“Why protect them? They won’t protect you.”
“They’re not the ones I’m protecting.” He pauses. “Your concern means a lot. If I could have requested a last wish, you just fulfilled it by coming to see me. Only now, please go.” Weariness weighs down his words. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Clearly not,” I agree with a stubborn purse of my lips. “I’m ripping all kinds of laws. If I’m caught, they’ll toss me in jail too.”
“They won’t harm a Topsider.”
“Topsider?”
“You.” His finger aims at me through the bars.
“So it’s true … where you come from.” I frown. “You really are a ….”
“Nocturne,” he finishes. “It’s what your people call us.”
“But the drawings I’ve seen of Nocturnes are nothing like you.” I shake my head. “Half-human, clawed, wolf-jawed beasts.”
“Sounds terrifying,” he says wryly. “You should avoid them.”
“I should, but I won’t.”
He moves into the light, looking at me with something close to a smile. “A Topsider concerned for a Nocturne. My friends won’t believe it.”
“Your friends must not know many Topsiders.”
“Oh, they know them,” he says wryly. “Topsiders seek us when they need special skills. The first Topsider I met was a woman with soft, dark skin as youthful as a babe, who spoke of being born before the Fence went up. Hundreds of years ago. I was amazed anyone could live so long and look so young. I wondered what it would be like to live in sunshine, rather than underground. I longed to be like Topsiders—with flawless bodies and a relaxed way of moving, as if they’re all listening to the same music. It wasn’t until I met you in that cave that I realized not all Topsiders were alike.”
“Why?” I ask defensively. Is my rule-breaking nature so obvious that even a Nocturne knows I’m flawed?
“I’d never met a Topsider my age and so full of independence, like an untamed creature. You were brave too. I knew you were scared, yet you were ready to attack me.”
“Not when I realized you saved my life. Why did you?”
“You were worth saving,” he says simply.
“So are you.” I purse my lips. “It’s my turn to help you, only I don’t know what I can do.”
“There’s no saving me.”
“There has to be some way to get you out of here.”
He shakes his head. “Save yourself. Leave now before someone catches you.”
I don’t want to, but I’ve already stayed too long. Daisy will return soon.
Before I can move, I hear voices from the road beyond the thick bushes. Deep, male voices. Through the shrubs, I glimpse figures in gray clothing walking down the paveway.
Whirling back to Nate, I whisper, “Uniforms!”
“Hide,” he whispers back.
Shadows are deepest by the ivy, so I press against the wall. I’m shaking, and my heart pounds. I expect Uniforms to burst through the bushes and drag me to jail. But I don’t hear anything except a murmur of voices fading away.
Still, I’m afraid to move until I hear Nate whisper, “They’re gone.”
I glance around uneasily. “I’ll wait a little longer.”
“Not too long,” he warns. “Forget about me, and don’t return. There’s no hope for a dead man.”
“There’s always hope,” I argue.
“Hope is a luxury for Topsiders. My people are realists. Our lives are short, so we’re grateful for each day. Even now I’m glad for this window which shows me daylight.” He reaches out, his hand cupped up as if reaching for the sky. “Also, I’m glad for an unexpected friend.”
“I meant what I said about wanting to help you.”
“Your being here has already helped. I’m tired of my own thoughts and miss the noisy conversations of home. We love laughter, dancing, and stelling.”
“Stelling?” Most of his words are like my own, as if in the past our people were friendly. But I’ve never heard this word.
“Storytelling,” he says.
“I love stories too. Tell me a story—stelling—about you,” I ask, my hands still shaking. “After that I’ll leave.”
“What do you want to know?” I can’t see his expression behind bars, but I hear the hint of a smile in his words.
“About your tubes. When we first met, you wore a tubed costume. Why?”
“My air suit allows me to breathe underwater.” He pauses. “We can’t go outside during the day because poisonous snakes stalk us. We’re trapped underground without sunlight, except that I found a tunnel to the sea.”
I stare at his pale, scarred hands. “How did you find it?”
“My father, a master map maker, taught me his craft. Normally, sixteen-year-olds are assigned to the night hunting crew, but my father is too ill to search out new tunnels, so I explore for him. Months ago, I found one that opened in a steep cliff above the sea but below land. When I told my father, he warned me to stay out of the sea because of water snakes. But I couldn’t stop thinking of that endless blue water. So I made a pulley system to lower myself down to the sea in a tube suit with enough air for me to swim around the cliffs. It’s amazing to breathe in sunlight and sea breezes.”
“I know that feeling,” I tell him. “Once I discovered the sea, I couldn’t stay away. I’d make up games like jumping before waves touched me and throwing sticks that always came back. I wouldn’t have found the cave if not for a stick.”
“A stick?”
“I threw it so high the wind blew it against a huge rock, and it disappeared.”
“Into the cave,” he guesses.
I nod, moving so close to the ivy wall he could almost reach through the bars to touch my head. “How did you find the cave?” I ask in a whisper.
“I followed a gull wing.”
“Gull wing? Oh, you mean a storm gull.”
“I was swimming in my tube suit when I spotted a gull wing on the shore. The bird flew away as I drew close. I was angry because I’d hoped to bring back fresh food to my family.”
“Family?” I ask, surprised to hear a Nocturne use the word.
“My father, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, and many cousins. I am fortunate to still have my father. Few of us live past twenty. If the creatures don’t kill us, sickness does.”
“But sickness can be cured.”
“Not for us. Sickness comes with pain, weakness, then death.”
“But that’s awful!”
He shrugs. “It’s our life.”
The math saddens me. If he’s sixteen, he only has a quarter of his lifetime left. Yet he’s accepting it with no anger in his voice. I like the sound of his voice and want him to keep talking, so I ask, “Did you catch the gull wing?”
“I saw it perched on a high rock. I pulled out my blow pipe, aimed—but the gull disappeared. I didn’t know where it went until I spotted a rocky cliff that was darker near the top. I climbed up and found the cave. I thought it was a tunnel that would take me beneath your Fence. But even better—the tunnel took me to you.” His smile touches my heart.
“When I first saw you, I thought you were a sea monster,” I admit.
“I thought you were a siren, a beautiful sea creature. I’ve never seen one, only read of them.”
I feel my cheeks warm, stunned to be called beautiful. I’ve never given any thought to my physical appearance, although I’ve read many retro books where beauty is valued above hard work and intelligence.
“You have books where you … uh … live?” I glance down, wondering how anyone can survive underground. How can he appear so human when his people burrow like moles? A life without sun and sky would be like being buried alive.
“Our books are ancient and stored in protective cases,” he says. “My mother was a master steller before the sickness took her. My best memories of her are being held on her lap and listening to her read to me. She loved mythology stories of flying horses, sea monsters, an
d a powerful king, Neptune. The sirens were mysterious women of the sea who sang sailors to their—” He gasps, pulling away from the window. “Footsteps! Outside my door. You must go. Now!”
I hesitate, my heart twisting. The next time I see him will be at his execution. I wish I could be the opposite of a siren and save his life. I don’t want to leave, but what else can I do?
My throat tightens. All I can do is say good-bye.
I turn away but have a sudden thought and reach into my pocket.
“Wait,” I call up to Nate. “Here’s a piece of the sea.”
I throw my favorite seashell through the bars.
My aim is perfect.
TWENTY-ONE
“There’s a leaf in your hair.”
That’s all Daisy says when I sit beside her in the solar cycle. My cheeks burn as I pluck the leaf from my hair. It’s brittle and crumbles to the floor beside my mud-splattered shoes. I glance over at Daisy, and while her gaze doesn’t shift from the road, a sly smile crosses her face.
What does she suspect?
My heart jolts with each sway of the cycle. She can’t know where I’ve been. I looked up and down the paveway before leaving the bushes, and I returned to the fashionizers before Daisy.
I’m ready if she accuses me. “I’ll tell you where I was if you tell me where you were,” I’ll say. But miles pass, and Daisy doesn’t even glance at me.
Silence stales the air. I roll down the window, inhaling cool breezes that have a faint taste of salty sea. I reach into my pocket to touch my shell but remember it’s not there. I think of Nate and sigh.
Wheels rumble on a rough patch of road, and the cycle lurches, tossing me sideways. My elbow bangs against the door, and I cry out.
When Daisy laughs, I glare at her. “If you were a more skilled driver, you wouldn’t hit so many bumps.”
“You think you could drive better?” she snaps.
“I know I could.”
“I’d let you prove yourself wrong, except you’d crash, and I happen to like this cycle very much.”
“As much as you hate me?”
She jerks the wheel sharply, and I grab tight to the door handle. “You’re only a shell, not a complete person.”
“That’s not true!” I dig my fingers into the seat cushion, so I don’t strike her. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Nor do I care to,” she says coolly.
She sits calmly, as if she’s a superior species, and my dam of anger bursts. “You hate me because you think I want to replace your mother—which I don’t. Also because of what the last youth did to you.”
Her hand flies up to her cheek. “Who told you about him?”
I immediately realize my mistake. I can hear Marcus’s voice saying, Jennza, will you ever learn to control yourself? I won’t betray Marcus, so I retort, “Why didn’t you have your scar healed?”
Fury flashes in Daisy’s eyes. Finally, I’ve gotten to her. If she’s going to hate me, I should deserve it.
“As a reminder and a warning about youths. But nothing changed. You came here anyway.”
“I’m not going to become violent. No matter how much you rip me with insults, I won’t attack you.”
“The last youth wasn’t violent until after.”
“After what?”
“His first memdenity.”
“I don’t believe it.” I gulp in a deep breath. “You’re trying to scarify me.”
“The memories hurt his head. He woke up screaming, shouting for the voices to go away. Then he grabbed a knife and did this.” She lifts up her hair so I get a clear view of the jagged red scar down her cheek.
“The scientists swear memdenity is safe, but memories turned that gentle boy into a monster.” She glares into my face. “And it could happen to you.”
The house is eerily quiet when we return, so I wander outside where gray clouds hint of rain. I find Rosemarie in the garden, kneeling beside a woven basket half-full of pumpkins. The red sash at the waist of her bark-brown pantons trails to the ground as she stabs a sharp spade in the dirt.
“You’re back,” Rosemarie wipes sweat beads from her forehead. “How was your sizing?”
“Unfinished.” I explain about the postponement. “Will you take me tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow will be another busy day. But I can drop you off before I deliver lunches to the laborers working in City Central.”
“Thank you. Can I help here?”
“Catch,” she says as she tosses a fist-sized pumpkin at me. “Add that to the basket. Did you know before the mind-plague pumpkins grew larger than this basket?” I glance down, then shake my head. “Petite pumpkins were created to conserve space. They’re seedless and quick-growing. But even small pumpkins make for exhausting work.”
“Why don’t your sons help you?”
“They’re constructing a platform. I’m almost done here anyway.” The thump of another pumpkin landing in the basket muffles her sigh. “Oh—I spoke to Arthur about your covering problem.”
I cringe at the image of her discussing me with Arthur, especially my personal coverings. Even though he’ll soon have the right to see me without anything on. My skin crawls.
“I finally convinced Arthur to give me the key to Milly’s storage crate. Since her clothes don’t fit you, there’s no reason to keep them in storage. Most coverings will be shared among Family, but some things you’ll find useful.”
Wearing the coverings of a dead woman chills me. “I don’t need anything.”
“You need everything.” She chuckles.
“But not Milly’s.”
“They belong to you,” she says with a finality that ends the discussion.
To Rosemarie, I’m already Milly.
Bending down to work beside her, I grasp a pumpkin vine and pull until it breaks free of the ground. Cradling the small pumpkin in my palms, I admire the smooth curves and orange shimmer. If I hadn’t ripped the roots, the pumpkin would keep growing and thriving. Instead it’ll become soup, bread, and pies. I frown at the torn vines and my dirt-splattered hands, overwhelmed by a sense of loss. Life shouldn’t end so easily, even for a pumpkin.
I squeeze my eyes tight and think of Nate. Beaten, bruised, and hopeless. Memories, like ghosts, wisp alongside me as I work in the garden. It’s Rosemarie talking, yet its Nate’s voice I hear. His joy for sky and sea, his longing for home, his acceptance of death. I can’t bear to think I’ll never hear his voice again.
Rosemarie and I leave the pumpkin patch, taking a path between tall stalks of corn. She explains the canning process we’ll tackle soon, readying for winter’s barren cold, a time of cleaning, cooking, and serving my Family daily. How do people live forever without going crazy with routine? I can see why some join groups like the playformers, smack sticks in sporting competitions, or like Leader Cross, strategize with games of chess.
We return to the house, pulling a wheeled cart of baskets heaped with the day’s harvest, and set to work in the kitchen. It’s dark when the house rumbles with footsteps and voices. The smell of pumpkin soup steaming on the burner fills the kitchen as Rosemarie and I pour it into a ceramic tureen for dinner.
I’m distracted by my own thoughts, so it’s not until the salad has been served that I notice the strangeness. No one says anything directly. But shifting glances are as subtle as dust particles in the air. Leader Cross challenges Arthur to chess after dinner. Jarod and Rosemarie’s sons discuss construction supplies. No one speaks to me as I take my seat beside Rosemarie.
Have I done something wrong?
When Rosemarie and I wash and dry dishes, I whisper, “I haven’t poisoned or dropped hot soup in anyone’s lap lately. So why am I being avoided?”
“It’s because … well, I can’t say. But there’s no cause for worry. Everything is fine.” She has tears in her eyes as she drops her rag and embraces me. Her hug is so tight I know I’m in trouble.
When we’re finished in the kitchen, Rosemarie excuses h
erself to visit Grandmother. She doesn’t invite me to come along, which adds to my uneasiness. Even Rosemarie is acting oddly, and fear clenches my stomach that this could be my last night with the Cross Family. Every step I take up the stairs to my room is as heavy as stone.
I unwind my red scarf from my neck and gently smooth out the creases, then place it in my top drawer. There isn’t much else in the drawer. My belongings will fit easily in one bag. I wonder if I should pack now.
A cool breeze chills my bare neck. The window over my bed is cracked open. Who left it that way? Not me. Surely not Rosemarie who wears extra layers to stay warm. I cross over to the window and push it shut. The last time I found the window open, I also found Petal curled on my bed.
But my bed is undisturbed.
Changing into my night covering, I slip under the blankets. My pillow is lumpy, and when I lift it up, I find a square package. There’s no label, but I know it’s meant for me since it was beneath my pillow. Who would leave a gift? Rosemarie? Arthur?
I dig my fingernail into a corner of the package to rip it open. Inside I find a small packet and a folded note.
Unfolding the paper, I read a scrawled, blue-inked message:
Only you can free Nate.
I won’t do it.
I can’t do it.
How can I not do it?
I’m tempted to open the small packet, but it’s sealed with glue-wax and addressed to Nate. I read the note again and again, tormented by each word. Someone knows that I know Nate.
Daisy. Of course it’s her. Her sly glances hinted that she knows my secrets. But even if she does, why would she care if Nate lives or dies?
When my doorknob jiggles, I shove the packet under my pillow and pretend to be asleep. I sense Rosemarie’s gaze on me. Soft footsteps come closer, and her hand brushes across my hair. “Sleep well, Milly,” she whispers.
Her tone has the finality of a good-bye.
I want to grab her arms and beg her to tell me what is going to happen to me, but she goes into the privacy room, shutting the door behind her.
I’m so tired, my body aches for sleep, but plans whirl in my head. Somewhere between dreams and thoughts, ideas take shape, transforming into a bold plan that will break more rules in one day than I’ve broken in all of my fifteen years.
Memory Girl Page 15
