“Very well. I wanted to raise the issue of homeschooling.”
“What?” Dad asks, sounding disgusted.
“Celestine only has a few months left of school before final exams. It is not long. She is almost there. I am aware she is one of our top students, gradewise. I don’t want to see her results suffer. There has been a lot of talk with the Parents Association. Some, not all, are concerned that having a Flawed at the school will have a negative effect on the reputation of the school.”
“You can’t discriminate against my daughter because she is Flawed. She has a right to be in this school.”
“I know that. But already our enrollment numbers for September are down after this … outcome. Parents are worried. Students are worried that in bringing down the good name of the school, it will tarnish their reputations for college and job applications. I am just telling you what it is being discussed, Mr. North,” he says before Dad explodes again. “I have the reputation of the school to consider.”
“You have the goodwill of your students to consider.”
“The unfortunate thing is that a number of teachers, represented here by Mr. Browne, have said they are not in favor of teaching Celestine any longer. Though that is their decision, not mine, I still have to support my teachers and put the facts to you,” he says gruffly. “I’m sure you’ll agree that homeschooling is better than expulsion.”
This makes me feel sick, and I think about Carrick, not for the first time, but as I do every time I’m faced with the new reality of being a Flawed. I wonder how he is surviving. I don’t know if not hearing from him is a good sign for him or bad.
“Ms. Dockery, Celestine’s mathematics teacher, has kindly offered to homeschool her.”
She straightens up as the attention turns to her. I look at her, surprised. I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. Either she doesn’t want me in the school and she’s helping to get rid of me, or she’s helping me. Tears prick my eyes, and I sink lower. Each time I don’t think that’s possible, it happens again.
“I think you should strongly consider Celestine’s being educated at home,” she says. “There will be no distractions for her; she can concentrate on keeping those grades up. The sooner she begins at home, the better it is for her, for everyone all round.”
The meeting is heated in parts and ends with an agreement to not agree. The situation will be assessed as it unfolds. Mr. Browne will not teach me, nor will my French and geography teachers, and so, until Mr. Hamilton can figure out what to do with me, I am to go to the library for those classes. The one thing that everyone does agree on is that the media will back off after a few days, when my story dies down, though everyone is surprised it hasn’t already. It seems to be as strong as it was at the beginning, as they continue to find new angles. I’m not aware of anything that is being reported. I haven’t been paying attention, and my parents haven’t shared it with me. In fact, they won’t let it into our home. My home is a cocoon, where the day-to-day of my reality is lived and dealt with, not of caring what other people think. I need it to be like this so I can survive, so I can deal with my own reality before hearing other people’s twisted perceptions. However, it has been a week and a half, and it hasn’t died down, which makes me, for the first time, intrigued to know what they’re saying about me.
Because the meeting ran over, I am late to English class. When I enter, all heads turn to stare. My classmates look at me as if they don’t know me, as if they’re seeing me for the first time. Art’s seat, beside mine, is empty. He still hasn’t returned from wherever he is hiding. Tears prick at my eyes, and I quickly brush them away as all eyes follow me. I sit alone in that class and every class that follows. Marlena takes me aside where she’s sure no one can see her talking to me to tearfully tell me how let down she feels, how she placed her neck on the line and I betrayed her. She tells me what has become of her life since she stepped up to the witness stand, how she finds each day unbearable, how she feels people are viewing her as though she aided a Flawed. She was followed by a photographer one day. She worries about her safety. She hopes she won’t be in trouble for giving a positive report on my character. I try to console her as much as I can for her loss. We part with the understanding that she would like to steer clear of me forever. Not once does she ask how I’m doing.
Next class, my biology teacher refuses to teach me. As soon as I sit down, she glares at me and leaves the classroom and doesn’t return until ten minutes later, flanked by Mr. Browne and an even more hassled-looking Principal Hamilton, who calls me out of the room.
“Celestine,” he says, wiping his chubby, clammy hands on the ends of his suit jacket. “I’m going to send you to gym for this hour.” He looks me in the eye. “Sorry.”
That apology means more to me than he could ever know.
“I thought I was going to the library.”
“You will be afterward. I can’t have you sitting in the library all day.”
Ah. So the teachers are dropping out like flies.
My eyes fill. “But I don’t have my gym clothes.”
“You can use the school gear. Don’t look at me like that. Contrary to popular opinion, they’ve been cleaned. Tell Susan to give you the key to the locker.”
Gym class consists of twenty minutes swimming and twenty minutes in the gymnasium. I will not put on my swimsuit. I haven’t brought mine with me, and I refuse to wear the standard-issue school swimsuit. It is not, this time, because I don’t like the cut of it, but because now in my real world, I do not want anybody to see my body at all. And I can’t stand the thought of water hitting my scars. It has been only a week and a half, and my scars are healing well, but I am careful about plunging into hot or cold water. Realistically, I can bear the pain of my wounds, I just do not want anyone to see my body. The only people who have seen it are those who branded me, the medical team, my family, and, of course, Carrick. I won’t allow any more to see me ever again, and I wonder about Art, if I will ever be able to let him see me and touch me.
I follow everyone out into the swimming pool area. They are all dressed for the pool. The boys and girls smirk at one another, the usual reaction to seeing one another’s partly naked bodies. I intend to sit in the viewing gallery and watch.
“You there, what are you doing?” our gym teacher, Mr. Farrell, barks at me.
“I’m not swimming, sir.”
“Why not?” He comes toward me, his many whistles rattling around his chest reminding me of the Whistleblowers. I hear the others snicker.
I keep my voice down. “My scars, sir, I can’t get them in the water,” I lie.
He suddenly realizes who I am, what I am, and takes a step back from me.
“She needs a doctor’s note, sir,” one girl, Natasha, calls. “If she doesn’t have one, she has to get in.” She flashes an innocent smile at the boy beside her, Logan. I recognize him, too, from my chemistry class, though we’ve never spoken.
“Have you a doctor’s note?”
“No, sir.”
“Then if you don’t have one, get in.”
“I didn’t know I had a gym class today. I was supposed to be in biology.”
“And why aren’t you in biology?”
“Because Ms. Barnes doesn’t want me in her class.”
“Well, I don’t want you in mine, either, if you don’t get into the water.”
“I can’t get in, sir.”
“Do you shower?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can get in. Get in.”
I land myself in Principal Hamilton’s office mere hours after I told him I wouldn’t cause him any trouble. Dr. Smith e-mails the necessary note to the school, explaining how it is best for my scars to stay out of the chlorine, but it’s too late, the damage has already been done.
I feel sick with nerves as I enter the cafeteria at lunchtime and chatter dies down as all heads turn to stare at me and judge me. Colleen, Angelina Tinder’s daughter, is sitting
alone, and I build up the courage to make my way to her. I stand at her table, and she doesn’t look up. I know that feeling. The feeling that whoever is there is about to say or do something heartbreaking, so best not to look while they do it.
“Hi,” I say.
She looks up at me in surprise.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes, then laughs. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Are you really this desperate? Where were you two weeks ago? Why didn’t you ask me then? Of course, you were too selfish to even say hi to me then.” The shy Colleen is gone, and in her place is this angry, spiteful young woman. I don’t recognize her, not from the girl I spent Earth Day with each year, and family get-togethers, when both of us were carefree and a life like this wasn’t even a thought in our heads. Of course she’s right about me. I didn’t greet her that morning after her mom was taken away. I was too afraid. And then I went on to make the biggest mistake of my life. I deserve what I got, in her opinion.
A few people come to the table and sit beside Colleen. Logan, the guy from swim class who has a rare friendly face; Natasha; and a guy named Gavin.
“Is she bothering you, Colleen?” Natasha says.
Colleen seems surprised at first, then looks at me smugly. I move away immediately, not wanting a scene, as the neighboring tables have gone silent to watch.
“Maybe there should be a special Flawed table in the cafeteria,” Natasha says, with her dark, sly eyes.
I keep my head down as I leave the cafeteria. My eyes are hot, and, just as I felt in the Branding Chamber, I don’t want anyone here to see me cry.
THIRTY-TWO
WHEN I ARRIVE home after that horrendous day of school, Mom greets me dressed head to toe in perfection: glowing, healthy blond hair down in loose waves, with a pleasant smile on her face. I smell cookies or something baking. She is like a 1950s housewife, and I immediately know something is wrong. She doesn’t ask me about my day at all, which I’m glad of because I feel like I’d just burst into tears.
“Pia Wang is here to see you,” she says.
Juniper looks at us in surprise, then realizes we want to speak in private. Feeling left out, she trudges upstairs to her room and bangs the door. My being Flawed, in a bizarre way, has brought me and Mom and Dad closer, given us more reason to talk privately, which I know is making her feel like she’s being pushed out.
“She’s here? In this house?” I whisper, looking around for Pia Wang.
Mom nods quickly, takes me aside, and whispers, “She’s in the library.”
“Did she just arrive uninvited?”
“Yes. Well, no. She’s been ringing every day for an interview, and I’ve been putting her off, telling her you were … healing, but now that you’re back at school, I can’t put her off anymore.”
“I don’t want to talk to her,” I hiss.
“By order of the Guild,” Mom says quietly. “Apparently, it’s part of the package. Every Flawed must be available to speak with Pia after the trial. And if I didn’t let her in…”
“You’d be seen as aiding a Flawed.”
“You’re my daughter,” she says, her eyes filling.
“Mom, it’s okay. I’ll do it.”
“What are you going to say?” she asks nervously. “Perhaps we should call Mr. Berry.”
“I don’t want to be coached. He’ll just tell me to lie, and I can’t do that.”
It still hurts for me to put full weight on my foot, but I don’t want Pia to see me limping. She’s waiting for me in the library. I take a deep breath and enter. I tell Mom it’s okay for us to be alone. I would prefer it, without having to look at her constantly and worry if what I’m saying is okay. I don’t plan on saying much anyway. Monosyllabic answers would kill Pia, and that’s what I intend on giving.
Pia is even tinier in the flesh than on TV. She’s like a petite doll that looks like the wind could blow her over, though I know that is not the case. Even the wind would lose a battle with her. Her skin is soft and peachy, her clothes delicate and pretty, a silk ivory top with delicate organza flowers and a lace pencil skirt. She even smells of peaches. Everything about her is so fine and pretty, but then her eyes are hard. Not cold, but ready. All-seeing, aware of everything like two zoom lenses on a camera.
“Pia Wang,” she says politely, holding out her hand.
I stall, unsure what to do. My seared hand is no longer bandaged; I had to remove the light gauze for school so I wouldn’t be seen as hiding my flaws. I haven’t had to shake hands with anyone yet. My hand hangs limply by my side. I leave her hand hanging midair. Her eyes drop to my hand, and then she smiles. “Oh, of course.” She drops her hand. I’m certain she knew what she was doing.
I didn’t trust her before, and I don’t trust her even more now. If she tried to put me in my place, on the back foot, then she has failed. It is she who has fallen back first, because I won’t make this easy for her.
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “Shall we sit here?”
There are two armchairs by the bay window, which overlooks a small, pretty flower garden that Mom tends when she insists she’s having a fat day. But the shutters are still closed to protect our privacy from the press.
She holds out her hand for me to sit, as though this is her home.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time,” she says with a big grin. “You’re big news, Celestine. Seventeen-year-old ex-girlfriend of Art Crevan, branded five times, turns out to be the most Flawed girl in history. Talking to you is the biggest scoop of the year.”
“I find it intriguing that my life entertains you so much.”
Her smile lessens a little. “I’m not alone in that, obviously.” She refers to the press outside the house. “As you know, under the Guild rules, I have a sit-down with the Flawed, which will go out on our online news, TV, magazines.”
“All the Crevan media.”
She pauses. “Yes. I’d like us to do an interview first, and I propose something new. A series of televised interviews as we follow you around and film your life as it is now.”
“A reality show?”
“If you want to call it that. I prefer documentary.”
“Because you’re a hard-hitting journalist and all.”
She pauses to take the insult. “I’m interested in people. Intrigued by what makes them tick. Interestingly, with you”—her eyes run over me—“I can’t quite figure that out. I’d like to find out.”
“I don’t want to be followed around by a camera. My dad is a TV editor. I know exactly how you can make me look: whatever way you want. If I have to do the newspaper interview, then I’ll do it, but that’s all.”
She’s clearly disappointed by this, but there’s nothing she can do about it. “Okay. It will be a series of meetings, not just one sitting. I want in-depth. I want to understand you, Celestine, really get to know you.”
I half-laugh.
“I amuse you?”
“You work for Crevan. Do you think I’m stupid enough to think that you want to understand me? That anything you have to say about me will be favorable? That anything I actually say will make it into your articles?”
“You’re an interesting case, Celestine.”
“I’m a person. Not a case.”
“Friend of Judge Crevan, honors A student, a perfect good girl. You’re an unlikely candidate for this situation. People want to know about you.”
“Me and Angelina Tinder. Funny, isn’t it, two Flawed on one street within the span of two days? Such a coincidence.”
Something flashes in her eyes. Something different. A doubt of some kind, but then she resumes normal play.
“Euthanasia is frowned upon by our society,” she says, defending the Guild’s ruling on Angelina Tinder.
“So is compassion. I helped an old man to a seat.”
Then I realize I just gave her a headline. She’s thrilled.
“You see, Celestine.” She grins,
moving forward in her chair. “It’s comments like that that are making people pay extra attention to you. You’re refreshing. For one so young.”
“I’m not trying to be anything.”
She looks momentarily confused and then looks around quickly before changing her tone, as though she shouldn’t be telling me this. I’m on the edge, trying to analyze her tactics. “Enya Sleepwell was at your trial every day.”
I look at her for more. I have no idea whom she’s talking about.
“You do know who she is,” she says patronizingly.
“No,” I sigh. “I have no idea who that is. Was that the old woman who spat at me? Or the young woman who threw a cabbage at me? Or perhaps it was the lady in the third row who ate an entire bag of Pick n’ Mix on my Naming Day.”
She frowns. “She’s in the news a lot these days. You haven’t heard of her?”
“I don’t watch the news.”
“I find that hard to believe. You’re in it every day.”
“Well, then, why would I watch it? I know what I’m doing every day.”
She gives me a small smile. “Your parents don’t talk to you about what’s happening? About what’s being said out there?”
“It’s not important what’s being said about me. I don’t need to hear it. I can’t control it and I can’t change it.”
She looks confused, then checks the door to make sure it’s closed. “I mean, you seriously … you don’t know this? Enya Sleepwell is in the Vital Party. You must know who they are. They picked up a lot of seats in the last election. They’re the fastest-growing party in Parliament.”
I shake my head. “I don’t follow politics. I’m seventeen. All of my friends couldn’t care less about it, either. We’re not even allowed to vote until we’re eighteen.”
She looks at me in surprise, studying me as if she can’t believe a word I’m saying, trying to figure me out. “Well, politics is following you, Celestine.”
I mock her by looking behind me to check. I realize I’ve replaced monosyllabic answers with sarcasm, but it’s far more rewarding.
“So you didn’t work with Enya Sleepwell? Meet with her? Before the incident on the bus?”