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Enemy of Gideon

Page 4

by Melissa McGovern Taylor


  I glare at the extravagant portrait. How could a city be perfect when so many of its citizens are tired, hungry, and miserable? And while I’m in here dining like an official, Mom is eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner on her fifteen-minute break. I have to withstand the urge to hurl my water glass at the painting. There is nothing perfect about Gideon at all.

  Chief Penski follows my gaze to the portrait. “A great man,” he says, smiling and nodding.

  “A great man indeed,” the whole table echoes in unison.

  My stomach turns. I too spoke the words with the rest of the table. Who can I share my questions with? Does anyone see Gideon the way I do?

  The adults press on with more dull conversation, and I tune them out. The servers bring plates of lasagna to the table, serving the officers first. As I savor every bite, my temper cools, and my thoughts meander. Who came up with this amazing pasta dish? Was it someone in Gideon or did it come from one of those mysterious lands on the other side of Earth?

  Questions lead to more questions rather than answers. I can’t look at, smell, taste, or touch anything without some question popping up. I used to ask Mom, but when I got tired of her saying, “I don’t know”, I kept the questions to myself. Since then, they’ve mounted and mounted, rising into the sky in my mind like a tower. Arkin’s questions to me now perch precariously at the top. Soon, I fear, the tower will topple.

  ►▼◄

  I open my paper bag lunch at the cafeteria table. I wish Og and I shared the same lunch period when Arkin’s voice floats across the table.

  “Can I sit here?” he asks, holding a full tray in front of him.

  I nod, still chewing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  He settles into the chair in front of me, dropping his backpack down to the floor. I stare at his lunch: a slice of pepperoni pizza, a side salad, and a cup of fresh, sliced fruit. It’s been weeks since I’ve tasted fruit. Mom sometimes brings home a few apples.

  “Do you want my fruit cup?” he asks.

  “Do you mind?”

  He lifts the cup from the tray. “Take it.”

  The fruit looks too sweet and ripe to pass up. “Thank you.”

  He smiles and points at my lunch. “You eat that every day, don’t you?”

  I look down at my sandwich and shrug.

  “I don’t mind sharing,” he says. “My parents keep lots of food in the apartment. Maybe you could finally take me up on that offer to come and visit.”

  My heart thumps hard. A hot guy inviting me over again? Why does he want to be friends with me when he could hang around with the popular kids? But my mind returns to that word again, pray, and his questioning of the Code. He appears so much like the other kids, like the ones who anger me, but he doesn’t act like them. Under the class status and the cute smile, his thinking mirrors mine more than I care to admit. He asked the questions aloud that I keep locked in my head.

  “I know my parents would love to share some pot roast with you tonight,” he says. “How about coming over for dinner? We could study for the science test.”

  Naturally, I forgot about the science test, but I would use any excuse to spend time with him.

  I finish off the fruit cup. “I do need help in science.”

  He grins, and I look away to keep from grinning too big myself. What are his parents like? Do they question the Code too? Do they encourage Arkin’s defiance? Perhaps his parents know nothing about it.

  When the final bell rings at the end of the school day, I search the crowd for Arkin but he’s nowhere to be found. I wait outside where the crowd will thin out faster.

  Ogden walks up to me. “Hey. Who are you looking for?”

  I hesitate to answer. Even though I’ve shared a few nice moments with Arkin, I’ve been careful not to even mention him to Og. If nothing develops between me and Arkin, Og will never let me live it down, but how could I pass up the opportunity to gloat?

  “Arkin, that new guy,” I say.

  Ogden frowns like I spoke gibberish. “What for?”

  “He invited me over to study.”

  He shoots me a goofy grin.

  “Don’t say anything, or I’ll punch you in the kidney!” I smile when I say it, but this doesn’t void the threat.

  “Raissa’s gotta a boyfriend!” he sings, adding a clumsy twirl. “Woo-hoo!”

  “Shut up, you nerd!” I snatch him mid-twirl and lock him in a chokehold.

  “Let me go, bully!” he yells between giggles.

  I release his neck as Arkin emerges from the crowd of students passing us.

  “Hey,” he says to Ogden, offering his hand. “I’m Arkin Pettigrew. You must be Ogden.”

  Og cocks his head at Arkin’s hand. “Aren’t you the polite citizen!”

  “Quit it, Og,” I say with a groan.

  Og shakes Arkin’s hand with his limp-noodle grasp and looks at me, eyes bugging. “Is this seriously Arkin?”

  “Who were you expecting?” I ask.

  “Some freakazoid,” he says.

  I elbow him in the ribs half-heartedly as we walk away from the school.

  He rubs his side. “Ow! How am I going to explain all the bruises to my mom?”

  “I didn’t leave any marks,” I say.

  Arkin shakes his head and smiles. “You two sound like siblings.”

  I shift my backpack, trying to relax my stride. I don’t want to seem uptight or uneasy around Arkin. Ogden definitely helps me act more like myself. That’s the answer. Be myself. He has to like me for me, … right?

  “Hey, you know what? My dad arrested three enemies yesterday,” Og says. “They were working in the ID department. Can you believe it? They’re actually starting to live in Gideon and pretend to be citizens.”

  “Scary,” I say.

  I glance at Arkin beside me. He stares at the ground with a somber look.

  “What will they do with the enemies?” Arkin asks.

  Og shrugs. “My dad doesn’t talk about that.”

  ►▼◄

  We study in Arkin’s living room for an hour. Then his father, a stout, balding man with a light brown mustache, arrives. I can’t see the resemblance at all.

  “This must be the famous Raissa Santos,” he says with a smile.

  I jump up from the couch and offer my hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  He shakes my hand firmly. “Arkin has told us a lot about you.”

  Arkin’s cheeks glow, and my heart flutters.

  “Dad,” he groans.

  “My wife should be home any minute now. She teaches at the elementary school up the street. I work for the sanitation department,” Mr. Pettigrew says.

  “My mother works at the soup factory,” I say, surprised at how my tone lacks the usual hint of shame.

  “Arkin mentioned that.”

  When did I tell him where Mom works? I nod anyway.

  The apartment door opens, and Arkin’s mother, a full-figured, brunette, enters.

  Maybe Arkin is adopted.

  Mrs. Pettigrew greets me, and my shaky hands steady. The whole atmosphere of the apartment reflects Arkin and his parents: light and cheerful. The walls are a pale yellow, and tapestries of colorful gardens hang on them. Glass figurines of frogs and birds decorate wooden shelves.

  “You two should get back to your studies,” Mr. Pettigrew says. “We need to get on that pot roast if we expect it to be done by dinnertime. Raissa, you’re able to stay for dinner, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would your mother like to join us?” Mrs. Pettigrew asks from the kitchen.

  “She works the evening shift this week,” I say.

  “That’s a shame. Sometimes I have to work that shift too,” Mr. Pettigrew says, heading into the kitchen.

  “Your parents are nice,” I whisper to Arkin.

  A sly smile curls his lips, giving me goose bumps. “We need a study break. Come and see my room.”

  I follow him out of the living room and in
to a room at the end of the hallway. His barren, clean-swept bedroom surprises me. I expected the walls to be covered in sports posters or painted some boy color. He hasn’t been in the apartment very long, yet his room holds no unpacked boxes. In one corner, a single-sized bed sits covered in brown blankets. A wooden desk stands in the adjacent corner with school textbooks stacked on it. There’s a wicker laundry hamper beside a closed closet door.

  As soon as he walks into the room, Arkin crosses to the window and closes the plaid curtains. Then he opens his arms out and takes an exaggerated bow. “Welcome to my home!”

  I laugh.

  “What? You don’t like it?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It’s decent.”

  “I don’t have a lot of stuff,” he says, dropping down on the edge of the bed, “so this is the best I can do.”

  “What part of Gideon did you move from?”

  He looks at the floor as if searching for the right words. “Not far from here.”

  “East Gideon?” I ask.

  “I’d rather not talk about it. The past is in the past. It’s best to look toward the future.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s what my mom says.”

  “Want to see one of the coolest things I have?”

  Before I can respond, he crosses to his closet and steps in for a few seconds. He slips back out with what appears to be a blue photo album. Such items still exist, but most citizens store their photos on their wristbands to be viewed digitally.

  He sits on the bed and pats the spot beside him, signaling me to sit. I mosey over, glancing into the hallway. His parents aren’t in sight, so I drop down beside him, taking care to leave a full foot of bedspread between us.

  Inside the album, I view photos of a family of four: two daughters, a mother, and a father. They smile in every photograph. Some pictures are of one of them or two together at a playground, in a house, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. They look happy.

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  “My ancestors.”

  “Today we will be discussing the Code,” my citizenship teacher lectured once, “which our ancestors prepared for us in order to …”

  I never embraced the idea of these ancestors being typical humans with smiles and hugs, laughing in photos with closed eyes.

  “They made the Code?” I ask.

  “Hardly,” he says. “They’ve never even heard of the Code.”

  “Did they live in another land?”

  He closes the album. “Kind of. They lived over one hundred years ago. I promise someday I’ll explain it, but not here. I promise.”

  And somehow I know he doesn’t break his promises.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “His parents are nice,” I tell Mom, “and they want me to bring you over for dinner sometime.”

  “A friend your age? This is good news.” It’s after eleven o’clock, and Mom just dragged her weary body into the apartment. Wired from dinner with the Pettigrews, I can’t sleep, so I’m talking her head off, something I haven’t done since before Petra went to college.

  “He showed me pictures of his ancestors from one hundred years ago,” I say, following her into her bedroom.

  She drops on to the bed and pulls her hair out of its ponytail. It’s dark like mine but finer and silkier, something to be envied. Her brow wrinkles at me. “One hundred years ago? He must’ve been exaggerating.”

  “Why?”

  Mom shakes her head. “No one has photographs that old.”

  I tell Mom good night and head to bed. I toss from side to side, still hyped from my dinner with Arkin. Was he exaggerating about the age of the photos? Exaggeration doesn’t match his mysterious edge. His promise rings in my mind. I want to know everything he knows. He guards a piece of knowledge that holds the key to his peaceful demeanor. He doesn’t appear so weighed down with questions like I am.

  My mind floats and floats, the string of thoughts coming undone bead by bead. Before I know it, I’m flying like a bird, light as a cloud and drifting through the city on a cool morning. I coast past buildings and over cobblestone streets. Then I reach greater heights as I leave the city and enter the wooded outskirts. I brush the pine treetops with my fingertips. A gentle voice calls out to me. Arkin waves from the top of an oak. Then his beckoning morphs into a heavy knock.

  I sit up in the darkness of my bedroom, the image of Arkin clinging to an oak branch burns into my conscience. He fades away when the second knock comes. I pounce to my feet.

  My wristband reads 2:13. The quiet of night spins out of the apartment. Loud voices and footsteps burst through the living room. I bolt into the hall. Three CE officers in their distinctive black coveralls charge toward me. One pushes me aside, forcing me against the cold wall.

  “Stop this! She’s not here!” Mom shouts from the living room.

  I press my back against the wall as the officers split up to enter each door along the hallway. Lights flip on all around. An officer digs through my closet, tossing my old art easel to the floor, along with boxes of Petra’s forgotten belongings.

  “Mom! What are they doing?” I call out to her, but my voice is low and raspy from sleep.

  “Petra is not here!” Mom yells.

  I rush to the living room where a CE officer has her pinned against the wall, holding the end of a taser wand against her throat.

  “Stop!” I scream, running to them.

  “Back off!” the officer yells, pointing the wand at me. His accusing eyes jab at me through the helmet’s shield.

  “Tell us where your other daughter is!” he yells in Mom’s face, placing a gloved hand on her throat.

  “I don’t know,” she says, tears filling her wide eyes.

  “Officer, stand down!” a booming voice yells from the apartment door.

  It’s Chief Penski. As he approaches us, the officer releases Mom and backs away, dropping his arms to his side. “Yes, sir!”

  “I’ll handle interrogation,” Penski says.

  The officer retreats from the living room as I embrace Mom. She wraps her arm around me, like I’m a nervous preschooler again.

  “When was the last time you saw Petra?” Penski asks, shifting his attention between us.

  This isn’t Og’s friendly dad having a spur-of-the-moment chat. He’s in full chief mode, looking at us with accusing eyes I don’t recognize.

  “Weeks ago. What is this? What’s going on?” Mom asks.

  “She’s has been involved in illegal activity,” he says.

  “That’s impossible! Petra is a loyal citizen.”

  “We’ve been hunting her for two weeks,” he says. “We almost apprehended her one hour ago on the university campus, but she managed to escape.”

  “She’s not here!” I shout, hoping all the other officers will hear me and stop their chaotic search. They press on, undisturbed by my cry.

  “You know this offense is serious, Mrs. Santos,” the chief says. “We have—”

  The sudden beeping of the officer’s wristband interrupts his words. He presses the screen.

  “Penski here.”

  “Chief, we have Santos in custody,” a female voice says from his wrist.

  Mom puts a hand to her mouth, and her knees buckle. I hold her up with all of my strength. She leans against the wall to steady herself and releases a quivering cry like a wounded animal.

  “Not again,” she mumbles between sobs.

  For a moment, the effort to keep Mom up distracts me from my own reaction to the news. Petra is going to prison, I thought, my knees shaking. My thoughts dart in every direction like houseflies in search of food. What does she mean, ‘not again’?

  The other officers hear the news from the hall and head out of the apartment, leaving behind scattered papers and overturned furniture.

  “You can come to headquarters and speak to her if you choose to,” Chief Penski says, following the other officers to the apartment door.

  Still in her slippers and bathrobe, Mom grabs her w
ool coat beside the door and flings it on. I follow, stopping to slip my boots on bare feet. She turns to me with that look I know all too well.

  “Stay here and wait for me,” she says, her face red and tear-stained.

  “Mom!”

  “I don’t want you to go! Stay here!”

  She closes the door. I drop down on the sofa with the room spinning.

  This can’t be happening.

  ►▼◄

  “Arrested,” a voice echoes through my mind in a whisper. The word repeats like a gliche on the school intercom.

  Petra sits beside me, eight years old, skinny and frail with a wide-eyed stare. Mom cries on the other side of me, her tears splashing. Then rain pounds all over us, soaking the apartment—the old apartment from my childhood. The three of us sit on the leather sofa in chilly water up to our knees.

  “Where’s Daddy?” I ask. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “He’s been arrested,” Petra whispers. “They took him away.”

  Young Petra’s words vibrate across the water as Mom sobs. The water crawls up my body, cold and suffocating. I try to get up, but my arms and legs are frozen in place. My heart thuds in my ears. The water climbs higher and higher, reaching my chest, my neck, my chin.

  “Mom!” I scream.

  I sit up from the sofa with a jolt, the scream still fresh on my lips.

  “Bug, are you okay?”

  The chill of the water fades, and the tender warmth of Mom’s arm encircles my shoulders. She stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. What’s going on? Why am I sleeping on the living room sofa?

  “I had a bad dream,” I say, blinking hard.

  A bad dream. Dad being arrested. Petra being arrested. A bad dream.

  “I just got back,” Mom says.

  It wasn’t a bad dream. Petra was arrested last night. They took her away, and Mom rushed off to her aid. The noise, the voices, the chaos of the night fill my head.

  “Why did they take her?” I ask. “What are they going to do to her?”

  “It was a mistake,” Mom says. “Don’t worry. She has a very clean record, and they’ll give her a second chance. I know they will.”

 

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