right now...we’re being watched.”

  He lets out a lighthearted laugh. “I doubt that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The chances of anyone watching your lifestream right now are very, very low. I mean, of all the hundreds of thousand lifestreams and curated shows, would you choose to watch this?”

  He makes a good point, and I can’t help but feel relief that he isn’t weirded out by my situation. I’m not sure why I care, but I do.

  Darren elbows me with a smile. “Want to know what I really want to do once I work off my probation?”

  I’m grateful for the change in subject. “What?”

  “Find the right girl. Someone who makes this hellish place worth living in.”

  I can’t tell if he’s still teasing or not, but his words make my cheeks feel hot anyway. Luckily, the sun has set far below the buildings of the housing centers by now, so I’m sure he can’t tell.

  We’re almost to my building, and I feel a sense of dread when I think about returning to my room. Alone. When we reach the courtyard of building seven, Darren turns toward me. “You really should consider quitting a job or two.”

  “Why, so I can spend the next decade-and-a-half working off my probation?”

  “There’s more to life than working, Claire.”

  There it is again. My name. I like the sound of it on his lips. “Like what?”

  He shrugs, mouth turning up on one side. “Like hanging out with me again.”

  My pulse quickens and I can feel my blush spreading all over. Still, hanging out isn’t a luxury Publics have. “Even if I had more free time, what would we even do?”

  He leans in close to whisper, “Leave that to me.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not going to quit my jobs just to spend time with a boy I hardly know, doing who knows what.”

  He laughs. “Fine. What’s your schedule tomorrow?”

  “I work at the Salish Diner until eight.”

  “I’ll be done in the city around then too. Meet you at the rail to ride home together? It isn’t following if you know I’m there from the start, right?”

  My lips pull into a grin, and I feel a surge of idiotic giddiness. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Tomorrow it is,” he says, then leaves with a wave.

  I watch him go, wishing I’d said something in reply. Wishing I could find my wit outside of being sardonic. “Tomorrow it is,” I mutter to myself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was too much to hope that I’d sleep well two nights in a row. I do manage a couple hours, but my sleep is nowhere near as deep as the night before. However, I have something new to blame. Or someone, I should say. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face last night. His smile. I would flit between delight and irritation, both enjoying my thoughts of Darren and being annoyed at how persistently they plagued me.

  And for what? Why should I let him distract me so? He’s no one to me. A stranger.

  Still, that smile...

  He remains at the forefront of my thoughts as I go about my morning. I look for him on the bus. On the rail. On the busy streets as I walk to the Salish Diner. He’s nowhere to be seen, and I scold myself for even looking for him. He said he’d meet me at the rail tonight, I remind myself. If he wanted to see me before, he’d have said so.

  If he wanted to see me? Shouldn’t he be lucky I agreed to see him?

  I grumble to myself as I stomp into the locker room at the diner, changing into a clean uniform with more force than necessary. This wasn’t part of the plan. I don’t have time for boys or distractions. I don’t have time for a crush.

  A crush. Is that what this is?

  I’m grinning like an idiot when I make my way to my sink in the kitchen. I wish I hadn’t put my hair in a ponytail so it could instead hide my face, because Molly is staring at me with an odd look.

  “Good morning,” I say to her, surprised at my cheerful tone. I’d meant it to be flat, empty. Like usual.

  “What’s up with you?” she asks, looking equally surprised.

  I blush. “Nothing.”

  “Well, don’t let it distract you from...” She trails off, her eyes now on my hands. I’ve already washed five bowls since I stepped up to the sink. She gives me a nod of approval. “Never mind. Glad to see you aren’t a spaced-out mope after all.”

  “Just here to work,” I say. Distraction or not, my impatience to see Darren is fueling my pace. Not that working faster will make time go faster, but it does help keep my mind off the passage of time. Luckily, the kitchen is already busy from the breakfast rush, so work quickly overtakes all thought. Since I’m only working a
single shift today, I don’t even slow down toward the end. The more dishes that pile up, the faster I work. I’m even keeping pace with Molly for once, and at the end of the dinner rush, we finish around the same time.

  My eyes flash to the clock as I enter the locker room. 7:23. I’m done early, even for a Thursday, which is my only shift at the Salish where I’m off before Public curfew.

  Molly is in her own clothes while I’m still changing out of my uniform. “Want to walk to the rail?”

  I’m so surprised, I freeze, arms half-in, half-out of my top. She looks genuine, if not a little impatient. “Sure,” I say, then rush to finish getting dressed.

  I find she’s a fast walker like I am as we make our way down the darkening streets of the city toward the rail. “I thought you were slow,” she says.

  I look at her, brows furrowed. “Slow?”

  She shifts her backpack, settling it more securely over the shoulder of her one arm, smiling wryly. “Yeah. Physically. Mentally. I mean, you barely spoke above a whisper before today.”

  I frown, realizing the drastic change I’ve experienced the past few days. It’s like my entire existence was blanketed in a fog before...well, before meeting Darren, if I’m being honest. “My mom died recently,” I say. I expect my chest to feel tight, for my throat to close. But all I feel is a pinch of grief.

  “So, you’re new to this life.”

  I nod. “How long have you been...living this life?”

  “You mean being a Public or being a probationary?”

  “Both.”

  She bites her lip, considering. “Well, I’m twenty-three now and I’ve been a Public since I lost my arm to infection four years ago and wasn’t able to work my tech job anymore. I could have continued coding with one arm, but try telling that to my superiors,” she says in an undertone. “It didn’t take long for me to run out of funds and accept the Tithe. You probably know all about that.”

  The Tithe. She’s right; I know all about that. It’s our government’s form of assistance for those who struggle financially. Most people with injuries, illnesses, or other forms of debilitating loss tend to require funds from the Tithe. But as soon as you accept even a single credit from the Tithe, you become a Public citizen until it’s paid off. The greater your debt-to-income ratio, the farther down the rungs you fall and the less prosperous jobs you qualify for. And once your debt payoff projection exceeds your expected lifetime, you are required to file Forgiveness, making you a probationary citizen until you work off your sentence.