Instead of signing back, she just gives him a small nod.
Leaning against Logan’s brawny arm, Brooklyn lets her gaze sift through the crowd. After the twenty-one are taken, her rank will leave her deep in the red for harvesting. Not a problem—she has six months to improve her rating. That should be easy. Once she’s taken care of that plebe who switched her rifle. Once she digs up some nice blackmail dirt she can use against someone who can secure her safety.
As for Risa Ward, she will disappear, as if she had never been born. And no great loss. It’s not like she would have changed the world.
As Brooklyn looks over the kids in the yard, she wonders who will be on the next list. Or who she might put there in order to save herself. In a world where kids like her have no power, it’s nice to know there are still some things she can control.
Who will she switch next time?
UnDevoured
Co-authored with Jarrod Shusterman
1 • Seventeen
When Roland Taggart steps on the wrestling mat, he feels like an animal. It’s something about the way his adrenaline pumps through his veins, the bitter sting of cleaning chemicals that fills his nostrils, the way cold sweat sticks to his skin after a match—it’s stimulating. It makes him feel alive.
Roland stares into his opponent’s eyes for any sign of fear but finds none, only a deep hue of red with flecks of purple—pigment injections are a common fad for students these days at Continental High School. As if bleeding your school colors wasn’t enough. Roland has always scoffed at the fanatic face-painting type. Today the gym bleachers are packed full of them, cheering, waving pom-poms, their screams echoing in the shells of his ear guards. And he knows his mother’s voice isn’t one of them, not that he cares. Lately it seems like the only extracurricular she’s interested in is fighting with Roland’s stepfather.
People told Roland he was in over his head, challenging a state-qualifying wrestler. Sure, beating superstar Zane Durbin means taking his spot on the team, but to Roland it means much more. It means respect. It means power.
The whistle is blown, and Zane extends his hand for the prematch handshake. He notices the shark tattoo on Roland’s right forearm and smirks.
“Nice fish,” he snorts.
Roland keeps his cool, offers a cordial smile, and grips Zane’s hand, commencing the match. Roland moves first and grapples, eventually positioning himself for his signature move—the body lock. He uses his raw strength to squeeze Zane’s torso, compressing his spine, forcing him to fold backward and collapse to the mat. Roland pounces and pins him down. But despite Roland’s muscle, his opponent surges forward, tearing free from Roland’s grasp and avoiding what felt like a sure win.
Roland curses himself—not just for having let Zane escape, but because he lost control. He shakes it off, gets back into his stance, and begins circling methodically. Roland steps left, forcing Zane to shift his weight right. Roland moves in a rhythm so calculated it’s almost hypnotizing, and he can feel himself gaining control of the match. Roland very suddenly lowers his center of gravity all in one motion, exploding into Zane—but his opponent slips off with ease, and Roland stumbles to the ground. It seems as if every ounce of energy that Roland exerts, Zane gains in power—and now Zane is dancing around, taunting him.
He can see the amusement in Zane’s gaze, and it reminds Roland of the way his stepfather would look into his eyes after a big fight with his mother. She’d be crying on the cold kitchen floor, then Roland and his stepfather would find themselves face-to-face in the doorway, his stepfather looking down at him with that same sick glint of pleasure in his eyes that screams I own you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
By now Roland’s ears are ringing. The crowd roars from the bleachers, or maybe it’s just the sound of blood rushing though his head, because within seconds he feels an uncontrollable wave of emotion surging through him. It’s the same indescribable force that curls his hands into fists. That makes him hold eye contact a second too long. That lures him into confrontation—a feeling he knows all too well.
Roland bull-rushes forward, more aggressive than ever. But Zane stays calm and in one graceful motion ducks right, hooking his arms underneath Roland’s. Zane thrusts backward, using Roland’s own momentum against him. As soon as Roland feels his feet lifted from the mat, he knows exactly what’s coming next, and he’s helpless to stop it. Even before he’s slammed down onto the mat, he knows this match is over.
. . . And he flashes to a time when he was a child, standing at the edge of a pier—that emotionally precarious moment just before jumping. A memory of looking down, helpless and hopeless. Not because of how far the fall was, but because he knew exactly what would happen the moment he hit the water.
2 • Eight
Today is the day that Roland is going to “grow a pair”—or at least that’s what his stepfather told him as he gazed out to the horizon. Sure, a lot of kids his age jump off the pier, but heights aren’t exactly Roland’s forte at eight years old. Roland’s grandmother moved to Southern California after retiring, which made for a good excuse to escape the land-locked summer swelter of Indianapolis for a kinder, gentler swelter—and a beach day was the only way for Roland and his younger sister to escape their parents, and their drinking. Too bad for Roland his stepfather always seemed to come up with the most creative “character-building” activities when pissed drunk, and now Roland finds himself at the supposed precipice of his manhood—namely, the San Clemente pier. Roland’s stepfather has always been a throw-you-in-the-deep-end kind of guy; however, this brings a whole new meaning to the phrase.
He lifts Roland over the railing, setting him down on the thin ledge on the other side. “See. Everyone else is doing it,” he slurs, failing to see that such values run contrary to that of every parent in the history of parenthood.
His stepfather is known to have a short temper, and Roland smells more than just beer on his breath. “If you jump, I’ll jump too. How about that?” his stepfather says as he grabs the back of Roland’s neck, making Roland tense up even more. “I promise.”
Still Roland clings tight to the splintery railing, terrified.
“Do it,” he commands, and digs his nails tighter into Roland’s arm—and it starts to hurt. So Roland begins to cry. His tears catch in the breeze, and Roland wishes his fear could be windswept along with them—perhaps taken to another place entirely—but his stepfather’s grip keeps him stuck in reality. Others take notice of the scene, which only fuels his stepfather’s rage, so he tries to pry Roland’s fingers from the railing, and Roland’s cries quickly turn into screams.
He breathes into Roland’s ear, “I’m your father. You have to trust me.” But Roland doesn’t trust him, and he knows this man isn’t really his father, so Roland wraps both of his arms around the railing, clinging for all he’s worth—but his stepfather is much stronger. He pulls Roland free, lifts him up, and hurls him down into the water below.
The terrifying fall. A brief sting. An abiding belief that he’s going to keep sinking and drown. But then Roland surfaces, gasping for air. He reminds himself that he can swim. He confirms that, yes, he’s still alive. He treads the chilly water the best he can and waits for the splash that will herald his stepfather’s arrival in the water. I’ll jump too. That’s what he promised. But the telltale splash doesn’t come. And only when Roland looks up does he realize why—his stepfather is frozen at the edge of the railing, clearly still trying to work up the courage to jump. He’s leaning forward as if to dare himself but appears to be gripped by fear that he can’t overcome. He didn’t jump in after Roland like he promised. He didn’t, and he never would.
3 • Seventeen
Last year Roland’s guidance counselor suggested that he channel his energy into something that builds personality rather than punching everyone else’s into submission. So now he gets to slam the mousey know-it-all from third period, and if he does it with enough conviction, it might just earn him an
A. Nearly two weeks have passed since varsity challenges, long enough for everyone to forget Roland’s loss to Zane—everyone, that is, except Roland. Even though practicing with junior varsity every day is a constant reminder of his failure, Roland doesn’t let it get to him. Deep down he knows that he’s just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to make his next move.
Roland is popular at school, not because he’s particularly well liked, but because no one else has the guts to tell him otherwise. He and his group of friends, about ten in all, hang out at what they like to call the Hill, a not-so-clever name for the large elevated patch of grass located in the center of campus. The guys he hangs with are the troublemaking type, their eyes reddened by pigment injections and bodies inked like an urban interchange—as if appearing less human might prevent them from being unwound. People joke that when the Juvey-cops needed to make a quota, they’d come to the Hill and take their pick. Jokes like these don’t really bother Roland, because even if they were true, he knows he would be the last to go. Roland doesn’t really get in fights anymore—why should he when he has people ready and willing to do his dirty work for him? As far as anyone is concerned, Roland is the alpha of the pack. He’s respected because he’s fair, and above all, he’s dangerously intelligent—and everyone knows it.
He spots Zane from across the quad, sporting his varsity letterman jacket, lined to the seams with patches that boast his every earthly accomplishment. The all-American jock, honor student, captain of the debate team, and perhaps the most popular kid at school. He even won homecoming king this year, not that Roland really cares about that sort of thing.
Sure, Roland has had his sights set on Zane ever since the day of the match, but today is different. Today Zane seems on edge. Vulnerable. It’s not until Roland gets closer that he realizes that it’s because Zane’s been arguing with his girlfriend, Valerie Mills—a girl Roland dated a couple years back. He watches as Zane paces, pointing an accusing finger at her. Valerie eventually storms off, eyes black and runny with mascara.
To the rest of the school this little altercation might turn into fifth-period gossip, but to Roland it means much more. It means opportunity—not for revenge, but to take what’s rightfully his. Roland watches from the top of his hill, eyes beaming, because now he knows exactly what he needs to do.
4 • Eleven
A human being is supposed to be the sum of their genes and their environment—however, Roland feels a slave to his home environment and is estranged from at least half of his biology, having never met his real father. To Roland, his life equation feels far from balanced—even though his family may appear relatively functional to the rest of the world.
As much as Roland hates it when people make the honest mistake of thinking that he is biologically related to his stepfather, there’s a part of him that likes to pretend that he is—and yet another part curses the part that pretends.
It’s summertime, the Taggart family is in California again, and things have gotten worse. This summer their stepfather makes both Roland and his sister keep their shirts on at the beach. A couple of puffy welts could always be written off, but at this point not even Roland could lie away the scars.
Now more than ever Roland and his sister are finding themselves out of the house. And today something brings Roland back to the pier. Roland realizes he hasn’t been back here since the day his stepfather threw him in three summers ago. He still remembers the exact spot where it happened. The funny thing is that he can hardly get himself to look over the edge—he’s been even more terrified of heights ever since. Roland and his stepfather never talked about that day again. In fact, he never told anyone about it—but it haunts him. Enough that he’s lured back here once more. This time with his sister.
Roland turns to her. “I dare you to jump.”
She shakes her head and backs up, moving away from him.
“C’mon, all the other kids do it.”
“It’s too far. And I don’t swim good.”
“I’ll follow you in.” Roland looks deep into her eyes. “I promise.”
Roland’s sister tries to back away, but Roland is a couple years older than her and much stronger. She screams when he grabs her, but no one is close enough to stop it. “It won’t be so bad—you’ll see.” Then he picks her up and in one smooth motion throws her off the edge.
Then even before he hears her hit the water, Roland closes his eyes, musters every morsel of courage he has, and jumps, just as promised.
He surfaces just beside her, and she grabs him around the neck, holding him for dear life.
“See? It didn’t even hurt, did it?”
Roland helps his sister to shore. And even though his mother, who saw the scene, goes ballistic, and even though his stepfather gives him a double helping of the belt for throwing her off that same ledge, it’s all okay—because Roland needed to know who he was, but more importantly, who he wasn’t. He jumped. He kept his promise. And for the first time each lash stings a little less than the one before.
5 • Seventeen
It isn’t hard for Roland to find Valerie’s car later that evening, stamped fresh with those bleeding-heart-hippie bumper stickers—PROACTIVE CITIZENS AGAINST UNWINDING, THE WHOLENESS COALITION, and the like. Roland watches through rows of cars in the school parking lot as Valerie bids her friends farewell after cheer practice. Roland makes his way closer, keeping out of view behind SUVs and jacked-up pickups. Valerie slips into her car and pulls the door shut, but just before it closes, Roland stops it. He sees her glance at his arm that holds open the door. She sees his tiger shark tattoo even before seeing him. She knows exactly who it is.
Roland opens the car door gently and looks down at her. “Hey, Valerie. Heard you had a rough day.”
She’s caught off guard. Stumbles over her words a bit. Good. It gives him the advantage. “What are you doing here?”
Rather than immediately answering the question, Roland advances forward, getting down on one knee and leveling with her. “I saw you crying today, and I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” He takes her hand and smiles, showing his teeth. Valerie pulls away, uncomfortable—Roland can feel himself already in control. So he makes his next calculated move. “I don’t know . . . I felt kind of . . . protective. I don’t know what that means.”
Roland dated Valerie long enough to know that it would take more than sweet talk to win this game, and as expected, she keeps her cool. “It means nothing. You broke up with me. Or did you forget that?”
Her comment might evoke some feelings if Roland let it, but he doesn’t. He lets it slide off. He moves close to her ear, making his voice breathy. He knows she can feel the warmth in her ear when he speaks. Feel the charge in his voice. “There’s so much I miss,” he tells her. “I miss kissing you. I miss the feel of it.”
She shifts her shoulders, uncomfortable, but doesn’t stop him. So he gently touches her cheek. “Is it crazy of me to want that again?”
He has Valerie right where he wants her—caught in his trance, mesmerized by his pretense at vulnerability. He moves his hand down her neck and grabs the back of her hair in a most primal way.
That’s when she snaps out of it and pushes his hand away. He lets her. For now. “Roland, I’m sorry. I’m with Zane now, and that’s not changing, no matter what you think.” She grips the door handle to pull it shut, but Roland rips it open.
“And how many boyfriends is it going to take to replace all the pieces of the one you let get unwound?”
It’s a dirty blow, but necessary. No one speaks of it, at least not to Valerie, but everyone knows. It was the luckless loser she chose between Roland and Zane. What was his name? Roland can’t remember. That’s the way it is with Unwinds.
As much as Valerie must hate him right now, Roland knows she won’t look him in the eyes. Because deep down he knows Valerie will never know the answer to that question, or whether she truly played a part in that boy’s parents’ decision to sign an unwind
order. This is the exact button Roland has been waiting to push, to detonate the entire situation. And Valerie explodes. She fights with all of her being to close the door, but Roland won’t let her.
“Go to hell!” she screams—but Roland isn’t finished. He puts his hand behind her head, pulling her lips to his, and forces a kiss. She struggles, but he’s much stronger than she is. Valerie claws, throwing punches out of desperation, but it’s no use—and as their mouths are pressed together, she sinks her teeth into Roland’s lower lip, biting down. He tries to pull her off, but she doesn’t let go. Not until it really stings. Not until she’s drawn just enough blood.
Finally Roland pushes her off and grunts. He wipes the blood from his mouth and savors the moment, flashing her a bloody red smile. “You know what? It wasn’t as good as I remember.”
Valerie slams the door shut, fires up the engine, and peels out.
Roland exhales, invigorated, his bottom lip beginning to swell. He looks around, noticing that a few of Valerie’s teammates saw the whole thing—three to be exact—and Roland smiles to himself, because as far as he’s concerned that’s just the right number of witnesses.
6 • Thirteen
The size of an ocean wave is calculated not by its face but from the trough behind it, giving it the illusion of being much larger than it actually is. But right now, for Roland, the wave that swells before him can’t be measured in feet or inches, only in increments of fear.
He’s no longer afraid of heights, no longer fears the jump from the pier. He’s conquered that. Now he’s moved on to greater challenges.
Pulling his boogie board into his chest, Roland makes a split-second decision and dives underwater, bracing himself for impact. He goes under and a moment later emerges. It wasn’t as bad as he thought. Not as bad as it could have been. He’s relieved. Roland sizes up the next wave—it’s intimidating, but he’ll survive this one too. The crashing wall of water is beautiful even in its monstrous nature—the way the setting sun glows through its face; the way sparkles dance along its foamy crest.
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