“Oh,” he says, his voice infused with regained excitement. “Isn’t it beautiful? I dug it out of the attic last weekend on one of your mother’s assigned mandatory chore days. I think it belonged to your great, great grandmother.”
“What’s in it?” I ask.
He leans back in his brown leather chair. “That’s a great question,” he hesitates, then stands and walks to the mantle, takes the box in his hand and shakes it. “I haven’t been able to open it,” he admits. A laugh escapes me at the sight of his frustration. He gestures towards me. “Here, try.”
I wrap my fingers around the edges, tracing the inlay detail. It really is beautiful, but it’s also really locked tight. “Are you even sure this is a box? I think it may just be a block of metal. It’s pretty solid,” I say.
The thought catches his curiosity as he sits back down at his desk with a furrowed brow, staring at it. “Never thought about that, Cate. Maybe you’re right.”
I squint, trying to memorize each detail, “Do you think I could have it?” The request surprises me and I’m not even sure why I asked. God knows, I don’t need the clutter. He smiles, “Sure, take it. It’s yours.”
I traipse back down the hall to my room smitten with my prize. Regardless of whatever it is, it is beautiful. I lay it down on my nightstand and it’s back to the books. I try to concentrate and for a while I begin to think my new found academic dedication is working. Though after about 45 minutes of trig homework, I decide a run sounds great after all.
There is something about running that always clears my head. As I cut through the Woodlands, my mind wanders back to my dream. I wish I were able to see the boy clearly. I wish I knew what it all meant. I push the remnants away from my mind, my lungs burn with the sensation of exhaustion and my muscles ache as I pull one leg in front of the other. The rest of the world disappears and by the time I reach the top of the rock, the sun has begun to set, signaling curfew. Night patrols will begin their routes, I think and though I know I should head home, I decide to sit for a moment, taking in the view of the city.
High walls segregate wards from one another, guard shacks by each sector entrance ensure that lower classes are only admitted with the correct documents for their passage, which is mostly children waiting for rides to school since public transportation doesn’t run in lower wards. The city is divided into 9 sectors and within each are 5 wards. Class 4s occupy the northeast sectors, closest to the fresh water towers. The further southwest you head, the lower the class. From this height I can easily spot my house, smack dab in the middle of Sector 7’s third ward. I’ve always thought my ward was the luckiest being close enough to the center of the city on the left but on the right, expansive fields supplied with genetically engineered crops that grow year-round outreach towards the mountains in the distance. For a moment, staring at the range, I feel free.
A green glimmer to the right catches my eye and I am snapped back into reality. The streetlights are coming on. Curfew’s in effect. Damn. I crouch down to tighten my laces for my run back and am startled when I hear rocks being kicked and wheezing behind me. Last year, three boys were caught hanging out past curfew, listening to sports shows on a radio. They were sentenced to three months community service and home restriction. I love my family, but I’m not willing to be locked inside with them and only allowed out to pick up trash. I duck behind the large rock I was sitting on. The footsteps become louder and I cover my mouth with my hand, refusing to let noise escape.
“I swear I chased you the last mile. Do you not have your phone? I texted you like five times.” I smile and look up. Asher would follow me for the last mile.
“What’s up?” I say laughing; partially because it’s funny he’s here and partially from nerves.
Asher catches his breath. “I’m pretty sure your subconscious is trying to tell you something.” I scrunch my brow. “What are you talking about?” I ask and start to make my way down the trail.
“Your dream! I googled it and all this stuff popped up about how recurring dreams are your brain’s way of telling you something important. They’ll probably stop happening when you figure out what it wants to say.”
In his own way, Asher is always looking out for me, even if his only way is countless hours of online research. I smile, “Thanks Asher. It’s starting to get dark, we should head down.”
“Yeah you’re right, but let’s cut through the alley behind my house, patrols are out. OH and don’t get too far ahead of me. I almost broke my neck trying to get up here.”
###
Sometimes I can’t sleep. I lay in bed tossing and turning for hours wondering if the dream will come to me again, and if it does, if there is anything I can do to change the ending. Even if I can’t, for some reason, I want the dream to come anyway. I am not the most confident girl, but when I am there, in those dreams, I am strong, I am brave. And if I could just catch a glimpse of the man’s face, I know I could stop him from what comes next. I turn to my side and see the bright, electric blue digital outline of my clock, 2am. My mind floods with dread as I know that every minute spent lying here is another minute closer to when I need to wake up. Maybe Asher was right, maybe I am trying to tell myself something. I glance at the funny metal box with the pearl inlay sitting impenetrable next to my alarm clock. It really is beautiful, in a cold harsh way. As I lie there staring, my eyelids begin to fall, making my decision to sleep or stay up all night less my own. Sleep comes before I ever get the chance to decide.
It’s dark; I am cold. My breath materializes upon each exhale. I am walking down a cobblestone street, my shoes click hard against the ground. I come up against a crowd, blocking my path and stopping me in my tracks. They’re circled around something, cries escape from the woman directly in front of me and I push my way forward against the wave of people. As I reach the inner circle I notice they are not crowded around something, but rather someone, a girl. She is not more that ten, her tiny body crumpled into a ball. I drop to my knees to lift her from the cold street but it is too late, her body is already void of life. I notice the thick dirt under her nails; she had probably been sitting on this sidewalk for hours without anyone giving her as much as a glance. London nights like these will send a chill deep into your bones and, in the girl’s case, pull the air out of your chest. Bobbies rush toward me, their nightsticks swaying back and forth on their belts. As the crowd begins to disperse, I lay the girl into their arms and continue on my way home. I walk with my head down, staring at my leather boots. My mind is consumed with the image of her tiny frame, and maybe that’s why I don’t notice the man walking behind me, matching his pace to mine. I turn the corner and find myself taking a short cut through an alley wet with the day’s rain. I hear his footsteps closing in on mine and just as I turn my head, I feel the familiar pierce of his cold blade and the rush of warm blood that follows. I fall against the wall to my right, hunched over. I know I am dying. I see a dark, shadowy figure make its way over the roof of the building in front of me and down the fire escape; it’s him, the boy. Before I know it, he is resting me against the pavement; my limbs belong more to him than myself. A single tear trickles down his face. “Hold on Cate. I promise this won’t keep happening.” The words spill out of his mouth like he is racing against death’s clock. And then, there is nothing.
My body jolts forward as my hands race toward my back, desperately clawing at my skin, searching for the flesh wound that the dagger made its home. I pant uncontrollably; my hands feel nothing but cold sweat. My eyes, raw with hot tears scan the room. I’m in my bed.
I see a glimmer of light out of the left corner of my eye; it gently begins to bathe the room in a soft glow, but as I turn to focus, it disappears. I blink a few times, trying to reactivate whatever it was that had begun just a moment ago but the room is dark now, quiet. I lay back and pull the covers up to my chin and tightly close my eyes, urging for morning to come and as I begin to drift off all I can think is, why does this keep happening?
&nbs
p; Chapter 3
My eyes are closed for what feels like mere seconds before I feel Mom’s hands shaking me awake. “Cate! It’s nearly twenty minutes to 9! You’re late; you’ve missed your bus. Hurry up and meet me down stairs, I’ll drop you off on the way to my first open house.”
Even in my exhausted state, I can hear the edge in her voice. Barely 9am and I have somehow managed to muck up her day. I throw on a navy polo and khakis and head down to the car. I stare at it there in the driveway, its fresh black paint shining in the morning rays. Riding in a car makes me feel uneasy. We were only gifted it from the council last year, as a token of gratitude for my father’s years of service. I feel awful having access to such luxury when most do not have access to showers. “I think I’ll just walk to class,” I say.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t have time for your silly fears. Get in.” My mother’s voice is rigid and stern and I suppose her coming from a Class 4 childhood has made having a personal vehicle feel natural. My seatbelt is buckled for approximately 1.7 seconds before she shoves a banana in my face and exclaims, “Eat!” I’m not nearly awake enough to attempt the focus required to bite and chew but I know arguing with her about such things will prove useless. I begin to peel my commuter breakfast.
“Cate, I really need you to make sure you’re keeping track of your schedule now that I’m working full time again.” Mom recently began showing houses to incoming inhabitants after taking a 14-year real estate “sabbatical” to ensure that while the twins grew into functioning human beings, the house stayed in one piece. “You know,” she continues. “This is really part of becoming an adult, being able to execute your responsibilities in a timely manner as well as being respectful of the time of those around you.”
I want to yell, Well Mom, I would have loved to catch the bus this morning, but unfortunately I keep having these totally awesome dreams in which I am unexpectedly murdered over and over and over again. But since she considers sarcasm to be excessively rude, and mostly because I know that she is quite possibly the most sensitive human alive, I simply say, “Mom, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, Katie.” She smiles. “Oh, and before I forget, I have some new clients coming over for dinner so please make sure to come home straight away after school.” She glances at me with a smile and turns on the radio.
By the time I check in at the Attendance Office, second period is halfway over and rather than endure the humbling task of begging Mr. Pritchett to unlock the door, I opt to head to the off period study hall.
As I slink down the empty hallways, praying that some rogue authority figure doesn’t spot me, an image of the metal box sitting on my nightstand comes into mental focus. I don’t know where my fascination with it is stemming from. It did seem to be rather old and Dad did say it belonged to some long lost great, great, great something or other. Before I realize it, my route has changed from study hall to library and I’m quietly opening the door. Perhaps I can find which time period it’s from. It’s not much but it’s more than I know now.
I slide into a chair in front of one of the empty computers and scan my palm, turning on the machine. At least when I’m marked absent from second period chemistry, I can truthfully tell my parents, “No, I wasn’t ditching, I was searching the interwebs for a time period correlating to a long lost, locked, and possibly glowing, family heirloom.” That will surely substitute any disappointment they might have with utter confusion.
Twenty minutes pass and though I’ve found multiple masonry sites who can build the box I’m looking for, I have come up completely empty handed on anything relating to the actual box itself. My Currency Class only gives me access to a limited section of the Internet archives and wherever this style of box came from, the information is out of my grasp. I lean back in my chair, tilting my head to the ceiling as if the answers I seek will miraculously fall out of the sky. Where is Asher at a time like this? I’m sure I could spout off, “metal box, pearl inlay, paranormal, freaky, midnight glowing” and within 35 seconds flat he would have pulled up its origin, reason for creation, purpose and original owner.
Rocking back onto the rear legs of the hard yellow plastic chair, I push my feet up off of the ground over and over just to the point where I am completely suspended in perfect balance like some Russian ballerina. Then gravity inevitably takes over and my feet touch down again. I repeat this motion over and over until I feel relaxed and content with my research failure and just as I pull my watch towards my eyes to check the time, the weight of my arm throws my entire dance with physics off balance and I crash to the ground. My back hits the floor and I cough a few times uncontrollably, trying desperately to persuade oxygen to re-enter my lungs. I clench my eyes shut and take a deep breath, finally winning the battle.
“Are you alright?” a voice cascades down from above me. I open my eyes and see a boy standing near me. Blinking a few times, I mutter, “Yeah, I’m fine, lost my balance,” and roll over onto my side and off of the chair. While attempting to stand up, his hands reach down and help me the rest of the way. As I raise my head to accept my humiliation, I see his face. Chestnut brown hair paired with sincere and familiar ocean blue eyes, a smile that permeates his clenched jaw.
Without thinking, the words, “You’re him,” fall from my mouth. As soon as they reach my ears I automatically wish I could take them back.
“What?” he replies, his eyebrows pull together in complete and understandable confusion.
Wonderful, he thinks I’m a mental patient. I stand there for a moment, silent, trying to reel all of my thoughts together while simultaneously thinking of some way to salvage this terribly awkward moment. It’s him, I know it’s him, the tortured boy from my dreams, he’s here, he’s standing right here and I am acting like an uncoordinated lunatic. My mind clears, and one single thought remains; he is real.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I think you may have knocked your head a bit.” He gestures towards me and helps me sit back down.
“Yeah, no, I’m fine really. I’m sorry, you’re right; I must have hit my head. I’ll be okay. I’m Cate, Cate Quill.”
“Hi Cate, Cate Quill.” He smirks, and I can’t help but let a chuckle escape. It’s louder than a reaction to that cheesy line should be, but it’s filled with nervous excitement and I can’t help it. “I’m Abel.”
“Well, Abel, thanks for your help.” I turn and lift the yellow chair off of the ground. “You have great timing.”
“No problem,” he says, smiling. That smile, I think. “I’m supposed to be on a tour of the campus and somehow managed to stray from the Student Ambassador when I heard your crash.”
“Lucky me.” I say and find myself tracing every inch of his face with my eyes, trying to take in a clear view of what has until now been an image blurry with sleep and adrenaline.
“Abel? Abel! Abel, there you are!” I hear a whiny, high-pitched voice echo from around a bookcase. Chelsea Morris, Class 4. Of course Chelsea, the quintessential Upper Class, was assigned as his Student Ambassador. “Abel, I was looking everywhere for you!” she shrieks. Mrs. Eddelton, the 72-year-old librarian glares at us from behind a rack filled with encyclopedias. As if there’s any use for an encyclopedia anymore. Why they still exist is beyond me.
“Hey sorry, Chelsea. I must have gotten sidetracked in one of the aisles.” His excuse falls flat. She tilts her head to the side and stares at me, unimpressed.
“Hi Cate. Well come on, Abel. The rest of the group is already headed to the quad for the remainder of the tour.” She smiles at him and it makes my stomach clench.
As she walks away, he turns to me and bites his bottom lip nervously, “I’d better get going. That girl runs a tight ship,” he laughs. “It was nice meeting you, Cate.”
“Yeah, you too Abel.” I watch him walk away, unable to shift my focus and just as he reaches the library doors he turns and smiles at me. The boy, he is real.
Chapter 4
The remainder of my day pales
in comparison to my meeting in the library. As the bus reaches my ward, clutching my hands beneath the green seat is all I can do to keep myself from jumping out the window and sprinting to my front door like a madman. "Cate dear, is that you?" I hear my mother calling from the kitchen but my mind is miles away and I dash up the stairs to my bedroom. I throw my bag on the bed so violently that nearly all of its contents spill across the comforter and onto the floor. Grabbing my tablet, I jump onto the bean bag situated between my desk and closet. Having absolutely no idea what I hope to accomplish, I hurriedly press the ON button and tap my nails impatiently against the screen. As the chimes sing from the tablet’s speakers I am practically jumping out of my skin. "Come on, come on," I mutter out loud. My Currency Class symbol illuminates the screen and a blue flickering light projects from the bottom of the device. I trace it over my arm and my remaining online allotment shines on the screen. Forty-five minutes remaining. Forty-five minutes? That’s plenty of time, what could I possibly do online for forty-five minutes? I laugh to myself.
Altruist (The Altruist Series Book 1) Page 2
