by Trisha Leigh
I take my cue from Lucas, the way he acts like everything he says or does is normal, even when it isn’t. “I meant neither of my parents. Neither of my parents likes to bowl.”
“Do you guys have room for a few more?” It’s Brittany, and I’ve never been so happy to see her porcelain doll face.
Lucas’s eyes linger on mine for another second before he answers her. “Of course. The lane holds six.”
She nods and skips off, presumably to get a ball and more people. I sit behind the computer, making a valiant effort to figure out how to enter our names. It’s a good excuse to keep my face turned away from Lucas, too. The computer is foreign and old-fashioned and I give up after several minutes, my mind not able to focus on the task at hand. Instead I watch my Cellmates as they begin to play.
Another voice, smooth and confident and familiar, interrupts. “Room for one more?”
Deshi. Again.
I don’t respond and Lucas intervenes. “Sure, of course, Desh.”
“Thanks. I’ll grab a ball.”
He swaggers to the racks of bowling balls. The bright lights illuminate the strange gold, or maybe bronze, color of his skin. Not like a tan, though. More yellowish.
A pinch releases me from my trance.
“Ow!” Rubbing the inside of my upper arm, I glare up at Lucas.
“You’re staring. It’s rude. Get up; you don’t know how to work that thing.”
Obeying stings because he’s right. He slides into the seat and starts punching buttons. Our names, along with Deshi’s and Brittany’s, appear on the screen. Brittany returns, Leah and another blond girl I don’t know trailing behind her.
The sight of Leah stuns me. I don’t know when she got back from her refreshing but this is the first I’ve seen her. She seems the same, not better or worse. I stare as she leans close to Lucas, looking over his shoulder as he types their names into the computer. Her chest rubs against his shoulder blade and he stiffens. She retreats a bit, that strange nonsmile painting her lips. From what I overhear, her personality still teeters a bit off-center, her tone of voice leaning toward accusation more often than not. Whatever the Others did to her, it doesn’t appear to have changed anything.
Deshi returns, strutting by me and stirring up the air. His rich, wet-earth scent wriggles into my mouth and nose, depositing a deluge of questions along with it. I can’t get over the smell of him and search his face again for anything kindred. Nothing.
Lucas walks up and puts a hand on my shoulder, watching as Deshi drops his heavy ball onto the belt.
If anyone harbors doubts about our courting, they won’t after tonight. Knowing whatever’s between Lucas and me is just for show should make tonight easier. But it turns out it makes enduring his forced affection even worse. I don’t want to think about why.
I’m up first, so I stand and pick up the pink ball, extricating myself from Lucas’s touch. The ball feels awkward in my hands; it’s been years since I’ve bowled. Concentrating, or trying to, I manage to knock over a few pins. After my second throw all but one pin lie prone on the polished wood. Hitting them feels good. I’ve felt like smashing something for days.
Leah goes next, shouldering me hard on her way to the lane. I stumble and fall onto the cushioned bench.
She smiles, and I swear venom drips from her teeth. “Oops. Sorry, Morgan.”
Right.
Deshi’s name displays next. His grace steals my attention as forcefully as it did the first day I met him. He moves with smooth purpose, as though his feet hardly touch the ground, and knocks down all ten pins on the first try. My brain tries to make sense of Deshi, to reconcile all that I know and suspect, while more of our Cellmates roll their balls down the polished wood lanes. He’s very friendly. People are more used to him now, but he’s not really one of them.
So why does he twist my nerves into pretzels?
It’s partly the way he smells—that powerful scent that recalls the way I smell like jasmine all the time and Lucas smells like pine. More than that, it’s the way both he and Lucas question the Others without acting as though it’s strange to question them.
When I return to the benches after my second turn, only having knocked down six pins this time, Deshi and Lucas sit together behind the computer, talking.
Deshi’s smug, serene voice slices through the bowling alley noise like a knife through butter. “From Iowa. Yeah. My parents relocated because of their Careers.”
He takes a deep breath through his nose, a small smile floating around his lips. Does he smell Lucas’s pine scent? Is he sitting there wondering if we are the promised “more” from his own note from Ko, perhaps Dissidents like him? We are similar in some ways, Deshi, Lucas, and I. Our eyes, for one. Our inability to completely fit in, or to make friends at Cell. It’s crossed my mind more than once during these couple of autumn weeks that they could both be working with the Others trying to find me, or someone like me.
Or they could be Broken, and so could I.
Even though their conversation sounds innocuous, Lucas’s rigid posture and the way his eyes continually seek mine transmit a palpable aggravation, pushing my own anxiety into a steady climb. Our hands brush, causing an uncomfortable sensation to travel up my arm. My skin is too hot and his may as well be made of ice. I suddenly wonder what would happen if our skin lingered together too long when I’m keyed up. Would I melt him?
Too many questions, not enough answers. This is becoming the story of my life and it’s not okay. It’s never been okay, but for the first time I feel exposed. The note, lying to everyone, hiding my fits of water or anger, has all seemed a bit abstract until the Wardens showed up in Danbury, looking for something. Someone. Until Lucas smelled like winter and really saw me, until Deshi showed up and maybe Broke Greg.
I’ve clung to a childhood fantasy that because Ko wrote me that note, he’s been watching over me, ready to send me spinning into a new season if any danger gets too close, but it’s time to let go of that idea. I have no safety net. If Ko has been pulling the strings on my existence until now, he’s lost control this autumn.
If I’m going to survive the Wardens’ interviews, I’ll have to figure out how to do it myself.
The evening stumbles on, interrupted by our meal—another treat. Fried chicken and potatoes. We aren’t usually allowed to eat fried food, and the flavor explodes in my mouth, crunchy and savory. Everyone else chews delightedly, exclaiming over our special night and that we should thank the Others for such a wonderful meal. Focusing on the food distracts me for twenty minutes or so, but when it’s gone, all I can think about is the need to put distance between myself and the boys. Watching the clock becomes my favorite pastime.
Lucas’s polite talk, banter, and sweet glances my direction convinces everyone he’s relaxed and enjoying the mixer, but not me.
He and Deshi spend most of the evening with their heads bent together, murmuring too low to be heard through the rest of the din, amplifying my paranoia that they’re plotting against me. The second the clock hits eight-thirty Lucas stands up, grabs my pink ball and his blue one, and returns them to their shelves. The rest of the Terms are slower to respond to the time, since we have another half an hour before we’re required to be home.
Helping me to my feet, Lucas clears his throat and announces, “See everyone at Cell.”
“What’s the hurry?” Leah asks, still oddly aggressive.
“Yes, Lucas. What’s the hurry? Want Althea all to yourself for a few minutes, perhaps to do a little talking?” Deshi smiles at his own suggestion, but a fleeting challenge lights his eyes.
Through our clasped hands, Lucas trembles as his face goes white. “No. I promised her dad we wouldn’t be late, is all. See you.”
He bites off the words and hauls me out the door so fast I have to trot to keep up. After we turn a corner he stops, sucking in ragged, deep breaths. I wait, a little dumbfounded.
He casts his eyes at the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
&nb
sp; “For what?”
“Losing it back there. I don’t like talking to Deshi.”
He could be trying to trick me, but his words feel honest, like most of our conversations. All but one, the one that stops me from taking a chance. Still, relief washes through me at his confession—he senses the off quality in Deshi as well.
“I know what you mean. It’s like he thinks he’s better than us.”
Lucas doesn’t answer, just drops my hand and starts toward home. I take care to leave space between us, because even though my pulse has returned to normal, cold air still blasts off Lucas. I want to know more about why Deshi bothers him, if he notices the Barbarus’s odor or thinks anything of it, but he probably won’t tell me.
We pass the rest of the way back to the Morgans’ in silence. Lucas trudges next to me all the way onto the porch, where his face is half hidden between the bright glow of the porch light and the deepening night shadows. His eyes glitter with a desire so fierce I look away.
He grabs my hands. “I wish we could be friends. Can’t we?”
Every cell in my body wants to say yes. I have to clamp my lips shut to keep the assent from escaping, but the memory of his untruth withers the word on my tongue. It seems safer to go back to my solitude, even though it’s a miserable state, because at least that way no one can figure out my secrets. So I don’t say anything and we stare at each other for a long time. I wonder what he’s thinking, wish he would tell me.
Finally he leans in, hesitates for a split second, then brushes his cool lips across my warm cheek. A pleasant shudder rolls down from my shoulders and curls my toes, leaving warm, seeping heat in their wake. That combined with the walls in between us squeeze my heart so hard it can hardly beat.
“Good night, Althea. I’ll see you at Cell.” Lucas drops my hands, his defeated air trampling the mood.
He slumps down the front steps, onto the sidewalk, and all the way to his front door. He never looks back but he knows I’m watching. It’s easy to see in the way his shoulders hunch up as though they can protect him from my gaze. My intestines twist into knots and for once the sweat forming over my body has nothing to do with an internal loss of control.
Lucas did it. With his nearness. With his lips. With that look in his eyes, the one that makes me feel like I’m looking into my own.
I can’t change my mind about him, no matter how desperate I am to trust someone, to finally have an ally in life. I understand the defeat in his posture. As much as I want to talk to him and hold nothing back—to share sorrow, and pain, and anger—letting my guard down isn’t smart.
That’s why I feel desperate and defeated. I don’t know why he does.
I try for some normalcy and attempt to relax while brushing my teeth, changing my clothes, and crawling under the comforter, but it doesn’t bring me any answers. That his reasons mirror my own is too much to hope for, but what else could be behind his inhuman, myriad emotions baffles me. I wonder again if he’s Broken and somehow manages to keep it hidden. It’s hard to imagine no one else ever notices he’s not always happy. I know from experience how hard a thing it is to hide, especially as a child. Sighing, I force my eyes closed and try to tempt sleep. Lucas might be thinking about me, too.
Inside where no one, not even me, can squash it…I hope he is.
CHAPTER 11.
My emotional state falls into deeper unrest over the next several days. The leftover nervousness from the mixer, combined with the certainty that I’ll be taken after my interview in less than a month, fill my mind and spill over into the rest of me. It results in an increased obsession with questioning everything I’ve ever been told. Despite the fact that the Others live apart from us, I’ve never second-guessed their truthfulness. They’re frighteningly unfeeling and even cruel, but why would they need to lie?
I waste hours worrying over what to do about Lucas and Deshi. I observe the change in Leah, quietly severe and frightening. Two more Term girls are taken away during the third week of interviews. Greg’s empty seat in astronomy boils my blood. The more I think about the day he Broke, the more certain I am that Deshi hurt him on purpose.
There must be a way to find out what’s going on. My need to take action, to find out what’s going on this autumn generates an idea. I could eavesdrop on a Warden interview. If only I knew what they wanted, what they were looking for, I could figure out how to make sure they don’t think I’ve got it.
It’s the most dangerous idea I’ve ever had, and getting caught would cement my presence in their minds. On the other hand, I’m so incredibly tired of playing these questions on an endless loop but being too afraid to try to find out the answers to what makes me so different. The logistics of how to listen in and not get caught are still rattling around in my mind.
Today I scoot in the Morgans’ door and participate in the evening ritual. Dinner is roast duck, rice, and zucchini. Mrs. Morgan’s rice, potatoes, and vegetables are seasoned to perfection, as always. The Others’ duck, shipped out of a regional factory, tastes bland in comparison. My autumn parents don’t notice anything amiss about my attitude, which is good.
And bad.
A storm builds in my belly, filling it so that choking down dinner is a monumental task. I try to shake it off, focusing on the Morgans’ conversation instead.
“Yes, I saw them today when I was cleaning the curtains in the front room. Two Wardens. Walked straight into the house next door.” Mrs. Morgan utters the observation with the same tone she uses to call me to dinner or comment on Mr. Morgan’s shirt and tie combination in the morning.
My jaw freezes in mid-chew as Mr. Morgan responds.
“Coming to register the new baby, no doubt.”
The Others register every baby once it survives its first year. I’ve never seen the process in person, but we’re told registering consists of a simple medical procedure and the issuing of identification.
Mrs. Morgan nods, sawing off a piece of duck and swirling it around in the sweet, hot mustard on her plate. “When we saw the little guy—Roark—at this month’s Outing I thought his face was too flat, his ears too small. Something is funny about the way his eyes are slanted, too. At any rate, the Wardens took Roark when they left.”
“Yes. Broken, sure as the day is long. Too bad.” Mr. Morgan doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s too bad. He sounds like he’d rather be eating than having this conversation.
Without warning, the storm inside me breaks loose. A million grievances built up over sixteen years. The Broken baby next door. The Morgans’ casual discussion of the news. Simmering resentment over Lucas and his lies, wild fear over Deshi’s attention. Leah. Greg. The Wardens. The interviews.
Shoving the chair back so hard it topples, I loom over the table as the Morgans gape at me with baffled expressions. Anger escapes my tenuous hold, rocketing straight out of my mouth. “What is wrong with you people? Don’t you get that the neighbors had their child taken away? Their child!”
The last words shriek from my lips, scraping my throat raw and causing Mrs. Morgan to slide a few feet away from the table. Her eyes meet mine and I hold onto her gaze, willing her to understand.
Why does the child have to go away? Don’t you notice when I go away? Do you miss me at all?
I push these thoughts at her, all the questions I’ve ever wanted to ask. They scream in my mind, directed at the poor woman who, in all fairness, has never done anything but take care of me.
To my utter astonishment her eyes focus on me, really focus, for the first time.
Instead of her normal, pleasant demeanor, fright slithers onto her face. Uncertainty joins it moments later, and she stands and backs away.
“Who…who are you?” She points at me, her hand trembling, and then looks at her Partner. “Who is she? Why is she here? She’s not ours!”
Mr. Morgan returns her stare, quizzical but not disturbed, and remains silent. Whatever’s happening isn’t affecting him. Just her. A closer look reveals pain etched in her every
wrinkle.
Certainty that my outburst has done something more than simply shock her sneaks in, but I push it away. It’s impossible. I don’t even know what’s happening.
All I know is I have to fix this. Fix her.
“What? Of course I’m yours.”
My feeble attempt to calm the situation achieves nothing and Mrs. Morgan’s panic shoots up faster than a dandelion in the springtime. She presses against the door leading to the backyard. Her hand snakes behind her, scrabbling for the knob.
You can’t let her leave.
Cognitive ability returns with that one clear, simple command. Mrs. Morgan somehow knows I’m a Dissident, and she can’t run all over Danbury screaming about it.
My own panic rises, emotions flailing haplessly as I search for a solution. The temperature in the kitchen climbs toward unbearable. Steam rises out of the water-filled pots in the sink and fogs up the windows. Custard, simmering on the stove, starts to boil.
Do something. Anything!
“Dad! Stop her, she needs a Healer!”
My voice spurs Mr. Morgan into action and he crosses the small kitchen in three steps, grabbing his Partner by the arm. He speaks in a soothing voice, the fixed smile never leaving his face. “Now, Angie, calm down. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we’re going to get you fixed up.”
Their eyes lock, hers huge and incredulous. “Fixed up? I don’t want to be fixed up. I want to be free! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see what they’ve done? What’s happened to everyone?”
Each shouted word pushes Mr. Morgan farther away. His hands cover his ears as he falls back into his chair at the dinner table where he gawks at his Partner. She scans the room in an unceasing circle, making me worry her eyeballs might fall out of her head. The thought of hurting her closes my throat, but my choices ooze away like sap down a tree trunk. She shrinks away as I approach, as though she’s hoping to disappear right through the door.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is she has to shut up.
