Evalene's Number

by Bethany Atazadeh

  “Why did this happen?” Evalene couldn’t help asking. Fear caught in her throat at the traitorous words, not to mention Lola was a higher Number now – everyone was – and yet Evalene had spoken first. But Lola wasn’t an informant. She just couldn’t be.

  Lola held her tight, breaking the rules as well. “Shhh, shhh,” she said, rocking Evalene in comfort, just like she always had when Evalene was young and nightmares came. “It’ll be alright,” she said over and over. “You’ll be alright.”

  Evalene’s eyes were swollen and ached from held-back tears. She stared at the shoulder of Lola’s scratchy brown dress. Both their legs hung off the little bed, Evalene’s still wrapped in her Numbering day dress, white for purity and the religious ceremony, and Lola’s in her creased skirt, brown for the service class. Evalene sat up finally, rubbing her eyes, and meeting Lola’s cloudy brown ones, she whispered, “Lola, what do I do now?”

  Rubbing Evalene’s arms gently, Lola sighed. Evalene thought she saw her eyes water, but then her nanny smiled at her. She searched for the right words. “Miss Evie, my mama always told me you can choose your real Number for yourself.”

  Evalene’s eyes grew huge. “I thought that was up to God?”

  Lola patted her hand and her eyes crinkled, disappearing into her cheeks as she smiled for real this time. “Sometimes I wonder if God would rather not get the credit for things like this.” Evalene was perplexed. That sounded like something a true believer would say. Complete heresy. The Number One said God chose everyone’s Number, and to disagree was intolerable, traitorous, direct opposition of the Number system.

  “But,” Evalene risked whispering, glancing around for an eavesdropping television out of habit, though of course, her new room didn’t have one, “if God didn’t choose my Number, then who did?”

  Lola took both of Evalene’s hands in her own, cupping her thin, calloused hands around Evalene’s younger ones. She glanced at the door reflexively as well before answering in a whisper, “Be very careful, Miss Evie. We can wonder these things, but we must never ask them out loud.” She shook her head, struck by one of her coughing attacks before Evalene could ask more.

  Pulling the handkerchief away from her mouth finally, Lola spoke again, “There’s nothing we can do now, Miss Evie. Just remember, this is not who you are.” Lola folded up the handkerchief, but not before Evalene noticed a tiny spot of red on it.

  After Lola went to bed, Evalene tossed and turned on the thin, lumpy mattress, unable to sleep. Lola said she wasn’t a Number 29, not really. But then, Evalene kept coming back to the same question, feeling the bandage on her neck covering her tattoo, who am I?

  4

  Jeremiah, Age 15

  JEREMIAH GAVE THE ELDERLY woman his most charming smile. It was unclear why she stood in the orphanage, studying the line of children. Mr. Meyers hadn’t told them anything, only slapped them into place, glaring if they slouched or argued. It was even more unclear why this woman was looking at the older, already-Numbered children, like himself, instead of the young ones down the street. One thing was certain: a high Numbered lady such as herself was not here, looking at low Numbers, to adopt.

  Though he’d like to irritate Mr. Meyers, Jeremiah wanted out of this miserable hole even more. The old lady probably needed someone to work for her, and though he had no intentions of doing so long term, it could be his ticket out from under the orphanage’s watchful eyes.

  He smiled even wider, making sure his dimples showed. He had his parents’ perfect caramel complexion, his mother’s big brown eyes which almost made his brown clothing look good if not for the holes and poor fit, and his father’s silky black hair, roughly cut by Mr. Meyers in a bowl shape, but still thick and full. The last time a female Regulator had caught him stealing, this smile had gotten him off with just a warning.

  Sure enough, the older lady stopped in front of him. Everything about her was soft. Her white hair waved in curls to her shoulders, a gentle contrast against her light chocolate colored skin. But it was her brown eyes that struck him most. They were kind. And sad.

  The two years since his parents had died in the Bloom Rebellion had shown him just how poorly a lower Number could be treated. The last time someone had truly looked at him like this was right before his mother hugged him goodbye, left him with the neighbors for the weekend, and never returned home. It was unnerving. He stood taller, forcing himself to keep smiling, trying to appear strong, capable of heavy labor.

  He was 15 years old. More than old enough to live on his own. A plan began forming in his mind.

  “What’s your name, dear?” The older woman startled him by speaking directly to him instead of to Mr. Meyers.

  “Jeremiah,” his voice, deepening this last month, squeaked at the end, and he coughed a little to cover it. That wouldn’t help his case.

  “A Christian name,” she said, her eyes widening; whether in approval or not, Jeremiah couldn’t tell. His parents had been true believers, ignoring the ridiculous current trends in Eden to name children after disasters or minerals, and naming him after one of their favorite bible heroes. But he couldn’t tell her that. The stories they’d told him about his biblical namesake were just that, foolish stories to make people feel better about God. Since his parents’ death and his own Numbering ceremony, Jeremiah had formed his own opinions about God.

  The woman nodded once to herself, and turned away, continuing down the line. Jeremiah deflated a little.

  He allowed his mind to wander. He would sneak out that night. Maybe he would pinch a fresh loaf of bread from one of the vendors, or some fruit if it was less guarded, something to take the edge off since he was still going without dinner as punishment for last week’s crimes.

  Mr. Meyer’s bark to go with the elderly woman’s driver startled him out of his daydreams. While she disappeared out the door, the chauffeur stood impatiently in front of him, beckoning for Jeremiah to follow. She’d chosen him after all?

  He shadowed the driver into the vehicle, admiring the luxury car as he climbed into the front seat next to the chauffeur. It was an old-world model he’d never even seen before, expensive.

  Her home was equally expensive, lavishly furnished, four levels, more rooms than she would ever need, and more of those fancy cars in the garage. Jeremiah didn’t want to get sent back to the orphanage until he had time to lay the foundation for his plan, so he obediently worked on the chores they gave him, but avoided the older lady.

  The fact that she’d adopted him, instead of simply hiring him on to work chafed at him. It was as if she made a lifetime claim on him instead of just offering a job. Who did she think she was?

  Though she invited him to come to dinner every day, he used his chores as an excuse to miss it, disappearing when necessary. He was good at hiding. He’d done it often in the orphanage, and her vast estate only made it easier.

  When no one was looking, he stole supplies, stockpiling as many treasures as he could find in the room he’d been given, with plans to run away, sell everything, and live off the income. The first month proved he could gather quite a lot if he played his hand right. He held off leaving a bit longer, just one more week, two weeks, three.

  But then he was caught.

  In the middle of pocketing some of the household’s expensive silverware, this sighting led to a search of his room and the discovery of the rest of his stash. Angrily dragged into Lady Beryl’s parlor by two servants, he knew the beating he’d expected since his arrival was finally coming.

  Instead, the older woman studied him from where she sat in a parlor chair, waving the servants out.

  “Come sit with me, Jeremiah,” she said with a small smile, and gestured towards the tall flowery chair opposite her. She held some multi-colored yarn, busily knitting something long and thin, not stopping for a moment as he hesitated, then sat.

  They sat like this in a silence that stretched uncomfortably long. Jeremiah stared at her in defiance, but slowly, as she didn’t react, or even
look up, he lost his confidence.

  Confused, he watched the knitting needles fly back and forth, wrapping around and repeating, again and again. Glancing around the room, he noticed dozens of framed family pictures covering the walls of her sitting room. Jeremiah didn’t have a single photo of his family, but this woman’s walls were covered with them. Some of the frames held just one or two individuals; others were filled to the brim with people. A few looked extremely old, with the subjects wearing extremely out of date clothing and sporting strange hairstyles.

  There were more modern frames as well. More than one held photos of a young boy, capturing him on camera as he grew up. They stopped around the same age as Jeremiah was now.

  Sprinkled in the middle of the oldest and the newest, were a few photos of a young girl who looked a lot like Lady Beryl. Same face shape, same mouth, same eyes, same chocolate colored skin... Jeremiah glanced back and forth, between the elderly woman and the girl in the photo, mulling over the possibility it might actually be the Lady Beryl when she was younger. She’d been pretty, with a joyful smile that touched her eyes. The older woman looked at him just then and caught him staring. That same wide smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners crossed her face.

  “I hear you’ve been keeping a few household odds and ends in your room,” she said, still smiling, as if they were sharing a secret.

  Turning away, he crossed his arms and leaned back deep into the chair, even going so far as to put one of his feet up on the chair where he knew the dirty shoe would soil it. When she didn’t immediately yell, he snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye, and found her staring at him, not in fury but something he couldn’t quite name, almost a sadness. Guilt niggled at him, and he found himself putting his foot back on the floor and wiping at the dirt, trying to get it off.

  “Jeremiah,” she said after it was clear he wasn’t going to answer unless it was a direct question, “What were you planning to do with all of the items you’ve been saving?” He stopped rubbing at the dirt, which wasn’t coming out, and crossed his arms defiantly again. He could pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, but no doubt the servants would rat him out if he did. He hadn’t made any friends with his behavior these last couple months. She wanted the truth? Fine, he would tell her.

  “I’m going to sell them,” he said, lifting his chin and looking straight at her.

  Lady Beryl’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Why ever so?” she asked, sounding surprised. “Are you going hungry?”

  “No,” Jeremiah mumbled sullenly, brushing invisible lint off the shoulder of his brown vest and dropping his eyes, not quite able to meet hers.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, and he noticed she’d put down her knitting in concern. “Do you need money?”

  He didn’t answer. He wasn’t lacking anything at the moment, but that wouldn’t last. “I have plans,” he said, and cut off. No way he was going to explain the details to her. He wasn’t an idiot.

  She sighed softly. “You’re planning to run away.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Jolting in surprise, Jeremiah immediately wanted to kick himself for reacting and confirming her suspicions.

  Still she didn’t yell. Her conduct was such unfamiliar terrain, every inch of the conversation so unexpected, he didn’t know what would happen next.

  Lady Beryl sighed again, and put her unfinished knitting into a basket beside her chair, freeing her hands to massage her eyelids. When she looked up again, Jeremiah was shocked at the tears in her eyes. His own eyes widened in fear. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. What punishment would he receive now?

  She blinked and dabbed at the tears, as if embarrassed, and then, amazingly, she gave him a small, sad smile. She’s lost it, he thought to himself, jaw dropping open just slightly in astonishment. Up until now, she’d never seemed crazy. She handled the estates with intelligence, clearly, as she was extremely wealthy. And she had kind eyes. Jeremiah was confused.

  Sniffing, the lady put her used tissue down, and when she spoke her voice cracked a little. “I must confess to you, my dear. You remind me of my son, Jacob. He was around your age when he died, nearly 20 years ago now.”

  Digesting this information, Jeremiah was tempted to play on her sympathy. A long pause stretched between them until finally, staring back into her eyes, he said quietly. “I doubt I’m anything like him.”

  “It’s true,” she replied, winking at him and laughing at his bemused expression. “Jacob would’ve been discovered within a week! I gather from the things that have turned up missing, you’ve been at it quite a bit longer.” Again, a shrewd conclusion. He would have to rethink his previous assessment of her mental state. She was peculiar, for sure, but her intelligence was razor sharp.

  At a loss for words, Jeremiah just blinked at her. She didn’t seem offended at his silence, just regarded at him thoughtfully, without malice.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said with another smile, and Jeremiah found himself listening respectfully, something he hadn’t done in years, “let’s make a deal.”

  Lady Beryl ignored his raised eyebrows. “I would like it very much if you would stay with me a little bit longer.” She met his eyes as she said this, and he couldn’t find a hint of deceit in her face. “But if, after... oh, let’s say, a month... yes. If after a month you still wish to leave, I promise I will help you financially and even send you wherever you would like to go myself.”

  She met his gaze evenly, not once looking away or stirring in her seat.

  When he spoke, his voice was laced with skepticism, “Why would you do that.” He tried to imitate the way she turned a question into a statement.

  “Because my dear, I like you,” she said simply. “You remind me of my son. And I want you to be able to trust me.”

  He found himself wanting to do just that. Admiring her ability to be straightforward, he lifted one eyebrow cockily, and responded in the same way by challenging her. “What’s the catch?”

  Jeremiah expected denial, but instead the Lady Beryl grinned mischievously and clapped her hands like a giddy schoolgirl. “Ah yes, we need a catch don’t we?” Once again, he was caught off guard, but he found himself grinning back at her.

  He shook the smile off.

  Clearing her throat, Lady Beryl also became solemn. “If I agree to do this, then you must give me your word you will cooperate while you are here. No more skipping your lessons. You will attend every reading and writing lesson, and do whatever homework Master Edward tells you to do.”

  Jeremiah groaned, but she wasn’t done. “You must also eat dinner with me instead of pretending to be ill or busy.” As she proved once again that she was far cleverer than he’d assumed, Jeremiah felt his cheeks growing red. He nodded.

  “And finally, Jeremiah,” she said, waiting patiently for him to meet her eyes before finishing, “you must, must talk to me if you need something. I mean it,” she said, rapping a finger on the table between them to emphasize her point. “There is no sense in you stealing what I would gladly give to you. Do you understand?”

  Blinking, Jeremiah tried to figure out what the real catch would be. Maybe she was just lonely. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to stick around a couple more weeks. If the old bird didn’t come through on her end, he could still sneak away with a couple easy scores left out in plain sight. He nodded, more to himself than to her, but she smiled at him, eyes crinkling again.

  “Wonderful. So we have a deal?” she asked, and then did the most shocking thing of all. She held her hand out to him to shake, as if he were an equal. He couldn’t stop his mouth from falling wide open this time, eyes wide.

  “Shake on it,” she insisted, and he swallowed, mouth dry, before reaching out.

  He barely touched her hand enough to shake it once, then whipped his hand back and choked out one word. “Deal.”

  Jeremiah attended every lesson and showed up for every dinner, per their agreement. It felt odd, almost as if he really
were adopted. But a deal was a deal.

  Reading and writing came naturally to him; he enjoyed the chance to share his opinion. Master Edward brought his essays to Lady Beryl on multiple occasions, concerned, yet she chuckled as she read them over dinner, not offended in the slightest.

  “I knew your parents were true believers,” she said one night, peeking up from the page. He hadn’t said so straight out, yet Jeremiah belatedly remembered how well she read between the lines.

  “I’m not, though.” He was careful to enunciate in case anyone was listening. Though Beryl reminded him of his parents, slowly gaining his trust as time went on with her honesty and integrity, that didn’t mean he trusted the rest of her household staff.

  “That’s alright. But you should know that I am.” Beryl surprised him as she often did by confiding in him. If she wanted to risk being reported, so be it, but he wasn’t going to join her in talking about it. Yet, he respected her enough to listen.

  At the end of their month-long deal, they were eating dinner when Lady Beryl asked Jeremiah about his family. He found himself telling her, staring at his uneaten peas as they grew cold.

  Lady Beryl sniffed, making him look up. Her eyes were filled with tears. “We have both lost family, dear one, but I can’t imagine losing both parents in such a way.”

  He remembered she’d lost her son, and nodded. Dropping his gaze to his plate, he moved pieces of food around with his fork.

  What he did not expect was to suddenly feel her hugging him, frail arms holding him tightly. After a second, he slowly lifted his hands to her arm wrapped around him and hugged her back.

  He’d cried that day.

  The following day when she’d asked him if he needed help getting ready for his journey or if he’d like to stay, he’d swallowed hard, trying not to cry again, and asked if he could stay.