by Tahereh Mafi
Unfortunately, my bravado walks out the door with him.
I ignore Castle as I search the room for Kenji’s face; for all my big talk, I don’t actually want to do this alone. And Kenji knows me well.
“Hey—I’m right here.” He’s crossed the room in just a few strides, by my side in seconds.
“You’re coming with me, right?” I whisper, tugging at his sleeve like a child.
Kenji laughs. “I’ll be wherever you need me to be, kid.”
Warner
I have a great fear of drowning in the ocean of my own silence.
In the steady thrum that accompanies quiet, my mind is unkind to me. I think too much. I feel, perhaps, far more than I should. It would be only a slight exaggeration to say that my goal in life is to outrun my mind, my memories.
So I have to keep moving.
I used to retreat belowground when I wanted a distraction. I used to find comfort in our simulation chambers, in the programs designed to prepare soldiers for combat. But as we’ve recently moved a team of soldiers underground in all the chaos of the new construction, I’m without reprieve. I’ve no choice now but to go up.
I enter the hangar at a brisk pace, my footsteps echoing in the vast space as I move, almost instinctively, toward the army choppers parked in the far right wing. Soldiers see me and jump quickly out of my way, their eyes betraying their confusion even as they salute me. I nod only once in their direction, offering no explanation as I climb up and into the aircraft. I place the headphones over my head and speak quietly into the radio, alerting our air-traffic controllers of my intent to take flight, and strap myself into the front seat. The retinal scanner takes my identification automatically. Preflight checks are clear. I turn on the engine and the roar is deafening, even through the noise-canceling headphones. I feel my body begin to unclench.
Soon, I’m in the air.
My father taught me to shoot a gun when I was nine years old. When I was ten he sliced open the back of my leg and showed me how to suture my own wounds. At eleven he broke my arm and abandoned me in the wild for two weeks. At age twelve I was taught to build and defuse my own bombs. He began teaching me how to fly planes when I was thirteen.
He never did teach me how to ride a bike. I figured that out on my own.
From thousands of feet above the ground, Sector 45 looks like a half-assembled board game. Distance makes the world feel small and surmountable, a pill easily swallowed. But I know the deceit too well, and it is here, above the clouds, that I finally understand Icarus. I, too, am tempted to fly too close to the sun. It is only my inability to be impractical that keeps me tethered to the earth. So I take a steadying breath, and get back to work.
I’m making my aerial rounds a bit earlier than usual, so the sights below are different from the ones I’ve begun to expect every day. On an average day I’m up here in the late afternoon, checking in on civilians as they leave work to exchange their REST dollars at local Supply Centers. They usually scurry back to their compounds shortly thereafter, weighted down with newly purchased necessities and the disheartening realization that they’ll have to do it all again the following day. Right now, everyone is still at work, leaving the land empty of its worker ants. The landscape is bizarre and beautiful from afar, the ocean vast, blue, and breathtaking. But I know only too well our world’s pockmarked surface.
This strange, sad reality my father helped create.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hand clutching the throttle. There’s simply too much to contend with today.
First, the disarming realization that I have a brother whose heart is as complicated and flawed as my own.
Second, and perhaps most offensive: the impending, anxiety-inducing arrival of my past.
I still haven’t talked to Juliette about the imminent arrival of our guests, and, if I’m being honest, I’m no longer sure I want to. I’ve never discussed much of my life with her. I’ve never told her stories of my childhood friends, their parents, the history of The Reestablishment and my role within it. There’s never been time. Never the right moment. If Juliette has been supreme commander for seventeen days now, she and I have only been in a relationship for two days longer than that.
We’ve both been busy.
And we’ve only just overcome so much—all the complications between us, all the distance and confusion, the misunderstandings. She’s mistrusted me for so long. I know I have only myself to blame for what’s transpired between us, but I worry that the past ugliness has inspired in her an instinct to doubt me; it’s likely a well-developed muscle now. And I feel certain that telling her more about my ignoble life will only make things worse at the onset of a relationship I want desperately to preserve. To protect.
So how do I begin? Where do I start?
The year I turned sixteen, our parents, the supreme commanders, decided we should all take turns shooting each other. Not to kill, merely to disable. They wanted us to know what a bullet wound felt like. They wanted us to be able to understand the recovery process. Most of all, they wanted us to know that even our friends might one day turn on us.
I feel my mouth twist into an unhappy smile.
I suppose it was a worthwhile lesson. After all, my father is now six feet under the ground and his old friends don’t seem to care. But the problem that day was that I’d been taught by my father, a master marksman. Worse, I’d already been practicing every day for five years—two years earlier than the others—and, as a result, I was faster, sharper, and crueler than my peers. I didn’t hesitate. I’d shot all my friends before they’d even picked up their weapons.
That was the first day I felt, with certainty, that my father was proud of me. I’d spent so long desperately seeking his approval and that day, I finally had it. He looked at me the way I’d always hoped he would: like he cared for me. Like a father who saw a bit of himself in his son. The realization sent me into the forest, where I promptly threw up in the bushes.
I’ve only been struck by a bullet once.
The memory still mortifies me, but I don’t regret it. I deserved it. For misunderstanding her, for mistreating her, for being lost and confused. But I’ve been trying so hard to be a different man; to be, if not kinder, then at the very least, better. I don’t want to lose the love I’ve come to cherish.
And I don’t want Juliette to know my past.
I don’t want to share stories from my life that only disgust and revolt me, stories that would color her impression of me. I don’t want her to know how I spent my time as a child. She doesn’t need to know how many times my father forced me to watch him skin dead animals, how I can still feel the vibrations of his screams in my ear as he kicked me, over and over again, when I dared to look away. I’d rather not remember the hours I spent shackled in a dark room, compelled to listen to the manufactured sounds of women and children screaming for help. It was all supposed to make me strong, he’d said. It was supposed to help me survive.
Instead, life with my father only made me wish for death.
I don’t want to tell Juliette how I’d always known my father was unfaithful, that he’d abandoned my mother long, long ago, that I’d always wanted to murder him, that I’d dreamt of it, planned for it, hoped to one day break his neck using the very skills he’d given me.
How I failed. Every time.
Because I am weak.
I don’t miss him. I don’t miss his life. I don’t want his friends or his footprint on my soul. But for some reason, his old comrades won’t let me go.
They’re coming to collect their pound of flesh, and I fear that this time—as I have every time—I will end up paying with my heart.
Juliette
Kenji and I are in Warner’s room—what’s become my room—and we’re standing in the middle of the closet while I fling clothes at him, trying to figure out what to wear.
“What about this?” I say to him, throwing something glittery in his direction. “Or this?” I toss another ball of fabric at him.
<
br /> “You don’t know shit about clothes, do you?”
I turn around, tilt my head. “I’m sorry, when was I supposed to learn about fashion, Kenji? When I was growing up alone and tortured by my horrible parents? Or maybe when I was festering in an insane asylum?”
That shuts him up.
“So?” I say, nodding with my chin. “Which one?”
He picks up the two pieces I threw at him and frowns. “You’re making me choose between a short, shiny dress and a pair of pajama bottoms? I mean—I guess I choose the dress? But I don’t think it’ll go well with those ratty tennis shoes you’re always wearing.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my shoes. “Well, I don’t know. Warner picked this stuff out for me a long time ago—before he even met me. It’s all I have,” I say, looking up. “These clothes are left over from when I first got to Sector 45.”
“Why don’t you just wear your suit?” Kenji says, leaning against the wall. “The new one Alia and Winston made for you?”
I shake my head. “They haven’t finished fixing it yet. And it’s still got bloodstains from when I shot Warner’s dad. Besides,” I say, taking a deep breath, “that was a different me. I wore those head-to-toe suits when I thought I had to protect people from my skin. But I’m different now. I can turn my power off. I can be . . . normal.” I try to smile. “So I want to dress like a normal person.”
“But you’re not a normal person.”
“I know that.” A frustrating flush of heat warms my cheeks. “I just . . . I think I’d like to dress like one. Maybe for a little while? I’ve never been able to act my age and I just want to feel a little bit—”
“I get it,” Kenji says, cutting me off with one hand. He looks me up and down. Says, “Well, I mean, if that’s the look you’re going for, I think you look like a normal person right now. This’ll work.” He waves in the general direction of my body.
I’m wearing jeans and a pink sweater. My hair is pulled up into a high ponytail. I feel comfortable and normal—but I also feel like an unaccomplished seventeen-year-old playing pretend.
“But I’m supposed to be the supreme commander of North America,” I say. “Do you think it’s okay if I’m dressed like this? Warner is always wearing fancy suits, you know? Or just, like, really nice clothes. He always looks so poised—so intimidating—”
“Where is he, by the way?” Kenji cuts me off. “I mean, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I agree with Castle. Warner should be here for this meeting.”
I take a deep breath. Try to be calm. “I know that Warner knows everything, okay? I know he’s the best at basically everything, that he was born for this life. His father was grooming him to lead the world. In another life, another reality? This was supposed to be his role. I know that. I do.”
“But?”
“But it’s not Warner’s job, is it?” I say angrily. “It’s mine. And I’m trying not to rely on him all the time. I want to try to do some things on my own now. To take charge.”
Kenji doesn’t seem convinced. “I don’t know, J. I think maybe this is one of those times when you should still be relying on him. He knows this world way better than we do—and, bonus, he’d be able to tell you what you should be wearing.” Kenji shrugs. “Fashion really isn’t my area of expertise.”
I pick up the short, shiny dress and examine it.
Just over two weeks ago I single-handedly fought off hundreds of soldiers. I crushed a man’s throat in my fist. I put two bullets through Anderson’s forehead with no hesitation or regret. But here, staring at an armoire full of clothes, I’m intimidated.
“Maybe I should call Warner,” I say, peeking over my shoulder at Kenji.
“Yep.” He points at me. “Good idea.”
But then,
“No—never mind,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay, right? I mean what’s the big deal? He’s just a kid, right? Just the son of a supreme commander. Not an actual supreme commander. Right?”
“Uhhh—all of it is a big deal, J. The kids of the commanders are all, like, other Warners. They’re basically mercenaries. And they’ve all been prepped to take their parents’ places—”
“Yeah, no, I should definitely do this on my own.” I’m looking in a mirror now, pulling my ponytail tight. “Right?”
Kenji is shaking his head.
“Yes. Exactly.” I nod.
“Uh-uh. No. I think this is a bad idea.”
“I’m capable of doing some things on my own, Kenji,” I snap. “I’m not totally clueless.”
Kenji sighs. “Whatever you say, princess.”
Warner
“Mr. Warner—please, Mr. Warner, slow down, son—”
I stop too suddenly, pivoting sharply on my heel. Castle is chasing me down the hall, waving a frantic hand in my direction. I meet his eyes with a mild expression.
“Can I help you?”
“Where have you been?” he says, obviously out of breath. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
I raise an eyebrow, fighting back the urge to tell him that my whereabouts are none of his business. “I had a few aerial rounds to make.”
Castle frowns. “Don’t you usually do that later in the afternoon?”
At this, I almost smile. “You’ve been watching me.”
“Let’s not play games. You’ve been watching me, too.”
Now I actually smile. “Have I?”
“You think so little of my intelligence.”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Castle.”
He laughs out loud. “Goodness, you’re an excellent liar.”
I look away. “What do you need?”
“He’s here. He’s here right now and she’s with him and I tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen to me—”
I turn back, alarmed. “Who’s here?”
For the first time, I see actual anger flicker in Castle’s eyes. “Now is not the time to play dumb with me, son. Haider Ibrahim is here. Right now. And Juliette is meeting with him alone, completely unprepared.”
Shock renders me, for a moment, speechless.
“Did you hear what I said?” Castle is nearly shouting. “She’s meeting with him now.”
“How?” I say, coming back to myself. “How is he here already? Did he arrive alone?”
“Mr. Warner, please listen to me. You have to talk to her. You have to explain and you have to do it now,” he says, grabbing my shoulders. “They’re coming back for h—”
Castle is thrown backward, hard.
He cries out as he catches himself, his arms and legs splayed out in front of him as if caught in a gust of wind. He remains in that impossible position, hovering several inches off the ground, and stares at me, chest heaving. Slowly, he steadies. His feet finally touch the floor.
“You would use my own powers against me?” he says, breathing hard. “I am your ally—”
“Never,” I say sharply, “ever put your hands on me, Castle. Or next time I might accidentally kill you.”
Castle blinks. And then I feel it—I can sense it, close my fingers around it: his pity. It’s everywhere. Awful. Suffocating.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” I say.
“My apologies,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to invade your personal space. But you must understand the urgency here. First, the RSVP—and now, Haider’s arrival? This is just the beginning,” he says, lowering his voice. “They are mobilizing.”
“You are overthinking this,” I say, my voice clipped. “Haider’s arrival today is about me. Sector 45’s inevitable infestation by a swarm of supreme commanders is about me. I’ve committed treason, remember?” I shake my head, begin walking away. “They’re just a little . . . angry.”
“Stop,” he says. “Listen to me—”
“You don’t need to concern yourself with this, Castle. I’ll handle it.”
“Why aren’t you listening to me?” He’s chasing after me now. “They’re coming to take her back, s
on! We can’t let that happen!”
I freeze.
I turn to face him. My movements are slow, deliberate. “What are you talking about? Take her back where?”
Castle doesn’t respond. Instead, his face goes slack. He stares, confused, in my direction.
“I have a thousand things to do,” I say, impatient now, “so if you would please make this quick and tell me what on earth you’re talking about—”
“He never told you, did he?”
“Who? Told me what?”
“Your father,” he says. “He never told you.” Castle runs a hand down the length of his face. He looks abruptly ancient, about to expire. “My God. He never told you.”
“What do you mean? What did he never tell me?”
“The truth,” he says. “About Ms. Ferrars.”
I stare at him, my chest constricting in fear.
Castle shakes his head as he says, “He never told you where she really came from, did he? He never told you the truth about her parents.”
Juliette
“Stop squirming, J.”
We’re in the glass elevator, making our way down to one of the main reception areas, and I can’t stop fidgeting.
My eyes are squeezed shut. I keep saying, “Oh my God, I am totally clueless, aren’t I? What am I doing? I don’t look professional at all—”
“You know what? Who cares what you’re wearing?” Kenji says. “It’s all in the attitude, anyway. It’s about how you carry yourself.”
I look up at him, feeling the height difference between us more acutely than ever. “But I’m so short.”
“Napoleon was short, too.”
“Napoleon was horrible,” I point out.
“Napoleon got shit done, didn’t he?”
I frown.
Kenji nudges me with his elbow. “You might want to spit the gum out, though.”
“Kenji,” I say, only half hearing him, “I’ve just realized I’ve never met any foreign officials before.”
