Altruist (The Altruist Series Book 1)

by Walsh, Ashley

  Chapter 1

  It's always the same, the landscapes shift but the events remain unchanged. I'm walking through an outdoor marketplace, vendors shout, competing for my attention at each stand. The sun is hot against my skin as the sweetness of fruit in the warm summer air fills my lungs. I am happy, feeling safe and secure amongst this crowd of strangers. Nothing bad happens on days like today, and maybe that's why I don't notice the man standing behind me. It's not until I feel his shadow, cool against the back of my neck that I even realize he's there and by then it's too late. The sting of a smooth blade pierces the skin beneath my rib cage and the sensation takes the wind out of my lungs and my feet off of the ground. As I collapse, strange faces surround me, staring, gawking. Just as my vision begins to cloud, I see the boy.

  He darts to the center of the circle that now surrounds me, his face twisted with agony. I notice his ocean blue eyes, dark chestnut hair plastered against his forehead with sweat, his strong jawline even more pronounced by the clenching of his teeth. I gaze at him, wondering why he’s so panicked, but it’s not until he lifts me from the ground and cradles me to his chest that I realize his pain is my doing.

  “Don’t worry, this won’t keep happening,” he mutters, heaving gulps of air. My arms, once clinging around his neck begin to lose their grip, fall mercilessly past my sides. There I lay, dangling in this beautiful boy’s arms, the peace of my breath mixing with the despair of his. The taste of blood begins salting my lips and then, then there is nothing.

  BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. My alarm is blaring and the world comes crashing into my ears. I bolt awake gasping because I am still alive. Shaking off sleep, I hear my mom calling me down to breakfast. “Cate, hurry up, you’ll be late for the bus.”

  My body stretches the night off of its bones and I press my feet firmly against the cold, wood floor. Making my way to the mirror hanging behind my door, I linger there critiquing. Somehow I thought by the start of my 11th year at Summit Academy I would have slightly more to offer, that I would magically appear more adult, or something, anything, different. But no, my hair is still the same dishwater blonde it’s always been, with choppy bangs draping across my plain green eyes. I lift my weight onto my toes, pivoting so that my profile reflects back at me. Maybe I’ve grown a couple inches, I think. Not that a couple of inches would transform my stubborn petite figure, but it would be something. A smirk creeps across my face, This is it, kid. This is what you have to work with.

  Glancing into my closet, two rows stretch out before me, the top displays blue and white polo shirts while the bottom holds khaki pants. I wonder for a moment what it would be like to wear whatever I wanted to school. That would require me to make decisions before 8am though, and to be quite honest, I’m not sure I’m even capable of that.

  After pulling the shirt down over my torso, I grasp my green currency class pin. Its shiny enamel is smooth against my fingertips. Gold lines forming two overlapping circles, one hollow, the other solid, signifying our commitment to an interlocking relationship with the people who run this city. I attach it to the front of my shirt and trace the lines for a moment and wonder which of us, the citizens or our government, represents the hollow circle and which is solid. My watch beeps, ten minutes to reach the bus.

  I make my way down the stairs two at a time, trying to make a dash for the door but Mom cuts me off, her voice overly polite. “Cate, you have to eat. How will you make it through the day without a balanced meal?” Oh, to be a morning person, I think.

  For a brief second I consider making a dash for the door nd escaping into the daylight, but the thought is fleeting and my courageous compulsion subsides. I plop my body down at the table. I should have expected this since it’s the end of the month and our food ration is still overflowing. Mom hates feeling wasteful, but the truth is we have more food than we need. I tried giving some away once when I was 8 or so. There I was walking down the street with a sack of food slung over my shoulder. I got about a mile before two soldiers stopped me and delivered me back to my parents. As punishment, our ration was cut in half for six months and I’ve never been as hungry as I was then. Needless to say, I don’t try to give things away anymore.

  The twins are already fighting over the last piece of toast. “Soph, don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Max can be so cruel and always knows how to get to Sophie. Apparently this morning’s precise jabs are fired at her diet. Sophie storms out of the room, grabbing her bag and slamming the door. Was I ever 14? Man.

  Glancing at my watch, the digital grey squares read 7:25; I’m late, 3 minutes behind schedule actually. Being late causes me pain, not physical pain of course, but anxiety and I like to avoid it whenever possible. I wish I could be more like Willa. She gets there when she gets there —but I’m not, so I fork eggs into my mouth as quickly as possible.

  As I latch the door closed behind me, I see Max and Sophie climb into a black sedan. Until age 14, upper classes are shuttled to and from the academy via carpool. The council says that it allows inhabitants crucial time to bond with their fellow classmen, those who they will eventually work side by side with. All it really allows is the cultivation of prejudice, so that when we have to finally be thrown into a bus with lower classes, we blame them, we blame them for taking away our comfort, we blame them for everything that’s wrong with the lower wards. We blame them and at some point, that blame turns into hate.

  I get off of our block and onto the street and begin walking towards the bus stop. The air is humid and after a block, beads of sweat begin to accumulate against my back. I feel a hand slap against my sticky skin and the beads disperse. “You’re late!” Asher smirks, “But so am I, so maybe you’re on time?” The philosophical query must confuse him because his obvious statement turns more into a timid question.

  “Yeah, I had a rough time getting ready. My brain must be stuck in summer.” I smile, attempting to make myself seem less whiny about an inevitable situation. We walk for a while, our shoes slapping against the stone streets, until we reach the stop. “Where’s Willa?” I ask him. His face puzzles for a split second.

  “I don’t know, probably trying to figure out a way to skip class already.”

  A tall boy is already waiting at the corner when we arrive, leaning against an electrical box. His solid yellow-gold pin with thin white-gold lines protruding in overlapping circles is worn bright and proud on the front of his chest. Though he doesn’t make contact with Asher or me, I can almost feel him judging us. Why is he even taking the bus? Class 4’s normally carpool, so whatever reason he has for being here, he must not be happy about it.

  “Let’s wait over here,” Asher says and tugs on my arm. He must also want to stay clear of the tall boy.

  I lean against a grey building, its bricks rough and worn against my skin. Most of the windowpanes have been broken and the few that haven’t have caught the attention of a younger boy and girl, both of whom I’ve seen a few times before at the communal bus stop. They hurl rocks towards the windows, “OHHHH you almost got it that time, Gad!” the girl cries. Gad, I think, making a mental note of the boy. Both of them are scrawny and underfed.

  “I’ll get it this time,” he replies, as he picks up a stone and gestures his hand towards his target, practicing the intended trajectory. CRASH, the pane shatters, raining glass onto the street. I pull my forearm over my head.

  “Watch it Rags!” the tall Class 4 boy shouts as he grits his teeth at Gad and the girl.

  “Sorry,” Gad says, backing away down the road, his arm holding the younger girl behind him.

  Rags, I always hated that word for so many reasons. It’s a nickname for Class 1’s who normally cannot afford the currency pi
ns that the rest of us wear and instead sport white cloth bands tied around their upper right arm. White, so that they can be easily identified by those around them, so that upper classes can avoid them, so that the police can scrutinize their every move.

  My heart beats faster as the Class 4 walks towards Gad. “Hey!” I yell, and both of the boys shift their gaze towards me. “He said ‘sorry,’ leave him alone.” My voice leaves my mouth much stronger than the makeshift courage projecting it.

  The tall boy stares at me and then at the green emblem on my shirt with clear disdain. He stands there idly for a moment but eventually swallows hard and rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says and returns to leaning against the electrical box. I lick my lips, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. If I wasn’t a Class 3 that would have probably gone a lot differently and for a moment I am grateful for the status that I normally hate.

  When the bus arrives, I follow Asher up the black rubber steps towards the scanner near the driver. I hold my arm out, palm side up, and wait for the blue light to locate the ID chip beneath my skin. Registering my citizen information along with my location, Catherine Quill illuminates the screen on the scanner and the driver nods me through. We find a seat near the front where “3-4” is written on the side, designating the status required for possession. Once we settle Asher leans over me towards the window. He is tall and lean, his hair is a bit lighter than mine but his eyes are eerily the same and on several occasions we’ve been mistaken for siblings. He unlatches the lock on the window and opens it, allowing cool air to enter once the bus begins to move. I stare at the metal grate that’s attached to the outside of each window. They’re supposed to protect us in the event of an ambush or kidnapping but they don’t feel like protection at all. They feel like a prison.

  The bus makes its way slowly from sector to sector of the city, mostly middle classes but when the bus begins to pick up speed I know we’re entering a Class 1 ward. The other kids begin to quiet down, even the Rags. Suddenly the once lively bus is silent, with the intention to draw as little attention as possible. I don’t know why the Class 1’s care. What would happen if undesirables boarded? Wouldn’t they just ignore the Class 1 students and have their way with the rest of us? Whatever their reason for staying silent, I am appreciative.

  Asher sits at attention next me, rigid and firm, his palms tightly pressed against his knees. I wish I could ignore the uncomfortable parts of the world like he does, but I cannot and so I peer out the window. The streets are lined with trash and waste since the council, a board of elected officials, decided that paying sanitary officers to clean the roads didn’t carry enough of a return on their investment. Instead, they leave such duties to the people who live here, and they don’t seem to care.

  The tires squeak as we round the next corner. Dilapidated buildings surround the ward, threatening to crumble onto its inhabitants at the slightest breeze. The few cars that line the curbs are less vehicles and more litter, burned from fires or missing tires and all of their guts, most likely sold for scrap. People here cannot afford to drive. They can barely afford to eat, to pick themselves up from a life of squalor, which makes the moving vehicle closing in on us all the more conspicuous.

  As we exit the ward a collective sigh of relief can be heard throughout and by the time we reach Summit Academy, the bus is filled with roars of laughter again. Asher pushes his way towards the sidewalk and I hold onto the back of his shirt, using him as a shield so that I can make my way out of the metal box as well.

  “I’ll see you at lunch?” He smiles, and I nod.

  “Can’t wait.” My sarcasm hits him hard and he laughs. I stand outside of the large beige building and take a deep breathe, my eyes follow the two paths before me: lower classes hustle to the right side of the building, upper classes linger and eventually drift towards the left entrance. I wonder what it would be like to attend a Class 1 lecture, I wonder if their halls match ours, if their professors are similar, or if the only thing we share are our uniforms. The Council can’t possibly think the hypocrisy of this shared but segregated academy goes unnoticed, can they? I jog to the left entrance and open the door, Here we go again.

  Around 3rd period, I finally wake from my morning daze. Ms. Merriweather is reading Annabel Lee and my ears perk, Does anyone feel this deeply anymore? I love the way each line is presented, the lilt and flow that the words carry effortlessly, almost like music. The only thing people care about now is adding to their bottom line or food ration, or if their government stipend has arrived. There is no time for writing poetry, because there is no worth to poetry.

  I blink and before I know it, its lunch. Willa and Asher make their way over, she drops her books onto the bench and her body follows. “He says he’s sorry. I guess we can make it work. I already bought a dress for homecoming.” Her voice is light and airy, reflecting how little of the world around her actually affects her outlook.

  “Well, since you bought the dress, you might as well go ahead with the wedding,” Asher retorts.

  I can’t help but laugh under my breath. She must be yammering about Blake again, her flaky on-again off-again boyfriend. I didn’t even know they had broken up. Willa has lived in the city for about 4 years and we became fast friends mostly because at first I saw her as being everything I am not. She’s confident and graceful and I suppose a part me felt like if I could be around her enough then maybe I could be those things, too. Clearly, that has not been the case. Regardless, her red hair and blue eyes, set against porcelain skin are something to be jealous of, although I doubt anyone could hope to pull them off the way she does. She’s taller than me, though only slightly, and has a curious habit of tapping her fingertips against the table when she’s agitated, which is often. The three of us, Asher, Willa and I, are a pretty odd unit but it somehow works. Willa exasperating, Asher tolerating and me, well I guess I mostly observe.

  Willa and Asher continue their normal banter as I pick at a sandwich. I try, desperately, to grasp onto their words but my mind has wandered back into the marketplace I dreamt of. This one plagues me like the rest. Its familiar outline paired neatly with an expected, unnerving, and absolute ending. My fingertips begin to trace the small area on my chest where the blade would have exited.

  “Are you even listening?” Willa nudges my arm.

  “She’s in dreamland again,” Asher replies.

  “Again? Seriously? This is like the fourth time this month.”

  “Sorry. I’m listening, Blake and Homecoming.” The apology flows out half-hearted and Asher ignores my attempt at carrying on the previous conversation.

  “Have you tried researching them at all? I’m sure there’s a ton of stuff online about this sort of thing,” Asher asks. I know he’s only trying to help but the proposal irritates my already tired disposition. I pull my hands up to my eyes and cradle my face. “No, maybe I’ll try that,” I say.

  SCREECH, ERK, SHOO, the intercom crackles to life. “Attention Upper Class: Please head to the southeast section of the cafeteria and deposit your trays. Classes will resume in ten minutes.”

  Chapter 2

  By the time I get home, I am exhausted. Normally, I would go for a run up to the top of the Rock but I am struggling with the resumed productivity that the summer months forgot to warn me about. I’ve lived in the city my whole life and the trail to the Rock has always been one of my favorites, with its winding dirt path leading up to a massive boulder that sits perched atop a hill. From that high up, society and rules, restrictions, they all disappear.

  What kind of teacher gives homework on the first day? I break open my books, dreading the hours ahead. “Cate, would you mind coming in here?” My heart jumps at my dad’s voice bellowing from his study and I clutch onto the feeble excuse to procrastinate and make my way down the hall. “How was your first day of school?”

  “Fine, I guess. I like all my teachers, well enough.”

  He stops me abruptly and his request for my attention becomes apparent. “Have
you thought about which extracurricular you’re going to sign up for? You know, the vocational board pays quite a bit of attention to those sort of things. How well rounded you are adds a lot to how well you can benefit those around you.”

  I try to exhale slowly, to allow my irritation from his prodding to subside. “Willa asked me to join the student events planning committee, but I haven’t decided if I want to yet.” As my dad yammers on about how clubs are a rewarding and important factor towards my future, a small, metal box inlaid with mother of pearl catches my eye, its gentle frame sitting on the mantle. It has a strange looking triangular symbol on the front, perhaps a latch of sorts. Walking towards the box I interrupt my dad’s glory days story. “Hey Dad, where did that box come from?” My question stops him in his tracks and his gaze follows mine towards the mantle.