by Tahereh Mafi
Castle is the one who moves our supplies outside. He stands at the very end of the assembly line, in constant radio contact with Kenji. And as long as the area is clear, Castle needs to use only one hand to direct the hundreds of pounds of supplies we’ve hoarded into the drop-off.
Kenji, of course, is standing as lookout.
If it weren’t for Kenji, the rest of this wouldn’t even be possible. He’s our invisible eyes and ears. Without him, we’d have no way of being so secure, so sure that we’ll be safe on such a dangerous mission.
Not for the first time today, I’m beginning to realize why he’s so important.
“Hey, Winston, can you get someone to check if they have any chocolate in here?” Emory—another guy on my assembly team—is smiling at Winston like he’s hoping for good news. But then, Emory is always smiling. I’ve only known him for a few hours, but he’s been smiling since 6:00 a.m., when we all met in the orientation room this morning. He’s super tall, super bulky, and he has a super-huge afro that somehow manages to fall into his eyes a lot. He’s moving boxes down the line like they’re full of cotton.
Winston is shaking his head, trying not to laugh as he passes the question along. “Seriously?” He shoots a look at Emory, nudging his plastic glasses up his nose at the same time. “Of all the things in here, you want chocolate?”
Emory’s smile vanishes. “Shut up, man, you know my mom loves that stuff.”
“You say that every time.”
“That’s because it’s true every time.”
Winston says something to someone about grabbing another box of soap before turning back to Emory. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your mom eat a piece of chocolate before.”
Emory tells Winston to do something very inappropriate with his preternaturally flexible limbs, and I glance down at the box Ian has just handed to me, pausing to study the packaging carefully before passing it on.
“Hey, do you know why these are all stamped with the letters R N W?”
Ian turns around. Stunned. Looks at me like I’ve just asked him to take his clothes off. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “She speaks.”
“Of course I speak,” I say, no longer interested in speaking at all. Ian passes me another box. Shrugs. “Well, now I know.”
“Now you do.”
“The mystery has been solved.”
“You really didn’t think I could speak?” I ask after a moment. “Like, you thought I was mute?” I wonder what other things people are saying about me around here.
Ian looks over his shoulder at me, smiles like he’s trying not to laugh. Shakes his head and doesn’t answer me. “The stamp,” he says, “is just regulation. They stamp everything RNW so they can track it. It’s nothing fancy.”
“But what does RNW mean? Who’s stamping it?”
“RNW,” he says, repeating the 3 letters like I’m supposed to recognize them. “Reestablished Nations of the World. Everything’s gone global, you know. They all trade commodities. And that,” he says, “is something no one really knows. It’s another reason why the whole Reestablishment thing is a pile of crap. They’ve monopolized the resources of the entire planet and they’re just keeping it all for themselves.”
I remember some of this. I remember talking to Adam about this when he and I were locked in the asylum together. Back before I knew what it was like to touch him. To be with him. To hurt him. The Reestablishment has always been a global movement. I just didn’t realize it had a name.
“Right,” I say to Ian, suddenly distracted. “Of course.”
Ian pauses as he hands me another package. “So is it true?” he asks, studying my face. “That you really have no clue what’s happened to everything?”
“I know some things.” I bristle. “I’m just not clear on all the details.”
“Well,” Ian says, “if you still remember how to speak when we get back to Point, maybe you should join us at lunch sometime. We can fill you in.”
“Really?” I turn to face him.
“Yeah, kid.” He laughs, tosses me another box. “Really. We don’t bite.”
TWENTY-THREE
Sometimes I wonder about glue.
No one ever stops to ask glue how it’s holding up. If it’s tired of sticking things together or worried about falling apart or wondering how it will pay its bills next week.
Kenji is kind of like that.
He’s like glue. He works behind the scenes to keep things together and I’ve never stopped to think about what his story might be. Why he hides behind the jokes and the snark and the snide remarks.
But he was right. Everything he said to me was right.
Yesterday was a good idea. I needed to get away, to get out, to be productive. And now I need to take Kenji’s advice and get over myself. I need to get my head straight. I need to focus on my priorities. I need to figure out what I’m doing here and how I can help. And if I care at all about Adam, I’ll try to stay out of his life.
Part of me wishes I could see him; I want to make sure he’s really going to be okay, that he’s recovering well and eating enough and getting sleep at night. But another part of me is afraid to see him now. Because seeing Adam means saying good-bye. It means really recognizing that I can’t be with him anymore and knowing that I have to find a new life for myself. Alone.
But at least at Omega Point I’ll have options. And maybe if I can find a way to stop being scared, I’ll actually figure out how to make friends. To be strong. To stop wallowing in my own problems.
Things have to be different now.
I grab my food and manage to lift my head; I nod hello to the faces I recognize from yesterday. Not everyone knows about my being on the trip—the invitations to go on missions outside of Omega Point are exclusive—but people, in general, seem to be a little less tense around me. I think.
I might be imagining it.
I try to find a place to sit down but then I see Kenji waving me over. Brendan and Winston and Emory are sitting at his table. I feel a smile tug at my lips as I approach them.
Brendan scoots over on the bench seat to make room for me. Winston and Emory nod hello as they shovel food into their mouths. Kenji shoots me a half smile, his eyes laughing at my surprise to be welcomed at his table.
I’m feeling okay. Like maybe things are going to be okay.
“Juliette?”
And suddenly I’m going to tip over.
I turn very, very slowly, half convinced that the voice I’m hearing belongs to a ghost, because there’s no way Adam could’ve been released from the medical wing so soon. I wasn’t expecting to have to face him so soon. I didn’t think we’d have to have this talk so soon. Not here. Not in the middle of the dining hall.
I’m not prepared. I’m not prepared.
Adam looks terrible. He’s pale. Unsteady. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and his lips are pressed together and his eyes are weary, tortured, deep and bottomless wells. His hair is messy. His T-shirt is straining across his chest, his tattooed forearms more pronounced than ever.
I want nothing more than to dive into his arms.
Instead, I’m sitting here, reminding myself to breathe.
“Can I talk to you?” he says, looking like he’s half afraid to hear my answer. “Alone?”
I nod, still unable to speak. Abandon my food without looking back at Kenji or Winston or Brendan or Emory so I have no idea what they must be thinking right now. I don’t even care.
Adam.
Adam is here and he’s in front of me and he wants to talk to me and I have to tell him things that will surely be the death of me.
But I follow him out the door anyway. Into the hall. Down a dark corridor.
Finally we stop.
Adam looks at me like he knows what I’m going to say so I don’t bother saying it. I don’t want to say anything unless it becomes absolutely necessary. I’d rather just stand here and stare at him, shamelessly drink in the sight of him one last time wi
thout having to speak a word. Without having to say anything at all.
He swallows, hard. Looks up. Looks away. Blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck, clasps both hands behind his head and turns around so I can’t see his face. But the effort causes his shirt to ride up his torso and I have to actually clench my fingers to keep from touching the sliver of skin exposed low on his abdomen, his lower back.
He’s still looking away from me when he says, “I really— I really need you to say something.” And the sound of his voice—so wretched, so agonized—makes me want to fall to my knees.
Still, I do not speak.
And he turns.
Faces me.
“There has to be something,” he says, his hands in his hair now, gripping his skull. “Some kind of compromise— something I can say to convince you to make this work. Tell me there’s something.”
And I’m so scared. So scared I’m going to start sobbing in front of him.
“Please,” he says, and he looks like he’s about to crack, like he’s done, like this is it he’s about to fall apart and he says, “say something, I’m begging you—”
I bite my trembling lip.
He freezes in place, watching me, waiting.
“Adam,” I breathe, trying to keep my voice steady. “I will always, a-always love you—”
“No,” he says. “No, don’t say that—don’t say that—”
And I’m shaking my head, shaking it fast and hard, so hard it’s making me dizzy but I can’t stop. I can’t say another word unless I want to start screaming and I can’t look at his face, I can’t bear to see what I’m doing to him—
“No, Juliette—Juliette—”
I’m backing away, stumbling, tripping over my own feet as I reach blindly for the wall when I feel his arms around me. I try to pull away but he’s too strong, he’s holding me too tight and his voice is choked when he says, “It was my fault—this is my fault—I shouldn’t have kissed you— you tried to tell me but I didn’t listen and I’m so—I’m so sorry,” he says, gasping the words. “I should’ve listened to you. I wasn’t strong enough. But it’ll be different this time, I swear,” he says, burying his face in my shoulder. “I’ll never forgive myself for this. You were willing to give it a shot and I screwed everything up and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
I have officially, absolutely collapsed inside.
I hate myself for what happened, hate myself for what I have to do, hate that I can’t take his pain away, that I can’t tell him we can try, that it’ll be hard but we’ll make it work anyway. Because this isn’t a normal relationship. Because our problems aren’t fixable.
Because my skin will never change.
All the training in the world won’t remove the very real possibility that I could hurt him. Kill him, if we ever got carried away. I will always be a threat to him. Especially during the most tender moments, the most important, vulnerable moments. The moments I want most. Those are the things I can never have with him, and he deserves so much more than me, than this tortured person with so little to offer.
But I’d rather stand here and feel his arms around me than say a single thing. Because I’m weak, I’m so weak and I want him so much it’s killing me. I can’t stop shaking, I can’t see straight, I can’t see through the curtain of tears obscuring my vision.
And he won’t let go of me.
He keeps whispering “Please” and I want to die.
But I think if I stay here any longer I will actually go insane.
So I raise a trembling hand to his chest and feel him stiffen, pull back, and I don’t dare look at his eyes, I can’t stand to see him looking hopeful, even if it’s for only a second.
I take advantage of his momentary surprise and slackened arms to slip away, out of the shelter of his warmth, away from his beating heart. And I hold out my hand to stop him from reaching for me again.
“Adam,” I whisper. “Please don’t. I can’t—I c-can’t—”
“There’s never been anyone else,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down anymore, not caring that his words are echoing through these tunnels. His hand is shaking as he covers his mouth, as he drags it across his face, through his hair. “There’s never going to be anyone else—I’m never going to want anyone else—”
“Stop it—you have to stop—” I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe “You don’t want this—you don’t want to be with someone like me—someone who will only end up h-hurting you—”
“Dammit, Juliette”—he turns to slam his palms against the wall, his chest heaving, his head down, his voice broken, catching on every other syllable—“you’re hurting me now,” he says. “You’re killing me—”
“Adam—”
“Don’t walk away,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes squeezed shut like he already knows I’m going to. Like he can’t bear to see it happen. “Please,” he whispers, tormented. “Don’t walk away from this.”
“I-I wish,” I tell him, shaking violently now, “I wish I d-didn’t have to. I wish I could love you less.”
And I hear him call after me as I bolt down the corridor. I hear him shouting my name but I’m running, running away, running past the huge crowd gathered outside the dining hall, watching, listening to everything. I’m running to hide even though I know it will be impossible.
I will have to see him every single day.
Wanting him from a million miles away.
And I remember Kenji’s words, his demands for me to wake up and stop crying and make a change, and I realize fulfilling my new promises might take a little longer than I expected.
Because I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than find a dark corner and cry.
TWENTY-FOUR
Kenji finds me first.
He’s standing in the middle of my training room. Looking around like he’s never seen the place before, even though I’m sure that can’t be true. I still don’t know exactly what he does, but it’s at least become clear to me that Kenji is one of the most important people at Omega Point. He’s always on the move. Always busy. No one—except for me, and only lately—really sees him for more than a few moments at a time.
It’s almost as if he spends the majority of his days . . . invisible.
“So,” he says, nodding his head slowly, taking his time walking around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “That was one hell of a show back there. That’s the kind of entertainment we never really get underground.”
Mortification.
I’m draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
“I mean, I just have to say—that last line? ‘I wish I could love you less’? That was genius. Really, really nice. I think Winston actually shed a tear—”
“SHUT UP, KENJI.”
“I’m serious!” he says to me, offended. “That was, I don’t know. It was kind of beautiful. I had no idea you guys were so intense.”
I pull my knees up to my chest, burrow deeper into the corner of this room, bury my face in my arms. “No offense, but I really don’t want to t-talk to you right now, okay?”
“Nope. Not okay,” he says. “You and me, we have work to do.”
“No.”
“Come on,” he says. “Get. Up.” He grabs my elbow, tugging me to my feet as I try to take a swipe at him.
I wipe angrily at my cheeks, scrub at the stains my tears left behind. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Kenji. Please just go away. Leave me alone.”
“No one,” he says, “is joking.” Kenji picks up one of the bricks stacked against the wall. “And the world isn’t going to stop waging war against itself just because you broke up with your boyfriend.”
I stare at him, fists shaking, wanting to scream.
He doesn’t seem concerned. “So what do you do in here?” he asks. “You just sit around trying to . . . what?” He weighs the brick in his hand. “Break this stuff?”
I give up, defeated. Fold myself onto the
floor.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. I sniff away the last of my tears. Try to wipe my nose. “Castle kept telling me to ‘focus’ and ‘harness my Energy.’” I use air quotes to illustrate my point. “But all I know about myself is that I can break things—I don’t know why it happens. So I don’t know how he expects me to replicate what I’ve already done. I had no idea what I was doing then, and I don’t know what I’m doing now, either. Nothing’s changed.”
“Hold up,” Kenji says, dropping the brick back onto the stack before falling on the mats across from me. He splays out on the ground, body stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “What are we talking about again? What events are you supposed to be replicating?”
I lie back against the mats, too; mimic Kenji’s position. Our heads are only a few inches apart. “Remember? The concrete I broke back in Warner’s psycho room. The metal door I attacked when I was looking for A-Adam.” My voice catches and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to quell the pain.
I can’t even say his name right now.
Kenji grunts. I feel him nodding his head on the mats. “All right. Well, what Castle told me is that he thinks there’s more to you than just the touching thing. That maybe you also have this weird superhuman strength or something.” A pause. “That sound about right to you?”
“I guess.”
“So what happened?” he asks, tilting his head back to get a good look at me. “When you went all psycho-monster on everything? Do you remember if there was a trigger?”
I shake my head. “I don’t really know. When it happens, it’s like—it’s like I really am completely out of my mind,” I tell him. “Something changes in my head and it makes me . . . it makes me crazy. Like, really, legitimately insane.” I glance over at him but his face betrays no emotion. He just blinks, waiting for me to finish. So I take a deep breath and continue. “It’s like I can’t think straight. I’m just so paralyzed by the adrenaline and I can’t stop it; I can’t control it. Once that crazy feeling takes over, it needs an outlet. I have to touch something. I have to release it.”
