by Lisa Lee
Jaelle sighed and put down her fork. “I haven’t been able to figure that out, especially why we are all here.”
“We only have two years left. We have to figure out something!” Bethany replied in frustration.
“What if we all got together and tried to figure out where everyone is from? We could map it out,” Annalise suggested.
“But what we really want to know is where we’re going,” Kaitlyn replied.
“Perhaps someone could break into Mrs. Flint’s office and look through stuff?” Bethany suggested.
I was not prepared to go that far, but Annalise surprised us all by replying, “We don’t need to go to her office to see what’s in her electronic files.”
“We don’t?” I asked.
“No,” Annalise replied. “It’s hard to explain quickly, but you know how you can store data on TMDs, transportable memory devices? Well, a lot of times companies and schools and stuff can’t store everything on TMDs, but they don’t want to build their own server networks. Instead, they store data using someone else’s data storage system. We just need to grab one of the teacher’s electronic notepads that has access to the GSN before the teacher logs out.”
“I like your plan,” Jaelle said, sounding impressed.
“I like it too,” Bethany replied.
“Is there another network besides GSN?” Kaitlyn asked.
“How can there be another network other than the GSN?” I asked. “It’s the Government Sponsored Network.”
Jaelle and Annalise looked at me in disbelief.
“There are unofficial networks?” Bethany asked.
Jaelle and Annalise nodded quickly. “But that’s not the point,” Jaelle said briskly. “We’re trying to figure out how to get on the official network, the Government Sponsored Network.”
“Won’t there be an electronic record?” I asked.
“But that’s the beauty of using one of the teachers’ notepads. If someone traces the notepad number, it can’t be traced to us.”
“But wouldn’t the teacher get in trouble?” I asked.
“Do you want to know where you are going, or don’t you?” Bethany asked, a little sharply.
“I do, but—” Before I could finish my thought, I was interrupted by Jaelle.
“Teacher alert,” she warned.
“Oh, Eden, I really like your hair today,” Kaitlyn said.
I wasn’t as quick-minded as Kaitlyn, so I just sort of stared at her for a moment. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Mrs. Grey.
She said, “Eden, don’t forget your first class is in the side room of the library.”
“I remember, Mrs. Grey,” I replied, smiling and hoping she would quickly move on.
She looked at me like she wanted to say something else, but then she shook her head slightly and said, “Stop by my office after your class.”
“Yes, Mrs. Grey,” I replied with a tight smile. I was eager to resume the conversation at my table. But as Mrs. Grey turned and walked away, my friends looked at me with weird expressions.
“I wonder if I said I wanted to take a class on local geography if Mrs. Flint would arrange that for me,” said Bethany in a snide tone.
I felt as though I’d been slapped. The other girls looked away, including Kaitlyn. Cheeks burning, I looked down at the table. Fortunately, the bell rang, announcing the end of breakfast, and Mrs. Flint rose to give announcements. Stung by my friends’ betrayal, I heard nothing of what she said.
When we were finally dismissed, I walked quickly to the library, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone. I was angry that Bethany would make fun of me for the opportunity to take an interesting class, angry that no one said anything in my defense, and frustrated because I suspected that if any other girl had an interest in something not on the curriculum, the school wouldn’t arrange an individual class on the topic.
By the time I stood outside the closed door of the library’s side room, my anger persisted, but I was also a little afraid of losing my friends over some language I would probably never speak. I wondered if I should dare to ask to be excused from the class and say I just wanted to stick with the regular curriculum. Perhaps that would be the right thing to do?
I knocked on the door and looked around the library. It was sort of small for a library, but then again, most of its books were available electronically through the school’s online library. I only visited the library for school assignments for which I needed hard copy books. Today, some girls who looked like second-years were working on an assignment, and the librarian, Mrs. Stillwell, was at her desk, looking as humorless as she usually did.
While I waited for my new language teacher to open the door, I realized I didn’t know the teacher’s name. It had been a long minute since I first knocked. I wondered if she wasn’t in yet. I raised my hand to knock again, but Mrs. Stillwell called my name, causing all heads in the library to look my way.
“Miss Edwards, your teacher is already present. You may go in.”
I nodded my assent and then entered the side room.
The room was gloomy, the only light coming from small windows near the ceiling on the opposite wall. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. When I took in the sight of the hard-looking man in the room, my stomach plummeted, and fear ran through me like a live wire. My primitive brain took over, and my only thought was to flee.
As I turned to leave, the man spoke. “Aren’t you at all curious?”
With my body facing the door and my hand on the doorknob, I said, “Men are not allowed in this school.”
“Are they not?” he replied. “I understand that Giovanni and his partner were quite popular.”
I bit my lip at the mention of Giovanni’s name, my hand remaining on the doorknob, and turned my head to look over my shoulder at the male intruder. He was standing in the corner diagonally opposite me, his body motionless in the way of a snake before it uncoils itself to strike.
“Look, I’m just here to teach you the Sorean language. You are correct. This school doesn’t typically hire male teachers, but for some reason, female teachers in this field are scarce.” He smiled as he spoke, but it looked as if it took effort.
Though his words seemed reasonable, I felt uneasy. “It still seems—um—not p-p-proper for me to be alone with you,” I stammered out.
He nodded. “I see. Your value as an ‘exceptional’ girl would plummet if there were any indication you were not completely pure. You cannot command such a high price?”
I could sense the same snide tone that I heard in Bethany’s voice at breakfast. I bit my lip even harder at the unfairness of it all. He does not understand, I thought, that I’m here because I have no other choice.
After an uncomfortable silence, I stammered again, “Um . . . I can talk to Mrs. Flint and explain . . .” Here I paused. What would I explain? That I didn’t want to take a class alone with a man?
The man sighed and pulled out a small device, pushed a few buttons, and spoke into it, “You were right. Please join us.”
At his words, I realized that he spoke into a portable phone, but it was not like any GSN-approved phone that I had ever seen. It was smaller, sleeker, and glossy black, quite unlike the gray boxy portable network phones—NPs—that I was used to seeing officials carry. I also wondered who took his call. There was a heavy silence in the room as I stood at the door. awaiting this new visitor.
After about three minutes, the door opened gently, pushing me reluctantly further into the room. To my surprise, it was Mrs. Abe, the older lady who taught Household Budgeting. I was strangely relieved by her presence.
“Eden,” she said with a smile, her voice holding her normal welcoming tone. “I thought being with a male teacher might make you uncomfortable, so I offered to sit in on your lessons. Is that fine with you?”
Surprised at her offer, I nodded my agreement.
“Then let’s all sit,” she said, gesturing to the table in the center of the room.
/> The table in question was monstrously ugly and oversized for the small room, a round table with an extremely scarred surface. Instead of table legs, a gnarled and twisted tree trunk served as its support. A silver bowl filled with glittery fake red apples sat at the center of the table. I seemed to remember that decorative fake fruits were a first-year Domestic Arts project.
Sitting at the table, I got a better view of the man. His complexion looked as though he shaved with a rusty knife and washed with sandpaper, the lines on his pale craggy face running deep and dry. His lips were thin and bloodless. I avoided his eyes after a brief glance at them showed his intense displeasure. I imagined him to be about Mrs. Flint’s age.
I wondered why he had been hired to teach me. Two years of beauty classes had taught me to recognize quality clothes. He wore a jacket made of black leather. The button-down shirt and pants were both made of black silk. As I sat, wondering why someone with money enough to afford such attire was teaching me, I had the horrid thought that perhaps this man was my intended.
“My name is Jack Holt,” the man said, his voice clipped. “I am not your intended.”
Startled, my eyes met his. I wondered how he knew what I was thinking. Embarrassed, I blurted out the first thing in my head, “Then who is my intended?”
Mr. Holt’s eyes slid away from mine as if annoyed. He surprised me by asking, “Why are you here at this school?”
“I want to make it back to my parents in a way that doesn’t bring them shame,” I said, speaking the truest wish of my heart. This was my dream, to be reunited with my parents. I noticed the man’s fists tighten and wondered why my words didn’t please him. I could feel my head starting to throb.
“Which parents do you want to please?” Mrs. Abe asked, a slight smile on her face.
I didn’t understand her question. “My parents in Sun—I mean, my hometown. I don’t have any . . .” My voice trailed off as I finally got her question. “You mean my birth parents?” I shrugged as I said, “They’re dead.”
“You’re not at all curious about them?” the man asked abruptly.
“I’ve had no reason to be curious. I feel no lack of love from my parents,” I replied.
“Even though they sent you to this god-forsaken school?” He practically snarled at me as his right hand clenched the wooden table.
Mrs. Abe held up a hand to him and said firmly, “Enough.”
Mr. Holt pressed his thin lips together and leaned back in his chair.
“Let’s start over,” Mrs. Abe continued calmly. “Eden, you will take lessons with Mr. Holt for two hours each morning, Monday through Thursday. You will focus primarily on learning the Sorean language. A little history may be thrown in. Mr. Holt, do you have a lesson plan for Eden to review?”
He looked at her for a moment. “I will have the lesson plan tomorrow morning,” he replied as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Mrs. Abe nodded in response, saying, “Eden is quite fluent in Spanish and French. I am sure your classes on the Sorean language will be a pleasure for you both.” She then asked, “Eden, do you have any questions?”
I did have one question which no one seemed willing to answer. “Who is my intended?” I asked.
“Doesn’t your intended write to you?” Mr. Holt asked. “He might be a better person to ask.” The sarcasm in his tone made me suspect he already knew my intended did not write to me. Even those who did write to their intended at the school tended to avoid identifying details.
I said nothing, not wanting to confirm for him that my intended didn’t want to communicate with me. I could feel the throbbing in my head intensify.
“If you weren’t here, what would you plan to do with your life?” Mrs. Abe asked.
“Ideally,” I said, “I would be with or near my parents. I would still like to become a wife and mother, eventually, but in the usual way, where you know the person you’re marrying beforehand.”
Mrs. Abe smiled at my statement. “If you had stayed at home, you don’t think you would have had to be matched by your pastor?”
“I would hope not,” I replied.
Mr. Holt just looked at me as though he were thinking of something.
He asked, “Why do you have an interest in learning languages?”
“I would like to do some missionary work.” I shrugged to show I wasn’t fanatical about the idea.
“Does the world need missionaries?” Mr. Holt asked skeptically.
I was shocked by the question. “Of course,” I replied. “In many places, they don’t know God. Don’t we have an obligation to spread the Good News to those stuck in such places?”
“We do?” Mr. Holt asked with a little half-smile on his face. “Mission work is just an excuse to travel.”
I could feel my cheeks flushing red at his statement. It was true that travel outside Saved America was limited. Visits to other countries for pleasure were not allowed. Government-related work and missionary work were the only valid reasons for travel outside the country. I knew, however, that I had been curious about missionary work for years. My curiosity began right around the Christmas I had mustered up the courage to ask my parents about my birth parents.
“One last question,” Mr. Holt said. “Just out of curiosity, if you found out your birth parents were alive, would you want to meet with them?”
Startled by the question, I started to say no, but instead, I found myself saying, “I don’t know.”
“That is probably the truest response you could give,” Mrs. Abe said with a brief smile. Then she said, “I’m sure you understand the need not to share anything about these lessons in any way. Only Mrs. Flint, Mrs. Grey, Mrs. Stillwell, and I know that you have a male teacher. Just share that you are taking an alternative language because of your personal interest in missionary work. Do you understand?”
Another secret to keep. My father’s history lessons, the name of my hometown, and now my male language teacher. I wondered how many secrets one could hold before they started seeping out.
“Why me?” I asked.
“Why not?” Mr. Holt replied with his funny little half-smile as he stood. “I will see you tomorrow, Eden.”
Mrs. Abe and I let ourselves out. I wondered how Mr. Holt would manage to leave the school without being caught. I looked at Mrs. Abe and thought about asking her, but I was afraid of being overheard. Plus, her calm demeanor was just as impenetrable as Mr. Holt’s caustic energy.
“You have Mrs. Grey next?” Mrs. Abe asked. “I will walk you to her office.”
After Mrs. Abe and Mrs. Grey greeted one another, the former moved on to her next destination, and Mrs. Grey and I sat down at the round table in her office. At least a dozen yellow Chrysanthemums held pride of place in the round, squat vase in the center of the table.
Mrs. Grey twirled her stylus she used for writing on the electric notepad. “How was your class?” she asked.
“It was . . . interesting,” I replied. “Interesting” was my favorite word for my Art of Conversation class.
Mrs. Grey gave me a tight smile. “You must be happy you get to take a class you have such an interest in.”
“Um.” I hesitated. “I’m surprised I’m being offered the opportunity.”
Mrs. Grey asked, “Is that so?”
I nodded.
“I hope you like it.” Her tight smile and frenetic stylus-turning seemed to indicate the opposite.
“Am I doing anything wrong?” I asked cautiously.
Mrs. Grey looked at me for a long measuring moment, temporarily pausing the twirling. Then she answered my question with the same question. “Are you doing anything wrong? I will let you answer that question. You see these beautiful flowers?” she asked, pointing to the yellow Chrysanthemums. “They are lovely flowers. When I look at them, I’m reminded of bees. Did you know bees are almost extinct? They exist at this school because it’s someone’s job to make sure the bees thrive. If the bees thrive, then so do our gardens.” I did not understan
d the switch in topics from me to bees, and my confusion must have shown.
“Confused? Queens can’t be confused, Eden. You see, in a beehive, there are a lot of worker bees. I always thought of this school as one full of worker bees. The bees may be young and beautiful, but ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, they are only here to learn how to look beautiful while being a worker bee.” Mrs. Grey’s lips twisted sarcastically. “But apparently, we have a budding queen bee in our mist.”
At my startled look, Mrs. Grey continued. “Do you know what virgin queen bees do after they emerge?”
I shook my head in response, surprised by Mrs. Grey’s question.
“They attempt to kill any rival virgin queen,” Mrs. Grey said.
I gasped, but Mrs. Grey’s expression hardened. She continued on. “The question, my dear, is not really whether there is anything wrong with what you are doing. The question is, do you have what it takes to be the surviving queen?”
I had reached my limit. Standing up, I shouted, “But I don’t want to be queen! Any queen!” I had had it with all the secrecy and innuendos. It could not represent anything good. “I just want to finish school, get married, and see my parents again.”
Mrs. Grey stood as well and leaned toward me. “Wake up, Eden. The fight has already begun, and for reasons that escape me, Mrs. Flint has decided to bet on you, risking the entire school.”
In her anger, Mrs. Grey’s face was becoming a mottled red, her fists were clenched, and her eyes were moist. She looked as though if she weren’t so angry, she would start crying.
I started crying, overwhelmed by her anger and my own confusion.
“I didn’t ask for anything,” I protested, my heart pounding. I had already lost the fight if I didn’t know I was in one.
Mrs. Grey shook her head and sat down. I sat down too.
“The decision has already been made. You must study hard and do well. Do you understand? With no slips or hints about your male teacher.”
“I will study hard,” I said. “But what will happen to me or the school if it gets out that I have a male teacher? What type of fight am I in?”
Mrs. Grey sighed and put her stylus on the table. She picked out one of the Chrysanthemums and started twirling it. “If the information gets out, then others may start to realize that a virgin queen is living here. The more people who know, the harder it will be to protect you—and anyone else living here.”
