“Bartering is a complex and acquired skill. The first rule is to never admit you want something. If you show interest, they’ll ask for more in trade.”
“Why don’t they give us what we want?” I ask.
“That wouldn’t be any fun.” Rosemarie’s face lights up with her grin. “You’re no longer in the Edu-Center where the community replaces the coverings the youths outgrow. The system works well—quite different from the retro-century use of paper money and coins.”
I nod, remembering these objects from a lesson trip to our history center. It seemed unsensical that retro-people would value strips of green paper. The coins were coolness, though, like shiny buttons. Once I found a copper coin and polished it until it shone like a winter sunset. Instructor Penny admired it, explaining that she’d been named after this “penny” coin, and I gifted it to her.
Still, it’s puzzling why the retro-people didn’t share or barter useful items. You can’t eat a copper coin. I ask Rosemarie about this.
“Life was complicated in retro-century,” she explains. “Some countries had abundant water and food, yet others starved. Our system is simple, balancing work hours with necessities. Leaders assign Family roles and community work hours. While this works fairly, there are frivels like hair ties or sweets or jewelry that we can trade among Families. On Sunday Fair, if you want anything, it’s what you have to trade that matters.”
“I can’t wait to see all the—ow!” I cry out when a lurch of the solar coach startles Petal, and she digs her claws into my neck.
“What’s wrong?” Rosemarie leans close, her face soft with concern.
“Only a bump to my elbow,” I say, hiding my grimace.
I pretend to smooth my hair, but I’m reaching through curls to Petal’s scaly skin, stroking her to calmness. Petal’s tail wiggles across my ear, and I shift in my seat so Rosemarie won’t notice. It’s getting harder and harder to hide Petal.
The drive to town center—half of the distance to the sea—is longer than I remembered. It would take hours to walk. I can’t return Petal back to the sea without a vehicle. Breaking rules is the only option.
And if it works, Petal will be safe.
After I talk to Marcus.
Not Marcus anymore, I correct myself. What’s his new name? Oh, yeah. Neil Sarwald. How is he doing with his Family? They surely love him—how could they not? He’s fun, kind, and brilliant. But he can be overly quiet. Lorelei has criticized him for this, but I think it makes Marcus more interesting. Sometimes we sit outside, saying nothing as we watch birds building a nest or study star patterns in the sky. He’ll point out a distant constellation and tell me the name of each star. Once I teased, “There should be a star named Jennza.” He didn’t mock me but nodded as if considering this. “A star is a luminous mass of gas held together by its own gravity. Why would you want a gas named after you?” He doesn’t always understand me, but he’s a friend I can count on.
And I really need to count on him today.
But what if he’s not at Sunday Fair?
The solar coach slows, dust spitting up as we turn into a vast field filled with tented booths. People are everywhere—they’re a blur of movement against the colorfully decorated booths. Most people wear scarves or ties with the unique insignias of their Families. The Cross Family symbol isn’t very interesting, only two crossed black lines on a red fabric. I’m expected to wear mine until after the memdenity process, which is tiresome. I look forward to selecting new coverings, but I won’t be able to relax while Petal still digs her tiny claws into my neck.
As we step out of the solar coach, I plan my escape. Rosemarie watches me so closely it won’t be easy to sneak away. I’ll wait till she’s distracted or busy bartering, then run down the aisles in search of Marcus. He won’t approve of my plan, but he has a strong compassion for wild creatures. The Sarwald Family lives near the sea, so Marcus need only sneak Petal to the Fence. Then she’ll find her way back to the cave.
If I can find Marcus ….
Rosemarie’s hand rests lightly on my arm. We walk through an archway opening into rows and rows of an astonishing assortment of booths and offerings. Artists beneath one booth draped in silver curtains call out, “Sketch your portrait?” and “Paint flowers on your face?” and “Learn a fancy dance?” I want to answer “Yes!” to everything.
But Rosemarie guides me down an aisle of greenery in hanging pots.
“Isn’t this wondrous?” she asks with a sweeping gesture.
“Stunning. I want to see everything.”
“They’ll be time after we fit you for new garments.”
She picks up her speed, but I drag my steps, slowing so she’s ahead of me. As I look around, I’m not only admiring the amazing booths, I’m also memorizing the crisscross pattern of the aisles, and mapping out escape routes. I reach up occasionally to stroke Petal so she knows I haven’t forgotten her.
“Smell the delicious aromas.” Rosemarie turns back to me. “Doesn’t it make you hungry?”
“Very much,” I say, smiling.
“Each Family has recipes from centuries past and offers samples to tempt barterers. There are contests too, awarding the spiciest chili sauce or sweetest jam. Milly loved to taste everything and raced from booth to booth.”
It’s hard to know what to say since I can’t share memories I don’t have yet. So I point to a blue-tarped booth with bottles in neat rows on wood shelves and a large cookery pot steaming on a counter. “That soup smells delish.”
“Eliza Candras’ soup wins honors every year. Would you like a taste?”
I sniff at unusual odor that reminds of me the sea. “What is it?”
“Creamed salmon egg.”
Ewww. Fish is my least favorite food, probably because I’d rather swim with fish than eat them. “Uh … no, thank you,” I say.
Rosemarie gestures to a booth where pots and pans hang from a draped curtain. “Yum … something smells good. Come on, let’s have a taste.”
I follow her into a booth where apples steam in a pan over hot fire, then bake until crispy in a sweet-powder batter. When I take the sample bite offered, my tongue burns at the heat, but the taste is sweet. I ask for more.
Afterward, we turn down a row with blue flags waving above a booth, when a horn blows and a strange procession comes into view. Cloaked figures with black masks glide down the aisle like storm clouds surprising a sunny sky. Their masks conceal all but their eyes and mouths. They blow into musical pipes, spinning and kicking up their heels in dance.
“A playrade!” Rosemarie claps, pulling me into the gathering crowd.
The sound rises so I have to shout. “What’s a playrade?”
She leans closer to my ear. “A group of performers who parade around the booths until they reach the podium, where they act out a play, usually something from famous retro-stories by Shakespeare, Twain, or Rowling.”
I clap along with her, as if I’m swept up in the gaiety of the crowd. But what I’m really doing is thinking hard—planning how to find Marcus. This could be my only chance to leave. I inch away from Rosemarie. She’s focused on the playrade, swaying to flute music. I’m already planning what to say to her later: “I thought you were next to me. Where did you go?” I’ll pretend she lost me. I’ve used this ruse successfully on my Instructors, confusing them before they can blame me. And when I accuse them of losing me rather than the other way around, they usually apologize to me.
I take another step away from Rosemarie, and a tall man shifts so he’s blocking me from her sight. Now is my chance ….
Yet I pause. Not out of fear but out of a feeling of being watched. I glance over at Rosemarie, and she’s still absorbed in the show, unaware of me. The hooded performers pause in front of us, twirling so their long, dark brown robes flare out at the bottom. It’s odd to find such beauteous songs coming from such grimly masked performers. They should wear shades of rainbows, not gloomy darkness. I peer at each dancer as they pass, wondering if
any are Instructors or members of my new Family, but their faces are hidden.
The watched feeling grows stronger. I swivel around, studying the crowd. There’s nothing unusual until I turn back to the playrade—at the masked performer standing apart from the other dancers, staring directly at me.
When he catches me watching, he spins away.
But not before I see his eyes.
Unforgettable sea blue.
FOURTEEN
Impossible.
Nate can’t be here.
Blue eyes are not uncommon—although I’ve never seen anyone else with such a stormy shade of blue. Still, the hooded dancer could not have been Nate. He can’t be much older than me, and there are only fifteen youths in ShareHaven.
My thoughts spin dizzy circles, and when my head clears, the playformers have danced away.
“Here you are,” Rosemarie says, coming beside me, her tone reprimanding. “I worried when I didn’t see you. Why did you leave?”
“I looked up and you weren’t there. I thought you’d left me.”
“I would never do that, Milly.” She slips her arm around my shoulders. “It’s so crowded and noisy. Keep hold of my hand so we aren’t parted again.”
“I want to see more of the playrade.” I gesture down the aisle where the last dancers are disappearing from view, sounds of music and laughter dimming.
“It was stunning, wasn’t it? But that’s enough for now. We’ll see their performance later.”
“Who are they?” I ask, breathlessly.
“The playformers? Oh, too many to name. It’s one of the after-hours clubs that anyone can join, and the group changes often. Usually only those with both singing and dancing skills perform at Sunday Fair.” She tugs on my hand. “Come on, Milly. There’s much more to see.”
I’ve already seen more than I expected. But I still need to see Marcus.
“Don’t stand idle.” Rosemarie points down an aisle. “We need to go to the fashionizers.”
“Can we visit other booths first?” I ask, searching the faces in the crowd for Marcus. “You said that Milly loved to sample foods. I’d like to taste more from the booths.”
“Fabrics now. Food later.” Her smile is gentle, but her grip on my hand is firm. Arguing might make her suspicious, and then I’ll never get a chance to sneak way.
The Ying Booth is draped in purple and amber chiffon swirls, like clouds of lavender fire. Tiny claws on my neck shift my thoughts back to Marcus. I’ll get help soon, I think-talk to Petal. Hold tight a little longer.
As we weave through the crowd, I look around for Marcus. But as I pass booth after booth, my hopes fade. I’m not only looking for Marcus because Petal needs help but because I miss him too. Everything has been so strange since leaving the Edu-Center, as if nothing is real anymore, including me. So I’m startled when someone calls my name.
My real name.
I spin around—and beautiful, smiling Lorelei steps out of the booth billowing with clouds of fabric. Instead of wearing her scarf over her hair, she’s wrapped it around her neck so the edges dangle like jewelry. Her braid captures her hair except for a few black strands waving across her face. She carries a roll of blue-striped fabric under her arm.
I start to run to her until I catch the subtle tilt of her head to the large bosomed woman beside her. Someone from her Family, I guess, hoping Lorelei won’t get in trouble for using my youth name.
“Flavia, it’s good to see you,” I say in my most formal tone, aware that Rosemarie has come up beside me.
“It’s pleasing to see you too, Milly,” she replies so politely I almost burst out laughing. I don’t, of course. Twinkling humor shines from her dark eyes. We are still best mates, I think with a rush of gratitude.
“That’s a very lovely fabric.” I point to the blue-striped cotton she’s holding. It’s actually puke-awful.
“Are you here for new coverings?” Lorelei asks with a formal gesture to nearby stacks of colorful fabric. No one else would know the twitch of her lips means this is all a game to her.
“Excellent suggestion, Flavia,” the bosomed woman says. “We have a rose pattern that would be lovely with this young lady’s dark hair.”
I look pointedly at Lorelei. “Could you show it to me?”
“Don’t get too attached to any fabric,” Rosemarie says to me, but her gaze is on the bosomed woman as if seeking approval. “We don’t need anything here.”
“But you won’t be able to resist our lovely fabrics. Go ahead, Flavia,” the woman tells Lorelei. She folds her arms to her curvy chest, turning to Rosemarie. “You’re not going to con me again, Rose. Your youth obviously has no suitable coverings and needs my fabrics. What can you offer in trade?”
Lorelei takes my arm and leads me to the back of the booth, loudly describing different fabric designs. She leans her head against mine and whispers, “I have so much to tell you!”
“I want to hear it all.” I squeeze her hand. “You look happy.”
“I am! I have my own room, two closets full of coverings, and my Family loves me so much they argue about who spends time with me.”
My Family argues about me too, I think bitterly.
But I keep on smiling. “I’m glad for you, Lor.”
“Do call me Flavia, dearest Milly.” She giggles. “It’s so ripping weird to have a new name. When we’re alone like this, call me whatever you want. How’s it going with your Family?”
I pause, willing Petal to stay quiet until it’s safe to bring her out. I trust Lorelei, but she loves to talk more than she remembers to keep secrets.
“Rosemarie is wonderful.” I select pieces of truth. “I wouldn’t be at Sunday Fair if she hadn’t persuaded our Leader to allow it. I can’t fit into Milly’s coverings. We’re here to get new ones.”
“I wondered why you wore this.” She touches my white tunic, puckering her lips with distaste. “I’m glad Rosemarie is watching out for you. How is she related to you?”
“My sister.”
“I have two of those. Having relatives is an odd concept—sister, mother, daughter, cousin. I don’t understand why anyone cares.”
“It has to do with sharing a past. Rosemarie has memories of her sister that no one else knows.” Except me—after memdenity, I think uneasily. I gesture to the bosomed woman raising her voice at Rosemarie. “So who’s she to you?”
“My daughter.”
“You’ll need to grow quickly to resemble her.” I gesture at Lorelei’s small chest, teasing like we always have. But instead of teasing back, Lorelei frowns.
“Don’t I know it?” Lorelei grimaces. “I have dark hair like the other Ying woman, but my skin is dark, not a lighter goldenrod. They assure me it doesn’t matter that I look nothing like the first Flavia.”
“You’re much prettier.”
“You don’t even know what she looked like,” Lorelei says.
“I saw her photo in a Name book.”
“You studied?” She puts her hand to her forehead like she’s going to faint.
“Don’t fall over,” I tease. “I didn’t do it often.”
“But why study the Yings? You were never interested in them.”
“My interest was for you, Flavia.” I emphasize her new name. “You’re so obvious about everything, like you stitch your thoughts onto your tunic. When I found out Flavia Ying designed quilted tunics and led the trend for feathered scarves, I knew you’d Choose her. Flavia’s death was gruesome, though. Do not ever stand beneath a shelf of scissors.”
“You’re so bad.” Lorelei laughs. “I love—and hate—that about you.”
“It’s all love.” I grin. “Admit it. You’re bored when I’m not around.”
“Maybe a little bored. I’ve missed you.”
Glancing around to make sure we aren’t being watched, I give her a quick hug. “I’ll always be your best mate.”
“You know that’s not possible. Our memories will change us.”
I fold my
arms stubbornly over my chest. “I refuse to change.”
“And I wish I could change quicker.” Lorelei glances at her daughter, who skillfully slices scissors through fabric. “I’m not useful without my memdenity.”
“You’re perfect as you are—that’s more than enough.”
She shakes her head, frowning. I wish she could see herself through my eyes. She doesn’t need someone else’s memories; she’s already smart, funny, and talented. If she could stay herself, she would achieve amazing things. I think I could too. And I’m more determined than ever to hold tight to my memories. I’ll remind myself of them so often that they never fade. Like when I fell down while learning to walk. When I touch my knee, the scar is still in my mind.
Lorelei leads me to a heaping pile of fabric rolls, and I lean over for a close look at a green checkered cloth. Claws dig into my neck. Ouch. Okay, Petal, I get the message.
“Lor, have you seen Marcus?” I ask.
She nods. “Two aisles over. Selling jars of honey.”
Relief flows through me. “I need to talk with him.”
“Don’t even try, Jennza. When I waved at him, he ignored me. I know youths are supposed to bond with their Families during our first month, but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk to each other. His rudeness really ripped me.”
“He can be as rigid as a steel rod. I’m glad you’re talking to me,” I add.
“You’re too much fun to resist.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “So how are you adjusting?”
“I’m learning to be useful in the kitchen.”
“You? In a kitchen?” Lorelei almost chokes. “Remember the fire you started when you tried to toast crumb-crackers over the stove?”
“I didn’t know the rag I grabbed to wipe the mess would catch on fire.”
“It was a grease rag.”
I shrug. “One mistake doesn’t mean I’m a disaster with cookery.”
“What about when you used bleach instead of soap to wash dishes? Your Family will be lucky if they don’t get food poisoning.”
“Actually ….” I feel my cheeks burning.
“No! You didn’t!”
Memory Girl Page 10
