Escaping Eleven (Eleven Trilogy)

by Jerri Chisholm

  …

  “Certainly makes up for your loss against the Preme, doesn’t it?”

  I nod as I hold out my fists, knuckles up.

  “Unclench your hands, Eve.”

  I do as he says. The lemon juice is barely noticeable—my knuckles have mostly healed from my fight with Wren, and today wasn’t enough to do any new damage. Still, he cleans them. It is just something we do.

  My mother didn’t see the fight—she never goes. It’s a good thing; she wouldn’t be impressed, I am sure of it. Not that I feel guilty. I don’t. I was justified in breaking Zaar’s knee, and for the uppercut and the punch at the end. I was.

  I watch her as she does embroidery in the corner, mumbling something about a clock under her breath. Her shoulders are hunched forward, and her neck is bent down at an awkward angle as she studies her stitches. It is something she started doing after Jack was sent aboveground, and now I can’t imagine her doing anything else.

  Back then, she was different. Back then, she laughed, loud and often. She chatted noisily with friends at mealtimes. She sang me songs, she told me stories while I sat on her lap, imaginary ones with happily-ever-after endings that helped me sleep at night.

  All that changed once Jack was taken. The laughter died. Friendships were discarded. No more songs or stories, no offers of comfort. Nothing.

  I stare at her and see my own future in Compound Eleven flash in front of me. I gaze upon her misery and see it turn like a wagon wheel into my own. A cycle of despair—that’s all that awaits. Good thing, then, I have already decided to go.

  “You should go down in the record books for that one,” my father says.

  I stare at him hollowly.

  “Fastest time to finish a match,” he adds.

  I nod. I knew he would be excited. But it makes me feel only marginally better. I spread myself out on the bed that used to be mine. I feel much too big for it, even though I slept in it up until a few weeks ago. They always reassign kids to their own cells when schooling is complete. It’s to ready us for adult lives, with adult jobs. “Can we talk about something else?”

  He is silent for a few seconds, and I hold my breath. “How are your friends?”

  I relax. “Which ones?”

  “Maggie and Hunter.”

  They are my oldest friends, so it makes sense he would ask about them. But I don’t want to talk about those two, either. Not really. Things with Hunter are all uncomfortable silences, cool glances.

  And Maggie has another bruise that I noticed yesterday. On her arm. A cluster of them, faint but there all the same. Like someone held her tightly. Too tightly. The thought makes me sick.

  “They’re fine,” I say, my voice placid.

  “And your friends in Blue Circuit? They must be excited for you to join them full-time, especially after today’s impressive display.”

  Another lie I must tell. My friends in Blue Circuit were not impressed by today’s fight. And my friends in Blue Circuit will not be excited for me to join them full-time because join them I will not. “They’re good, too.”

  “Are they excited?”

  I sigh. “Yes, Dad. I’m sure they’re excited. I usually win, so why wouldn’t they be?”

  Wren is wrong. I am not a bad liar.

  And what a strange thing that is. Wren. The shooting range with him, the feeding of the Noms. Why should he spend time with me when he doesn’t have to? Are we becoming friends?

  A small laugh slips between my teeth. What an outlandish thing to think. Of course we aren’t. Perhaps it was all to ease his guilt for beating me to a pulp. Perhaps he was bored. In reality, though, I don’t expect to see him again.

  Especially since we didn’t part ways on the warmest of terms, my back still up about having to share my secret with him. I don’t think he will turn me in, though. I have thought about it through and through. He is a Preme of all things, and capable of great violence, but he isn’t petty. He was right when he said that if he wanted to hurt me, it would be much more direct. I believe him. But the Oracle was my secret before, and now it isn’t. Now this Preme knows, too.

  “Which Preeminate do you kneel before once you’re hired on?”

  My head snaps up. “What?”

  “For the Combat League. Who do you make your pledge to?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure. Whoever’s in charge of Recreation, I guess.”

  “You should find out who, do it proper. It’s the best way to get your name on the banners.”

  Earlier someone stared at me like they couldn’t tell whether I was really human. Now I am the one wondering that—about my father. Because the thought of getting on my knees before one of the Premes in charge makes me sick, and it should make him sick, too.

  “As for this,” he continues, and he retracts his sleeve so that the ink on his forearm is exposed. “There will be mention…”

  His voice trails off, and he looks agitated. My mother murmurs louder from her corner. I gaze at my father with my mouth open. For he is talking about Jack, and that is something we don’t ever do.

  Already I know what he is going to say. That there will be mention of Jack tattooed along my own arm. Mention of the fact that he was exiled from the compound for breaching the rules, that he is presumed dead. I think of staring at those words every day; I think of my mother’s reaction to them when she pulled off her bandages just a week after he was taken…

  “Eve.”

  I startle. “Huh?”

  “The tattoo—”

  “Yes. I realize.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it make you go soft. Think how good it felt to set a match-time record today, taking down your opponent without breaking a sweat. Say it.” He nods at me encouragingly. “Say how good it felt.”

  “It felt good,” I hear myself whisper. Then I repeat it again and again, until I can’t really remember feeling any other way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I check my watch again. I am impatient; it’s in my nature. To my left is a large group of people my age, and to my right is an empty hallway. I stare down this hallway, willing him to show. Of course he will. This is the job he wants.

  It is the last thing I want to be doing today. But I need to make things right again with my best friend, and besides, the others are getting suspicious about why I have so little interest in the job tours. I want to tell them the truth—I do. They might even understand my refusal to serve Katz after what my family has endured. But just because they could understand my decision to escape Eleven doesn’t mean they’d support it, especially when so many who have attempted it before me have wound up dead.

  “Food prep goes now!” shouts a voice from the front of the crowd. My eyes sort through the gathered faces one more time. I recognize most of them—they are all Means of one stripe or another, and all the Means school together. It is only the Denominators and the Premes who are schooled separately. Hunter’s face is not among them.

  He is never late.

  The group pushes through the door to the kitchen, and then I see him.

  He walks quickly up the hallway in our direction, stretching a rubber band into complex formations with his fingertips, something I’ve seen him do a million times before. The sight makes me smile.

  “Just in time,” I say as he nears, and his eyes lift to mine. Usually they sparkle, but today they are dull. Immediately it strikes me that he is upset about more than just me.

  “What are you doing here? You aren’t interested in the kitchen.” He pauses, taking a minute to put the rubber band away and smooth his blue hoodie, one that has a green stripe through the middle. He adjusts his glasses. “Are you?”

  I shrug, and together we join the back of the line that files into the kitchen. The lights are brighter here—Preme bright—and every surface is coated with a matte silver. Our eyes me
et and tick away again like we are anything but friends.

  “Did you hear about my fight with Zaar? It took about ten seconds to finish him off. Literally.” I am not bragging. I don’t even want to talk about it, frankly. But I need to fill the silence between us. I need to make things normal again.

  He is one of my closest friends, and I need him. I do. My fighter friends at Blue Circuit might be disappointed in me or angry at me or whatever it is they are feeling; I can deal with that, even from Bruno, who has become something of a mentor to me. For now, anyway. I can’t deal with Hunter and me not being good.

  Because he isn’t like the others. He isn’t simply a friend. He is so much more.

  None of my other friends bring me something special on the last day of May. Always it is something he has traded for, something he has made, something he has been allotted that he knows I would enjoy. One year it was wool socks, thick and warm, my own full of holes that left my toes aching from the cold concrete floors. No matter that his own socks had holes in them.

  Another year it was a stack of books he had checked out from the library for me—those he knew I would enjoy and a few of his favorites, too. The year after that it was a small tin of ointment, a remedy for sore muscles, one he secured by trading away a kickball his father had gifted him.

  The last day of May is when Jack was taken.

  “Zaar? Yeah, I heard.” Silence. “Too bad it wasn’t Daniel on the receiving end,” he adds. His voice is distant.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Maggie said he’s taking it pretty personally, though, if that brings you any joy.”

  “Who, Daniel?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  It does bring me joy, hearing that. If I have upset someone like Daniel, I have done something right. But I already knew he was taking it personally—I could see it in his eyes after the match. He was mad, mad like I have never seen him before.

  “How does she know that?”

  “Kyle,” he mutters, and in my peripheral vision I see his eyes darken. He doesn’t like Kyle either, then.

  The woman at the front of the group clears her throat. “Everyone starting out begins on chopping duty. Day in, day out, this is where you’ll be stationed.” She motions to a series of wooden boards, each the size of my bed.

  I lean in to Hunter. “Any good with a knife?” I’m trying to be friendly, but he just shakes his head. I squeeze my eyes shut as the woman continues the tour, and I don’t bother to listen—I don’t care to. When there is a lull I turn once more to him. “Did Maggie say anything else about Daniel?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Just wondering. So am I to assume, then, that he and Kyle are friends?”

  “Something like that.” He pauses, then fixes me with a stare. “You realize he won’t hang out with us, right?”

  “Obviously. He’s so stuck up, I’m surprised he’s even dating Maggie.”

  “No kidding. It kind of makes you wonder.”

  I look at him sharply. “Wonder?”

  “You know, about what his motives are.”

  “Uh, it’s pretty clear what they are. We’re talking about Maggie here.”

  He smiles a true Hunter smile, one that has comforted me for sixteen long years, and my shoulders relax. “I guess. Guys like pretty girls; I get it.” His eyes meet mine and dart away again. For some reason I feel my face grow warm, even though the kitchen is cold.

  The woman at the front introduces two of the kitchen staff. Probably Hunter would like to hear what they have to say, but instead I nudge him in the ribs. “Have you noticed her bruises?”

  He looks at me solemnly this time and nods.

  “Think they’re from him?” I ask.

  He stares at the man speaking, but I can tell he isn’t listening. His lips are pressed together too tightly. “We can’t exactly ask her,” he finally whispers. “Can we?”

  I shrug. “I’ll kill him if they are.”

  “Back off, Eve. I agree that we need to do something, but blowing up isn’t going to help anyone.”

  I force my jaw to unclench and nod. “Okay. You’re right. I…I’ve been a little wound up lately.”

  He looks at me. “Yeah, you have.”

  I know he wants me to apologize, but I don’t want to. I only apologize when I feel it is warranted, and right now I don’t know if it is. So instead I say, “Cut me some slack, okay? Losing to the Preme didn’t exactly tickle.” I am making an excuse, but I know it is one he will believe.

  His gaze shifts, and I watch carefully as he takes a deep breath. I watch his chest rise and fall. Then he nods.

  “So we’re good?”

  “We’re good.”

  I wrap an arm around him as the group shuffles forward, past the burners and a series of refrigerators each larger than my cell, feeling much lighter than before. Just then, a girl with long braids catches sight of Hunter and flashes him a grin. I glare at her, then poke Hunter on the arm. “Hey, is your girlfriend here? She works in the kitchen, doesn’t she?”

  His gaze falls ever so slightly.

  “What happened?” I say immediately.

  “Nothing serious. She ended things, that’s all. I imagine it will be fun working alongside her.” He laughs a little, disingenuous.

  “Sorry, Hunter. I really am.”

  “It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Did she give you a reason, at least?”

  He mumbles, “She said I was too young or something. I don’t know.”

  “But she’s a year older than us, right?”

  He nods.

  “Okay. Well, a year is a big difference. I wouldn’t take it personally if I were you.”

  “She’s already hanging out with someone else.” He looks at me, and I understand.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That sucks.” Then I pick at my nail because I don’t know what else to offer. I don’t exactly have any dating experience to draw on, and saying she wasn’t good enough for him sounds like a cliché. Something you say to be nice but don’t actually mean. Except I do mean it—nobody would be good enough for Hunter.

  “Through these doors is the storeroom,” the woman up front yells. “Anyone been inside before?”

  Silence, and I turn to Hunter: “Did she say the storeroom?”

  He nods.

  The storeroom, the room where all the supplies and goods that run Compound Eleven are housed—those brought from above when society was first established, and those produced underground with 3D printers taller than we are. These are the supplies that the compound carefully allots its residents—batteries, toilet paper, T-shirts, even alcohol—though I suspect it’s offered mainly as a numbing agent, and only so we don’t become too much of a nuisance. The lower the floor, the fewer allotments offered. Volunteer work means a few extra allotments per year, and holding a job means even more.

  I already know the code to the kitchen; I know the code to all the doors on the second floor. Or so I thought. But I have never been to the storeroom, and until now I didn’t even know its location.

  Immediately I grab Hunter’s hand and push forward. Talk of his breakup will have to wait.

  “What are you doing?” he whispers as I shove through bodies.

  I walk faster now. Faces swivel to mine, but my eyes are trained on one spot. The keypad. I need to see the last digits. The storeroom is one of the most important rooms in the compound—one I have only heard about.

  “All items that don’t fit in the kitchen are stored in—you guessed it—this bad boy. Spare knives, extra flour—the works. You’ll be in and out of this room more times than you can count. Only senior members of the kitchen staff can open the door, so you’ll have to ask me or Sal—the tall one with the black hat—if you want in. Got it?”

  Heads nod. H
er eyes sweep over Hunter and me as we position ourselves at the front, but she doesn’t look suspicious. She does, however, use her free hand to block her fingers from view.

  Still, as her arm lifts, I know the first two digits. 11—the same as every other code. Next her hand drops and pushes against the keypad in three motions. The fillers, 000. The next number is 2—I don’t even need the confirmation I receive when her hand inches up.

  And then it drops. It strikes twice, and low. As the door opens, I am frozen, thinking. It looked like two zeroes. 11000200. But that doesn’t make sense. It isn’t in keeping with the rest of the compound.

  I understand why a moment later.

  The storeroom isn’t in keeping with the rest of the compound. It is cavernous, twice the height of the Bowl, stretching all the way up to ground level, surely.

  The group buzzes with excitement; it is so different from the low ceilings that usually skulk overhead. And every few feet is a peculiarity. Thick nets slung from corner to corner, goods placed on each one, from floor up to ceiling.

  The woman giving the tour grins. “Good news. Kitchen stuff is on the first three nets. These ones right here. Be grateful we aren’t at the top, ’cause I’m willing to bet none of you would do so hot with heights.”

  “How do we get stuff from the middle of the net?” a girl with long red hair asks.

  “Two feet and a heartbeat. Climb on in; the nets’ll hold your weight.”

  “How do people get to the top?” I ask next. My neck aches from staring upward. But it is impossible to look away.

  “Those things right there.” She points to a ladder built into the wall near the closest corner. “There’s one on each side. Couple guys work the place if you think the kitchen needs something from higher up. They can scale up pretty quick. Not that you’ll ever need anything more. Been working here for thirty years now, and I’ve never needed nothing the first three nets don’t offer.”

  I stare at her. Thirty years? The thought of working the same job for thirty years depresses the hell out of me. But Hunter is nodding in a way I recognize as interest, and so I swallow my horror, I squeeze his hand, and I nod, too.