Enemy of Gideon

by Melissa McGovern Taylor

  “Hey, what’s your name?” I remember Tayra Martin asking him in class.

  “Arkin Pettigrew,” he said, his voice making my heart jump.

  Tayra turned to me and flipped her red ponytail. “What, Raissa?”

  I shrugged. “What?”

  Arkin turned in his seat. I froze. His eyes caught the morning sunlight bouncing off the window. A stray lock of hair framed the side of his brow. I marveled at his every feature: the eyebrows, unblemished cheeks, and slight dimples.

  He’s so cute!

  Rolling over on my side, I draw his perfect features into my mind’s sketchbook until the image fades and sleep sweeps me away.

  ►▼◄

  I drift like a shadow at school. Everyone clings to some group of friends, but I’ve never found my way into one of those tight-knit cliques. Instead, I remain on the outside, drawing life in my sketchbook as it passes me by.

  The girls call me quiet and creepy. The boys call me a nerd. Mom calls me a lazy genius, but I’m just ordinary, regular in every sense of the word. Regular Raissa. I sketch it in block letters on my science notes.

  Only January, only Monday, and only first period.

  The first semester of my sophomore year crawled by at a snail’s pace, leading me to assume the second semester will move slower as I anticipate the freedom of summer. If Mom could hear my thoughts right then, she would say, “Count yourself lucky, bug. You could be in the ninth grade again.”

  I cringe: Bug. If I could pay Mom a zillion credits to let up on that babyish nickname, I would. Of course, no one has a zillion credits, not even the highest officials in Gideon. And Mom’s credits are hardly enough to feed us.

  “That’s impressive,” a voice says across my desk.

  I pop my head up with a jolt, causing my hand to jerk a zigzag from the bottom corner of the A.

  Arkin frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mess up.”

  I search for my voice. “It’s okay. I have an eraser.”

  I fumble my pencil, pick it up, and flip it around.

  He laughs. “You’re all thumbs, Raissa.”

  He knows my name!

  “How long have you been an artist?” he asks.

  I return my attention to correcting the sketch, hoping to look disinterested in the conversation. “I’m not really an artist. I just doodle.”

  “I’m terrible at art, but I’m a pretty good at the guitar.”

  I raise my eyes to meet his. They shine more than any pair I’ve ever seen. Hazel like autumn leaves, clinging to a hint of green.

  “I don’t play any instruments,” I say.

  “Are you any good at science?” he asks. “I’m probably failing this class.”

  “How could you be failing? You’ve only been here two weeks.”

  As the words leave my lips, I cringe. So much for looking disinterested.

  “That’s plenty of time to figure out you’re never going to get science.”

  “I hate science, citizenship, math,” I mutter, sketching again. “Actually, I hate school.”

  “Me, too. School is so—”

  The classroom intercom releases a familiar, intrusive beep, muffling his words. A computer-generated voice follows: “Code 433.”

  The intercom beeps again, and the classroom falls silent for two seconds. Then the students return to their conversations.

  “What’s Code 433?” he whispers.

  “They’re searching the lockers for EP. We can’t leave class until they finish.”

  “EP?”

  I stop shading in the R. “You’ve never heard of EP?”

  He glances over his shoulder and shakes his head.

  “Enemy propaganda, stuff enemies of the city-state pass around. They didn’t search for it at your old school?”

  He nods. “We never called it EP for short.”

  “It has to do with the Enemy Code. You know—”

  “No citizen is permitted to associate with the enemy or be in possession of enemy propaganda or paraphernalia,” he says.

  “Exactly,” I say, not at all surprised at his memorization.

  Whenever officials pass a new city code, the students have to memorize it word for word in citizenship class. It has something to do with accountability. If you know the Code, you can’t pretend you accidentally broke it. From a very young age, everyone has to follow the Code or receive the appropriate punishment.

  “So they think a student has some papers or something from one of the enemies?” he asks.

  “Last year, Code Enforcement caught a teacher with a book in his desk.”

  His expression darkens. “What kind of book?”

  I shrug.

  He traces my letters with his eyes and then lifts them back to me. His expression brightens. “Hey, don’t you live on Street W-54?”

  I nod. “In Building D7.”

  “Really? So do I.”

  My heart nearly stops mid-beat. “D7?”

  He smiles. “What a coincidence.”

  “Not a good one.” I bite my lip. “I mean, the building isn’t the best one on the block.”

  The intercom beep returns. “All clear,” the voice says. A long, shrill beep follows, ending the class period.

  Arkin rises from his desk and slips his backpack on. “Maybe I’ll see you on the way home sometime. Bye, Raissa.”

  I nod, my lips unable to find words. Did that conversation really happen? Since when does a gorgeous guy take the time to talk to Raissa Santos?

  As I stuff my things into my backpack, I remember the last time a cute boy spoke to me. Grierson Filmore spoke to me three amazing times in the seventh grade. Soon after, I found out his attention was part of a long-winded prank, ending with a fake love note and me waiting for him in the school yard. He never arrived. Instead, he and his friends laughed at me from the bushes across the street.

  Arkin leaves the science classroom alone. He hasn’t found his clique yet. A few popular guy groups have an interest in him, and Arkin obliges them with short conversations. The soccer team also reached out to him, but he avoided them. Is he for real? Maybe he’s not plotting to prank me. And maybe I’ll see him on my way home.

  In the hallway, the usually talkative crowd whispers and slows its pace. Students step aside from the middle of the hall. Over the shoulders of taller students, I catch a glimpse of two CE officers guiding a handcuffed student. He keeps his head down low, avoiding our accusing stares. Where will they take him?

  Suddenly, he jerks forward, trying to yank out of the officers’ grasps. The male officer doesn’t react in time and loses his grip.

  “Free Gideon!” he screams, his face turning red. “End the Code’s oppression! Free Gideon!”

  The female officer snatches the taser wand from her belt and jams it into the guy’s ribs. He screams as he convulses and loses his footing. The officers drag him to the staff elevator at the end of the hall.

  “Nothing to see here, students! Move along!” a teacher yells from her doorway.

  We obey. Students go back to their conversations. Laughter echoes down the hall. It’s like a glitch in a wristband. One second, things are weird. Then everything goes back to normal … or seems to, anyway.

  Even at the end of the school day, the scene and the enemy student’s words still echo in my mind. Am I the only one who can’t stop thinking about it?

  Attempting to forget, I search the crowd for Arkin outside. Instead, I find faithful Ogden ready and waiting for me. Og never goes on without me. Being a freshman, he gets out of school fifteen minutes earlier. Despite the wait, he endures the taunts and obnoxious shoves of arrogant upperclassmen just to walk with me along Street A-50 and then W-54 toward home.

  He waves. “Hey, bug.”

  “Don’t call me that, weasel,” I say.

  He follows me down the marble front steps. “Weasel is more endearing than bug.”

  “I disagree,” I say. “Bugs are mostly clean. Weasels are filthy creatures.” />
  “Speaking of weasels, Shain Oakes nearly broke my glasses in gym class.”

  “Your glasses are indestructible.” I turn and lift the thick, titanium-rimmed glasses from his nose.

  He snatches them back. “Hey, titanium can be bent under extreme heat and pressure.”

  “The only thing extreme about Shain Oakes is how much he tortures you.”

  “Shain Oakes is my inferior, and I allow him to torture me in order to reveal to others his animal behavioral patterns,” he says, doubling his pace to keep up. “I’m in complete control at all times.”

  I shake my head and search my brain for something more interesting to talk about. But Arkin’s face saturates my thoughts. A surge of annoyance burns in me. He’s some random guy. Sure, he’s adorable, but I don’t even know him. Why won’t he get out of my brain?

  “We had a new kid start a couple of weeks ago,” I say.

  “In January?” he asks. “That’s unusual. Most people don’t relocate in the middle of the school year.”

  “I know,” I say.

  His eyebrows rise. “Is it a girl?”

  My cheeks warm. “A guy.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I know that look.”

  “What?”

  His smirk evolves into a massive grin, revealing his shiny braces. “You’ve got a crush!”

  I ball up my fist and give him a harmless punch on the shoulder.

  “Ouch!” the scrawny boy squeals.

  “I barely touched you, Og!” I yell.

  He rubs his shoulder. “You know that Code 433 today?”

  “Yeah. I saw him in the hallway.”

  “They took him from my math class,” he whispers.

  My stomach hardens. “Is it just me, or are they arresting more citizens lately?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not just you.”

  ►▼◄

  “Raissa!”

  Mom’s annoyed call smacks into my dreams like a charging bull. I blink several times and sit up in bed. The room has grown dark in the hours since I got home from school. How long have I been asleep?

  I rub my eyes. Mom’s determined footsteps echo on the hardwood floor outside my bedroom. There won’t be any pleasantries between us. She pushes the door open and flips on the ceiling light. The blinding rays erase the shadows, forcing me to squint to see Mom’s frown.

  “You got a forty-two?” She places her fists on her hips.

  I drop back down on my pillow. “Mom …”

  “We’ve talked about this a thousand times. What do you want from me?”

  I roll over on my stomach. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Sit up!” She shouts, like an overbearing CE officer.

  I drag myself back up to a seated position on the edge of the bed.

  “You promised me this semester would be different. Do you not understand how a promise works?” she asks.

  The pain in my gut turns into a burning fire rising up to my chest. “I tried to study! Mrs. Harris doesn’t explain it right!”

  “Don’t lie to me. I’m not falling for it!”

  “I’m not lying!”

  Her face flushes. “Do you know how hard it is to be a single parent?”

  I stare down at the worn floorboards in front of my bed. Here comes the guilt trip. The burning fades away as I fight the urge to lie down again.

  Her fists drop from her hips. “Bug, I know how smart you are. Stop it with the excuses and the laziness.”

  “Please don’t tell Petra,” I say.

  “I have no intention of speaking to Petra anytime soon.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I’ve arranged with Mrs. Harris for you to retake the test.”

  I groan.

  “If you pass it, I won’t take your sketchbook. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Mom turns to leave the room. “I brought dinner home.”

  “When is Petra coming home again?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “You two are so different.”

  Mom disappears from the door, boots thudding down the hallway. Every sound echoes through the apartment in Petra’s absence. I’ve adjusted to it being only me and Mom, but without Petra, the warmth is missing. With the peacemaker away at college, Mom and I have to work extra hard to either avoid each other or appease each other.

  Soon, I plop myself in the chair at the kitchenette table where Mom set out dinner. The aging chair creaks under me louder and louder with each passing year.

  “Anything new at school today?” Mom asks, popping open a container of precooked potatoes and green beans.

  Her question plunges Arkin Pettigrew right back into my brain. Up until that moment, I managed not to think about him for a few hours.

  “Not really,” I say, scooping the food into a glass bowl. “No meat?”

  She cocks her head and tightens her lips. “Be grateful we have dinner. I heard meat vouchers may be delivered again soon.”

  I shove a forkful of salty green beans into my mouth. What type of meat are Ogden and his parents eating up on the nineteenth floor? Maybe tomorrow I could coax him into letting me come up for dinner.

  “Did you ever talk to that new kid you told me about?” Mom asks.

  “Not much.”

  “You need to reach out to your classmates,” she says. “Having lots of friends is good for you.”

  I swallow a chunk of green bean—and my growing annoyance. “I have a friend.”

  “Ogden is a boy and a ninth-grader. Don’t you think you should make some female friends in your own grade?”

  My appetite fades with each undesired bite. I set my fork down on the plate and push my chair back. “I’m done.”

  “You hardly ate anything.”

  “I have homework.”

  I know Mom’s eyes are crawling up my back as I shuffle across the living room and down the short hallway to my bedroom. Inside, I find refuge back on my bed in the corner. I bury myself under the sheets, hoping Mom won’t come knocking. She doesn’t.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A timid breeze lifts my bangs as I amble along the cobblestone in the cafeteria courtyard. A group of guys huddle around a soccer ball in their black coats and gray toboggans on the dead grass under a sprawling oak tree. One boy catches my eye, and I immediately turned around, hoping he didn’t see me. I pace away from the tree and sit on an empty stone bench—giving me a discreet view of the boys.

  Under the rippling shadows of the tree branches, Arkin kicks the ball across the grass. His eyes shimmer in the noon sunlight like polished amber. In science class, we spoke a few more times—small talk, but the brief conversations made my days.

  I open my backpack and pull out my sketchbook and pencil. The pencil takes on a life of its own as it carefully forms a delicate profile. I glance over the top of the sketchbook to examine the shape of Arkin’s nose, but I find the image imprinted on my mind. My pencil goes to work illustrating the guy I can’t muster the courage to “bump into” after school.

  My wristband screen displays the time. I have five minutes left in the lunch period, but I’ve nearly completed the sketch all ready. I lift my eyes to make a comparison. Another guy now stands in Arkin’s place. Where did he go?

  “Raissa Santos, who are you drawing?”

  I jump at the voice and turn. Arkin stands behind me.

  “Nobody,” I say, slamming the sketchbook shut and rising from the bench.

  He cracks a mischievous smirk. “I startled you again. I’m getting pretty good at that.”

  “I didn’t see you sneak up.”

  His forehead creases. “Are you okay? You seem down lately.”

  I shrug. “I’m fine.”

  “I can keep a secret,” he says.

  I lose myself in his eyes, and my mouth, like an open gate, holds nothing back.

  “My sister’s in some kind of trouble, I think,” I whisper, taking a step closer to him. “She won’t communicate with me
and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” he whispers back.

  I tense up but nod.

  He leans close to my ear, his musky cologne tickling my nostrils. He whispers, “I’ll pray for your sister.”

  The beep ending lunch sounds across the courtyard, and he jogs back inside. His words seize me.

  Pray? What does that mean?

  ►▼◄

  Mom hates her job at the soup factory on Street D-56. She’s expressed this to Petra and I many times over the years. Over two decades ago, the career placement test assigned her to be a line inspector, checking cans for defects before they were packaged and delivered all over the city-state. The monotony and repetition of the job eats away at her creativity, the same creativity I possess. Maybe that’s why we’re always butting heads all the time—too much alike. Mom wanted to be an interior decorator, but the career placement test determined she would work in a factory her whole life.

  The career placement test determines the destiny of nearly every citizen of Gideon. Before graduating from high school, seniors take the test. Will my career placement test make me a city planner or design engineer? Some job at least related to drawing? Probably not. Most citizens work menial jobs. Ogden Penski’s father is an exception to the norm.

  Ogden’s father followed in his own father’s footsteps by becoming a CE officer in Gideon. This tradition has the power to override any determination a career placement test makes. Mr. Penski worked his way to the top to become the chief. Ogden’s parents naturally expect Og to become an officer too, but I laugh at the idea. He will probably call in sick because he got a paper cut writing up a Code violation.

  Sitting at the Penskis’ long, oak dinner table that evening, I compare father to son. Ogden scoots his glasses up his nose and slices the chicken breast on his plate. Chief Penski hunches his broad shoulders over his plate and shoves a heap of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Og and his dad are complete opposites. How much am I like my father?

  “Boys, eat all your food, and you can have dessert,” Mrs. Penski says to Og’s three younger brothers. Two of the three frown at their food. What is it like to have such discriminating tastes? I’ll eat anything in front of me.