by Susan Kim
To her, a partnership meant nothing without love, deep friendship, and shared desire.
Caleb had been the first boy she had ever cared for, and she had adored him with all of the fire and passion of youth. Her feelings for Aras were as deep, yet they were the seasoned emotions of someone older: Their bond had grown out of the many hardships and triumphs they had faced together on the road. Both boys had been a part of her, and she of them: They had been her friends, helpers, and lovers.
Yet what had love brought her?
When Caleb was killed, Esther felt as if her heart had been torn from her chest; the pain had nearly destroyed her. Now Aras had left her as well, but of his own accord. He had cheated on her with another girl and abandoned their family for good.
Maybe, Esther realized with a sudden wave of sadness, she was done with love. For it had only brought her heartache and despair.
Was it such a bad idea after all to treat partnering as a sensible decision of shared labor? After all, both she and Gideon were well into middle age: Esther was already several months past sixteen. There was so much work to be done and so few years in which to do it. Perhaps her days of passion were behind her.
Gideon was watching her closely, as if reading her thoughts. “And,” he said, “we got responsibilities. To others.”
Esther could only nod. “We do.”
“Think of all the people here.” He paused, as if for effect. “And your child.”
“My children.”
Esther spoke the word deliberately, all the while watching Gideon: His response would mean everything in the world. “I have a daughter. She didn’t die like I said. Sarah’s alive. And she . . . she’s a variant.” She swallowed hard. “I know most people would tell me to give her up. But I won’t.”
If the boy had any reaction to her news, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded in a sympathetic way.
“That good,” he remarked. “Mother got to take care of her baby. Even if it a”—he hesitated for an instant as if stumbling over the word—“a variant. I take care of her, too. Same as her brother.”
At that, Esther exhaled.
She could not deny that this was the strongest argument he had made so far. Esther knew she couldn’t continue working all day and trying to tend her children in her spare time. It wasn’t fair.
Kai and Sarah deserved better. And they needed a father.
So when Gideon pulled her into his arms, Esther allowed it to happen. She felt as if she were watching it from across the room; the boy was awkward and not quite sure what to do, and she was utterly passive. When he took her face in his hands, she was reminded of the way she would hold Kai when attempting to wash his neck. Then he cupped the back of her head and drew her close.
He pressed his lips against hers as if in a question. His kiss was hard and dry, and the breath from his nose made the ends of her hair flutter. Esther kept her eyes open and felt nothing inside: no affection or stirring of desire.
Yet neither did she feel disgust.
It was something Esther had never experienced before. By not moving, by not pulling back or pushing Gideon away, she understood she was making a decision, perhaps one of the biggest in her life. She would normally have despised such inaction. Yet she was so sick at heart, so tired of emotions, that she no longer cared.
Gideon released her. He cleared his throat.
“Then it settled. We be partners.”
“Partners,” Esther repeated.
The word had taken on a whole new meaning.
SIX
ESTHER OPENED THE FIRST BOX.
Inside lay a stunning necklace made of silver metal and clear blue stones. When she held it up, colorful little beams danced across the wall and ceiling. In the large central room on the top floor, the dozens who surrounded her exclaimed with admiration.
“You like it?” An Insurgent girl named Naomi leaned forward with an eager smile.
“Yes. Thank you.” Esther began to set the object back into its container, but Naomi took it from her and draped it around her throat. Esther had to sit still while it was fastened in place. Then the ones closest to her clustered around, murmuring their envy and approval. One even thrust a mirror close, so that she could see and admire herself.
The trinket was indeed beautiful, Esther had to admit. Yet she felt awkward, not only because of the lavishness of the present, but because of the very public way in which it was presented.
Partnering was usually a simple and private affair. A boy and a girl, or two people of the same sex, made a personal vow to love and take care of each other, using a strip of cloth to bind their hands together. The partnering fabric would then be torn in two and worn by both partners at the wrist from that day onward. The idea that partnering might entail onlookers, finery, or any sort of celebration struck Esther as unnatural and deeply embarrassing.
When Esther had agreed to become partners with Gideon, she’d assumed they would perform the basic ritual right away or perhaps later that evening. Yet from the beginning, the boy had had different ideas.
Gideon wanted a more elaborate ceremony, one that would be held in public, in front of everyone who lived in the District. Joseph had looked through his books and magazines and found out that such things were indeed once common. What’s more, people used to hold smaller ceremonies that led up to the main event. In one, guests were expected to present lavish gifts—clothing, jewelry, and other adornments—to the girl.
A shower, it was called.
At first, Esther had refused. In such harsh times, she shrank from the idea of special treatment or useless gifts. Furthermore, she didn’t really care for such things. She had always worn the same things every day: a T-shirt or hoodie, jeans, tattered sneakers. Her only ornament was a braided leather necklace that Skar had given her back in Prin.
But Gideon had proven to be stubborn. “You the leader,” he said again and again. “You special. People should treat you special. They want to.”
In the end, Esther had decided to trust him, though, in truth, she simply didn’t care enough to keep arguing. Gideon had promised to take care of everything. And so now she found herself surrounded by piles of presents that contained far more finery than she had ever owned in her life: necklaces, earrings, sweaters made of a creamy material, wristwatches, colorful gloves that felt softer than Sarah’s skin.
As she opened each gift, Esther tried to have a good time. The items, after all, were undeniably beautiful and sleek, and since each one was hidden in a box or plastic bag or wrapped in cloth or paper, they were fun to open, as well. Throughout, Michal sat by her side, her eyes sparkling as she selected which one to open next. “This one,” she would say as she handed Esther a new item. Then she would watch, enchanted, as Esther took out yet another bracelet or scarf or pair of shoes. “That one.”
Esther was aware that all of her guests were taking in the ritual with greedy eyes; other than Skar, there was no one present who would not have traded places with her. And because her reactions were also being observed closely, Esther tried to look enthusiastic about receiving each gift. Yet after the seventh or eighth one, her cheeks began to feel strained from smiling so much and her words of thanks started to sound insincere to her own ears. The only present she liked outright came from Silas: a pair of tapered drinking glasses, elegant and light green.
“These are good,” she said sincerely, meeting Silas’s eyes in thanks. The boy smiled, gratified that he had made the right choice—or swiped them from the right place.
Soon, the shower was over; and Esther had to admit, all of her guests seemed as if they had had a good time. After they left, Michal stayed behind and offered to help carry the presents back to Esther’s room, but she declined.
“You’ve already done so much,” said Esther, squeezing her arm in thanks.
In truth, Esther was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room for a few precious moments of solitude before Joseph returned with Kai and Sarah, whom he had be
en tending on the roof.
Yet she was surprised to find someone waiting for her inside. A small figure wearing a short robe stood at the far end of the room, her back to the door as she gazed out the window at the afternoon sky.
At the moment she saw Skar, Esther felt the excitement of the party dissolve.
Throughout the shower, Esther had been keenly aware that her friend had not uttered a word. Although she had stood in the background watching, Skar had not once leaned in close, nor exclaimed at any present, nor had she laughed or even smiled. In fact, Esther realized now with a pang, her closest and oldest friend had not even given her a present.
“You think it’s a mistake,” Esther blurted out.
Skar turned in surprise. “What?”
Esther shook her head. “You don’t even have to say anything,” she said. “I know you think it’s wrong.”
But as her friend approached her, she looked only puzzled. “What do I think is wrong? That you are partnering with Gideon?”
Though Skar was expressing no negative opinion, Esther still felt as if she were being judged. “He’s not so bad,” she retorted, her voice louder than she meant it to be. “We want the same things—and we know what we have to do to get them. We both know we can’t do it by ourselves. We can help each other.”
Skar nodded. “That is good. That is important.”
Esther glanced past her friend and felt her face flush. Right in front of Skar, stuck on the windowsill, was the end of a white candle: It was the last one Esther had lit for Aras, two nights ago. Skar had probably not even noticed it, nor would she understand what it meant if she had. Still, Esther wrenched up the lump of wax and stuffed it in her pocket.
“I’m doing what’s best for my children. And for the District.” Was she talking to Skar, Esther wondered, or to herself?
Skar nodded. “I understand,” she said. “All that matters is that you are sure of your reasons and that your eyes are open.”
Somehow, Skar’s lack of condemnation only made it worse. As if sensing this, her old friend smiled. “I did not come here to argue, Esther,” Skar said, “only to give you this. I felt shy in front of all of the others.”
She held out a small object, unwrapped, in the palm of her hand. It was a tiny stuffed bear, no bigger than her thumb, with a metal tag in its ear.
To those who had rewarded her with luxurious items, the gift would have seemed a childish trifle. Yet it wasn’t—not to Esther. As her fingers closed around it, she felt her throat tighten.
“Thank you,” was all she said.
A female voice broke into Gideon’s thoughts.
“Am I doing it right?”
He turned and looked at Nur. She was posed on a makeshift bed in the corner of his office, covered only by a diaphanous scarf tied around her neck that extended to her knees. In a few hours, Esther would wear the same item, a veil, at the partnering ceremony; Gideon had seen girls do the same in Joseph’s magazines and had secured one for that very purpose. Yet in a moment of happy inspiration, he had decided that Nur should wear the item first, in private. That way, he would be able to keep the teasing memory fresh in his mind throughout the day.
“Put your arms up,” he said, demonstrating. “Like that.”
The girl did as he asked, yet without enthusiasm. Then she sagged and curled up on the cushions, refusing to go on. She turned her face to the wall, pulling the cover up and shielding herself with it.
Gideon stood over her. “What wrong?” he asked.
Nur shrugged, refusing to say.
“You still mad about Esther?”
Nur still would not look his way, and he noticed a pout had formed on her lips.
“I told you,” he said, “how it going to be. It won’t mean nothing.”
He was met with silence, and Nur closed her eyes, as if the words hurt to hear. Gideon was growing impatient. Still, he knew the girl had a point: She had taken a risk by helping him with Aras. And good work, he knew, shouldn’t go unacknowledged.
“Everything stay the same with us,” he said. “I promise.”
Nur’s eyes remained closed. Then they fluttered open. She looked up at Gideon and, to his surprise, didn’t look all that grateful. There was something else in her expression: entitlement.
“I want it to change,” she said.
Gideon didn’t know how to respond. He was unused to this kind of spirit from Nur, who always did whatever he wanted. Now she leaned toward him, the sheet falling down. The scarf had bunched up around her neck so that nothing covered her, but she didn’t seem to care. “I want it to change now.”
Although he towered over her, Gideon felt an unexpected flicker of fear. Before he could back away, the girl reached out and grabbed his leg.
As her fingers curled around his thigh, Gideon’s flesh shrank from her touch. This was the closest she had ever come to him, and his heart began to beat so fast it hurt. Yet he forced himself not to yank away as a sudden thought came to him.
Maybe Nur could be of help.
He was aware that on the partnering night, one was expected to engage in physical contact. He had tried not to dwell on what exactly this entailed, yet he suspected there would be no avoiding it. And it could be a good thing. Physical intimacy with Esther could eventually forge a stronger bond between them.
He certainly didn’t intend to perform the disgusting act that he had heard so much about; that would be out of the question. Yet Gideon thought he could manage something.
And Nur could be his way to practice.
“All right,” he heard himself say now, the words sounding harsh. “Come here.” Then he softened it. “Please.”
Nur smiled, surprised. But instead, she lay back, her hair flowing in a soft mist across the blanket.
“No,” she said. “You come here.”
Gideon swallowed, with difficulty. Then he took a step forward. Tugging at the knees of his jeans so as not to wrinkle them, he descended, stiff and awkward.
He knelt beside her, fully dressed and unsure what to do next. After a few moments, Nur reached up. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him down on top of her.
Their bodies were now pressed together. Gideon was surprised: Nur’s naked skin was soft and warm. He smelled her hair and was pleasantly reminded of flowers. Her proximity almost felt nice.
But slowly this feeling began to fade. The boy began to have trouble breathing. The longer he lay in Nur’s arms, the more he felt suffocated; her grip was growing as tight and deadly as a rope wrapped around him.
It was all Gideon could do to extricate himself. Digging his fingers into Nur’s hands, first gently and then with increasing panic, he began to pry them loose. It took forever. At last, he wrenched free of her, panting as he sat up.
“That enough,” he barely managed to say.
He wiped away the sweat that covered his forehead as he scrambled to his feet. Then he glanced back down.
Nur was staring at him, not angry or offended, but with a quizzical look on her face. As if he were a freak, Gideon thought with irritation.
“Don’t worry,” he snapped. “I give you something. Just wait.”
He was already fixing his hair in the mirror when Nur muttered something inaudible in response. The next noise he heard was the slamming of the door.
Gideon didn’t care. All in all, he had done the best he could. And the experience would help him with Esther, he had no doubt.
He locked the door and tidied the bedding. Then Gideon tapped a drinking glass upon the edge of a sink until it broke into four jagged slices. He used one piece to cut himself, on his upper shoulder, where it wouldn’t show.
Hours later, the ceremony was about to begin.
The atrium was already crowded with dozens of guests, wearing new and elegant clothes taken from the District’s many stores. The gentle sounds of their murmuring echoed through the vast hall, past the strange half-man, half-bird sculptures that hung high overhead and up to the skylight. Everyon
e had arrived early and now stood where they had been ordered to, except for one.
Esther was four stories up, pacing back and forth in a darkened hallway. She had put on the clothes Gideon had told her to wear: a white lace dress with a full-gathered skirt and high-heeled white shoes that bit into her feet and made her stumble. She was wearing most of her new jewelry, as well, which weighed down her throat, arms, and hands; together, the chains and bands felt heavier than both of her children carried together.
From where she stood, she could see Gideon looking around for her. Wearing black pants and a matching jacket, he was easy to spot on the ground floor of the mall. It was lit by what seemed a thousand candles, the tapers filling the space with an eerie glow, one that Esther knew could be seen for at least half a mile in the night sky, through the enormous windows.
“This way, everyone outside look in,” Gideon had told her when he described the design he had invented. “My boys make sure no one gets near. But strangers find out about us and go tell the others.”
The hall was bisected by a long and narrow red carpet that extended from one end of the space to the other. On either side were the spectators, both Insurgents and Esther’s friends, their faces receding and advancing in the flickering flames. Everyone faced a simple wooden platform at the end of the carpet, framed by an arbor that was decorated with vines from the roof.
To Esther’s eye, all of these elements cobbled from partnering ceremonies in the ancient past seemed not only garish, but unreal. She was surprised that Gideon would have approved them and not asked her opinion. Yet that was not why she had taken refuge far from the gaudy display.
She had come up here to be alone with her thoughts—to remind herself that the point of this partnering lay not in any strange ceremony but in her children’s security and the work that remained to be done.
Her alliance with Gideon, she kept telling herself, would make it easier. It would change everything for the better.
With that thought in mind, Esther drew a deep breath. Then she started downstairs.
From the far end of the carpet, Gideon saw her. With a look of relief, he made a single gesture to her from across the room. As if in a dream, Esther made her way toward the foot of the red carpet, lifting her skirts and stepping with care in her slippery shoes. As she did, people moved aside for her, mumbling in admiration.
