“CanIgonow?” the words collide together.
“What?”
“Er . . . can I go now?”
“Fine,” isabel says curtly. A clatter of heels, running away.
isabel sits at the end of the bed, taking one of my feet into her hands, then the other. She loosens the laces and removes my shoes. They fall to the ground with a bang, my feet throbbing.
“There’s something on your dress,” isabel says, moving closer and rubbing the material between her fingers. I look down. My perfect dress, fit for a princess, is crumpled like a used tissue, a stiff stain in the middle turning the gold a dark gray color. isabel’s hands are stained with my blood, her nails crusted with it.
“Do you want to talk?” She looks at me with clear eyes, the medication fog lifted. I pull the pillow from under my head and hug it to me, hiding my body from her, afraid she’ll be able to tell what I’ve done. What I’ve lost.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’d be surprised at what I would understand.”
“Darwin isn’t going to choose me, is he?”
I’m hoping that she’ll deny it, but she doesn’t reply, and her silence rips through me.
She rifles through the top drawer of my bedside locker and takes out a packet of wet wipes. She swabs at my face, her touch so gentle that grief swells up inside me again. I can feel everything fall apart, twelve years of tears gushing out of me.
“Stop that,” she says automatically.
“Just leave me alone,” I sob. “You’re good at that.”
I roll onto my stomach. What did megan say? “This is who we are. This is who we were designed to be.” It’s my fault for allowing myself to become vulnerable. It is all my own fault.
“I’m sorry,” she says, resting her hand between my shoulder blades. “I thought it would be easier this way.”
I shrug her hand off me and sit up cross-legged on the bed. The head rush leaves me dizzy, and she reaches out to steady me and again I shrug her off.
“I’m not sure why you’re pretending like you care about me, but I’m fine. Your good deed for the day is done.”
“I just thought—”
“Yes, yes,” I interject. “You thought it would be easier. I get it. Can you please go?”
She pulls down the delicate fabric of her chiffon dress so it reaches her knees and stands before the mirrored wall, staring at herself. She reaches into the pocket of her dress and takes out a small test tube, clicking a tablet into the palm of her hand and swallowing it down.
“You had better go,” I say, fighting the temptation to ask her to share, “in case chastity-ruth finds you in here.”
“She won’t say anything to me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m special. Don’t you know that, freida? Didn’t you ever realize just how special I am?”
I ignore her, grabbing the packet of wet wipes from where she left them on the bedside locker, and kneel on my bed to face the front wall. I lose my breath when I see myself up close. Blood is bubbling out of my temple, dripping down one side of my face. My eye makeup is smeared around bloodshot eyes. There are tears tracking down my cheeks, dissolving my foundation in patches. I flip my hair quickly to cover my face from isabel, knowing that it’s too late, that she’s already seen how ugly I really am. Hands trembling, I pry my locket open until three tablets tumble out.
“freida, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“You need to get cleaned up.”
“The laser machine won’t turn on until bedtime,” I remind her as I pull out a few more of the wipes to clean myself. “Just go, isabel,” I tell her as I scrub at my face, watching in the mirrors as it melts into smudges of colors, wishing I could scour the feelings away as easily. “I don’t need you here.”
Chapter 29
My body shakes my brain awake like a toy rattle and darkness presses into my eyes. Where am I?
My memory is a jigsaw puzzle made of identical black pieces, until there is a flare of colors, words. An image flashes. Then another.
“It didn’t mean anything . . . I didn’t force you . . .”
The memories explode like hand grenades.
“If today was anything to go by, I think you could be a natural.” I focus on my breathing. I visualize taking all these Unacceptable Emotions and locking them up in a box, throwing away the key, never to be found again.
What time is it? I’m deliberately not thinking about that thing I said I wasn’t going to think about.
12:00 flashes on my ePad.
Why are the lamps still off if it’s noon? Did I miss wake-up call? Why didn’t freja wake me? I grope my way blindly across the room, feeling the smooth glass of the walls turn to a ribbed metal beneath my hands. It’s the corrugated steel of the door. But my door is never closed.
I fumble until I find the steel handle at the base of the door and I try my best to pull it up, my arms feeling as if they will be wrenched out of their sockets with the effort. I give up with a scream of frustration. Feeling my way back to my bed, I pat the covers until I find my eFone.
“The service has been cut.”
I can’t think straight. Why did I take all that SleepSound? I can taste the scum left behind, my mouth crusted over with its caustic icing sugar. I gag with thirst and stick my tongue out, searching for moisture.
There’s water in my changing room.
Using my eFone as a flashlight, I press my hand into the pink outline of a handprint etched into the mirror wall opposite my bed.
“Mismatch,” says a robotic voice.
I force myself to slow down, pressing my hand into the glass with more care this time.
“Mismatch.”
I try once more, lining my hand up with the plastic handprint as precisely as I can.
“Mismatch. That is the third mismatch today. This room shall be secured for the next twelve hours.”
I turn to the exit and start banging my fist against the steel. The beat sounds too solid, as if the outside of the door has been overlaid with slabs of stone. When I stop, the air feels thinly quiet.
An overwhelming urge to urinate hits, my bladder swelling like a tumor within me. I cross my legs tightly, the stiff material of my dress rubbing against my skin as I fold myself onto the bed. I realize I’ve sat on the hard edge of my ePad and I fumble for it, opening it to cast the room in its dim glow.
“MyFace,” I say.
“Access denied.”
“VideoChat . . . Your Face or Mine . . .”
“Access denied.”
“Stream TV,” I try, calming a little when this VoiceCommand works. I peer closer, frowning. “Change channel.”
Nothing happens. I tap the screen repeatedly but it’s frozen on the Chit-Chat network, spitting out commercial after commercial. I need a toilet. I need a toilet right now.
I jump up, hopping from one leg to the other, squeezing my upper thighs together as hard as I can. I don’t know how much longer I can last.
“Need to inject sensuality into your life?” a warm voice comes from the ePad. “Ylang Ylang and Patchouli Shower Gel has nourishing plant extracts that will tighten your skin, reducing any pesky fat cells while reversing the aging process.”
A concubine removes her orange kimono, piles her tight curls into a bun on the top of her head and steps into the open shower. She turns the tap on, the pressure of the running water hissing.
I need to switch it off, but the off button won’t work, it won’t. Drizzling the shower gel into her hands, she lathers up and soaps every inch of her perfect body.
“PLEASE HELP ME. I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM.”
I’m screaming, the words tearing my throat like sandpaper. I thump the door as hard as I can until finally I have to stop, my fist aching.
I hear a scraping noise and there is a tunnel of light from the base of the door. I fall quickly to my knees to tal
k to whoever is at the other side of the open square, but a bucket is pushed into my face and the shutter slots back in immediately, so neatly that the joins are invisible. I pick it up, full to the brim with bottles of water.
Surely they can’t expect me to . . . I can’t . . . What if this is a test? Have some control, freida. Control yourself . . . I can’t . . . oh shit.
I tip the bucket over, the plastic bottles tumbling out, and fall back on it, the steel rim cutting into me. And I let go, feeling everything fall away until all that is left is an awful, corrupted relief. I grab the half-empty packet of wet wipes strewn by the bed to clean myself up, throwing the cloth away and watching as it swims in the yellow liquid like a ghostly jellyfish. I gingerly pick the bucket up and place it at the base of the bed, wincing at the stench. What is happening to me?
I kick the door in frustration. My bare toes crack against the metal and I fall onto the bed, screaming again. I rock back and forth, losing all sense of time or place, falling endlessly into a chasm of fear.
“Previously, on The Chit-Chat,” the volume on the ePad spikes, “the ladies have been talking about . . .”
“Well, I hate to judge, you know,” a sunny-sweet voice says, “but I think breastfeeding is so important. As long as it’s done in private of course. And you know me, tyra, I hate to say anything bad about anyone, but when I see a mother who bottle-feeds her son, I do wonder.”
“Wonder what?” a third voice says, bored, and I squint at the screen, my eyes swollen from tears.
“Well, about her level of commitment, I guess,” grace, the blond host simpers, hands clutching at a string of pearls around her neck.
“grace, girl, let’s face it. These ‘women’ who can’t be bothered to breastfeed are bad mothers,” the stunning black girl shrieks, huge emerald-and-diamond earrings flashing as she shakes her head vehemently.
A tiny smile curls on grace’s lips, hand pressed against her chest. “Oh, tyra, you shouldn’t say such things,” she says before looking at the audience, her eyes downcast. “But, I must admit, it’s the sons I feel sorry for.”
A smattering of enthusiastic applause breaks out, grace blushing at the attention.
“Yuck,” georgia, the third host, says in disgust as she cups her vast breasts and winks at the camera. “These bad boys are for fun times only.”
“And now, for today’s live show! Welcome to The Chit-Chat!”
I stare at the ePad, a merciful distraction from my panic. The set has been designed to look like an old-fashioned country kitchen. The walls are a gray stone facade, grille windows with white lace curtains pulled down to disguise the fact that there’s nothing behind them. Framed watercolor paintings of babies in blue onesies, boats, and flowers are dotted around, and there’s an old pine dresser filled with mismatched vintage teacups and plates. The pièce de résistance is a stove cooker in a faded hunter green. It’s obsolete, of course, but rare, and worth a fortune.
“And here are your hosts! grace!”
There is frenzied clapping as she appears, white-gloved hands resting at her heart in gratitude. She looks so ladylike in a white sleeveless collared shirt tucked into a full pistachio-green skirt that comes to midcalf, a white belt accentuating her tiny waist. The ubiquitous pearl necklace is hanging around her neck, pistachio-colored kitten heels on her feet. Her blond hair is set in pin curls and tied in a bouncy ponytail with a white-and-pistachio striped ribbon, her blue saucer eyes huge in waxy skin. She’s been a companion to a prominent Zone official for about twelve years now but thanks to frequent skin peels and injections she doesn’t look a day over twenty-one.
“Aaaaaand tyra!”
tyra emerges from backstage. She’s lightened her hair and it falls around her face in relaxed waves. Her cobalt-blue dress is one-shouldered and knee-length, clinging to every curve. The camera zooms in on her doll-like face, the wide green eyes with oversize lashes, the arched eyebrows, the high cheekbones under that flawless skin.
“And, lastly, georgia!”
georgia struts onto the set wearing a navy playsuit dotted with white anchors, slashed to her navel. It’s far too small for her, but georgia won “Best Body” when she graduated two years ago and likes to remind people why. Impossibly slim, with the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen, she is constantly voted #1 in those hottest concubines lists. She waves at the audience, tossing her waist-length espresso-colored hair away from her tanned face, full lips painted red, her dark brown eyes outlined with liquid liner. She beams at the muted response she’s receiving. georgia has never been popular. Before she started appearing on The Chit-Chat it was unheard of for concubines and companions to mix, but the controversy drove viewing figures up so they kept her. She settles into a wicker armchair at the round pine table.
grace ignores her and points at the baby-blue tea cozy covering the teapot in the middle of the table. “I knitted that myself!” she says proudly, and I giggle despite my misery, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand. There is no way grace made that thing. I can see from the skeptical look georgia is throwing her that she agrees with me. tyra smiles as grace pours tea into a floral china cup for her, delicately crossing her feet at the ankles as she takes a seat. Neither offers georgia any tea.
“Welcome, ladies!” grace says, and I roll my eyes as the audience cheers excitedly. I can’t listen to an entire program of this garbage. I tap the screen forcefully, but it still won’t switch channels. I have an overpowering urge to throw the thing against the wall and see it shatter into a million pieces.
“. . . freida . . .”
My head jerks up, hoping someone might have come to rescue me, but the door is closed. I get up to inspect my wardrobe, but it’s still shut down.
“. . . freida . . .”
I check under the bed, using my eFone as a flashlight like I’m in 5th year and searching for bogeymen, but there’s nothing there but those snakeskin ankle boots isabel gave me last year. I was afraid to wear them in case megan asked to “borrow” them and never gave them back, so I hid them under my bed. I can’t believe I forgot.
“They’re incredible, isabel,” I said, touching the boots reverently. “Where on earth did you get them?”
“They’re yours,” she said. “I don’t want them.”
“But . . .” I stuttered, confused. “They’re real snakeskin. You must love them.”
“I hate them,” she turned away from me. “I hate them.”
“. . . freida . . .”
Where is it coming from? There is no one else here. It’s only me and my infinite reflections, flickering in the weak light.
“. . . freida . . .”
It’s coming from the ePad. Is my VideoChat working again? I grab it, desperate to find out why I’ve been imprisoned in my room. But the screen is still frozen on The Chit-Chat.
“Hello?” I tap it again. “Can you hear me?”
“She needs to be sent Underground right away. There is no room for this sort of behavior in the Euro-Zone.” tyra sniffs.
“Oh, tyra, you know that’s not for us to say,” grace says as she takes a sip of tea. “It’s up the men to make those decisions.”
“But this freida girl sounds dangerous,” tyra says, touching grace’s hand to stress her point.
This freida girl sounds dangerous. This freida girl sounds dangerous. This freida girl sounds dangerous. This freida girl sounds dangerous.
There must be someone else called freida in the Euro-Zone. An older eve.
“I hate to judge . . .” grace says, georgia barely suppressing a smirk, “but apparently she’s been spreading rumors about . . .” She swallows before saying in a stage whisper, “. . . female aberrants.”
There is a gasp from the audience, and tyra and georgia look suitably stunned. But it can’t be. Why would they be talking about me on one of the highest-rated shows in the Euro-Zone? Fotos begin to flash on-screen. I can hear someone saying, “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .” over and over and over again. I look at th
e wall and I realize it’s me, mouthing the words frantically. The fotos are of me. They’re all of me.
“Thank goodness she’s being confined at present,” grace says, a blond tendril escaping her ponytail. Confined. She’s being confined. I’m being confined. “According to my darling Winston.” She breaks off as the audience gives a communal awwww. “I know, I know. I’ve been so blessed.”
“We both have,” tyra says smoothly.
“We really have, haven’t we, dear? They’ve been so generous, allowing us to take the time to record this show. We’re so lucky.”
“Winston can be very generous, can’t he?” georgia says with a wicked glint in her eye.
“Let’s focus on the matter in hand,” tyra says quickly as grace bristles. “What does Winston say?”
“According to my darling Winston,” grace says, her pale pink lips pursed sulkily, “this freida is in quarantine at the moment. You know me, ladies—I would hate for anything bad to happen to anyone, but it does seem as if it might be safer for her to be sent Underground, out of harm’s way.”
“And that’s not all,” tyra adds, “apparently she tried to coerce one of the Inheritants into choosing her as his companion.”
“No!” grace says, as the audience shifts in their seats with barely suppressed excitement. Why isn’t this censored? Darwin said anything like this would be censored in the School.
“Did you not watch the Daily Tale today? Their sources say she begged him. They’re launching one of their Tale Campaigns to shame her. And it wasn’t just any Inheritant.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “It was Darwin.”
“Who’s Darwin?” georgia asks, bored, adjusting her cleavage.
“He’s only the son of Judge Goldsmith,” tyra says slowly, every word coated in sarcasm.
“Judge Goldsmith!” georgia shudders slightly as tyra says, “This girl declared her love for him . . .”
“Before the Ceremony?” grace interrupts, her eyes widening in shock.
“Her best friend reported her to the chastities and gave an interview to the Tale. She told them she couldn’t allow the School’s reputation to be damaged.” I mentally bash megan’s face in. “Apparently she had sex with him in an attempt to persuade him. When that didn’t work, she resorted to pleading with him to choose her.”