“What’s all this specie?” The warmth of Father’s deep, mustache-muffled voice pours comfort into my nervous soul. The anxiety of sharing my biographer plan lessens. After all, this is my family. They deserve maskless authenticity. We’ll go through Last Year together, like every other family. I can’t leave them out.
“The results of Reid’s Assessment.” Mother lifts the kettle from the hook with a thick mitt.
“Oh?” Father grabs a mug from the cupboard and pulls up a chair. “Tell me.”
Reid shoots me a wink. “Actually, Parvin was going to share her Last-Year plans with us. She seems to have a lot running through her head.”
I glare. Once Mother pours the tea and sits down, I take a deep breath. Reid squeezes my hand under the table and reassurance dissolves my tension.
“I’m going to be my own biographer,” I blurt, not meeting their eyes.
Mother opens her mouth, but says nothing, Father stares into his watery tea—probably assessing the flaws, and Reid cocks his head to one side.
“I want to start from the beginning.” I’m determined not to quail beneath judgment. “From my birth. And I want to write it all.”
As she usually does when she disapproves of something, Mother finds her voice. “But Parvin, you don’t exactly have an interesting story to tell. You’ve led a very . . . calm life.”
That’s a nice way to say I’ve wasted my life. Reading, sewing, daydreaming, why did it take me so long to realize those things weren’t worth the time I sacrificed for them? I’ve only recently woken up from my apathy.
“I have interesting secrets to tell.” My eyes meet Reid’s.
He blinks. “Our secret? You want everyone to know we’ve illegally shared a Clock for seventeen years?”
My skin grows hot. “That’s one of the secrets. I want people to know life is possible without having an absolute Clock. And . . . I want to reveal the injustice behind the Unity Village system. Radicals shouldn’t be killed—they’re not causing harm.”
Reid shakes his head. “Radicals smash their Clocks. They openly defy the government.”
“Not all Radicals.” Has Reid even been to a hearing? Mister Foster didn’t appear rebellious. None of the Radicals I’ve seen looked defiant—they just wanted to survive.
I force my voice to remain controlled. “Most people are Radicals on accident, like us. Mother didn’t know she was having triplets. She didn’t know she’d need a third Clock when she got pregnant. Now look at us—one of us will be a Radical this time next year. It’s the government’s fault Clocks are matchable only at conception. They shouldn’t punish us for their limited inventions.”
Reid blows on his tea. “But Radicals are relocated or chucked over the Wall to die. If you reveal our secret, they’ll consider both of us Radicals. You know what Unity Village is like—the Enforcers won’t register us, they won’t give us an option. Radicals go straight to the Wall.”
“That’s why I need to do this!” Why can’t he see? “For the sake of all the other Radicals dying without a choice. As long as you and I find a way to register ourselves as Radicals, maybe in a different village, we’d be safe.” I’ve protested at every city square hearing for the past three months, and the Enforcers never even checked my Clock. I hold up my hand with the cross ring. “You’ve told me God will protect us.”
Mother casts a quick glance out the window. “Speak softer.”
“Parvin and I are almost eighteen, Mother. You don’t have to be afraid of breaking the law.”
“If someone hears and thinks we’ve been teaching you—”
“They won’t hear.” Reid sounds weary. “No one in Unity Village cares if you teach us about God before we’re adults.”
“Do you even believe He’ll protect us?” I hiss to Reid, trying to get us back on track. “Telling our secret will get my biography noticed and published.”
“Not through the government.” Mother sniffs. “They’ll burn the copies and sentence you anyway, especially if you start spouting about their injustice.”
My voice comes out in a whisper. “I would go through a publishing company not owned by the government.”
Father scoots his chair closer to the table. It grates against the floor with a loud squeak. “I’ve never heard of one. Besides, if the government knows one of you doesn’t have a Clock, neither of you will receive medical services, even if you’re registered. You won’t be given jobs and your Mentor won’t give you any dividends. You would both be sent across the Wall before the Clock times out.”
The government cannot control our minutes or hours, but they do run our lives by them. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” I say. “Besides, in a year one of us will be gone. The government will know then, whether we like it or not.”
“Not necessarily.” Reid slides his stacked coins to the side. “You’ve never written anything before, Parvin. Why spend your Last Year doing this?”
“I’ve read plenty of books,” I snap. “I can manage. Besides how can you deny me my Last-Year desire? It could save lives. And those school jerks will see that I do have worth!”
His eyes soften. “Not everyone who bullied you then is still a bully now. And even if they are, do you think they’ll have remorse when they read about your pain? You’d be telling them they won.”
“No.” I push my fist against the smooth table wood. “They didn’t win. I’d be teaching them a lesson—life is worth more than Numbers. You don’t have to agree with me. In fact, you should be thankful writing a biography is all I want. I considered asking to cross the Wall.”
I expected shouts of surprise like, “No!” “You can’t!” or “Parvin!”, but my family’s corpse-like silence unnerves me more than any uproar would have. I should’ve bitten my tongue.
“You want to die there?” Mother croaks. “If people survived over there, they descended from rioters, maniacs, and government rebels.”
My hands tighten around my mug; the heat sears my palms. “It’s not that I want to die there, I just entertained the idea of doing something . . . different. I need action in my life. Like a final act of—”
“Insanity?” Reid’s face holds no smile.
My gaze narrows. “I was going to say bravery.”
“You hate the Wall,” he says. “You can’t even watch the sunset because you’d have to look at the Wall to see it, even though the Wall is miles away. You never went on the school fieldtrip.”
“You can’t get through.” Father speaks in a low, firm voice, redirecting the growing argument. “Only Radicals are sent through, and then only as a death sentence. No voluntary passage is allowed.”
My breath quickens. “It was a moment’s thought!”
“Where did it come from?” Reid frowns. “You would be alone for our Good-bye.”
I sip my tea. It burns, but not as much as my family’s criticism. “Maybe I’m curious. Everyone’s curious. Even if I did want to go—which I don’t—you couldn’t tell me not to, Reid, when you’ve spent your entire life traveling and fulfilling all your dreams.”
Mother pours more hot water into her mug. “No one knows what’s happened to the other side.”
“That’s not true. A wall can’t quench human thirst. People have tried to cross on purpose and the government never even cared. The leaders of the United States of the East—the members of the Council—must have some knowledge of the mysteries of the West, that’s why convicts and Radicals are sacrificed. The Council must know it’s a deathtrap or wasteland.”
“Can we return to the first desire?” Father turns to me. “You want to be your own biographer.”
I tear my eyes away from Reid. “I want to write my story, even if it’s bland. I want to start from the beginning—from our birth, which is why I need Mother’s journal. My story about illegally sharing a Clock might catch the eye of a publisher. Then,
inside the biography, I’ll share the injustice that takes place in Unity Village.”
Is any of this making sense to them? My words aren’t matching my clarity of thought. “I have to do this for the sake of all those murdered Radicals that no one knows about. People will see that there is injustice in the Low Cities like Unity. Maybe they’ll even see that it’s possible to live without solid knowledge of our Numbers. Reid and I have been fine without that knowledge. We’re not a threat to society.”
Something stirs inside me—a desperate, unplaced passion. “I need to take some sort of action and this makes sense to me. I can’t accept that these measly seventeen years are all God planned for me . . .” My voice trails off and I put my face in my hands. Blood trickles down my neck from my chin wound.
“You’re being impulsive,” Mother says. “Just like all your other ideas.”
“What other ideas? I’ve never even left Unity Village. I’ve never had a job! You think I’m impulsive, but look where I am—nowhere, with nothing to my name!”
Mother frowns at me. “Your life isn’t as bad as you think. You don’t need to write a biography or go through the Wall to get some sort of recognition. How long have you wanted this, exactly?”
I leap to my feet and my chair topples backward. “What does it matter? I’ve wasted my life!” It stands out to me clearer than any other thought. “I’m empty Numbers, Mother. Numbers that will be missed only by my three family members, if I’m lucky!”
Reid’s mouth opens, and his eyes widen with a tinge of hurt. I throw my scalding mug across the kitchen. It smashes through the window above the sink. Hot tea sprays across Mother’s drying dishes.
Ashamed, I rush to my room and slam the door. The jolt causes my stack of library books and old newspapers to topple off my desk. I refuse to permit myself a dramatic sob into my pillow. Instead, I stride across the room, open the brown shutters, and battle against the wind to climb out.
The near-frozen dirt in the wasted garden sends a zing of greeting into my bare feet, but the defiance in me doesn’t care. I close the shutters behind me and sit against the side of the house. Wind pulls strands of hair from my braid and blows the wet blood along my chin line. A leaf sticks to my neck.
The chill is calming, entering my lungs like a cold hug. A long stick-bug clings to the wall of the house next to mine, its spindly legs quivering in the wind. What does the life of a stick-bug look like? Short? Misunderstood? Has a bird ever plucked one from the ground to build a nest and enjoyed an unexpected meal instead?
“Little Brielle . . .” Reid peeks his head around the corner of the house, blocking the morning sun. He must have come from the front door.
I rest my forehead on my knees. Why did Assessment have to be so complicated?
He sits beside me. “I like your biographer plan. I’m jealous you thought of it first.”
“Then you should do it,” I grumble. After all, he’s the one who does everything. Reid finishes his education. Reid travels. Reid goes on adventures. Reid gets a job. Reid makes friends. Life has been a permanent competition, and he’s won every time. The only thing Reid can’t do is sew, which is why I spent seventeen years of my life creating ridiculous articles of clothing—clothing I hoped would show me who I am, but it didn’t. I have more personas in my closet than Numbers to my name.
“I’ll go with you through the Wall if you really want to go.”
My first impulse is to shout “No!” but I hold it in, surprised at his changed attitude. I don’t want to go through. He’s right—it terrifies me. It’s tall, black, and cold, and hundreds of Radicals have died there.
Even more than this though, I don’t want Reid to go. The Wall is something he’s never done. It’s the one idea to which I beat him. If anyone’s going to claim this idea, it’s me. I must have claim to something original, even if it’s an idea I’m not using.
“I’m not going through the Wall. I never was.”
“Why not?” He removes the leaf from my neck and twirls it. Blood cakes one side like broken veins.
“I changed my mind. It was an impulse.” I cringe with the last word. “I want to say Good-bye over here, with you.” At least with this confession, he won’t leave me and cross the Wall on his own.
Reid says nothing.
My nose is cold. I wrap my arms around my knees and release an elephant-like huff. “I didn’t mean to break the window.”
“I’ll buy a new one with my Last-Year funds.”
I shake my head. “I’ll pay for it.” Glass windows are rare in Low Cities like Unity. We only had the one—a 20th anniversary gift from Father to Mother. Reid and I used to fight over who got to wash it.
“You’re not empty Numbers,” Reid says in a low voice, not looking at me. “You’ve never been empty Numbers, despite what kids at school used to say. God doesn’t make empty Numbers.”
My retort forms in a deep breath but sticks in my throat like a ball of wet dough. I look at Reid—his eyes scan my face.
“You know that, don’t you?” he asks.
My ball of dough melts and comes out as a dry sob. Empty Numbers! Empty Numbers! Parvin’s just got empty Numbers!
They never said it to Reid, even though they thought we had the same Numbers. Everyone knew he would use his well.
He stands. “I’ll help you with your biography. I’ll convince Mother to let you do it. I don’t mind if our secret is revealed. They’re our Numbers, after all.”
I look up. He seems taller against the sun. “I don’t think I should write it anymore. It sounds like it might be too dangerous . . . for everyone.”
“Don’t be so indecisive. Have confidence in your choices.” He holds out a hand. “Sometimes impulsive thoughts are the best ones.”
Why couldn’t I have been born with his confidence? Someday—at least one of the remaining 364—I will be like Reid, but for now I take his hand and allow him to pull me to my feet.
“Okay.” I sniff and rub a sleeve along my nose. “Maybe I can get it published right before our Good-byes. No risk of being evicted because of it.”
“If that’s what you want. Mother will give in easier.”
I wipe my forearm across my chin. “Do you think she’ll stay upset with me?”
We walk around to the entrance where precious shattered glass decorates the brick sidewalk. “Oh, she’s already set up punishment.”
My stomach drops and I peek through the broken window. “Punishment?”
Reid grins and opens the door before whispering in my ear, “Stitches.”
3
000.363.04.01.01
The four stitches on my chin look like man-stubble.
Mother chose the thread, Father sterilized the fishing hook, and Reid assured me it wouldn’t hurt much.
He lied.
Though anesthesia is preferred, I avoided the medical center in Nether Town. Their admittance procedures grow more finicky by the day, and I don’t want to raise unnecessary questions with my dwindling Numbers.
My Clock blinks 363 days now, and I carve the number on the top edge of my wax tablet with my stylus. When Mother sewed me up, Reid explained his reasoning behind approving my biography. She relented. My discouragement morphed into determination, which I will channel into this biography. My restlessness must be tamed.
The scratches form white numbers in the black wax. I haven’t used my wax tablet for anything but sewing plans and book lists since leaving school. Now it will hold my story.
I glance at the sewing plans now and realize my problem at once—my tablet isn’t big enough for a biography. It has a middle flap with wax on both sides and a wax coating on the two cover flaps—four pages of wax.
I’ll need paper.
I set down the stylus, pointing the needle-side away from me. I thought I was brilliant when I replaced the dull tip of my styl
us with a sewing needle last year. It makes a smoother line in the wax and allows me more room to write, but that will be nothing like writing on paper. I won’t have to think about wax pieces or the heat of the day or the pressure of the stylus.
“Paper,” I whisper to the empty room. The idea of keeping words somewhere permanent sounds surreal. I would be able to draw a design without having to memorize it or erase two days later.
Mother won’t like the idea of spending precious specie on paper after I just broke our window. Maybe I can sell some clothing at the market square. But I can’t wait for the paper. I must start my biography now on my four good pages of wax.
I stare at the black wax and my eyes glaze over. How does a biographer begin a book? God started with In the beginning. Fairy tales begin with Once upon a time. Neither sounds right. I’m not God and I’ll never be a fairy.
I scratch:
I was born.
It looks so boring—an accurate depiction of my life. I press the scraped wax into the top right corner of the tablet and stare at the three words. A tiny fist in my heart squeezes out a drop of sorrow. Why did You let me be born, God, if You knew I’d just waste my Numbers?
I was born. Who cares?
New plan.
Mother, Father, and Reid are out on a reminiscent walk. Unlike me, they find pleasure in tromping through mud and licking chapped lips against the wind. I do it out of necessity.
I grab my overdue library books, wrap a scarf around my threaded facial hair, and then stomp out of the house toward Unity’s one-year-old library. Twenty-six minutes later, I return home with a pile of last year’s hottest biographies—still in paper form due to Unity’s low-class status. It’s ironic to me that paper books are considered “low status” when my family still can’t afford paper. I’m tempted to tear out the blank pages from the backs of the biographies to use for myself.
As I lift the latch to the front door, my foot rolls over something round. I fall against the doorframe and the biographies topple into the October mud. I glare at them. Gunk seeps into their pages.
“Great,” I mutter, scooping them up one by one.