Whispers in Autumn (The Last Year, #1)

by Trisha Leigh

  Most people have more than one talent, but when they’re given a Career, people are always happy about it. Which isn’t odd, considering people are always happy. No human on Earth is anything but serene, content, pleased. Except me.

  But according to Ko, I am Something Else. Dissident.

  The subject changes abruptly when a girl with hair so blond it’s almost white puts down her fork. “Has anyone been asked to the Gathering this weekend?”

  Heads around my table shake from side to side. The blond girl’s smile stretches her cheeks wide, and the tall brunette’s mouth drops open, face reflecting delighted shock. “Brittany, someone asked you, I can see it on your face. How come you’re just now telling us?”

  “It happened on my way to lunch. Greg asked me.”

  Oohs and ahhs and congratulations abound, which I can’t echo sincerely without knowing who Greg is. Their talk about Careers, the Gathering, and boys fades into the background as lunch disappears into my not-hungry stomach. Conversations are pretty much the same everywhere. Since we possess a limited number of topics, it’s not difficult to guess what will be discussed. Occasionally schoolwork, sometimes the Summer Celebration or the movie we watched last weekend. Every once in a while someone will attend a Partnering ceremony, or a death pyre, but those are rare.

  The Gathering, unique to the last year, will provide plenty of fodder for gossip this autumn. It will take place in a few days, intended to promote voluntary Partnering. If we’re going to choose our own Partner, we have to declare intentions before summer.

  Vines of panic coil around my heart as fear, icy and hot, clenches in my stomach. The thought of Partnering, so appealing and exciting to most girls, never triggers positive feelings in me. After our preparatory phase is complete and we’re Partnered adults, we’re not allowed in public except during once a month designated outings. All work is done through the Network. Our lives are lived through the Network.

  If I Partner, will he be like my parade of changing parents? Will I travel between Iowa, Portland, and Danbury, a new Partner in each place, none of them noticing when I come and go?

  The idea of being cooped up with a boy who looks right through me, working for the Others all day and then sitting in front of mindless movies all night, is enough to bring hysterical water to my eyes. I’ve never seen anyone else react this way and I blink it back, keeping my gaze trained on my empty salad bowl. No one notices anyway.

  Trust no one.

  The words from my note leap into my mind. They imply no one should know about me, about my travels, how I have feelings that aren’t always good.

  I’ll have to Partner to keep my secret. I know that.

  But knowing doesn’t stop every last piece of me from screaming in resistance. Invisible bonds pin me in place, cramming me into a mold that I don’t fit into.

  Don’t be silly, Althea. You belong here. You need to calm down.

  I brush the hair away from my sweaty forehead and rest my palms face up in my lap where they’ll be safe. The bell rings and we get up from the table, a robotic staff coming behind us to clear our dishes and trash. I trail the herd out of the room, still working to control my unpleasant thoughts, hiding the struggle behind a manufactured smile. My smiles require effort; everyone else looks as though reasons exist to lift their lips in happiness.

  Those reasons are as elusive today as they’ve always been.

  The rest of the day passes in a blur, but listening to the same lectures for a fourth time doesn’t require much attention. My peers seem genuinely interested in learning about molecules, equations, planet histories, and the like all over again. They smile at one another in the hallways, a spring in their steps.

  My feet drag through the door to chemistry, the end block of my day. A boy sits in the back corner, near where I plan to settle, and something about him piques my interest. His dark blond hair is long enough that it curls a bit at the tips. His eyes focus on the dark, empty screen in the front as he waits for the Monitor to appear. They’re blue, a blue so brilliant it’s like looking at the sky. The same shade of blue I see in the mirror.

  The lights dim the first time as I take a seat next to him and open my notebook. This Monitor is easy to remember, a woman who looks about ten years older than us and is passionate about chemistry. She doesn’t reprimand us when we don’t understand, not exactly.

  Her smile, though, it wavers a bit. She fascinates me.

  I’ve seen another smile waver like that, but just one. The memory nudges against the walls I’ve erected around it, whispering through the cracks.

  A Monitor in Portland asked me to clean her room after Cell that last spring in Portland. The way she accepted my presence made my blood sing with genuine pleasure; it lulled me into a place of comfort.

  That comfort betrayed me. Naturally.

  Even now, remembering what I said quickens my heart and floods my cheeks with heat.

  Sometimes it scares me, the way the Others keep us separated. I wish you could come and Monitor us in person.

  The mistake, the blatant admission of wishing for life to be different, hit me even before the sentence fell from my lips. Horrified, I waited for her to turn me in, to tell the Others about the girl who doesn’t trust them. The girl who fears them.

  She didn’t. Instead she dismissed me. But her smile…it wobbled.

  I traveled that night. My own stupidity cost me my friends, the Hammonds, and the life I’d been allowed to build during those seasons in Portland. I’ve never forgotten what I am again, never made the mistake of imagining that I belong.

  The boy next to me shifts in his seat, leaning down to get a new pencil out of his battered bag and jarring me out of my reverie. His head ends up near my right elbow as he rummages, and the change in position sends a gust of air my direction. The permeating, distinctive smell of pine threatens to overwhelm me. It’s not unpleasant, just forceful, and a slow breath helps me acclimate.

  When he straightens up and catches me watching him, a blush creeps across his pale cheeks. He turns his attention back to the screen, nearly knocking a notepad off the desk in his haste.

  I refocus on the Monitor as well, not wanting to earn any unwanted attention, but continue to sneak looks at my new neighbor. It’s nagging me now, the idea that something is wrong about him. Then it hits me like a punch in the gut.

  He isn’t smiling.

  CHAPTER 3.

  Pine Boy, whose name is actually Lucas—thank you, pointless attendance roster—hustles away after chemistry without a word. I wander out at a more measured pace, not anxious for the open time after Cell. Everyone over the age of thirteen has an hour to waste before going home. My Cellmates will end up at one of the three public establishments in town: the pizza parlor, the bowling alley, or the park. They never extend an invitation for me to join them, but I probably wouldn’t accept anyway. It’s just another chance to give away my secrets.

  Consequently, my free hour is most often spent wandering alone around town. The day gets colder as the sun sinks toward the horizon and I curse my haste to leave the Morgans’ without a sweater this morning. Maybe Air would relax with the autumn chill thing if I asked nicely. His dead, pitiless gaze pops into my mind’s eye and I shiver.

  Maybe not.

  Today my meandering leads me to the park. A brisk wind continues to blow, stirring up the colorful leaves and swirling them across the sidewalk. The breeze pierces through my thin shirtsleeves and attacks my skin, raising goose bumps along my arms. I check my watch but there are still forty-five minutes to survive before going “home” is an option.

  The inner park is a large clearing filled with toys for little kids. This time of year sunflowers shoot up above the waist-high grass past the clearing, their bright yellow faces and velvety brown noses mocking my gray spirits. A thin grove of trees scatter beyond the flowers, less than twenty deep from the end of the field to the boundary separating us from the Wilds. For the moment their dramatic leaves brighten the drab a
fternoon.

  A group of teenagers spin on a merry-go-round meant for much smaller children, but the cover offered by the trees allows me to give them a wide berth. I stroll as far as permitted, all the way to the city limit. An electric fence surrounds the park and I resist the urge to run my hand over the boundary to test its power. A silly thought, I know.

  My mind wanders as I gaze through the wire fence, woven tight to keep the predators out. The forest is dense, and though leaves rustle and branches tremble, the plant life hides whatever lurks. A shudder starts in my shoulders and makes its way down through my toes.

  Animals.

  Evil creatures that would maim, rip, and kill humans without a second thought. If that doesn’t work, their diseases will do the trick. When the Others came to our planet they erected the twenty-foot boundary to ensure our safety. Farther out a net hangs, stopping about six feet from the earth to prevent the flying creatures from getting in. The Others walk in the Wilds sometimes. Humans never do. It’s not Acceptable to leave the safety of town, not that anyone would.

  There’s no reason to believe the Others would lie about our inability to survive without their protection. They’ve taken care of us since coming to this planet, guarding us against attack, providing for us, ensuring our happiness. But lately my ingrained fear of the animals struggles against jealousy. Not because I want to be out there with them, but because I envy their freedom.

  The trees shimmying in the breeze are mostly oak and maple, lacking both the scent and lush green of a grove of pines. The thought of pine trees reminds me of the unsmiling boy in my chemistry block. Focusing on that mystery is far more interesting than moping about being cold.

  The events of the day replay like scenes from a movie, the questions surrounding the boy burrowing under my skin. It might be the season, the new Cell year, or my unexpected arrival just this morning, but I can’t shake the feeling that something significant is about to happen.

  Another silly thought. Nothing changes in this world.

  A glance at my watch reveals a mere ten minutes until curfew. I’m not sure what would happen if I were late, seeing how I’ve never had the guts to try it. Instead of summoning the courage to flout the rules, I step into a jog.

  Around the corner of the Morgans’ street, the sight of a boy lying on his back two houses down, staring up at the sky, stops me short. The mop of blond curls and dingy red backpack tell me it’s Pine Boy. That he lives nearby is a surprise, though I don’t know why. I can’t even remember the last time I lived in Danbury, and people employed in certain Careers do relocate from time to time.

  He sits up and sees me standing here gawking at him and makes an effort to appear happy. The corners of his mouth look like they would fall down if he let them, like they’re being pushed up and held instead of lifting of their own accord. Having spent years manufacturing my own smile, spotting another fake one is surprisingly easy.

  As I draw closer, the swirling air lands on my tongue, eliciting a cough at the sharp taste of pine. Maybe he woke too late to shower this morning and overdid it on the cologne. Our gazes fuse until an uneven spot on the sidewalk forces my eyes forward again. Fog grows inside my mind as he mutters something under his breath and heads inside.

  When our eyes locked it felt as though the world ceased to be. Like the opposite of the crushing emptiness of my traveling nightmares, where the world still is but I am not. Just now, staring at this strange boy, it felt as though only the two of us exist.

  The premonition that change waits on the fringes of my world returns in a rush and squeezes my lungs. I’m suddenly certain that the appearance of this boy is part of whatever’s coming.

  I crash through the Morgans’ front door as the clock chimes five, struggling to catch my breath and get it together before Mr. Morgan looks up from his paper. The normalcy of the scene helps. Each day after work Mr. Morgan changes out of his dress pants and tie, exchanging them for faded khakis and a white polo. Running water and clanging pots mean Mrs. Morgan is fluttering about the kitchen making dinner. Without laying eyes on her I know she’s wearing a floral print dress covered by the same feminine apron she had on this morning. Mrs. Morgan doesn’t believe in wearing pants. The closet here boasts more dresses and skirts than my other two combined and I’m lucky she acquires jeans for me at all.

  With a deep inhale I push the corners of my own mouth up, the effort bringing back the memory of the boy’s smile as I hang my bag by the door.

  “Hi, Mr.…Dad. I’m home.”

  He glances at the clock, flicks a glance my direction, then returns his eyes to the paper. “Hi, honey. Better go get changed and start on your homework. The pot roast will be delivered any minute.”

  I try sneaking past the kitchen with a tossed hello to Mrs. Morgan but she calls me back, greeting me with a hug. She mashes potatoes on the stove, and the smell of bubbling corn casserole wafts from the oven. This mother’s cooking stands out, but they all only prepare side dishes. The Others dress, sanitize, and deliver all our animal proteins.

  “I know you need to get changed, but come tell me how it feels to be a Terminal!” Mrs. Morgan beams at me like it’s an accomplishment, when all I’ve done is age.

  “Great, Mom.”

  “How are your friends? Is everyone excited about the Gathering?”

  That one question, combined with the churning feelings stirred up by the day, rattles me. My palms heat up. “Yes. Excited. I’m going to change now.”

  The bedroom, orange and brown and sterile and not mine, brings the reality of my bizarre life crashing down.

  Of course she would assume I have friends and that we discuss the most anticipated event of the autumn, of the last year. That’s what Term girls do when they stay in one place. I hate forcing myself to look happy every day when my insides are tied up in knots. I hate being different. Not for the first time, I hate Ko for leaving me with just a stupid note. He has no idea how hard it is to not have anyone to talk to. To be alone. To have people look through me, never at me. It terrifies me that he might be lying, that I alone am a Dissident.

  That there are no more like me, whatever I am.

  With no one around to see, water falls from my eyes and spills down my cheeks unchecked. I throw myself onto the thick bedding and curl up into a ball. Memories of the years spent with the Hammonds stab into my skin like pins, pricking me with loss so deep it aches in every pore.

  Within seconds, sweat plasters my thick hair to my forehead and the back of my neck. The T-shirt, too flimsy outdoors, clings to my skin as I struggle to rip it off, to release the heat. Free of the shirt, I clutch the comforter until an acrid, smoky scent rises around me and I snatch my hands away. The orange cloth smolders around the edges of my blackened, charred handprints. I dampen the blistering embers with my shirt.

  Calm down, Althea. Get control of yourself. It’s the only way to make it stop.

  This has happened before, in the moments when I fail to staunch the flow of despair. One more way I’m not right, another sliver to bury. Several deep breaths bring back a tenuous control, but the room hovers at least twenty degrees hotter than it should be when a knock sounds at the door.

  “Thea, honey? Dinner’s ready.”

  Before I can answer, the doorknob twists and the lightweight wood swings inward. Panic surges even as my expression struggles toward neutral. I twist my face away from Mrs. Morgan to hide the water, rubbing it into my cheeks. If she were my mother—my real one—I imagine I would run and bury my puffy face in her apron and let her tell me everything will be fine.

  But she’s not. And it won’t be.

  Her deep brown eyes widen as she waves a delicate hand in front of her face, creating a breeze. “Goodness! Why is it so warm in here?”

  She glances my way and I see myself through her eyes, sitting on the bed in nothing but my sensible bra and jeans, sweat running off of me in rivers. But she makes no comment, instead walking to the bay window and turning the crank. It opens wide,
cool air racking my sticky body with chills. Keeping a smile in place is harder through chattering teeth.

  Mrs. Morgan pats my head before pausing in the doorway. “I’ll turn in a trouble ticket about our heater. Perhaps something has gone awry. At any rate, dear, finish changing into proper clothes and come downstairs. The roast has just arrived.”

  She turns and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I jump up and cross to the window in a flash, pulling it shut. The room settles into a tolerant temperature a few minutes later, signaling the end of my episode. I should have had my meltdown at the park earlier; then I wouldn’t have been so cold all afternoon.

  There’s no way for me to change who I am, only to hide who I am. Chafing acceptance trickles over me as I peel off my jeans and slip into a thin black sweater and a purple skirt that swings about my knees.

  Mrs. Morgan believes in dressing for dinner.

  CHAPTER 4.

  This is the third Saturday of the month, which means a Family Outing.

  The Others allow adults in public for an hour in the morning, primarily to get fresh air. All my parents exercise every day on the treadmill in the den, but they seem to appreciate the hike outside once a month. The Morgans and I don hideous, matching orange tracksuits and step out onto the porch at nine o’clock. Mr. Morgan stretches his thighs as front doors open and houses spit more tracksuit-clad people into the morning up and down the block. At nine-oh-five, we all walk to the street.

  All of the towns I live in are laid out the same, in a series of rings. Cell, the pizza parlor, and the bowling alley sit in the center. Five loops outside those are streets filled with identical, two-story residences. The park wraps around the outermost edge, a buffer between us and the Wilds. The Saturday Outings begin at Cell and travel along Main Street, the only road that leads directly from the center of the city to the boundary.