Restore Me (Shatter Me)

by Tahereh Mafi

  I could feel it then, could feel my temperature rising, my jaw tensing as anger surged through me. “But you’re the one who told me to reach out to all the supreme commanders! This was your idea! And now you’re terrified that someone actually reached out? What do y—”

  And then, all at once, I understood.

  My words were soft and stunned when I said, “Oh my God, you didn’t think I’d get any responses, did you?”

  Castle swallowed hard. Said nothing.

  “You didn’t think anyone would respond?” I said, my voice rising in pitch.

  “Ms Ferrars, you must understand—”

  “Why are you playing games with me, Castle?” My fists clenched. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not playing games with you,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “I just—I thought—” he said, gesticulating wildly. “It was an exercise. An experiment—”

  I felt flashes of heat spark behind my eyes. Anger welled in my throat, vibrated along my spine. I could feel the rage building inside me and it took everything I had to clamp it down. “I am no longer anyone’s experiment,” I said. “And I need to know what the hell is going on.”

  “You must speak with Mr Warner,” he said. “He will explain everything. There’s still so much you need to know about this world—and The Reestablishment—and time is of the essence,” he said. He met my eyes. “You must be prepared for whatever comes next. You need to know more, and you need to know now. Before things escalate.”

  I looked away, my hands shaking from the surge of unspent energy. I wanted to—needed to—break something. Anything. Instead, I said, “This is bullshit, Castle. Complete bullshit.”

  And he looked like the saddest man in the world when he said—

  “I know.”

  I’ve been walking around with a splitting headache ever since.

  So it doesn’t make me feel any better when Kenji pokes me in the shoulder, startling me back to life, and says,

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You guys have a weird relationship.”

  “No, we don’t,” I say, and the words are reflexive, petulant.

  “Yes,” Kenji says. “You do.” And he saunters off, leaving me alone in the abandoned streets, tipping an imaginary hat as he walks away.

  I throw my shoe at him.

  The effort, however, is fruitless; Kenji catches my shoe midair. He’s now waiting for me, ten steps ahead, holding my tennis shoe in his hand as I hop awkwardly in his direction. I don’t have to turn around to see the smirks on the soldiers’ faces some distance behind us. I’m pretty sure everyone thinks I’m a joke of a supreme commander. And why wouldn’t they?

  It’s been over two weeks and I still feel lost.

  Half paralyzed.

  I’m not proud of my inability to get it together, not proud of the revelation that, as it turns out, I’m not smart enough, fast enough, or shrewd enough to rule the world. I’m not proud that, at my lowest moments, I look around at all that I have to do in a single day and wonder, in awe, at how organized Anderson was. How accomplished. How very, very talented.

  I’m not proud that I’ve thought that.

  Or that, in the quietest, loneliest hours of the morning I lie awake next to the son Anderson tortured nearly to death and wish that Anderson would return from the dead and take back the burden I stole from his shoulders.

  And then there’s this thought, all the time, all the time:

  That maybe I made a mistake.

  “Uh, hello? Earth to princess?”

  I look up, confused. Lost in my mind today. “Did you say something?”

  Kenji shakes his head as he hands me my shoe. I’m struggling to put it on when he says, “So you forced me to take a stroll through this nasty, frozen shitland just to ignore me?”

  I raise a single eyebrow at him.

  He raises both, waiting, expectant. “What’s the deal, J? This,” he says, gesturing at my face, “is more than whatever weirdness you got from Castle this morning.” He tilts his head at me, and I read genuine concern in his eyes when he says, “So what’s going on?”

  I sigh; the exhalation withers my body.

  You must speak with Mr Warner. He will explain everything.

  But Warner isn’t known for his communication skills. He doesn’t make small talk. He doesn’t share details about himself. He doesn’t do personal. I know he loves me—I can feel, in our every interaction, how deeply he cares for me—but even so, he’s only ever offered me the vaguest information about his life. He is a vault to which I’m only occasionally granted access, and I often wonder how much I have left to learn about him. Sometimes it scares me.

  “I’m just—I don’t know,” I finally say. “I’m really tired. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Rough night?”

  I peer up at Kenji, shading my eyes against the cold sunlight. “You know, I don’t really sleep anymore,” I say to him. “I’m up at four in the morning every day, and I still haven’t gotten through last week’s mail. Isn’t that crazy?”

  Kenji shoots me a sideways glance, surprised.

  “And I have to, like, approve a million things every day? Approve this, approve that. Not even, like, big things,” I say to him. “It’s stupid stuff, like, like”—I pull a crumpled sheet of paper out of my pocket and shake it at the sky—“like this nonsense: Sector 418 wants to extend their soldiers’ lunch hour by an additional three minutes, and they need my approval. Three minutes? Who cares?”

  Kenji fights back a smile; shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Every day. All day. I can’t get anything real done. I thought I’d be doing something big, you know? I thought I’d be able to, like, unify the sectors and broker peace or something, and instead I spend all day trying to avoid Delalieu, who’s in my face every five minutes because he needs me to sign something. And that’s just the mail.”

  I can’t seem to stop talking now, finally confessing to Kenji all the things I feel I can never say to Warner, for fear of disappointing him. It’s liberating, but then, suddenly, it also feels dangerous. Like maybe I shouldn’t be telling anyone that I feel this way, not even Kenji.

  So I hesitate, wait for a sign.

  Kenji isn’t looking at me anymore, but he still appears to be listening. His head is cocked to the side, his mouth playing at a smile when he says, after a moment, “Is that all?”

  And I shake my head, hard, relieved and grateful to keep complaining. “I have to log everything, all the time. I have to fill out reports, read reports, file reports. There are five hundred and fifty-four other sectors in North America, Kenji. Five hundred and fifty-four.” I stare at him. “That means I have to read five hundred and fifty-four reports, every single day.”

  Kenji stares back, unmoved.

  “Five hundred and fifty-four!”

  He crosses his arms.

  “The reports are ten pages long!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” I say.

  “Hit me.”

  “This job blows.”

  Now Kenji laughs, out loud. Still, he says nothing.

  “What?” I say. “What are you thinking?”

  He musses my hair and says, “Aww, J.”

  I jerk my head away from his hand. “That’s all I get? Just an ‘Aww, J,’ and that’s it?”

  Kenji shrugs.

  “What?” I demand.

  “I mean, I don’t know,” he says, cringing a little as he says it. “Did you think this was going to be . . . easy?”

  “No,” I say quietly. “I just thought it would be better than this.”

  “Better, how?”

  “I guess, I mean, I thought it would be . . . cooler?”

  “Like, you thought you’d be killing a bunch of bad dudes by now? High-kicking your way through politics? Like you could just kill Anderson and all of a sudden, bam, world peace?”

  And now I can’t bring myself to look at him, becaus
e I’m lying, lying through my teeth when I say,

  “No, of course not. I didn’t think it would be like that.”

  Kenji sighs. “This is why Castle was always so apprehensive, you know? With Omega Point it was always about being slow and steady. Waiting for the right moment. Knowing our strengths—and our weaknesses. We had a lot going for us, but we always knew—Castle always said—that we could never take out Anderson until we were ready to lead. It’s why I didn’t kill him when I had the chance. Not even when he was half dead already and standing right in front of me.” A pause. “It just wasn’t the right moment.”

  “So—you think I made a mistake?”

  Kenji frowns, almost. Looks away. Looks back, smiles a little, but only with one side of his mouth. “I mean, I think you’re great.”

  “But you think I made a mistake.”

  He shrugs in a slow, exaggerated way. “Nah, I didn’t say that. I just think you need a little more training, you know? I’m guessing the insane asylum didn’t prep you for this gig.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  He laughs.

  “Listen, you’re good with the people. You talk pretty. But this job comes with a lot of paperwork, and it comes with a lot of bullshit, too. Lots of playing nice. Lots of ass-kissing. I mean, what are we trying to do right now? We’re trying to be cool. Right? We’re trying to, like, take over but, like, not cause absolute anarchy. We’re trying not to go to war right now, right?”

  I don’t respond quickly enough and he pokes me in the shoulder.

  “Right?” he says. “Isn’t that the goal? Maintain the peace for now? Attempt diplomacy before we start blowing shit up?”

  “Yes, right,” I say quickly. “Yeah. Prevent war. Avoid casualties. Play nice.”

  “Okay then,” he says, and looks away. “So you have to keep it together, kid. Because if you start losing it now? The Reestablishment is going to eat you alive. It’s what they want. In fact, it’s probably what they’re expecting—they’re waiting for you to self-destruct all this shit for them. So you can’t let them see this. You can’t let these cracks show.”

  I stare at him, feeling suddenly scared.

  He wraps one arm around my shoulder. “You can’t be getting stressed out like this. Over some paperwork?” He shakes his head. “Everyone is watching you now. Everyone is waiting to see what happens next. We either go to war with the other sectors—hell, with the rest of the world—or we manage to be cool and negotiate. And you have to be chill, J. Just be chill.”

  And I don’t know what to say.

  Because the truth is, he’s right. I’m so far in over my head I don’t even know where to start. I didn’t even graduate from high school. And now I’m supposed to have a lifetime’s worth of knowledge about international relations?

  Warner was designed for this life. Everything he does, is, breathes—

  He was built to lead.

  But me?

  What on earth, I think, have I gotten myself into?

  Why did I think I’d be capable of running an entire continent? How did I allow myself to imagine that a supernatural ability to kill things with my skin would suddenly grant me a comprehensive understanding of political science?

  I clench my fists too hard and—

  pain, fresh pain

  —as my fingernails pierce the flesh.

  How did I think people ruled the world? Did I really imagine it would be so simple? That I might control the fabric of society from the comfort of my boyfriend’s bedroom?

  I’m only now beginning to understand the breadth of this delicate, intricately developed spiderweb of people, positions, and power already in place. I said I was up for the task. Me, a seventeen-year-old nobody with very little life experience; I volunteered for this position. And now—basically overnight—I have to keep up. And I have no idea what I’m doing.

  But if I don’t learn how to manage these many relationships? If I don’t at least pretend to have even the slightest idea of how I’m going to rule?

  The rest of the world could so easily destroy me.

  And sometimes I’m not sure I’ll make it out of this alive.

  WARNER

  “How’s James?”

  I’m the first to break the silence. It’s a strange feeling. New for me.

  Kent nods his head in response, his eyes focused on the hands he’s clasped in front of him. We’re on the roof, surrounded by cold and concrete, sitting next to each other in a quiet corner to which I sometimes retreat. I can see the whole sector from here. The ocean far off in the distance. The sun making its sluggish, midday approach. Civilians like toy soldiers marching to and fro.

  “He’s good,” Kent finally says. His voice is tight. He’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt and doesn’t seem to be bothered by the blistering cold. He takes in a deep breath. “I mean—he’s great, you know? He’s so great. Doing great.”

  I nod.

  Kent looks up, laughs a short, nervous sort of laugh and looks away. “Is this crazy?” he says. “Are we crazy?”

  We’re both silent a minute, the wind whistling harder than before.

  “I don’t know,” I finally say.

  Kent pounds a fist against his leg. Exhales through his nose. “You know, I never said this to you. Before.” He looks up, but doesn’t look at me. “That night. I never said it, but I wanted you to know that it meant a lot to me. What you said.”

  I squint into the distance.

  It’s an impossible thing to do, really, to apologize for attempting to kill someone. Even so, I tried. I told him I understood him then. His pain. His anger. His actions. I told him that he’d survived the upbringing of our father to become a much better person than I’d ever be.

  “I meant it,” I say to him.

  Kent now taps his closed fist against his mouth. Clears his throat. “I’m sorry, too, you know.” His voice is hoarse. “Things got so screwed up. Everything. It’s such a mess.”

  “Yes,” I say. “It is.”

  “So what do we do now?” He finally turns to look at me, but I’m still not ready to meet his eyes. “How—how do we fix this? Can we even fix this? Is it too far gone?”

  I run a hand over my newly shorn hair. “I don’t know,” I say, too quietly. “But I’d like to fix it.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nod.

  Kent nods several times beside me. “I’m not ready to tell James yet.”

  I falter, surprised. “Oh.”

  “Not because of you,” he says quickly. “It’s not you I’m worried about. I just—explaining you means explaining something so much bigger. And I don’t know how to tell him his dad was a monster. Not yet. I really thought he’d never have to know.”

  At this, I look up. “James doesn’t know? Anything?”

  Kent shakes his head. “He was so little when our mom died, and I always managed to keep him out of sight when our dad came around. He thinks our parents died in a plane crash.”

  “Impressive,” I hear myself say. “That was very generous of you.”

  I hear Kent’s voice crack when he next speaks. “God, why am I so messed up over him? Why do I care?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m having the same problem.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nod.

  Kent drops his head in his hands. “He really screwed us up, man.”

  “Yes. He did.”

  I hear Kent sniff twice, two sharp attempts at keeping his emotions in check, and even so, I envy him his ability to be this open with his feelings. I pull a handkerchief from the inside pocket of my jacket and hand it to him.

  “Thanks,” he says tightly.

  Another nod.

  “So, um—what’s up with your hair?”

  I’m so caught off guard by the question I almost flinch. I actually consider telling Kent the whole story, but I’m worried he’ll ask me why I’d ever let Kenji touch my hair, and then I’d have to explain Juliette’s many, many reques
ts that I befriend the idiot. And I don’t think she’s a safe topic for us yet. So instead I say, “A little mishap.”

  Kent raises his eyebrows. Laughs. “Uh-huh.”

  I glance in his direction, surprised.

  He says, “It’s okay, you know.”

  “What is?”

  Kent is sitting up straighter now, staring into the sunlight. I’m beginning to see shades of my father in his face. Shades of myself. “You and Juliette,” he says.

  I freeze.

  He glances at me. “Really. It’s okay.”

  I can’t help it when I say, stunned, “I’m not sure it would’ve been okay with me, had our roles been reversed.”

  Kent smiles, but it looks sad. “I was a real dick to her at the end,” he says. “So I guess I got what I deserved. But it wasn’t actually about her, you know? All of that. It wasn’t about her.” He looks up at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’d been drowning for a while, actually. I was just really unhappy, and really stressed, and then”—he shrugs, turns away—“honestly, finding out you were my brother nearly killed me.”

  I blink. Surprised once more.

  “Yeah.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I know it seems weird now, but at the time I just—I don’t know, man, I thought you were a sociopath. I was so worried you’d figure out we were related and then, I mean—I don’t know, I thought you’d try to murder me or something.”

  He hesitates. Looks at me.

  Waits.

  It’s only then that I realize—surprised, yet again—that he wants me to deny this. To say it wasn’t so.

  But I can understand his concern. So I say, “Well. I did try to kill you once, didn’t I?”