UnBound

by Neal Shusterman

  • • •

  The recitals are finished. The art galleries closed. The committees are tallying the arts kids’ final scores.

  As Brooklyn heads for the staff offices, she has to step around a group of arts kids huddled in the stairwell. Two are crying. She thinks she hears Risa whispering, an edge of despair in her voice, but Brooklyn is on a mission and hurries past them.

  Since she has time before Thor can run the results, she decides to see her lieutenant. No harm in currying favor in this final hour.

  His office is near the headmaster’s. Brooklyn uses covert measures to slip past the headmaster’s office. Although she hasn’t been called in to answer for the fight with Pecs, she doesn’t want the headmaster to conduct an impromptu reprimand on a chance meeting.

  “Sir?” She taps lightly on the lieutenant’s open door.

  His expression darkens seeing her. “Yes?” No welcome, no warmth in his voice.

  “A moment, sir?” Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

  “A moment.” His nod at the chair before his desk is as crisp as his shirt.

  Best to get it over with. “Sir, I believe someone tampered with my rifle on the range this morning.”

  His jaw juts. “And do you have proof?”

  “No proof, sir. But suspicions that can be—”

  He waves her to silence. His eyes glint coldly. “Are you making an unfounded accusation against a member of your squad?”

  “Sir . . .”

  “Because soldiers don’t do that. No matter what, the squad is your family, and its members are your brothers and sisters. Do you have any inkling of what that means?”

  “Yes, sir.” She can barely hear herself, so she clears her throat and repeats loudly, “Yes, sir!”

  He leans slightly forward, his words still frosty. “I can lower your score further. Is that what you want?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You understand what it means to be a team player?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He nods and spins his chair back to his computer. “Then remember that before you waste my time again. Dismissed.”

  • • •

  In the computer lab Brooklyn’s left leg jitters. She and Thor are alone. It’s late afternoon, but after a marathon of testing, no one’s working on anything mundane like homework. She hears muffled shouts from the playground below—the littler kids are oblivious, but everyone else is shell-shocked.

  If Thor looked morose before, he looks positively miserable now. Remember, he signs. We can fix this.

  He slides to the left so she can get a better look at the screen. Her mouth goes dry and her leg stills. She’s still twenty-one.

  And Logan is just above the cutoff, at twenty-two.

  I can switch your names, Thor signs, like it’s nothing.

  Then she sees the name right before Logan’s. Number twenty-three. Risa. Did she flub her piano recital so badly that she’s come within two spots of being unwound? Even in the shock of finding her name there, Brooklyn can’t help but take a little bit of pleasure in it too. Did little Miss Perfect have stage fright? Or maybe she got sabotaged too.

  Then she thinks about how Risa stopped by her dorm before lunch. How she had acted like they could be friends. Of course they never would—but now they were no longer enemies.

  Her thoughts racing, she signs, Can we substitute any name for mine?

  Thor shakes his head. Got to be someone very close to you on the list, or it will be a huge red flag. They’ll know the list was compromised, and they’ll figure out who did it.

  The last thing Brooklyn wants is to get Thor in trouble. Sure, he can’t be unwound, but there are other punishments. It would be simplest to bump out Logan—but can she do that to him? It wouldn’t exactly be looking out for her squad brother, would it?

  She points to Risa’s name. Could we use her?

  Thor considers it. He knows Brooklyn’s history with Risa but doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he slowly signs, We could. Then he waits, leaving the decision entirely up to Brooklyn.

  When do I have to decide? Brooklyn asks.

  I need access to the mainframe, to make the switch, and I can’t get near it until the Eagle takes off.

  Brooklyn glances at the hook-nosed computer-room attendant. This one is much more attentive than the weekend attendant. The Eagle eyes them with even more suspicion than he does the other kids. Apparently signing is even more suspect than whispering.

  He goes off duty at five thirty, Thor tells her. That gives you an hour to decide—but don’t be late. The results become final at six—and if you miss that window, you’re as good as unwound.

  It feels heady yet horrible to hold the power of life and death or—if you believe the Juvenile Authority’s propaganda—living whole or living divided. But either way, it’s an end. She shivers. Better someone else’s end than hers.

  I’ll meet you back here in an hour, she tells him.

  • • •

  The stairwells are full of kids seeking out friends on other floors. Everyone needs someone to listen as they wail about poor performances or exult over triumphs. No one understands the true stakes. No ward except she and Thor knows of the extra harvesting this year. But every ward knows that a bad ranking could eventually lead to unwinding.

  Feeling claustrophobic, Brooklyn heads for the playground to think, but DormGuardians are setting up tables there. Too bad, because in a rare moment, it’s actually quiet. No basketball on the courts, no kids playing hopscotch, no one on the rusted swing set. She puts two and two together and remembers the ice cream Logan had told her about. They’ll all be getting a surprise treat tonight—and everyone will know something is up when they announce it. They only give ice cream on a weekday when something truly bad happens. The last time was the day before another batch of kids was put on a bus to be unwound.

  Sitting on a sun-warmed bench, she figures that even with the DormGuardians chattering about where to put the napkin dispensers, she isn’t going to find a quieter spot at the StaHo. She closes her eyes against visual distractions and leans into the dappled sunlight beneath a spreading maple tree. She lets the rustling leaves envelop her.

  In a few years making life-and-death decisions will be commonplace for her. On the battlefield she’ll kill enemies to protect friends. As she advances, she will eventually have to choose which friends will die to protect their platoon. Her orders will end the lives of innocents caught in a cross fire or buried in a bombing raid.

  The decision she makes in the next hour will prepare her for those times just as fitness and marksmanship training prepare her physically. She’s making herself a better soldier, she tells herself. A better leader.

  Leaving herself on the harvest list is not an option. Having a friend who knows how to alter the ranking algorithm gives her this advantage, this weapon. If you are attacked, then you defend yourself.

  This is her defending herself.

  Having had time to let her thoughts settle, the choice of who will take her place on the list is obvious.

  Risa is smart and talented. She shouldn’t be punished for having a bad day. On the other hand, Logan might be a good friend, but he’s not too bright, and he’s only an average boeuf. It’s only a matter of time before they unwind him anyway.

  She considers carefully what the lieutenant said to her. No matter what, the squad is your family. He meant that even if it costs the lives of others worthier than her fellow soldiers, her comrades come first.

  Someday that may be true for her. To save her comrades she may one day need to level a museum, aim her rifle at a poet, or gun down an entire orchestra.

  But not today. Today she will choose to save the life of a piano player instead of a boeuf.

  A 5:00 factory whistle sounds in the distance, and she chuckles. In the end she made her decision in less than thirty minutes. She has time to change into the Parana River shirt Logan gave her. It seems a nice thing to do for him before he’s unwound.


  • • •

  Her Parana River shirt is missing.

  She’d worn it yesterday but not for long. She’d folded it and put it in her nightstand drawer. It isn’t there now. Did someone take it?

  Feverishly she goes through her laundry hamper. The stink of dirty clothes sticks to her hands and fills her nose. She reaches the bottom of the hamper. Not there. Someone has taken it.

  She immediately remembers that other time when she accused Risa of stealing her shirt, and the humiliation that followed, but tries to brush the thought away.

  Naomi and two of her friends enter. Brooklyn’s anger boils over. Naomi was jealous of that shirt yesterday. Of course she pilfered it!

  Brooklyn launches herself at Naomi, shoving her against the wall, her forearm compressing Naomi’s throat. Another girl shrieks, but Brooklyn’s menacing growl overrides her loud protests.

  “Where’s my shirt?”

  Naomi is unable to breathe, her eyes are wild, and her fingernails score bloody lines in Brooklyn’s skin. Bucking frantically under Brooklyn’s forearm, Naomi manages to overset them both, and they crash sideways onto the laundry hamper.

  “Are you crazy?” Naomi vaults away from Brooklyn. “You could’ve killed me.”

  Brooklyn pushes the hamper away and starts after Naomi again, but one of the other girls, a hefty boeuf from Squad C, inserts herself between them. She’s almost as big as Pecs. The memory of that fight sobers Brooklyn, but her anger still simmers.

  “Give me back my Parana River shirt,” Brooklyn snarls. “I know you took it.”

  “I didn’t touch your shirt, jerk.” Naomi looks in the mirror, her fingers tenderly probing her reddening neck. “Wait till I tell ’em what you did to me. Geez, I’m gonna have bruises.”

  “Is that your missing top?” the other girl says, pointing to a shirt wadded up on the floor behind the upended hamper.

  Shocked, Brooklyn stares. Hands shaking, she picks it up. She sees the familiar insignia against the gray-green background. PR. Parana River.

  Naomi glares at Brooklyn. “I heard about your fight with that boy this morning. Then you attack me? Man, when they’re done with you, you’re gonna be blood and bones on the floor.”

  “Let it go, Naomi.”

  In equal astonishment, Brooklyn and Naomi stare at the boeuf from Squad C.

  The larger girl shrugs. “DormGuardians and the headmaster are in a foul mood today. They won’t care whose fault it is. If you don’t end this now, they’ll punish you both.”

  Naomi glowers, then exhales explosively and kicks Brooklyn. She’s an arts kid, so it doesn’t hurt much. Grabbing her shower kit, Naomi and her friends slam out of the room.

  Still holding her Parana River shirt, Brooklyn studies the boeuf uncertainly. “Thanks. I don’t know why you did that, but thanks.”

  “Soldiers gotta stick together,” she says. “And besides, Pecs deserved to have his nose broken.”

  The girl heads off toward the showers, and, thoughtfully, Brooklyn smoothes out the shirt. The Squad C boeuf made her feel kind of bad for bumping Logan, a fellow soldier, to the harvest list. Not bad enough to change her mind—just enough to make her feel miserable about it. Even so, her reasoning on who lives whole or divided still stands.

  Her hand pauses from trying to dewrinkle the shirt. She accused Risa of stealing her shirt when they were seven. Was she mistaken then, too? Brooklyn’s skin prickles considering how every memory of the event and everything she felt about Piano Girl since could be wrong.

  She shakes away the thought. What Risa did afterward, in front of a crowd of other wards, was worse. But when she stopped by to talk to Brooklyn today, it showed that Risa was big enough to forget about childhood squabbles. Brooklyn deciding not to bump Risa onto the harvest list shows she’s matured too.

  She knows she can’t get to the computer room too early, or the attendant will be suspicious. Best to wait until after he’s gone. Brooklyn decides she’ll catch Thor in his room and tell him her decision rather than waiting—but as she passes the showers, she overhears Naomi blabbing about their stupid little fight.

  It infuriates Brooklyn, but, for once, she controls her temper. Brooklyn was admittedly wrong, and although it’s never been in her nature to apologize, perhaps doing so will finally bring some good karma her way. Besides, a quick I’m sorry, Naomi, might stem off further retribution and any disciplinary action that might follow. So she’ll swallow her pride and apologize. Then she’ll hurry off to find Thor.

  She moves toward the line of girls in the tiled bathing area, waiting their turn. Steam rolls from the showers like a hot fog, leaving the tiles slick. Brooklyn approaches Naomi, already having formed and practiced an apology in her mind—but she never gets there. Instead, she encounters someone else in line.

  “Oh hey.”

  Brooklyn looks up. It’s Risa.

  “Hi,” Brooklyn says. And though she already knows, she asks, “How’d your recital go?”

  Risa grimaces. “Awful. I’m hoping they award points for doing a difficult piece.”

  They didn’t, Brooklyn could say. She almost feels affection for Piano Girl, as a lifeguard might feel about someone she’s saved from drowning. “Maybe they will,” she says instead.

  Risa moves to the sink next to Naomi and opens her toiletry kit. Catching sight of Naomi’s sore neck, she asks, “What happened to you?”

  Naomi pulls on the neck of her T-shirt and mutters, “Nothing.” Now that Brooklyn is there, she’s not so quick to talk about it, and Brooklyn wishes Risa would just let it go—but she doesn’t.

  “No, really.” Risa gently tugs Naomi’s collar aside. “That looks nasty. You should see the nurse.” Then Risa says in a low voice, “Was it one of the boys? You should report it.”

  Naomi jerks away and finally glares at Brooklyn. “She just about strangled me for no reason—that’s what happened—but the nurse would have to report it, and I don’t want to get into trouble.”

  Risa looks at Brooklyn in astonishment. Brooklyn is aware that the room has grown quiet except for the sound of the showers. Everyone is staring at her.

  “Why?” Risa asks.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brooklyn mumbles. She looks toward the entrance, hoping to make an escape, but there are too many girls blocking the way. All she needs is to push past them and send someone sprawling on the slippery tiles. They’d say she did it on purpose.

  “She accused me of stealing her shirt,” Naomi says, “but it was behind the laundry hamper the whole time.”

  Risa looks between Naomi and Brooklyn and then bursts out laughing. “Not again!”

  Feeling heat rush into her face, Brooklyn says quickly, “Let’s just drop it—it was a mistake, okay?”

  Then a girl behind Brooklyn asks Risa, “What do you mean ‘again’?”

  Brooklyn’s heart is hammering. She can’t bear to hear the story and her shame spoken aloud.

  “When we were little, Brooklyn thought I’d taken a shirt of hers too,” Risa says with a gentle smile that might also be a little bit calculated. “She shoved me. I shoved her back. No biggie.”

  Don’t tell them. Brooklyn feels like she’s on fire, and she realizes she’s signing. A lot of good that will do. She balls her hands into fists, forcing them down to her side.

  And then another girl says what Risa doesn’t.

  “Didn’t you spit on her?” the girl asks.

  It’s like ants beneath Brooklyn’s skin.

  “Yeah, I remember,” the girl says. “You pinned her on the ground, and you spit in her face. It was classic.”

  Risa cocks her head. “Yeah. I guess I did. What can I say? Kids do dumb things.”

  And the other girls laugh. The brainless, heartless twitter of birds. But it’s not their laughter that gets to Brooklyn. It’s the slow smile that creases Risa’s face. A mocking smile. A smile that says, I was better than you then, I’m better than you now, and I will always be one rung above you, ready to step on
your face. Or spit on it.

  “It was a long time ago, Brooks,” Risa says.

  “Yeah, right, whatever.”

  Brooklyn turns to leave, this time not caring who she topples to get out. No one falls, because the curtain of girls parts for her.

  Minutes later she opens the computer lab door. Thor sits alone at the mainframe, no attendant in sight. The clock on the wall above him reads 5:41.

  He simply signs, Who?

  Brooklyn spells it out so there can be no confusion.

  R. I. S. A.

  • • •

  That evening, in the crowded playground, Brooklyn Ward eats ice cream standing near Logan. He snickers at something Kip says. While the ice cream is still being served, a messenger from the headmaster’s office emerges from the building and passes out notes to twenty-one wards.

  Brooklyn thinks, If I ran things here, I’d at least wait till they’ve finished their ice cream. But compassion doesn’t live in a StaHo.

  One of the kids who gets a note is standing near them. Samson. Brooklyn remembers that he’s number two on the harvest list. Supposedly he’s a genius in math but is also a notorious underachiever. Genius serves no one if it never makes it out of your head.

  “What you got there?” Kip asks.

  “Headmaster wants to see me.” Samson stuffs the note into his pocket and starts working on his ice cream again.

  “What about?” Logan asks. He puts his arm around Brooklyn, and she allows it.

  Samson shrugs. “Maybe someone wants to adopt me.”

  They all laugh. Kip jokes that maybe Samson won the lottery, and then everyone offers ideas on how Samson should spend his winnings.

  Samson only grins, the loser that he is, enjoying his rare moment in the spotlight. Brooklyn says nothing, her gaze roaming through the crowd of kids.

  Near the swing set, Risa stands encircled by some other arts kids. She stares at the note in one hand, with her ice-cream cone forgotten, dripping on her other hand.

  The smile from before is now gone from her face. Robbed from her. Soon she will be gone, and no one will tell the story of what happened when they were seven. Because no one talks about harvested kids.

  Brooklyn’s gaze passes over Risa to where the deaf kids sit beneath the playground’s one tree. She catches Thor’s eye. His leg shields his left hand from the other deaf kids, and he signs, Okay?