6
I step down the spiral metal staircase, steadying myself on the wobbly rail. I’m not particularly fond of dark, confined spaces—as a matter of fact, I hate them—but having Gemma here helps put me at ease. The room’s walls are made of rock, and the floor is an uneven slab of concrete. I get the distinct feeling that I’m in a forbidden spot where hundreds of illegal transactions have taken place over the years. Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother me at all.
Sergio presses the button on an old laptop and sits down on a creaky wooden chair. He drums his fingers on the desk while he waits for the computer to warm up.
“How is it that you have electricity right now?” I ask.
He stares at me for a second, his eyes as icy as his frown, and I prepare for a lecture on how I should shut up and just be grateful that he’s helping us.
“Have you heard of generator?” He cocks his head to the side and slumps back into his chair.
“Yes,” I say, having seen gigantic ones at the hospital. We used them whenever there was a power outage.
He nods toward a small, beat-up machine in the corner, its hum so low that I hadn’t noticed it.
“I build it with my bare hands.” He lifts his beefy, oil-stained fingers so we can see them.
“And you’re from the Eastern Republic, right?” Gemma asks.
“You dead soon, so I tell you story. I kill a man in government because he kill my sister. He murder her in front of my old mother’s eyes. The government coming after me after I stab the man dead, so I get on boat and come here. If you tell anyone, I kill you.”
“Oh,” is the only sound I manage to produce for a second. “We need the IDs today.”
“Fine, but it take me few hours to hack into system to add your new IDs to list.”
“No, you need to do it sooner than that!” I yell, my hands flailing. “The Savage Run registration ends at noon, and we have to be in the government’s database by then.”
He looks at me like I’m growing a third eye. “If I rush, it won’t work.”
“If you don’t rush, we’ll die,” I reply.
“Well, I already tell you, I don’t care if you die.” He slumps back in his seat and lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing the white smoke out by the side of his mouth.
“I don’t care that you don’t care. We need to get into Savage Run,” I say.
“I not sacrifice my whole operation so you can die.”
“Well, if you don’t, I guarantee that you’ll be caught.” I feel kind of guilty for blackmailing him, but at this point, if I don’t, my entire plan will crumble to pieces and Gemma’s and my fate will be in the hands of Master Douglas.
“You worse than Masters,” he says with anger crinkling his heavy eyebrows.
I’ve pushed him to the limit, but I’m banking on him not killing us because deep down, I think he has a soft spot for outlaws. Why else would he be in this business? “You’ll never hear from me again after this—I promise.”
“Finally, one thing I looking forward to,” he says as he types something into his computer. “Okay, okay, I make it happen. I need to take picture of you and you.” He studies us both for a while. “We must make you look like boys.”
“I brought clothes,” I say, lifting the bag from where Gemma placed it on the floor beside the desk. “And a pair of scissors to cut our hair.”
Gemma immediately wraps her hands around her long braid.
I lift the scissors out of the bag. “I’ll go first.” Pulling the elastic out, my thick black hair cascades down my back. I hand the scissors to Gemma and sit down in a brown leather chair. I can’t explain why the thought of cutting my hair brings a tear to my eye—it’s only dead protein. It’s not like I’m nervous Gemma will do a bad job. And even if she does, who cares?
“Ready?” Gemma says.
I nod. When I hear the scissors snap and feel the tickling of my roots as Gemma slices off the first chunk, I don’t cry. But I do ache.
“Have you pick out name?” Sergio asks. His eyes are glued to the screen.
I think for a moment and settle on my father’s least favorite person from the Bible. “Joseph.” My father says he was an unrealistic, arrogant, self-righteous man who thought too highly of himself. But in the end, as I recall, Joseph triumphed over everything. And everyone.
“You, other girl?” Sergio draws a deep look at Gemma.
“How about George?” she says, still cutting away at my hair. Finally, she circles me, examining her work. “It’s not perfect—a little too long and shaggy around the edges. It will just look like you haven’t had a cut in a few weeks.”
“There’s broom in corner,” Sergio says, typing away.
“I’ll get it.” Gemma saunters across the room, fetches the broom, and starts to sweep up my hair.
“With different clothes and makeup, you look like prepuberty boy.” Sergio smiles grimly at me. “What is word? Sissy boy?” He laughs dryly.
I narrow my eyes at him, letting him know that I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. “Where can I change?”
“Bathroom is upstairs,” he says.
And with that, I stand up and head toward the staircase with my change of clothes in hand.
At first, when I enter the tiny bathroom, I avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror. I head straight for the faucet and slide my palms beneath the running water. The water stings my raw flesh and turns the sink red. I stifle a cry and pant instead. I grab a washcloth from the cabinet, wet it, and wipe the blood off my knee and leg. The gashes aren’t too deep, but they sting like crazy. Rifling through the bag for my shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the cloudy, cracked mirror. The short haircut accentuates my pointy chin and pouty lips, and my slightly slanted dark brown eyes look huge, as if I’m trying to make out something in the dark. There are plenty of young men with those features, aren’t there? However, my neck looks way too thin to be a guy’s. My hand touches the place where my mother’s locket used to hang. I feel so bare, so exposed without it. But despite how difficult it was handing it over to Sergio, using it to get the IDs was the right thing to do.
I make a few serious faces and furrow my brows in an attempt to look like a fierce competitor. I release a sharp breath. It’s useless. They’ll never let me sign up, and even if they do, I’m sure the other participants will suspect.
What am I doing? I must have lost my mind. I can’t fathom why I thought this was a good idea. Clearly, I hadn’t thought this through. Because if I had, I would have…I don’t know. I feel so lost. So many changes in a few hours, and it’s all coming down on me at once. I realize there’s no turning back now, but am I a complete idiot for having done this?
No.
I can’t start to believe that about myself now. But, what if my father is right? He has told me countless times that I’m a good-for-nothing, weak-minded, and irrational being. What if my sanity has withered away after having angry, hateful words directed at me for so many years? What if I have lost my ability to think straight? What if I never had the ability to think straight? Only a crazy person would do this, right? Or a desperate one. One desperate enough to voluntarily register for a life-threatening obstacle course. Yet, what if I make it? What if I actually win my freedom? Goosebumps tingle my neck and arms. If I register, at least there’s a chance. At least I’m living life on my own terms and not being forced to be a Laborer without any choices. Better to be dead than a coward fearing my dreams.
I wrap my chest tightly with gauze and change into the black T-shirt and faded jeans I stole from my father. With the last piece of gauze, I loop it through the belt holes and double-knot it. Once I get back downstairs, Gemma’s hair is already cut, thanks to Sergio.
“Computer thinking,” he says as if to justify why he cut Gemma’s hair instead of letting me do the honor.
The short hair brings out Gemma’s heart-shaped, rose-red lips and high cheekbones. Her eyelashes reach all the way to her light eyebrows, and her small, thi
n nose sits like a button in the middle of her face. This will never work.
“Do I look bad?” Gemma asks.
“No, I’m just…worried…” I let my voice trail off.
“Me, too,” she says.
I hand her the clothes I brought for her, and she heads upstairs.
After Gemma changes into her clothes—a gray long-sleeved shirt and hunter-green cargo pants—Sergio takes our pictures. While he continues to work on the computer, he says there’s water upstairs. Parched, I climb the stairs and head to the kitchen. Gemma excuses herself, saying she needs to use the restroom. When she doesn’t return after I finish a whole glass of water, I press my ear against the bathroom door. I hear her silent sobs.
“Gemma…?”
Pause. “Just a minute.”
I hear her blow her nose and flush the toilet. She opens the door, her eyes red. “I just want to go home to my mother.”
The word mother makes me immediately reach for my chest where my necklace used to hang.
I suppose I would want to go home, too, if Ruth were my mother. She’s the type of person who makes sure you’ve had enough to eat, asks you how you’re feeling, and really listens to you when you speak, never asking anything in return.
“Just think, if we make it through the course, you can visit her anytime you want.”
The left side of her mouth rises a little; it almost looks like the beginning of a smile. “That would be nice.” She sits down on the edge of the tub. “I just want to thank you for risking your life to help me. I’m sure he would have finished me off if you hadn’t intervened. He kept saying it every time he would become angry with me—that one day he’d get so angry that he’d kill me.”
“Of course I couldn’t just leave you there.” I sit down next to her.
She takes a deep breath. “Master Douglas is a horrible, horrible person.”
Dare I ask her about what she’s been through? I decide that it might help her to talk about it. “What did he do?”
She glances at me briefly before looking away, seemingly ashamed and not sure whether to tell me.
“You know I would never judge you. What happened isn’t your fault.”
Gemma bites her bottom lip, and heavy tears tumble down her cheeks. “He drugged me…and beat me…and…locked me up…” Her voice fades lower and lower as she speaks until it’s barely even a whisper. “Raped me…” She buries her face in her arms, uncontrollable sobbing juddering her body.
“Shhh…” I don’t really know if she wants me to stroke her back, but it’s the only thing I can think to do. “I’m so sorry. It will never happen again, you hear?”
I listen to her cry for a while, and all I can think is that I should have done something sooner. Much sooner.
Gemma sniffles, lifts her head, and wipes her nose with her forearm. “I think I would have killed myself sooner or later if I had to stay there.”
“Oh, Gemma…” All this time I made deliveries to Master Douglas, at least once a week for the past year, I saw her eyes deaden a little more each time. I suspected he was being cruel, but raping her? Drugging her?
“You didn’t know.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just promise me we’ll do this together.”
I nod. “Every step—all the way.”
Once we get out to the main room, Sergio hands us our new IDs. They look identical to the ones the government issues—electronic chips, 3-D Newland emblems and all. My name is Joseph Wood and Gemma’s is George Washington.
“Seriously?” Gemma says after reading her new last name.
“You don’t like?” Sergio asks with a wry smile.
“Well, don’t you think that it’s a little too obvious?” she says.
“It popular to name sons after former president of the home of the brave.” Sergio nods. “And when you think of name during obstacles, you remember, you are brave.”
I don’t know whether he’s being a complete jerk or if he’s being sincere. My guess is a little bit of both, and definitely a smart-ass. I notice he changed my birth year to two years later than my actual birth year without me having to tell him to do it. I smile. If there’s anyone who knows how to trick the system, it’s Sergio.
There’s little time, so we head out into the living area to say our good-byes.
“Just…don’t die right away, okay?” Sergio says as I open the door.
“I’ll do my best. Thank you, Sergio.” I hold my hand out and he takes it. We shake.
He smiles a little, and then crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Now get, get.”