This is bad: I need an eleven-year-old girl to defend me. I don’t dare lift my head. I can feel his eyes boring into my skull.
“What’s your name?”
“Tom Quicksilver,” I tell him, thinking that if I do look familiar, the shortened version of my name might throw him off.
There’s a long silence. Finally he speaks again.
“How were you burned?”
“There was a fire in my school,” I lie.
“What, no fire alarms?” he asks.
“They forgot to change the batteries?” I offer up pathetically.
Otak raps on the Maker’s door. “Finish up. There’s one in agony out here. And you . . .” He turns back to face me. “Stop hiding.”
I look up, terrified, but there’s no glint of recognition. Only pity.
“Out of the darkness of unknowing and into the light of certainty,” he says, raising his hand and punching it in the air.
He has hundreds of tiny stars sewn into his flesh.
TWENTY-FOUR
I’M SHOCKED TO FIND OUT the Maker is a teenage girl. When I lived in Isaura, the Maker was an old woman; that one must have died.
“Sit down,” the Maker says.
She scoots her chair close to mine. She can’t be more than fifteen. Like Otak, she has a Seerskin, but hers is copper hued. She notices me staring at her skin.
“You think it’s strange,” she says.
“Yes,” I tell her.
“Our skins protect us. Without them we’d go mad,” she explains.
“Really?” I say, trying to sound like I don’t have first-hand experience with this.
“Yes, really,” she says coolly. “You may call me Alice.”
“Alice,” I repeat. Already I feel her power. It’s like I’m being hypnotized.
“I need you to close your eyes,” she says.
She looks exhausted, probably from Changing all the others in my group. I imagine she just wants to get this last one over so she can go home.
I close my eyes and wait. Nothing happens. I squint like a pirate, taking a peek.
She’s cradling her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Give me a moment.”
We sit in silence.
“Are you all right?” I ask after a while.
She looks up at me wearily. “You feel things?”
“Uh, yes,” I say.
“Like love?”
“I guess. Well, sometimes,” I add, wanting to paint a fair picture. “On holidays, mostly.” This is sad but true.
She frowns, dissatisfied with my answer. “Affection?”
“Yes.”
“Remorse? Regret?”
“Sure,” I say slowly, not knowing where this is going.
She shakes her head, as if making some decision.
“Often I have wondered what it would be like to be governed by your emotions. I’ve felt sorry for your people that they are so imprisoned and grateful that it’s not so for us.”
“Okay,” I say, aware she’s on the cusp of revealing something. Should I try to say something funny? Attempt to cheer her up? But she isn’t sad; she isn’t capable of it. Perhaps she’s trying to be and this is the point of the conversation.
Alice takes a few deep breaths and collects herself. “I’m sorry. Close your eyes again. This shouldn’t take long.” She reaches out for me and I wince involuntarily, terrified she will know who I am the moment she touches me. I hold up my hand.
“Give me a second,” I say.
She gives me a strange look but nods. I close my eyes, trying willfully to empty myself of memory.
“Ready?” she asks finally.
“Yes,” I say.
She presses her hands flat against my chest and her gift, as sleek and insistent as a pike, twists down inside me, probing. She’s searching for the fire. I said I’d let her in, but now that the moment is approaching, I fight it with everything that I have. She’s intent on tearing down the walls of my history; I’m intent on keeping them up.
“You’ve got to help,” she whispers. “I don’t know why, but I’m having trouble finding it. It should be here, but it’s not.”
“I can’t,” I cry. Suddenly I’m deathly afraid of sharing the fire and it’s not for the reason I thought. It’s because the fire is mine; it made me who I am—Pucker. What will I do without the defining event of my life?
“You must,” she says firmly. “Give me one detail. A smell. A color. That’s all I need to find my way in.”
I shudder. It’s exactly as my mother told me. I give her the curtains. The burned-nut smell of the fabric going up in flames.
“Here we go,” she says.
My head feels like it’s swarming with butterflies.
“I’m going to give you something to distract you while I work,” says the Maker. “It’s not reality. It never really happened to you. People from Earth tell me it’s like watching a movie,” she explains, her voice getting fainter.
I fall back, into her manufactured memory.
I’m lying in bed. I’m four years old. I have to pee, really, really bad. It’s the middle of the night. The room is dark. I’m too scared to get up and go to the bathroom. I hold my urine and pray for morning. I think of things opposite of water—hard things like books, granite, lollipops, and ice. But finally the pee comes in a torrent. The pleasure of surrender. Warmth. Then terror. I will be punished. I hide under the blankets, trying to muffle the sounds of my sobbing. I hear the sound of my mother’s footsteps. I go rigid and lie perfectly still. Maybe she’ll forget I’m here. Maybe she won’t smell the piss.
No such luck. She pulls down my covers and I’m exposed. I whimper in fear. She doesn’t spank me; instead she gathers me up into her arms and says she loves me, I’m her boy, nothing I do could make her angry. My Bonnie lies over the ocean. My Bonnie lies over the sea. . . .
I hear the Maker gasp.
My face. Something is happening to my face.
“Don’t open your eyes. We’re not done yet,” she warns.
Molten orange and red. Bayberry candles.
“Hold still. Hold very still.”
Just one. One more strip of skin. Brace yourself; I’ll pull quickly and it will be over.
Darkness so dense I think I will suffocate.
Breathe, says my nurse Clara Graves. Just breathe.
My boy.
Wreathed in flames.
My beautiful boy.
“Done,” says Alice.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE MAKER HOLDS UP A MIRROR. At first I can see only one feature at a time: a cheekbone, an eyebrow, a nose, my temple. Each feature on its own is unremarkable, but put all of them together and the effect is startling. I’m a study in autumnal colors: longish brown hair, green eyes, black lashes, olive skin. Framed in light, I am stunning. I’m not being arrogant—this is the truth.
I wonder if Alice gave me more than I was due. A little something extra to make up for all the years of good face I have missed.
“It’s all you,” says Alice, though I haven’t spoken. “I didn’t give you anything that wasn’t yours.” But even she looks flabbergasted at the result. When I come out of the room, I hang my head. Not in shame, but in embarrassment. I’ve received too much.
“Look at me,” says Rose gently.
I can tell by the tone of her voice that she thinks the Maker has failed. Slowly I raise my head and she gasps and I have my first experience of being seen. The sensation is like being inhaled. I have to hold very still in order to come back to myself.
“Why, Thomas,” she says. “You’re a knockout.”
“Stud,” says Jesse, whacking me on the shoulder. He’s grinning wildly and I can see he’s kidding. He doesn’t care what I look like as long as he isn’t fused to his brother any longer.
When we climb back into the wagon, the rain’s stopped. Steam rises off the cobblestones and blue patches of sky scuttle above us. Nigel stares at us openly; I guess we’re worthy of
his attention now. I don’t pay much attention to Isaura on the way back to the Compound; I’m too preoccupied with my new face. I keep touching it. The skin on my cheeks is so soft. I wonder if I’ll have to shave.
It’s early evening by the time we return to the Compound. One by one we’re dropped off at our houses. True to his word, Dash is waiting in the kitchen.
“I knew it,” he says.
“Knew what?” I ask cautiously.
“That you’d come back looking like that. The uglier you are when you go in, the bigger the Change. They made you a bit too pretty, I’m afraid.” He circles me. “Girls don’t like it if you’re better looking than them.”
“I didn’t come here for the girls,” I mutter.
“Sure, you didn’t, kid.”
Dash yanks a sweater over his head. “Dishes need to be done and the wood bin needs filling. You got a problem with that, Thomas 1?”
“Did I do something to make you mad?” I ask.
“Jesus, stop being such a baby. Just clean up,” he says. Then he goes out on the front porch and lights up.
I finish my chores and wait for Dash to come back in so I can sneak out. But he never does. He smokes cigarette after cigarette and two hours later I drift off to sleep, my arm flung over my new face protectively, as if I’m afraid of someone stealing it in the middle of the night.
TWENTY-SIX
THE NEXT MORNING I STAND in the entrance of the Refectory wondering where I should sit.
“Thomas,” yells Jesse, waving me over.
I can feel everybody looking at me as I make my way down the aisle. I keep my hands down at my sides, not wanting anybody to see the big wet patches under my arms. I’m nervous and incredibly self-conscious and there’s no such thing as deodorant in this backward world. The rest of my group is already assembled. Dash sits at a table with the other Hosts. He gives me a jaunty salute as if to say, Glad you could make it.
“Where’ve you been?” asks Michael as I sit down. Clearly my tardiness annoys him.
“I overslept,” I say, shooting Dash a dirty look.
I’d slept fitfully that night, not knowing what was real and what was dream. I guess Dash saw no need to make sure I got to the Refectory on time.
I’m starving. Everyone’s already eaten. An empty platter sits in the middle of the table. I look around, hoping to signal somebody to refill it, but the kitchen is closed.
“Here.” Jerome stabs a piece of his sausage with his fork and plunks it on my plate.
“Where’s the coffee?” I ask.
“Over there.” Rose points to Dash’s table.
“You’re kidding me,” I say as it becomes clear only the Hosts are allowed coffee. I groan. This is a disaster.
“Um, excuse me, hello,” says a voice, interrupting my thoughts.
I look up into the brown eyes of a teenage girl.
“I’m Tammi 622,” she says.
She’s pretty. Long blond hair, a smattering of freckles, ears that stick out the tiniest little bit. She hands me a square card imprinted with the number 7 on it.
“Will you accept?” she asks.
“Accept what?”
Jesse leans across the table. “Are you crazy? Who cares what she wants? Just say yes.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yes.” I hand the card back to her.
“No. You keep it,” she says. “You have to give it to your Host.”
Tammi is pushed aside by a petite girl with short black hair and a tattoo of a grapevine that creeps across her neck like a garden snake. “I’m Lina 231. Will you accept?”
I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s clear I’m in demand: for what I’m not sure. I glance up and see Phaidra sitting a few tables away. Nobody sits on either side of her and I can tell why: she’s radiating get-the-crap-away-from-me vibes. She peers down at her empty plate with feigned interest.
I turn back to Lina.
“Well?” she asks.
Her card reads 7:30. So, the number signifies a time.
“What’s happening at seven thirty?”
Lina gives me a funny look. “Are you open to receiving callers or not?”
Callers? These girls are asking me for dates! I glance at Phaidra again—now I’m sure she’s purposely ignoring what’s going on at my table.
“Sure. Why not,” I say loudly, placing her card on top of Tammi’s.
As soon as I say this, I’m plagued with guilt. I’m here to find my mother’s Seerskin; I’ve got no business arranging dates. I reassure myself with the thought that I’ve got to play along, convince them all that I’m here for good.
By the time breakfast is over, I’ve collected a tidy stack of cards. Now I seek shelter in my plate like Phaidra, but I cast my eyes downward in embarrassment.
My group’s silent. They don’t have to speak for me to know what they are thinking. What do you say to someone who’s winning at blackjack while you’re stuck beside them playing the penny slots?
Dash comes over to our table. “Well, you’ve caused quite a stir with the ladies, young Thomas.”
There he goes again, acting like he’s my grandfather. I half expect him to start calling me “lad.”
He thrusts out his hand for the cards. “I’ll take those.”
I hand them over.
He riffles through them quickly. “Looks like somebody will be busy this week. Gotta get you some protection, boy,” he says loudly, his voice slicing through the din in the Refectory. He claps me on the back like we’re frat mates. Mortified, I shrink away from him. Protection? Is he talking about a chaperone? A guard?
“Rule number five, what is it?” he shouts.
Nobody answers.
“Come on, people!”
Still no answer. Dash sounds exactly like my history teacher, Mr. Laird. In that moment I wish fervently that I were sitting in that class being ignored.
Phaidra springs to her feet. “Rule number five, section eight, line two. Breeding is not allowed among the Changed.”
Breeding? Wait a second. Protection. He’s talking about birth control!
Dash looks amused and pleased. Obviously he hadn’t expected Phaidra to supply the answer. “Correct. And why is that so?”
“The second R. We are Redeemed by invitation and invitation only. If you are born here, there is no opportunity for Redemption.”
Dash smiles. Phaidra’s making him look good in front of the rest of the Hosts.
“I see you took something from your hundred days with me,” he says.
Phaidra nods obediently. “Certainly I did. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show,” she says, and then sits down.
She’s quoting Dickens, but Dash doesn’t get it. He just assumes Phaidra is making fun of him (which she is).
“From David Copperfield,” I whisper, trying to help him save face.
“Think I give two shits about some worthless magician?” he snaps.
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Worthless? I don’t know about that. He did make the Statue of Liberty disappear,” I say.
Dash’s face fills with blood. What’s wrong with me? I’m supposed to be flying under the radar, not doing cart-wheels above it.
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to this kind of attention,” I say quickly.
Dash glares at me, his jaw clenched. The other Hosts watch our encounter from across the room. One of them holds up Dash’s coffee mug and waves him over. He leaves and Emma gives an audible sigh of relief.
“Guess you’re not scared anymore,” she says.
“Just stupid,” comments Jerome.
“Why did you provoke him?” Michael asks angrily.
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing I’ve put my whole group at risk. If I keep it up, they might not send just me back, but the entire batch of us.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I say.
Michael isn’t satisfied wit
h my apology. “You like quotes?” he asks. “You seem like a bookish kind of guy. Here’s one. God dispenses beauty even to the wicked.”
“God’s got nothing to do with it,” I say. He thinks I’ve gotten more than my due.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Michael says as the gong begins to sound, signaling breakfast is over.
“No maybes about it. The Maker didn’t pull my face out of thin air. This is how I would have looked if I hadn’t been burned,” I say.
Michael’s newly exposed cheekbones flame scarlet. “And this isn’t who I really am? That’s what you’re trying to say?”
I shrug. “Well, you weren’t ruined by chance, were you?”
“No, I was ruined by genetics. My mother is obese and so was my grandmother,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, you were ruined by a lack of willpower.”
Michael flies to his feet and Rose grabs his arm and holds him back. She shakes her head. Slowly he sits down.
“You better watch your step,” he says. “You need us.”
“We need each other,” says Rose.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WE WALK OUT TO THE GREEN. I’m shaken from my encounters with Dash and Michael, but I can’t let it show. It’s only eight in the morning and I’m going to have to get through the entire day before I can go look for my mother’s Seerskin. I know now that I’ve made a huge mistake. The first night I was here, I should have gone straight to the Ministry to find her skin and then gotten out of Isaura before I was Changed.
Things are a hundred times more complicated now. Now people want things from me. Even worse, I know what it is to have an external existence. Now I have skin, protection, something to shield me. The very thing my mother has sent me to find for her, I’ve found for myself.
Dash interrupts my reverie to tell me I’m to be a carpenter. I’m stunned. I don’t know the first thing about woodworking. Trying to put off the inevitable, I ask Dash what made them choose me for this particular assignment since I’m so clearly unqualified.
“Jesus, are you self-involved,” he says. “Look around you. Think any of these people were qualified?”
The Changed are funneling out of the refectory and scurrying off to their jobs. There are bakers, launderers, cooks, housekeepers, dairy workers, gardeners, and farmers.
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