I gulp. “Yeah.”
The word sticks at the back of my throat, and something pinches in my chest. Every lie I tell is a mental tattoo that glows in the dark when I try to shut it out, to pretend I didn’t say it. But this lie I must tell—to protect Reid’s and my dwindling lives. Right now, Reid’s probably lying, too. Does he feel the same guilt I do, or am I merely weak?
My eyes stray to the thin wooden box. The Numbers face away from me. If we could get a second Clock, then we wouldn’t have to hide the fact we’re stuck with just the one—and that we don’t know whose it is. But no one controls the Numbers, not even the government. And Clocks are merged to a person at conception.
I dread this Last Year because one of us will zero out and the other will become a Radical with no Clock. We don’t know which one will die.
I hope it’s me.
Trevor closes my file with one hand and slaps it on the desk. His eyes—so professional, so full of feigned interest—meet mine. “Let’s start with your Good-bye. It might help you relax.”
Well, of course. Because discussing how I want to die will leave me floating on air. Thanks, Trevor. He stares at me for several seconds. Is he waiting on me? I look around. “What? I just . . . jump in?”
“Do you know how you want your Good-bye to be?”
“Painless, of course.”
He plasters on the phony smile. “Of course. We can only hope.”
Why are we discussing this? It’s all a pretense. I mean, like the government can actually affect our Good-byes. No one knows what my Good-bye will look like—except God, I guess. I could get struck by lightning, trampled by a horse, or hit in the head with a stone that puts me in a coma.
Or, God willing, I could fall asleep and never wake up.
I vote for that one.
Maybe Trevor just wants to know how confident I am about dying—about the end of my life. I straighten in the chair. “I don’t need to talk about it.”
He glances down. “Let’s move on to your past dreams.”
Past dreams. The life-long goals I decided for myself at age thirteen—as if I had a clue what I wanted. What did I tell him the last time we met?
“You wanted to travel.”
My heart sinks as pictures of foreign terrain and lands of discovery flash across my mind. Places I’ll never see. “I haven’t had the chance.” Or should I say, the courage?
He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a large, thin electrobook. I sneak a peek at the electronic cursive designed to appear handwritten. A date marks every top corner that slides across the screen. He stops on the year 2148 and runs a finger down a long list.
“We have . . . a three-month opening in Egypt starting in December.” He scrolls over a page that says 2149. “A . . . two-week opening in England next January, four weeks in Italy, a week in Canada if you want something short, or eight months in Brazil.” He peers over his glasses.
I shake my head. “Staged settlements with good food and fake natives? There’s no authenticity in that.”
“You don’t want to travel anymore?” He props his elbow on the armrest. “If you want something more local, we can send you any of the thirty-one states. All you have to do is pick one.”
“No.” Traveling, even inside the USE, no longer appeals. It sounds . . . daunting. Reid’s done it, and his stories are enough to make me feel like I’ve seen the entire country. I don’t want to copy him. I want to do my own thing. Problem is . . .
I don’t know what that thing is.
Trevor pulls my file toward him again, opens it, and crosses something out. “Have you been kissed yet?”
I turn cold and sit a little straighter. “Excuse me?”
He raises his eyebrows. “One of your dreams listed is to have a boyfriend—or as you put it, a soul mate—and be kissed.”
I resist the urge to snatch my file from him and read it myself. “I was thirteen. A one-track mind.” Heat sweeps up my cheeks. “But no, neither happened.” How could it, when I’ve lived in tiny Unity Village my whole life? All eligible prospects moved away the moment they had the opportunity.
A new window surfaces on Trevor’s electrobook. This one has several blank screens and scribbled lists.
“I have a few gentlemen in Unity Village desiring a relationship.” He scans the page. “Robbie Contrast is nineteen, would like an intimate relationship, and says Good-bye in two hundred and twenty-three days.”
Is he kidding? He has to be kidding.
“Or Dusten Grunt.” Trevor drones on. “Eighteen, with the desire for a girlfriend. His Good-bye is in twenty-two months. There’s also Finn Foster, who is in his Last Year and seeks marriage. If you start now, you could have a child three months before your Good-bye. Would you like photos?”
“N-No! I don’t want any of them!”
Trevor is speaking as if I don’t know these men, but each one is burned into my memory. I still recall Dusten Grunt’s conceited face four years ago as he whispered through the school window of the girl’s bathroom, “Empty Numbers! Empty Numbers! Parvin’s just got empty Numbers!”
And Finn Foster . . . his father was sentenced to death today.
Trevor puts the list away. “I suppose I could send in a request for a male actor or model willing to give you a couple months.”
My legs propel me out of the chair. “That’s not what I want.” I look around the room, searching for the right words and willing my temper to settle. Releasing a deep breath, I sink back down. “I’ve changed.”
“Changed?” He takes off his reading glasses.
My fingers stray to the silver cross ring on my pinky—a gift from Reid. I twist it round and round, rubbing the tiny rubies lining the band. “Well, I . . .”
Trevor’s gaze shifts to my hands, and the corner of his mouth turns down. “You believe in that old-fashioned spiritual stuff?”
I place my hands in my lap. Why am I embarrassed? “Yes, I do.” My voice comes out quiet. Angry.
Trevor lets out an “Ah” and replaces his glasses. “Be careful. Unity Village is unusually tolerant, but other places are not. Your parents should remain cautious too. I hope they’re not teaching it to you. You can’t get away with religion in any of the High Cities.” He swipes over a page and squints at the screen. “But because this is your Last Year, I might be able to find a good religion-boy for you in a neighboring town.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to scream. “I don’t want a fake relationship.” Does he not understand the meaning of a soul mate?
Unfazed, he flips to a fresh slide. “Let’s move on. What are your new desires?”
The dreaded question. I’ve spent the past two weeks trying to analyze that exact thing. It felt like forcing out a Christmas list of things I didn’t even want. Only one real desire stands out, and it sounds so shallow a croak escapes my lips when I share it.
Trevor stares. “Pardon?”
I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. “I want a year-long free subscription to the local and national newspapers.”
The room falls silent. I open my eyes. Trevor is tapping out information on his electrobook. I raise my eyebrows and release a small shrug. It must be protocol to abstain from saying my desires are lame. Who wants a year’s subscription to a newspaper to fulfill their last days?
I do. I’m tired of scrounging for coins and snitching newspapers off the street to satisfy my interest in the outside world. I’m ready to open the door to a paper on my threshold every morning, like rich people in the Upper and High Cities.
Trevor looks up. “What else?”
I shake my head.
“Nothing else?”
I don’t want to tell him, but I have to. I must be honest with my Mentor. As unpleasant as he may be, Trevor is trying to help—or so the government says.
What do I want? My plaguing question has no answers except ones that don’t match Mentor criteria. I want to fix the broken law system in Unity Village. I want to unify the people so Radicals don’t have to die. I want my short life to mean something.
“I want . . . to be remembered.” I suck in a small gasp. Of all the dreams I could have mentioned, this is the one that creeps past my lips?
Trevor’s forehead scrunches. “That’s a tough one.”
“Excuse me?”
He rubs a finger over his lips. “Well, we could set up a heroic act, or send you to a broadcast center to get your face known. I could even make some flyers with your name and we can put them on postboards—The Girl Who Wants To Be Remembered.” He claps his hands. “Yes, I believe that could work.”
“I don’t want you to make me remembered.” I exhale. “I just . . . want to be remembered.” My eyes stray to the round analog clock on the wall. Fifteen precious minutes of my Last Year have been wasted discussing dreams I don’t want.
“How would you do that, Parvin?”
The second hand ticks in slow motion. The clock is round, like the Earth. The hour hand points to the seven and the minute hand is poised on the one, forming an angled longitudinal line up the clock’s face.
“What happens to people on the other side of the Wall?” A shiver runs through me. Did I really ask that? Out loud?
Trevor coughs and his calm mask slips for a moment. “Parvin, no one goes through the Wall unless they’re an unregistered Radical or a convict.”
“But what if, hypothetically, I wanted to cross the Wall—as my Last-Year’s desire?” I say this with passion even though the idea entered my head twelve seconds ago. “I’d just die on that side instead of here.” Like Mr. Foster.
A small sigh escapes Trevor. “After the terrorist tragedy and those meteorites, our ancestors chose the East side of the Wall—the government side. You should send up religious prayers of thanks. If not for them, you might have been an Independent trying to survive in an uncontrolled, primitive environment. Who knows if anyone even survived on the West side? We send Radicals there for a reason—and it’s not for adventure.” Trevor shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It can’t be done.”
I put back on the bored, confident face. “I understand, Mr. Rain.” My question was, after all, hypothetical.
He leans back. “Can you think of any other Last-Year dreams?”
None that he could comprehend. I can’t tell him I want more time to relive what I’ve already wasted, that I want to be someone else, or that I want to know for sure whose Clock is in my pocket. He can’t understand because he’s a Mentor. Mentors are required to outlive their clients, and Trevor has over fifty years left to his Numbers.
I remain quiet for a long time, but then . . .
A new plan forms. I won’t have to lie. “I want to be a biographer.”
His knuckles crack. “You can’t be a biographer. You have only a year—you don’t have time to write about someone else’s entire life. The government wouldn’t pay or publish you.”
He’s right, but this new idea is motivation enough for me to overlook the odds. I’ll tell the world about the illegal sentencing of Radicals going on in Unity Village. I’ll even show that it’s possible to live without a Clock. Reid and I have been doing it our whole lives. I am strong. I will be remembered. This is my ticket.
“You misunderstand. I want to be my own biographer.”
His mouth sags, and who can blame him? No biographer has ever told his or her own story. But I can do this. I know I can. Besides . . .
What better way to be remembered than to do something no one else has ever done before?
2
000.364.06.05.09
“Mother, I need your journal.” I ease the door closed.
Her hand freezes over the water pump. Perhaps I should have said Hello first. She straightens, flexes her fingers, and delivers a powerful push to the red lever. “In the safe.”
Water gushes into the wash tin, swirling among wood dishware. I roll my eyes and toss my hat onto the entrance table. “Combination?” But I doubt she’ll reveal the numbers she’s kept secret the past seventeen-and-a-half years.
“26-17-27.”
Now I freeze, balancing on one foot and tugging my boot off the other. Reid opens the front door and knocks me in the backside with the metal latch. I sprawl forward and crack my chin against the plank floor.
An immature guffaw bursts from his mouth and Mother shrieks, “Reid!” in a decibel not intended for human ears. I ought to have included, Reid is back in the Hello I never offered.
I raise myself to all fours. A splash of blood ripples on the wood floor. I touch my chin. It burns. The red liquid on my fingers reminds me of the red Numbers on my Clock.
Reid hoists me to my feet, and Mother slaps a damp rag to my chin as she rushes into his embrace. I too might bypass a bleeding daughter for a hug from Reid.
The rag on my face smells old, like spoiled chicken. I toss it into the sink. “You gave me the combination . . . why?”
Mother wipes at her eyes, though I see no tears. She gulps. Reid releases her and she brushes past me to the cupboard. “I knew anything could happen today and I readied myself for it. It’s your Last Year—you get whatever you want.”
In the seriousness of her statement, I still cannot repress a stinging grin. “Anything?”
Mother pulls a crisp white cloth from the shelf. “Don’t push your luck.”
Blood or not, Last Year or not, the three of us laugh. Reid is home, and that means laughter. Mother squeezes my fingers as she hands me the fresh rag. Reid and I sit at the table. He takes the cloth and wipes it across my chin.
“How did Assessment go?” Mother asks, pushing the kettle over the constant fire. She sets a carved wooden mug in front of each of us—products of Father’s occupation. “I’m assuming this is why you returned early, Reid?”
He wraps his hands around the mug even though it’s empty. “I can’t face our Last Year without Parvin.” He avoids my gaze, probably because he knows I’ll see the truth in his eyes.
I’d be a mess without him, not the other way around. I was born as the needy triplet. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl, or I’m four minutes younger than he, or I’m skinny and twiggish, but I need Reid. He doesn’t seem to need me. He loves me, but he’s always been self-sufficient.
Mother studies him. “So how did Assessment go, Reid?”
He shrugs. “Told Monica I wanted to be sporadic in my Last Year. No plans.”
“Sporadic? You? That sounds more like Parvin. Monica believed you?” Mother spoons tiny mounds of sugar into our cups.
“She doesn’t know I’m an obnoxious, plan-every-detail kind of guy, Mother. She’s a Mentor. She shook her head and gave a ‘That’s-just-like-a-boy’ face.”
A drop of blood splashes the back of my hand. I pick up the cloth from beside Reid and press it to my chin.
“I asked for my Last-Year funds.”
At his quiet words, Mother knocks over her mug of sugar, and my cloth slips from my hand onto my lap. “What?”
He pulls a camel-colored drawstring pouch from his pocket and tips it upside down. Thick coins tumble out. A silver one rolls along a crack in the table and drops to the floor with a clink! Mother scoops it up in a flash and sets it back on the table.
“That’s the first six months.” Reid organizes the coins into piles. “At the next Assessment, I’ll get more.”
“She’s robbing you,” Mother says in an undertone.
“I know, but not as much as if I let her plan my last days.” He smirks. “Besides, she deserves a little tip for putting up with me.”
I snort. “Monica’s a man-hating snake.”
Mother shakes her head. “What are you going to do with all this specie? Travel?”
&
nbsp; I can’t take my gaze off the coins. Though Mother’s right and Monica Lamb is hoarding half of Reid’s rightful Last-Year funds, there’s more specie on this table than I’ve ever seen in one pile in my life. Wistful dreams of glass windows, wood roofing, and endless rolls of wool socks drift across my mind. Why didn’t I ask for my Last-Year funds? Now that I think about it, what is Trevor going to do with my specie? I asked him for only a newspaper subscription. Will he keep the rest?
“I have some ideas.” Reid’s response interrupts the growing rage at my Mentor. “I want to keep half of it with me and leave the other half here for whichever one of us survives the Clock.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Once one of us zeroes out, the one who survives will be an unregistered Radical, whether we like it or not.” He separates the pile into two even halves. “The government hunts unregistered Radicals, and it’ll be near impossible to get a job. This specie can help us live until we figure out what to do—maybe get to another city that will register us.”
Mother nods. I gape with my mouth open. I haven’t spared a single thought about life after zeroes, mostly because I’m positive it’s my Clock and therefore will have no life after zeroes.
Mother looks at me. “So how did your Assessment go, Parvin?”
Reid plucks the drying rag from my lap and holds it out to me with a smirk. “Yeah, you sprinted home.”
The kettle steams and I pull at my collar. “Shouldn’t we wait for Father?” I’ve never been good at stalling. What will they think if I tell them my plan?
Father walks through the door, a howl of wind announcing his presence and making his blond beard quiver. Mother takes his coat and hangs it on the only peg that’s not loose. They exchange a quick kiss. He enters the kitchen and eyes my bloody cloth before planting a whiskery kiss on my forehead. He and Reid then go through an awkward father-son reunion—shaking hands and grunting what I assume must be words of manly affection and delight.
Father places a handful of wooden serving spoons on the table. “Some extras I made today.”
Mother scoops them up with one hand. “Thank you.”
A Time to Die Page 2
