Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  I reach out and put my hand on Dekker’s back. I want to tell him that everything is going to be okay, like Juda did with me earlier today.

  But he flinches and jerks away, as if my touch causes him pain. The Teacher’s Taser canes rarely leave physical marks, but they say if you pass by the outside of the museum, you can hear the screams. What did the Teachers do to Dekker?

  “No one gave you permission to touch me, Mina!” Dekker hisses.

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “I’m glad it’s finally time for Father to give you to another family.”

  Now it’s my turn to flinch. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “Women aren’t worth hating. Women aren’t even worth thinking about.”

  “Really?” I snap. “Not even when they’re brushing their hair?” And the second it’s out of my mouth, I regret it.

  Dekker’s eyes bug out in surprise. “What did you . . . ?” Stepping in closer, he grabs my upper arm. He tries to see my eyes through the veil. “How do you know about that?”

  My mind races for an explanation. Father would never have told me, and Dekker knows it. If Dekker discovers I can read, my parents will for sure never let me see Nana again.

  “I overheard Mother and Father talking,” I say, deciding it’s my only option.

  “Mother doesn’t know,” he says confidently.

  “She’s just pretending for the guests,” I say. “Did you expect her to share it with everyone?” I keep my voice steady and confident. It’s just like when I was seven and stole the colored pencil he’d gotten at school. I convinced him he’d lost it on the way home. It was either that or take a beating from Mother for stealing.

  He keeps glaring at me, and I can feel a little bead of sweat running down my forehead. Then he looks away, and I know I’ve won.

  He lets go of my arm. “What did she say when she found out?” His face becomes soft and nervous, a completely different Dekker than he was a second before.

  Should I take pity on him? “She, uh, didn’t believe it, actually. She told Father she thought it was some sort of misunderstanding and that you had, uh, probably been off praying during the time you were missing.”

  His face relaxes. Does he really believe that nonsense? Nana always says, “We believe what we need to believe.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m sure she’s not mad.”

  He snorts. “Of course not. I’m her Little Love.”

  I add, “Too bad the Teachers don’t feel the same way about you.”

  His eyes flash with anger. “We had an interesting lesson in theology last week. The Book says that a husband is free to beat his wife not only when he knows she is being disobedient, but when he suspects she is being disobedient.” He leans in close to my face. “I hope you marry a suspicious man.”

  I look deep into the eyes of my only brother and wonder how that little boy who loved to laugh turned so bitter. “The crazy thing,” I say, “is that I still hope all the best for you.”

  He blows air out through his lips. “Which is why women will always be inferior to men. You know nothing about survival.”

  He walks away, and I let him. There’s nothing left to say.

  Father shuffles up next to me. “Mina, your mother is asking for you.”

  Brushing some crumbs off the front of my cloak, I let him lead me across the room. My mother hovers by two men who are drinking cups of tea.

  “Mina!” Mother says, a little too loudly. “Come here and meet your father’s boss, Mr. Asher.”

  I take a small step forward, and, although I keep my head down in a respectful way, I manage to get a good look at Mr. Asher. He’s strikingly handsome for an older man, quite tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and big, broad shoulders—not like I pictured him at all. Father has complained about him ever since they started working on the water plant together. He doesn’t think Mr. Asher has any idea what he’s doing.

  “Peace,” Mr. Asher says in a low, warm voice.

  “Peace,” I repeat.

  “And this is his son, Damon,” Mother says, with a flutter of excitement that I find humiliating. “He brought you some lovely fresh figs. Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

  I turn toward Damon, head still down, waiting respectfully for him to speak. Glancing upward, I see he’s probably twenty or so, attractive, but with a face covered in pock-marks, like someone who’s picked at every pimple he ever had. He’s managed to cover most of the bad skin with a short, neatly trimmed beard, and he wears a tunic covered in hand-stitched embroidery that must have cost a fortune. He’s several inches shorter than his father. “Peace,” he says, barely looking up from his cup of tea.

  “Peace,” I say.

  Damon looks as if he’d rather be anywhere but here right now, like perhaps getting his beard plucked out one hair at a time.

  Seeing him look around our apartment with a frown, Mother says apologetically, “You must be used to extremely sophisticated homes.”

  “Yes, I am,” he says matter-of-factly, sipping his tea.

  What a skeeze pig. My mother cleaned all day and probably used our meat ration for three months just to impress him, and he’s acting as if he’s drinking his tea in a stable.

  “We’re so sorry,” I say, “to have disappointed you. Perhaps my next fifteenth birthday will be more to your liking.”

  Damon looks confused, while I see my father stifle a smile. My mother quickly changes the subject. “Mr. Asher, is your son also interested in building water plants?”

  “Is there any other business worth being in?” Mr. Asher replies, with a charming grin.

  “I agree,” my father says. “Without clean water, the entire island faces certain extinction.”

  A long silence follows this grim pronouncement. Father looks at me guiltily, knowing that he’s brought the conversation to a standstill. Grinning goofily, he adds, “An engineer told me a wonderful joke the other day.”

  Oh no.

  “I don’t think—” Mother tries to stop him, but it’s too late. He’s already begun.

  “Parallel lines have so much in common,” he says. “It’s a shame they’ll never meet!” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for the laughter, but Mr. Asher and Damon stare at him blankly.

  Not wanting to abandon Father, I laugh, although I don’t exactly get the joke. He looks at me apologetically, signaling with his eyes for me to say something.

  I rack my brain to find a simple, ladylike topic. “Was it difficult to find figs this time of year?” I ask Damon.

  He shrugs. “Not for me.”

  “Of course,” I say, in a way that suggests I was being a silly girl.

  My mother then asks Damon about his time at the Lyceum. Damon obviously belongs to the exclusive group of Students who study at the Lyceum because it offers a great education, not because they have any interest in becoming Teachers. They just want to graduate and start making gads of money at whatever their fathers do.

  I try to concentrate on Damon’s answer, or at least to take on the posture of someone who is listening. But he’s droning on and on about himself and how well liked he was at the Lyceum. I’m sure the Teachers adored your money, I want to say. My mother is dreaming if she thinks Damon Asher would ever have anything to do with me in a million years. His father only brought him tonight to be respectful to my father, as a gesture.

  If I’m honest, none of the other boys seem that interested, either. What’s the worst thing that can happen if the evening ends and I have no offers? Mother will be angry, Father will be disappointed, and I’ll be destined to live out my life in solitude and poverty. When Father dies, we’ll be thrown out of our apartment, because Mother and I aren’t allowed to inherit property. We’ll be forced to rely on Dekker.

  I need to go talk to some of the other suitors now.

  “Mina. Damon asked you a question,” Mother says.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I say.

  “Your mother says that your brother brought you, um, an
orange today.” Each word out of Damon’s mouth seems to bore him more than the last. “I asked if you . . . like oranges.”

  I shrug, just as he shrugged at me earlier. “Sure.”

  Mother says, “Excuse us for one moment.” She grabs my hand, pulling me away from Damon.

  Murmuring angrily, but so quietly that none of the guests can hear, she says, “You may not take the future of this family seriously, but I do. You’re not even paying attention to what he’s saying.” She plants me by the buffet table. “I want you to stand here until I tell you otherwise.”

  She goes back to the Ashers and takes her place by my father. Within seconds, she’s laughing at something Damon has said that I guarantee is not the least bit funny.

  “Sir, your driver wishes me to remind you that the car battery is only good for another thirty minutes,” an oddly familiar voice says across the room.

  I look up and, at first I think I’m hallucinating from all the craziness of the day, because standing there, in the middle of our living room, is Juda.

  “What a shame,” says Damon, feigning disappointment. “I guess we have to go.”

  “Oh no,” says Mother. “Surely not. You just got here!”

  “You heard my guard,” says Damon, gesturing at Juda. “My car needs recharging. Let’s go, Father.”

  What is he doing here? Is God punishing me because I lied to my parents? What if Juda says something? I can’t even imagine what my punishment would be if it were known that I talked to this boy. But, even as I fear the repercussions, I feel giddy with the thrill of seeing him again.

  I jerk my eyes back to the floor. There’s no reason he should recognize me with my veil on. I stand there, still as a statue, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. A second later, I cover my right hand with my left, afraid Juda might notice the slight swelling that lingers on my skin.

  Noticing a warmth spreading through me, I assume it’s because Juda is near. I’m embarrassed to think he has such an effect on me, and I try to ignore it, but then the warmth gets more and more intense, spreading up the back of my legs. Then it becomes a scorching heat. My cloak has caught fire!

  The flames grow in a flash, shooting up my legs and onto my back. My skin feels like it’s exploding. I scream as I feel myself start to burn.

  My mother springs toward me, screeching, “Mina!” She pulls my cloak off over my head as quickly as she can and throws it on the floor, and Dekker douses it with a pitcher of water.

  I frantically search my dress and hair for more flames, sure that the fire isn’t finished with me. Grabbing me, Mother says, “It’s okay, Mina! You’re safe.”

  I stare up at her, still in shock. “What . . . what happened?” My cloak now lies in a heap on the floor, hissing and steaming, as if it’s angry it couldn’t consume me.

  Dekker looks at me. “I was reaching for my tea, and I knocked a candle off the table. Sorry,” he says, using the same sheepish expression as he did when he forgot to feed our goldfish and it died.

  Mother asks, “Are you hurt?”

  I turn around to show her my back, which feels like it’s still on fire, burning through to the bone.

  But Mother clucks her tongue and says, “Nothing serious. God is kind.”

  I’m about to disagree with her, when I realize that when she pulled off my cloak, my veil went with it. I’m standing among our guests, completely exposed, wearing the blue dress that’s a size too small. I feel naked, and I’m humiliated. I feel crippling shame that these men and boys have seen under my veil, until I realize that all of our visitors have averted their eyes, out of propriety.

  All of them except for Juda and Damon.

  Damon leers at me as if I’m in my underwear, staring at my legs and then slowly moving up to my hips, my waist, and my breasts, which I know are pouring out of the too-tight dress. He then looks me square in the face, saying, “Blue eyes. Very nice,” which causes several of the other men to look.

  Juda, on the other hand, has a look of pure shock on his face. He has recognized me now, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I want to say something to him, anything. And for a moment, it looks like he’s going to say something, and my heart stops, but then he comes to his senses, turning his eyes away like all the other guests.

  “Mina, you should go to your room now,” my mother says.

  I want nothing more than to run upstairs, but when I turn to take a step, I find my back is searing with pain.

  Juda says, without looking at us, “Mrs. Clark, I’ve had some medical training. May I offer advice on how to handle a burn?”

  Mother, having not noticed Juda before now, says, “We have it under control.” Her tone suggests Juda is something she’s found on the bottom of her shoe.

  Despite my pain, I want to apologize for her—even if it’s just with a look—but he’s facing away.

  Damon steps forward, finally averting his own eyes. “I hope the injury is nothing serious. It would be a crime to damage such beauty.” He makes a little bow. “I hope to see you again, Miss Clark.”

  Mother, her voice radiating happiness, says, “Mina?”

  “You honor me,” I whisper, despising Mother for not seeing how much pain I’m in. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” he replies. “Peace.”

  “Peace,” I say, wondering how much longer I can keep the tears from coming.

  “We’ll pray for a quick recovery,” Brother Ozem says, as he opens up the Book.

  Mother grabs my elbow and rushes me up the stairs.

  We reach my bedroom and open the door, and there is Katla, sitting on my bed, holding a bowl and a jar on her lap. Placing the containers on the floor, Katla rushes toward me. She and Mother take off my dress. Mother lifts the skirt section, and Katla holds the bodice as far away from me as possible, and then they pull the dress up over my head.

  I cry out as the fabric peels off my back.

  “Shhh. It’s okay,” Mother says. She throws the dress in the corner. “Lie on your stomach on the bed.”

  Wearing just my underwear, I do as she tells me. Katla sits down next to me.

  Mother goes to the door, saying to her, “Soak her back in milk for fifteen minutes, and then apply the honey.”

  She leaves. Katla picks up the bowl from the floor and, using a cloth, starts to apply cold milk to my back in gentle dabs. It’s agony at first, but soon the cold of the milk starts to soothe my skin.

  Only when the pain becomes more bearable am I able to see things clearly: Katla was sitting in my room. Waiting with milk and honey. Waiting for me to be burned.

  SIX

  I’M DREAMING ABOUT THE SEARING DAYS, during which we fast and pray. I’ve been fasting all day, and I’m so parched with thirst, I’m running through the streets, searching for water. I turn a corner and see thousands of men, and they are eating, but I can’t see what they’re eating, and suddenly I’m terrified. Then they all turn, seeing me at once. I’m not supposed to be here. I turn and run, but I can barely move my legs, and I feel hands upon my shoulders and then teeth on my back.

  I jolt awake. The singed skin on my back tightens, and I groan.

  A smell of honey fills the room, and the memory of last night comes rushing back. I bury my face in my pillow and breathe deeply, wishing I could make it all go away.

  A tapping at my door makes me look up. I expect to see Mother, but instead, it’s Sekena! My dark mood lifts a bit.

  Sekena and I have known each other since we were little. Her family lives in the apartment next door, and Sekena and I have spent half our lives playing in the stairwells and hallways of our building.

  She smiles, shedding her cloak and veil and throwing them on the foot of the bed. She’s wearing pink cotton pants, a pink top, and bright blue canvas shoes. Sekena doesn’t pay much attention to the clothes Ordinances because she hardly goes out.

  Standing over me, she inspects my back. “It looks good.”

  “How would you know?” I say, grumblin
g at her optimism.

  “Mom said it would be bad if it was covered in blisters, and very bad if the blisters were open or oozing,” she says.

  “No blisters?” I ask.

  “Nope! And you smell delicious.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Like the strata cake on Searing Days.”

  Yes. They’re made with honey. My dream . . .

  “Will it hurt if I join you?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, and I carefully scoot my body over to make room for her.

  She lies down next to me—she’s on her back; I’m on my stomach. I can’t count the hours she and I have spent staring up at my ceiling, just talking and laughing.

  Sekena has wispy strawberry-blonde hair, and she’s crazy pale, with big green eyes and freckles, and she laughs a bit like a horse, and I love her with all my heart.

  “Mom said I had to wait to come over until I was invited, but then I knew I’d be waiting until winter,” she says, teasing. “And I couldn’t wait that long to hear about him.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Damon Asher, of course!”

  I moan, putting my face in my pillow. Sekena ignores my theatrics, exclaiming, “Mina! You’re finally going to be a woman!”

  I love Sekena, but she’s very devout, and her greatest dream is to marry a Teacher or an energy farmer and have lots of babies, all boys, God willing.

  I almost snap at her but don’t have the heart. When Sekena was tiny, she got floppy-baby syndrome because Mrs. Husk, her mother, never went outside, therefore never exposing herself or Sekena to sunlight. Her mother was too afraid of the Twitchers, of accidentally breaking the Ordinances, to leave her apartment. So her milk didn’t have enough good stuff for Sekena. The doctors did what they could, and Sekena takes all sorts of vitamins all the time, and she sits in front of a sunlamp every day, but she has bowlegs and bad bones.

  Her parents will throw her an Offering party, but chances are she won’t have many suitors, so even being with someone as horrible as Damon seems like a dream to her. I tell myself to stop being so crabby.

  “I’m sorry you missed my party,” I say. “Mother didn’t tell me you weren’t invited until it had already started. I was so mad.” I look in her eyes, the most sincere I’ve ever known.