She punches me in the arm with force, and I yelp in pain.
“Ow! That hurts!” I rub my hand over my throbbing skin.
“Good. It’s meant to. I can’t believe you kept that quiet. That is so fricking hot. I’m so jealous.”
“Seriously?” I slant a suspicious look her direction. “I haven’t as much as spoken to him yet. And you’ve been doing all that fun stuff with Odie.”
“I know.” Grabbing me around the waist, she plops us both down on the bed. “And Odie is so lovely, but your situation is wickedly mysterious and romantic.” She has a dreamy look in her eyes. “Check your D-pad mail. Maybe he’s already sent you a message.” Stretching around, she snags my digipad and thrusts it into my lap.
My fingers tremble as I log on. My heart is fluttering erratically, and I feel sick to my stomach. The screen pings alerting me to a new message, and I drop the digipad as if it’s on fire. “Oh my God.” I try to steady my breathing, but nothing eases my burgeoning angst.
Jenna collapses in a fit of giggles on the bed.
“Cow,” I mutter insincerely.
“I heard that.” The comforter muffles her voice. Her whole body shudders, and the bed quakes under the weight of her laughter.
“Quit acting like an ass and get up here,” I demand, fisting my hand in the back of her shirt. “I can’t do this alone.”
Jenna sits up and chases away the last of her laughter. “Jeez, Sadie, the look on your face is priceless. Please promise me that I can be there the first time you actually speak to him in person. I’ve definitely gotta see that.”
“You’re mean.” Ignoring her, I cautiously pick up the digipad and flip the screen. I chew on a fingernail as I survey the flashing message icon taunting me from the screen.
“Go on, open it,” Jenna encourages, resting her chin on my shoulder.
Here goes nothing. I click on the message icon and read.
From: LChandler
To: SOwens
Hi Sadie,
It’s really nice to know your name, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our staring matches across the water. Now that I’ve kick-started my brain and realized that we have a way to actually communicate, I look forward to getting to know you better.
I’ll kick things off. I’m Logan Chandler. I’m eighteen and a senior from West Seattle High. I dig baseball, golf, rock music, MMA, and classic movies. I’m addicted to coffee and donuts, and I’m a closet Will Smith fan (the dude is a legend.)
How are you liking things down here? Are you looking forward to Thalassic City? Write me back and don’t forget to enclose a selfie.
Later, Logan.
With huge trepidation, I click on the accompanying picture icon. Jenna sucks in a sharp breath. It’s a close-up selfie, and I can even detect the miniscule smattering of tiny light freckles, which dot his pale nose and cheeks. But man, I can’t look away from his stunning blue eyes. A million different emotions are reflected in his fiery gaze, and I blush profusely.
This guy is wreaking havoc with my hormones, and I’ve no idea why. “Oh no,” I moan, dropping my head in my hands.
“What’s wrong?” Jenna asks, tugging my hands down. “He sounds pretty yummy. And he’s messaged you already so he’s definitely keen.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I shake my head sadly. “Look.” I point to the side of the photo where a fraction of his wrist is visible in the frame, the edge of a distinct gold bar taunting me clearly. “He’s a bullion. He’s completely out of my league.”
CHAPTER 6
“The rules have been relaxed. Remember?” Jenna says.
“I know that, and surely it’s an oversight on the part of the government. But you’re missing the point. It won’t matter that technically we’re allowed to date for a few months. The reality is that once he finds out about my status, he’ll have zero interest in me.”
“You don’t know that, Sadie.” Jenna’s look is fierce. “He’s a boy, you’re a girl. You are attracted to each other. It’s as simple as that.” She says it matter-of-factly, as if there are no gray areas.
“You know it’s never that straightforward.” I scrunch my hair in my fists and sigh.
“It can be as uncomplicated as you want it to be. Write back and tell him you’re a star. Let’s see how he responds.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh wearily. I shouldn’t care. It’s not as if I’d be permitted to have any future with a boy like him, or any boy for that matter, so it’s better that I tell him and end this—whatever this is—before it begins. Might as well get it out of the way now. My heart protests wildly against my head, but the logical side of my brain wins out over the nostalgic, sappy side.
Best to put a stop to this now before I do something stupid.
Like fall in love with him.
“You’re right. I don’t know why I’m entertaining the notion of it anyway. I’m not interested in casual flings, and that’s all this would be, even if he could overlook my social status.”
“Stop that, Sadie. It’s damn infuriating.” Jenna snaps her fingers in my face. “You deserve to have a little fun, and there’s nothing wrong with it. Everyone needs love in their life, and unless I’m mistaken, you haven’t had much of that. So, you should seize the opportunity when it comes your way. Go on,” she urges, nudging me, “Tell him.”
I type with trembling hands. I’m so nervous I could puke. I spend about ten minutes typing and erasing in a repetitive manner. Jenna hovers wordlessly over me the whole time, but I don’t miss the vociferous sighs or the exasperated tapping of her foot.
“Good God, woman,” she shrieks when I’ve eventually tested her patience to the limit. “Stop trying to sugarcoat it because that’s damned near impossible. Just spell it out. Direct is best.”
Taking her advice, I erase my previous message and type quickly.
From: SOwens
To: LChandler
Hi Logan,
Thanks for your message. I’m a star so I guess there’s no point in continuing this?
Sadie.
My finger hovers fretfully over the send button. Closing my eyes, I press down. I can’t recall a time when I was so anxious that I physically felt sick. This is so out of my comfort zone it’s not funny.
A little while later, Jenna returns to Odie, and I’m silently praying he hasn’t seduced Neve by now. Jenna’s been gone a lot longer than she had indicated. If Odie is anything like his lower class male counterparts, then every female is fair game. The government loves it that way. I’m surprised they don’t give out awards, though “Male Whore of the Year” and “Biggest Slut on the Planet” don’t have an appealing ring to them.
I spend an hour watching my screen for a response that doesn’t arrive. I’m jittery as hell and as irritable as my mom on a good day. Moping around here all day will do me no good. So, I deliberately leave my D-pad on my bed and head to the training room, determined to put my time to good use.
An hour later, I dash back to my room, like a crack addict in desperate need of a fix. No flashing icon greets me and I deflate. Flinging my D-pad back on my bed, I decide to do something totally unnatural.
I head to the gym, hoping to expel some of my repressed frustration.
Reminding myself to complain to Vin about the choice of gym attire, I pull the tiny black shorts down lower over the cheeks of my bum and adjust the lycra top that stops right under my bust. I scan myself from all angles to ensure I’m not exposing any side-boob. Honestly, I imagine I’d be wearing more if I were prepped for a day at the beach.
Gathering my courage, I push through the double doors into the gym. Several pairs of eyes flit in my direction, and I feel sick all over again. Hastily glancing around, I let out a low groan when I realize I’m the only female in here. But I can’t chicken out now because that would be an obvious show of weakness. So, I force one foot in front of the other and ignore the heated stares I’m picking up from all corners.
Stopping in front of one of the l
ess technical looking machines, I drape my towel over the bar. I try to read the instructions, but it might as well be in a foreign language. The longer I stand here looking like a clueless idiot, the more I feel like one.
“Need some help?” a distinctly masculine voice asks.
“Um, yes, please,” I reply, without looking up.
I stand back as the man taps in a few commands, and the machine judders to life. “You need to put one foot here,” he says, pointing to the left paddle, “and your other foot there.” He taps the right. “You can adjust the speed using these buttons.” He jabs the keypad at the top of the machine.
“Great, thanks,” I mumble.
“You’re welcome. I’ll be over in the corner if you need anything else.”
I raise my eyes and look at him, letting out a shaky breath. This man is much older than I am, and his look is sincere. He genuinely wanted to help me. “Thanks so much. I appreciate that.”
Hopping up on the paddles, I program the machine at a low speed until I’ve found my rhythm. Once I’m in the swing of it, I increase the tempo, and blood thunders through my veins. A thin layer of sweat cloaks my skin, but I feel great, and each thrust erases my stress a little at a time.
The guys are too into their workouts now to pay more than fleeting attention to me, so I allow myself to fully relax.
I throw myself into the motion, enjoying the burning ache in my legs and arms. I only ease off when a steady line of sweat starts to drip into my eyes and my breathing becomes labored to the point of discomfort.
Jumping off, I drop to the ground. I remove a bottle of water from my bag and drink greedily. I’m preparing to leave when the doors swing open and in walks trouble. With a capital T.
The boy stalking toward me is the physical manifestation of the fictional Hulk. Every part of his body is chiseled to perfection. Massive shoulders lead into muscle-bound arms that could snap me in two without much effort. His strong square jaw is set in a smirk, as his almond-shaped caramel-colored eyes latch on my tiny form on the ground. Raking a large hand through his tousled blond hair, he is clearly making a beeline for me. I squirm uncomfortably.
“Well, hell,” he says, stopping right beside me, “What do we have here?” His eyes sweep the length of me, sending icy chills all over my sweat-soaked body. I don’t like feeling so small underneath him, so I haul myself up and straighten my spine. This guy’s size is intimidating, but I mask my discomfort. Not an easy feat when there’s more than six foot of solid muscle restricting my path.
“If you’ll excuse me, I was just leaving.” I’m mortified that my speech rattles a little.
“I’m sure we can do better than that, cutie.” He winks suggestively.
An inner advisor suggests I chill out and stick around to enjoy his company, but I push that errant idea straight out of my mind. Warning bells ding loud and clear. Not one to ignore my instincts, I move to step around him, making my intent obvious. The Hulk steps sideways, impeding me again, and I’m forced to look up at him.
His eyes narrow to pinpricks as he gives me a full body scan, and my heart slams against my ribcage.
Some say the eyes are the door to the soul, and if that’s true, then this guy’s soul is rotten to the core. His look flips between lust and loathing, interest and disinterest, and both versions of him are creeping me out. Stay, have some fun, my inner demon chants again, and this time I punt the ugly meddler into oblivion.
I move to the other side, but he’s damned fast, and he stops me with ease. Anger starts to battle with fear. “Can you please move out of my way?” I force myself to eyeball him, projecting confidence I don’t feel. Intense confusion registers on his face as he leans toward me curiously. Suspecting I’ve caught him off guard, I dart to the other side and race around him.
“Until next time, sweetheart,” he yells as I duck out of the room.
My heart is pounding so hard I fear I’ve internal bruising. Dropping down on my bed, my whole body shudders uncontrollably as bottled terror makes a break for escape. That guy scared the living hell out of me, and I don’t fully know why. The thoughts of being stuck in here with him for another couple of weeks chill me to the bone.
Peeling off my damp workout gear, I drop them to the floor and step into the shower. My mind churns unpleasantly as I wash. My initial instinct is to talk to Vin about him. But what would I say? He said a few somewhat suggestive things to me in a room full of witnesses, but so what? None of what he said could be construed as menacing, and it’s difficult to explain that the fear I felt radiated purely from the look in his eyes. How can I convey that without coming off as if I’m the nut job?
I switch off the shower and wrap a towel around my body. I’m still mulling it over when I reach my bed. Sitting back, I snatch my digipad and flip up the screen. Another message awaits. Promptly forgetting my previous anxiety, a whole new layer builds. I lose count of how long I sit there staring at the screen like the big scaredy-cat that I am.
Eventually, I summon the courage to click on the icon.
From: LChandler
To: SOwens
Hi Sadie,
I don’t care about that. Where’s my photo? And you STILL haven’t told me anything about yourself. Deets, please.
Later, Logan.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. He knows and he doesn’t care.
An urge to squeal and jump up and down rides me hard but I quash it. Because that would be plain childish. Nevertheless … this is momentous. He seems to like me, and he wants to get to know me better. I think I’m on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
Over a boy I’ve only seen from a distance, and thanks to a few words on a screen.
I might be totally swinging from the cray-cray tree.
I think I’m already in love.
I toss that ludicrous statement from my mind. As if. I barely know the dude.
My brain is a mess of jumbled emotion, and I run around the room like a headless chicken. Forcing myself to calm down and stop acting like a lovesick fool, I scramble a plan together. Dry my hair, wear something presentable, take a selfie, and then start to compose my reply.
I get myself ready in record time. Pulling the only dress I own out of my backpack, I attempt to smooth out the creases as I pour myself into it. Mom had bought it for me two years ago to attend Dad’s commemoration ceremony.
Once you reach thirty years’ service, the government sets up this sham of a celebration, which you are forced to pay for yourself. All they provide is a slap on the back and a certificate that isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Yet, you have to at least appear grateful. And on that day, initially, I actually was. It was the first and last time that Mom had bought me a dress. It was from the secondhand store around the corner, but I loved it as if it had been custom-made for me.
My fingers brush over the red chiffon skirt, which now rests a couple of inches above my knees. I barely manage to pull the zipper up. Now I’m struggling to breathe a bit, and the dress strains across my bust. But pain is beauty, right?
I wish I had some makeup, but my lips are a natural cherry-red color, and with the addition of a nervous blush, and my wide-eyed stare, I figure there isn’t much more that makeup could do for me in this moment anyway.
Inhaling deeply, I smile shyly and take the picture. As it loads on the screen, I cringe at the sight of my clearly excited face. That won’t do. Way too eager. Nuh-uh. I squeeze my lips tight together and stare straight at the screen as I click the button again. This time I look like I’m posing for a Penitentiary ID, and my picture screams “straitlaced and boring.” That definitely won’t do. Aaggh. I bury my head in my pillow in frustration.
This is so stupid. I’m so stupid. It’s only a stupid picture, stupid.
Jerking my head up, I snap the picture quickly before I have too much time to overanalyze it. It’s the most natural of the bunch, and I decide that it’ll have to do.
I change into jeans and a white tee.
Sitting back down on the bed, I try to structure my thoughts. I reread Logan’s original mail and try to follow his lead. I purposely choose to ignore the subject of our status divide. He made his point clearly, and as far as I’m concerned that’s shelved. For now.
From: SOwen
To: LChandler
Hi Logan,
Picture enclosed. However, I wouldn’t get smug, I can’t promise to yield so easily to any future demands.
I’m seventeen, and I work on the assembly line in the Medi-Tech factory in New York, making parts for medical devices. I love sunsets and sunrises, my own company, books, cappuccino, and the sea (or at least I imagine I’d love it. I’ve never been close enough to know.) My favorite color is pink, though I’m not a real girly-girl. I’ve a closet tarot card obsession which I’m trusting you will take to your grave.
Considering I have borderline (undiagnosed) claustrophobia, I’m not enthused about the confinement here, but I can’t wait to get to Thalassic City and I’m super excited for the next six months.
What about you? Oh, and who’s Will Smith?
Best, Sadie.
I spend the best part of two hours writing and re-writing it, and I’m still not entirely satisfied. However, I remind myself of the promise I made at the outset.
I choose to be me.
So, though I worry that it’s a bit geeky, and maybe I come across as trying too hard, I have to stay true to myself. Bravely, I hit the send button and prep myself for the next stage of this self-induced anxiety trip.
***
Neve pops her head into the library a couple of hours later to ask if I want to have dinner with her. My stomach grumbles at that exact moment and we both laugh.
“And there’s your answer!” I joke.
Saven Deception Page 7
