Under Ground

by Alice Rachel

  “I see.” His eyes turn dark with anger flashing on and off, gone in a heartbeat. Then he recomposes his face quickly—but not fast enough. I blink at him. Was that jealousy flickering through his gaze just now?

  “How about you?" I ask. "What do you like to do? You’re not part of the team?”

  “I don’t have time for sports. I have more important things to do, like save the world.” He laughs. I never understand his jokes, but his insouciance and humor soothe me somehow.

  He lies down on the grass and pats the area next to him, inviting me to sit down. I join him and sparks of electricity run all over my skin at being so close to him. He doesn't seem to notice. He's serene as ever, and I'm slightly annoyed at how easy this is for him. We just look at the sky, without saying anything. There’s a light breeze in the air. I take a few deep breaths—filling my lungs with it—and try to be in the moment. He asks me to recite some of my poems and I get suddenly nervous. I remember Mrs. Fox's acidic comments quite vividly the last time I shared the one about my grandpa, but I oblige Chi and recite my verses. I'm surprised to realize I know them all by heart.

  "It's beautiful," he says. "Just like you." His eyes sparkle as the words come out. I blink and flush as heat fills my entire body.

  "Did you really not think about me at all since yesterday?" he asks, as if truly worried that I might not care about him.

  I don't reply. There is nothing I could say that wouldn't incriminate me and reveal more than I'm willing to let on. My cheeks betray me half the time anyway.

  "For all it's worth, I thought about you, a lot." He insists on the last word and extends his hand to caress my cheek with his thumb, his eyes roaming my face. His irises slowly turn dark as his brow furrows. Anguish shifts through his beautiful features, and he turns his face away immediately. I don't understand why his mood shifted so quickly, but whatever it was, the feeling disappeared right away.

  He holds out his hand and acts casual as I grab it. He stands up and helps me to my feet. Time has flown by and I find myself panting. I don't want to leave. He looks me in the eyes and I'm mesmerized, caught in the splendor of his face.

  "Would you come here on Thursday?" he asks, timidly, as if he expects me to deny him.

  I nod and blush. His eyes twinkle. A puckish smile appears on his lips, and he winks at me.

  "I'll see you then." He leans toward me, his mouth so close to my cheek I can feel his breath blowing on my skin. "I'll be thinking of you." With that last sentence, he turns around and walks away—leaving me here, winded, unable to find my breath. What's happening to me?

  Chapter 10

  When Melissa and I enter the classroom the next day, Mr. Johnson hardly waits before speaking, "Take your seats. Today, we are reviewing the fundamentals behind our breeding system."

  The word "breeding" sends goose bumps all over my skin. He makes it sound like we are animals to be parked and controlled rather than human beings with emotions and potential goals in our lives.

  "Why is the lower class no longer allowed to procreate?" he asks.

  My face turns down in a grimace of distaste. I try to control the anger rising inside me, but this topic makes me sick. We've already studied this many times before, repetition being part of the brainwashing. I cannot comprehend why my parents insist on paying so much money for me to waste my time learning such nonsense.

  A girl raises her hand. "The lower-class lost the right to get married or have children almost ten years ago to help reduce the rate of poverty, Sir. Little by little, the numbers will decrease to the point where there won’t be any more poor people."

  The very idea infuriates me. I turn my head around to see if any of the other girls share my thoughts, but most of them show blank faces, probably hiding how they truly feel about the subject.

  "Correct," the teacher exclaims. "The law was passed exactly six years ago. And how did we prevent the poor from breaking those rules?"

  "Strict regulations were put in place to ensure they wouldn't marry illegally, Sir," another girl replies without lifting her hand. "Boys and girls from the lower class also get sterilized at the age of eighteen to prevent them from having children."

  The whole concept makes my stomach curl. A sound of disgust escapes my mouth, and I freeze. Mr. Johnson casts me a sharp glance, and I lower my head quickly.

  "Please continue, Miss Wheat," he says, with his eyes still pinned on me.

  "Couples from the upper class can have two children, and couples from the middle class can have one child, but those from the lower class are not allowed to reproduce," she says.

  I swallow the bile rising in my throat, and she continues to talk in that gleeful, high-pitched voice of hers as if this subject wasn't revolting at all. "A lot of people from the lower class rebelled because of the Sterilization Law, but they quickly learned to stay in their rightful place."

  I huff out my anger. Mr. Johnson sends me another sharp look.

  "Is there something you wish to share or add to this discussion, Miss Clay?" he asks with disdain.

  I know better than to share my controversial views on the matter. I shake my head and his eyes slant together slightly. I need to be more careful, but this conversation exasperates me. The lower-class needs the authorities to provide them with food. Food is so hard to find in the slums that when the poor tried to rebel, they were quickly forced to give in, kept in place by their need to survive. Their rations were reduced to the point where they couldn’t complain or they would have been forced to starve. Many of them died in the rebellion, too. The upper class is the only one who could have tried and changed things, but they don’t care about the fate of those underneath them.

  "Why did we create such laws, Miss Wheat?" the teacher asks.

  "When the oceans rose, nations throughout the world lost too many resources, and they fought to gain territory over the remaining lands. A lot of states in our country collapsed as well. They tried to force the State of New York to pay taxes for everyone else as well as provide water for the states suffering from drought, which was really quite unfair if you ask me," she replies, with her chin raised high. "After conquering parts of the neighboring states, New York seceded, and our state now fends for itself. Our state's government had to regulate the population to keep control of the supplies. Our marriage and breeding laws are the best ways to prevent overpopulation," she continues, triggering a proud grin from our teacher.

  "You are correct, Miss Wheat," he says. "The war also proved that women are weak and unable to care for themselves. This is why men should be in control of everything—to ensure our state survives such difficult times as ours."

  I roll my eyes.

  The rest of the class passes me by as my classmates throw around more absurdities as common facts to be taken for granted. And when lunchtime finally arrives, I work on expelling all the so-called values these people have tried to shove into my brain. I sit in front of Melissa in the cafeteria and try to force food down my throat, but these classes have ruined my appetite.

  "My mom and I had the talk over the phone last week-end," Melissa says, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  I push my plate away. They can box my food for me to take home. I just can't swallow another bite.

  "Did your mom talk about sex with you yet?" she asks.

  I shift in my seat, but there is no comfortable position for me to find anymore. I clear my throat.

  "Yes, many times," I reply. I shiver just thinking about how Mother often coerces me into listening while she talks about my prenuptial night. I hate those conversations. I hate everything about the dreadful thing.

  "Are you meeting William's family again this week-end?" Melissa asks.

  "Yes."

  I haven't seen William since he took me to the ball at his school, but his birthday is coming up and his parents have invited mine over for the event. I'd rather stay home and read, but my parents would never agree to that.

  "You've been acting strange these past few days. Y
ou're always daydreaming. Are you growing to like him?" Melissa asks.

  I nod. Yes, I am growing to like him, except that by "him" I mean Chi, not William. But I can't tell that to Melissa, or anyone else for that matter. Chi is a secret I intend to keep all to myself for as long as I possibly can.

  Chapter 11

  It's been three weeks since Chi first gave me that note. He hasn't touched me since he last stroked my cheek with his thumb, and his obvious respect for me makes me feel increasingly safe in his presence. I meet him twice a week now. Lying to those around me is getting slightly easier, though I always feel a pang of guilt when the words come out of my mouth.

  Unfortunately, I'm still forced to meet with William every week-end. His parents invite us to the social events they host, and it takes all my energy not to scream at the hypocrisy surrounding me. I smile through my clenched teeth and let William grab my hand since touching me was a right granted him years ago. Nausea threatens to overtake me every time his palm rubs against my skin or his lips touch mine, and I wonder why it had to be him and not someone nice like Chi. I got my wedding gown a while ago now. It's hanging in my closet; the sight of it makes me sick every time I need to change and am forced to look at it.

  When five p.m. finally arrives, I tell Melissa that I’m going home. I leave school and cut through the woods. I walk up the path until I reach the monument. When I arrive, Chi is standing in front of the Arch, with his thumbs in his pockets. He hears me, turns around, and smiles in that debonair attitude that I've grown to enjoy so much.

  "Hello, Thia!"

  My name on his lips makes me shiver, spreading delightful goose bumps all over my skin. I sit down quickly before he notices my reaction.

  "How were your classes today?" I ask.

  He comes to sit by my side and spreads out his legs. He leans backward and props himself up with his arms stretched out behind him. "All right, I guess. I'm still getting used to this whole system. It's kinda hard to adapt after being homeschooled for so long."

  "You were homeschooled?" I blink at him.

  "Yeah, a story for another time. How was it for you?"

  I roll my eyes. "Today, I learned how to be a proper lady and show reverence for a man who will never grant me any importance."

  Chi chuckles at that. "Is that all they tried to teach you? The usual misogynistic idiocies?"

  "No. I also had a music class, which I actually enjoy. Women do need to entertain their guests after all," I continue with a stiff upper-lip, my tone haughty, and my back held straight in a feigned proud mannerism, "for lack of any thoughtful opinion to share about things that actually matter."

  Chi lets out a loud breath that sounds like a snort. "You really are entertaining, Thia, you know that?" He shoots me a smile so charming that my breath hitches.

  When a flush rises to my cheeks, I shift the course of my thoughts. "You still haven't told me your last name, you know."

  "Like I said before, it's not my real name." He shrugs, not caring to elaborate. His eyebrows crease. “Did you ever wonder what happens to children who are born over the number allowed?" His sudden change in subject takes me by surprise. I don't know how to respond.

  “No one has children above the number allowed" I reply, matter-of-factly. "It just doesn’t happen.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” he asks.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I assert.

  “You may want to think about it before affirming things you know nothing about!” His remark is harsh, stinging like acid. Is he implying that I’m stupid? I've never seen him irritated before; his frustration feels like a blow. It angers me too. I want to find some snide response, but I can’t think of anything smart to throw back at him.

  He continues, his eyes and voice soft now, “Let me tell you something. It does happen. People do have children above the number allowed. I would know. I’m one of them.”

  His words come like a slap in my face. How can that be? Our system does not permit such things. Illegal births never occur. If they did, there would be no point to our laws. It would all become chaos. I have a hard time believing him, but I can’t find any reasons why he would be lying.

  “But how?” I ask.

  “Do you know what happens when a couple has a child they shouldn’t have?”

  I don’t answer. He looks in the distance and keeps on talking, “When a couple has a child that’s unwanted, they either have to abort or society takes that child away. The infant becomes a ward of the authorities. No one knows what happens to those kids 'cause the population doesn’t know about them. Our government threatens the parents into shutting up about it, or they could face the death penalty.”

  “But people get sterilized after they’ve had the authorized number of children. How can they have more than is allowed? And if you’re one of them, how come you’re not a ward of the authorities? Whatever that means.”

  “Well, did you ever wonder what happens if someone has twins, or triplets? It’s genetic, you know. It can’t be prevented. The authorities are keeping track of those likely to have multiple children, and they keep an eye on the medical records. Doctors are forced to tell our government if they notice any anomalies.”

  “But then, how come they didn’t take you away?” I ask.

  “I don’t really feel like talking about that yet,” he replies, his voice forlorn.

  He looks away and his jaw clenches all of a sudden. The subject seems painful to him, so I don’t insist. I have a hard time believing what I've just been told anyway. If this is true, then I’ve been lied to my whole life. What else could I have been misguided about? I had heard about people having twins centuries ago. How could I be so gullible as to believe it never happened anymore? I behold Chi, an Unwanted, someone not even meant to exist. Shudders shoot through my entire body.

  “Like I said," he resumes, "most of the time, the parents are forced to abort. The family has to shut up about it. What they did is an infraction. It’s not really their fault, but the authorities don't care about that. If they talk, they’ll be executed or put in a camp.”

  “A camp?” I ask.

  “Our state is filled with camps where the officials keep the rebels—those who don't comply with the system and refuse to follow its idiotic rules. The authorities even lock up those who have coveted the wives of others, homeless girls, or women who are supposedly insane.”

  “These people are either put in jail or in mental institutions,” I retort.

  “No, they are not. Do you think the authorities would really waste money and resources on people they deem detrimental to society?”

  “I guess I never thought it through,” I admit.

  “Well, it seems most people just prefer not to think about it. The authorities keep everyone focused on the importance of status so they don't think about what truly matters. The civilians don’t know about those camps."

  "Where are those camps located?" I ask.

  "Everywhere. But their exact locations are coded and hidden. Apparently, the camps look like regular prisons from the outside. But what goes on inside is nothing short of an exploitation of the human race.”

  “What do they do in those camps?”

  “Those who committed heavy crimes—the murderers—are executed on the spot. The others are used to benefit our society. They make the clothing we wear each day. They grow, harvest, and pack the fruit and vegetables we eat and the food the authorities distribute to the poor. Those who are too weak to work and those who don’t follow in line get put down like animals.”

  “The things we buy are made and sold by corporations,” I retort.

  “No, they’re not," he snaps. "Well, not really," he adds, more softly. "People in the camps make those things. Those places are like factories of forced labor. This way, the corporations get their work done for free. In the meantime, the authorities make use of those they deem harmful to our system. Our government is subsidized by those corporations, too. They work hand in hand. They've created a perf
ect society that benefits no one but those on top, and the civilians don't know where their resources really come from. It’s a nicely kept secret.”

  Each new revelation from Chi makes my blood run cold. I can’t believe what he’s saying. I don’t want to believe what he’s saying. If he’s telling the truth, that means the society we live in isn't functioning as it should. It means our lives are nothing but a web of lies spun by the authorities to trap us all for reasons that no longer seem valid. What else did they lie about? I don’t want to believe Chi, but what he says makes perfect sense.

  “How do you know about all this?” My heart aches, and a part of me is still hoping that he's just lying.

  “I know 'cause my parents were taken there, and I've spent the past two years looking for them.”

  "What? Your parents were taken away?"

  His features reshape with deep anguish. "Yeah." He turns his face away and averts his eyes. "When the authorities found out about me, they came for my family." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't want to push. He simply says, “When the authorities say someone’s been taken to jail, it means they’re rotting in a camp.”

  “You mentioned homeless girls. What about them?" I ask. Chi obviously doesn't want to talk about his parents, and I can't force him. The pain in his eyes is too vivid. "Do they also end up in camps?”

  “Did you notice how you might see a homeless girl outside for a while and then she’s gone, like she just disappeared?”

  “Yes, I just assumed they'd found a job.”

  “No one employs homeless girls. Those girls were forsaken by their families. No one wants them inside their home. Who knows what disease they might bring in? People don’t want them to corrupt the minds of their own children. Only the daughters of the lower class get jobs caring for the rich.”

  I remember that my family had hired Emily after they had received a call from her parents. They were asking for a position for their daughter once she’d turn eighteen. My parents agreed to meet Emily and take her in. She was on trial for a few months before they hired her for good. While the upper class is looking for a potential match for their daughters and sons, the lower class is looking for jobs for their offspring. I knew that, but never really reflected upon it.