The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  “So…” I face Mykal and Court’s tired gazes while Influentials push past us, hurrying to their assigned dorms. Ours couldn’t be farther away from one another: 3A for Mykal, 2G for me, 1P for Court.

  I gather myself for a short goodbye, the weight of the competition compounding on my shoulders as fiercely as it does on Court. On Mykal. We huddle near one another, their heads dipped toward me.

  I hesitate to separate.

  They hesitate.

  Since I dodged my deathday, I haven’t spent a single night away from Mykal or Court. I didn’t imagine it’d be this difficult. Leaving them has always seemed easier than staying.

  “So,” Mykal repeats before taking a step backward.

  I force myself the other direction. Court watches Mykal and me turn our backs, the three of us splitting apart without another word. Our emotions speak louder.

  I meander slowly along the hardwood, careful not to bump into fast-paced candidates. Emptiness festers, as though I’m missing something.

  Someone.

  Two of them.

  Go back.

  I halt and glance over my shoulder, the curved hallway shadowing my view. I’ve always been on my own. Relied on myself. But this call … this longing for someone else pounds at my body like a second and third heartbeat, electrifying the blood in my veins. Rushing to my head. Dizzying.

  Go back.

  I fight the call. Adding more and more distance. My stomach grumbles, then gurgles—empty but overly full. Which sounds mad in itself.

  Rather than shoveling food in my mouth at supper, I tried to consume the five-course meal slowly. But before I even bit into leafy greens, porters carried out sweet pea soup and swept my salad dish away. It happened again and again.

  To satiate me, Mykal and Court overate, filling themselves beyond full of lamb, garlic potatoes, gravy, and squash. Court also tried to eat a strawberry and Mykal nearly vomited. We’re a true wobbling mess when it comes to our link.

  3F … 1G …

  I wonder how many bunk beds will be in each dorm. At the orphanage, I used to clamor for a bottom bunk, colliding hips and arms for the chance to be low to the ground.

  I have no problem rooming with other people—I’ve done so all my life—but what if they’re briny by what I do or say and it lasts for ages? I never had the chance to really befriend an Influential and I could easily botch that before it begins.

  Passing 2G by accident, I shuffle back, the wooden door partially ajar. Instead of peeking inside, I just walk straight in—gods. There are no bunks.

  Golden canopies drape over five humongous beds. All fitting snugly against paneled walls and consuming the small room.

  Court briefly mentioned how his childhood bed in Yamafort had had a canopy. All to insulate him from the night’s chill. I imagined canopies would look like the tarps from Bartholo’s black market, not luxury that could exist within the Catherina Hotel.

  My leather satchel waits on the furthermost left bed.

  And I’m not alone here.

  As I reach my possessions, an argument brews in front of the five beds and an armoire, hangers spilling out and luggage zipped open.

  “I have more clothes that need to be hung than you do,” a boy says matter-of-factly. “It’s only fair that I take more room in the armoire.” He unclasps an expensive watch that lies flat over his dark brown skin. Tall, with lean muscles, and dressed in stylish champagne-colored slacks and a wide-collared coat, he looks like he could pose for a fashion ad in Yamafort’s newspaper.

  A much shorter girl squares off with him, her fashion choice different than most here: black leather skirt-overalls, frilly shirt beneath. Her honey-blond hair cascades in messy, crinkled waves, molding her pale face. “You think you’re being fair?”

  He shuts his watch in a black case and assesses the clothes rack. “You’re right. I should just take the entire armoire.”

  Barely anyone likes to share, I swear to the gods. I try to spy their names, but they’ve both removed their badges.

  “Holy Wonders, you’re actually being serious.” She gapes. “I thought to myself, Oh Gem, try to like him. Do not jump to conclusions based on his parentage. He may have a decent-sized head on his shoulders. Instead, you’re exactly how you appear. Big-headed. Conceited. Snobbish. What’s more unfair is you being here at all. StarDust shouldn’t play favorites.”

  The boy casually refolds a pair of slacks from his three-piece luggage set. “StarDust obviously doesn’t play favorites.”

  She rests a hand on her hip. “And why’s that?”

  “Because if they did, I wouldn’t be in a room with someone who talks to themselves. Oh Gem,” he mimics her high-pitched, youthful voice, “that boy is so horribly mean to me.” He mimes wiping his tears. “Little girl, why don’t you go weep on your mother’s shoulder?”

  What a chump.

  I breathe out an aggravated breath, crossing my arms. Forcing myself to lean on my bedpost. Even if I dislike him, I don’t intend to draw attention to myself or join their stew. Anyway, I’d rather sleep with my satchel than mix my belongings with theirs.

  He stares down at her with pompous hazel eyes.

  She stares up at him with wild greens. “I’m not a little girl. I’m fifteen.”

  “And I’m twenty-one.” He tucks his folded slacks under his arm. “No matter what you say or do, I’ll always defeat you.”

  Gem crouches and hurriedly gathers all the hangers on the floor. “Do you need these?”

  “Yes.” He extends a hand.

  “Well now they’re mine.”

  My smile widens while Gem marches to her bed and chucks the hangers on the mattress.

  The boy shoves his luggage in the armoire, procuring a toothbrush and paste. “None of you will last long enough to become comfortable, so take as many hangers as you want. They’ll be mine in a week’s time. Maybe less.” He shuts the doors and then acknowledges me with a quick once-over before rolling his eyes.

  I prickle. “You can’t be so sure about that.”

  He twirls the toothbrush between his fingers. “I’m Kinden Valcastle. I’m more certain of how this’ll play out than you’ll ever be.” He winks and saunters to a narrow door inside our room.

  Kinden Valcastle.

  I’m in a room with Court’s older brother.

  And the son of the Director of StarDust. I go cold and my mind races while Kinden fiddles with a broken brass knob. The door swings off its hinges, a sink, tub, and toilet on the other side.

  Instead of using the bath without a door, he makes a concerted effort to slide over a mahogany privacy screen, commonly used by Influentials for dressing. Now it’s a makeshift door that he hides behind.

  I stay completely still. In frozen shock.

  Sometimes I believe the memories Court gave me, all the ones with his little brother Illian, were accidents. He was equally surprised when they surfaced. As if his past lingers in the darkest, most painful crevices of his brain, and I grazed the depths. Out arose Illian.

  Not Kinden.

  “He’s unequivocally insufferable,” Gem mutters beneath her breath. “And I just met him.” If Kinden hears this from behind the privacy screen, he ignores every word.

  As I sit stiffly on my maroon quilt, I catch eyes with Gem.

  “Thank the gods, another girl,” she exhales, relieved, and then glides to her bed beside mine. Brushing the hangers off to take a seat.

  “Is this all mine?” I ask, pointing to my bed that could fit three bodies comfortably. More people must be rooming here. Not just one per bed. Right?

  “Of course it’s all yours. They’d never make us sleep in the same bed with perfect strangers. Speaking of”—Gem stretches her hand—“I’m Gem.” Beds so close, we easily clasp palms and shake, her grip sturdy but friendly, causing me to smile. “Gem Soarcastle.”

  Soarcastle. My lips drop. “You’re—”

  “Padgett Soarcastle’s younger and more confrontational and chatty sister,
yes.” At the talk of Padgett, her smile illuminates her whole face. While mine vanishes completely.

  For the shortest second, I thought I might find an ally in Gem, but if she’s Padgett’s sister, then she could be more calculating than what meets the eye.

  I’m afraid I’ll be so eager to discover someone like me, I’ll forget that we’re all different. We all have our motives and mine don’t align with anyone but Court and Mykal’s.

  Remember that.

  Defenses raised, I greet her: “Wilafran Elcastle. You’re Maranilan, right?” I rarely drove to Maranil, the southernmost country landscaped by iced-over ocean, temps a little bit warmer, but not by much.

  Maranilans always had less bills to pay Purple Coach drivers than Orrish and Altians. Last time I drove to the south, I was nine. Wet sludge froze on my tires once I returned to Bartholo and I spent two days chipping it away.

  “Maranilan through and through.” Legs locked, she drums her kneecaps. “Though please tell me you’re not the type to make fish jokes. If one more person wafts their nose at me like I smell of trout, I may scream.”

  My brows scrunch. “People do that?”

  “To Maranilan girls and boys. All the time.”

  I guess I’ve been in the heart of Altia too long to notice the other three countries. “I wouldn’t make fun of you,” I assure Gem, hoping with every word I chose the most Influential-like phrasing.

  “So you’re Altian then.” Gem nods to my name badge. “Let me guess.” She squints. “You just graduated from university for … mechanical engineering.”

  I lick my lips, thankfully not chapped, and recall the backstory I created with Court. “I’m seventeen years, so still at university. I’ve been studying a little of everything, actually.” “Keep it vague,” Court had said. My back sweats even thinking about being challenged on the world’s history, engineering, or aerospace.

  “A little of everything,” Gem ponders. “I should’ve done that at university. I was so bored with horticulture that I dropped out at thirteen. Padgett and I study on our own now. Most parents would throw a fit, but Mother had been the one to suggest becoming self-taught.” She stares off sadly. “I’ll miss her most. Are you leaving anyone behind?”

  “Not really…” I think of all those who’ve died and all those who’re still alive: Oron and Gustel, Purple Coach drivers who’d spit on me each morning. I’d walk by to choose a car for the day, and wet saliva would splat in my hair. “It’s what we do here, chump,” they’d laugh. I’d launch a thick wad back at their turds for faces.

  They never stopped spitting.

  And so neither did I.

  “No one that I particularly like at least,” I say more honestly.

  “Understandable.” She pulls off her polished boots. “There are many faces I’m happy to forget.”

  “Like who?” I pry more out of curiosity than strategy.

  “All of my professors who said I’d amount to nothing in life.” She takes a breath. “‘There goes that dropout, Gem Soarcastle,’ they said. ‘She’ll never impact the world the way she dreams. If anything, she’ll be no one. And nothing.’”

  “Your professors sound like toads.”

  She laughs, full-bodied, shoulders jostling. “Toads. Holy Wonders, that’s perfect. Extinct toads.”

  My brows arch. “Big warty ones.”

  Her laugh dies a little.

  Mayday. I said wart. I stand and rummage through my satchel. I’m being obvious. Should I just sit down then…?

  I end up freezing in place while she examines the length of my body, my blouse tucked nicely into my slacks. Hair combed straight. Outwardly, I appear like an Influential. You know this to be true, Franny. I breathe in a stronger breath.

  Gem asks, “Do you have a Fast-Tracker in your family?”

  “A sister,” I lie quickly. “She’s dead.”

  “Did she have fun while she lived?”

  I think about my orphanage friends and my lips curve, fond and happy. “So much.”

  The floorboards squeak and we turn together to see a freckled-faced boy trudging awkwardly into the room. I recognize him from the museum. Seifried. He clutches his arms timidly as he approaches a bed on the far right. Remembering his mother’s farewell wedges a pit in my hollow stomach.

  “Maranilan,” Gem calls out in pride, noticing his name badge.

  He hangs his head. “Father … he … he told me not to make friends.” Seifried encloses himself within his canopy bed.

  Don’t make friends.

  Gem and I exchange a wary look and we both mutually drift apart. She slips off her bed and unpacks her clothes into the armoire’s drawers.

  Kinden is still shrouded by the privacy screen, the faucet running.

  No more public bathhouses.

  No more poor plumbing.

  It’s hard to believe this is my new life. Not every aspect is an upgrade though. I have to consciously change my clothes in private. Just to dress in night slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, I use the canopy to shield me since Kinden has taken the sole screen. I stand on the mattress that oscillates as I shift my weight.

  Do better, Franny.

  Slacks off, I struggle with the buttons on the back of my blouse and huff. Last one. I free myself—not completely. Just when I think I’ve succeeded, there’s a bra contraption.

  I hear the clap, clap of boots. Nearing my bed. I pause, listening, and then the thick fabric of the canopy flings open.

  Zimmer.

  I startle at his presence. “You?”

  “You.” He startles just as strongly, recoiling a step.

  “She was dressing in there!” Gem shouts. Abandoning the armoire, she charges Zimmer. With the heels of her palms, she thumps his chest until he backs up into the wall.

  Zimmer raises his hands high, shoulders taller than Gem. “I didn’t know anyone was in there, I swear on the gods. I thought it was my bed.”

  My face falls. “This is your room?”

  “Yes,” he says as smooth as any Influential. I wouldn’t trust him, but we both seem horror-struck at the idea of sleeping so close, our intentions for entering StarDust a mystery to each other.

  “Wilafran…” Gem blushes, embarrassed for me.

  I look down at my body. Standing off-kilter on a mattress in nothing more than underwear and an itchy bra, I’ve been in much less in the view of many more eyes. While I cover myself with a pillow, Gem politely lowers her gaze.

  Zimmer captures mine, his two soulful eyes burrowing through my core. As though knowing who I am. His lip hikes in a tense smile, conflicted. Pained.

  Because I think he understands not caring about undressing or privacy. And that makes me more like him and him more like me.

  Or maybe I’m hoping again. Hoping that someone out there is experiencing exactly what I am.

  There is someone.

  Court.

  Mykal.

  I miss them, I realize. Is it possible to miss someone after only an hour or two?

  Zimmer tears himself away to find his bed beside Seifried’s and Gem offers more privacy by returning to the armoire. I finish dressing and then tie my canopy back with the tassels. All the while stealing glances at Zimmer.

  He steals even more.

  I work myself up to approaching him without causing a stew. My neck swelters. Two tugs and I shrug off my fur coat.

  Impulse kicks the back of my knees and I just go. I confront Zimmer by his bed, his satchel half open, floral-printed button-downs strewn over the quilt.

  Clothes that I’ve seen older Influentials wear during leisure activities. Like indoor bowling. His few slacks are wrinkled … some stained. He could’ve stolen them, but by their poor state, I bet that he found them in a dumpster. I imagine Zimmer diving into the trash and my temper lowers to a dull simmer.

  “What do you want?” he snaps.

  There’s so much I’d like to know, but I say what flies to my head first. “I wanted to know why someone of sixteen�
��”

  “Nineteen.”

  I flinch. “What?”

  “I can’t help that I look younger. It’s because of my build.” Gangly. Bony. His scruffy ash-brown hair frames his angular jaw, youthful and bright-eyed.

  “Then nineteen…”

  Zimmer peeks over his shoulder like he’d rather be chatting with the wall than to me. That’s fair.

  Softly, I say, “I just wanted to know why you’re here. At StarDust.”

  His eyes fall to me. “What makes you think I’d tell you a thing?”

  “I know, all too well, that I deserve nothing from you.” I drop my voice. “But for someone who made me a target at supper, I thought you’d want to explain yourself.”

  “I. Hate.” He pushes his finger at my collarbone. “You.”

  I grit my teeth, anger swelling faster than usual. Mykal—it’s his hostility. He felt Zimmer’s finger jab me.

  I eye his name badge, pinned to an oversized suit jacket. “Zimmer Creecastle.” After I dodged my deathday, all I’ve done is try to cope with my surroundings. I turn. I wobble. I turn again and I’m maddened. I’m confused.

  There are more questions than answers in this world and I’m so tired of not asking anything. So here I am, in front of Zimmer, asking something. And hoping.

  Hoping. That I’m struck with the smallest, tiniest clarity.

  Don’t give up, Franny.

  “Tell me why you’re here,” I say. “Anything. Please.”

  His face twists. “You’d beg?”

  I nod. I’ll beg. I’ll do almost anything for just one answer. Just one. “Please,” I say again. I feel like the Franny Bluecastle who clawed at a Plexiglas bank window. Zimmer is behind the glass. Watching me, gripping the cord to the blinds. Prepared to snap them shut.

  Please.

  Please.

  “Please,” I say with all my heart.

  Zimmer clasps my elbow and draws me toward his headboard, farther from Gem. We’re both aware of Seifried, who’s concealed by his canopy.

  Tilting his head to me, Zimmer whispers, “That day at the Catherina Hotel…” He pauses, eyes reddening with much more than just hatred. “That day … I was fired for what you did.”

  My nose flares.

  He drops his hand like he can’t stand to touch me. “Is that not what you wanted to hear? You and your husband—or whoever he is—had me fired for losing a coat you never had and calling you out for overtime in a hotel room that I snuck you into.”