“Only two years,” said Fanny. “My parents disappeared two years ago on Errand Day. We went to the Central Store together. I was in the fitting room to try on my new uniform. I came out to show them how it looked and they were gone.”
“What did you do?” asked Honor.
“Went to the Safety Officer on the floor, of course. I said I’d lost my parents. He took me to the store’s Safety Office and we went to the supervisor. I told the supervisor my parents’ names and asked if he could find them. He said he’d look them up in the store computer. There was a big computer on the desk. He looked them up and then he said, ‘No, they’re not lost. They’ve disappeared.’”
Honor held her pillow tight. She was trembling to hear this story, but Fanny’s voice wasn’t shaky at all. She sounded calm and even cheerful.
“The next day,” said Fanny, “I came here.”
“Who do you think took them?” Honor whispered.
“Don’t know,” said Fanny.
“What do you think they did?”
“No idea.” Fanny yawned. “Something bad, I’m sure. I’m going back to bed.”
“Wait,” Honor said. “Were your parents strange? Were they unusual? Did you ever think they’d be taken?”
“Mmm. Maybe. They were disorganized,” said Fanny. “They were messy. Our house was never clean. They never had enough coupons. They liked music too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“They played instruments all the time—piano and violin. They played so much they forgot to go to their regular jobs. They’d sit and play their music and remember stuff. Like old people they used to know. And places filled with ancient paintings. And gardens. My mother could remember gardens where people danced. She said when she played she could remember women in long dresses and the hems of their dresses brushed the grass.”
“Princesses?”
“I guess so,” said Fanny. “There was one other thing they used to remember. Catching fish in mountain streams. In ancient times, people caught fish individually with hooks. When my father played his violin he always remembered that.”
“That’s so strange,” said Honor.
“I know.”
“Where do you think they were taken?”
“Where? Nowhere. They’re dead, of course,” said Fanny, amused.
“Not . . . on the moon?”
Fanny started giggling. “Oh, you believe all that about the asylum on the moon?”
“I’m not sure.” Honor’s voice trembled.
“Nobody lives on the moon, silly.” Fanny slid off Honor’s bed and jumped into her own.
The next morning Honor had to put on work overalls. The rough patched fabric scratched her skin; the baggy pants dragged on the ground. She felt like a criminal.
“Come on,” said Eglantine, and she tried to take Honor by the hand. “I’ll show you where the gardens are.”
Honor shook her off. “Leave me alone.”
Eglantine shot Honor an orphanish look, shy and patient. She waited for Honor in the doorway.
“I said leave me alone,” Honor repeated.
“I have to wait for you,” Eglantine explained. “We’ve been assigned together this week.”
Then Honor followed Eglantine.
Every morning before school, the orphans worked for an hour in the vegetable gardens with farming and produce orderlies. Every evening after school, they took turns working in the kitchens or the recycling station or even cleaning classrooms with the school orderlies. The orphans would dust and shelve books while the orderlies vacuumed. Regular students didn’t even look at orderlies, but the orphans worked alongside them.
After chores, the orphans hurried back to the Boarders’ Houses and changed into their school uniforms. Honor couldn’t wait to put on her skirt and blouse and sun hat and look normal again. She ran eagerly to class.
But when she arrived, the crowd of girls at the door parted for her. Helena and Hortense and the others stepped aside. When Honor glided to her desk, she felt like a ghost.
No one looked at Honor all that day. No one spoke to her unless it was absolutely necessary. “Thank you,” Hiroko said dutifully when Honor passed the applesauce at lunchtime, but that was because saying “thank you” was the Rule.
When the girls lined up to go to the tennis courts, they were careful not to brush Honor in passing. Honor was door monitor and she held the door open for the class. Each girl made herself as small as possible as she passed through the doorway. Even Helena turned aside timidly from Honor at the door. Honor planted herself right in the center of the doorway. She made it impossible for the other girls to pass without looking at her or saying “excuse me.” Honor’s classmates squeezed past as best they could. However, Haven was a chubby girl and couldn’t squeeze through. “Move,” she whispered furiously.
Honor flushed and stepped aside.
“Did Miss Blessing show you that book about when your parents disappear?” Fanny asked as she and Honor and Elspeth walked back to the Boarders’ Houses after class.
Honor nodded. Her classmates were hurrying off to catch the school bus and go home to their families. Hester and Hedwig raced past and held their noses. Honor stiffened and pretended she didn’t notice. She would never look at those girls with hurt, envious eyes. They’d never catch her casting an orphanish glance.
“It’s natural to feel anger,” Fanny said in Miss Blessing’s sweet voice. Elspeth doubled over laughing. “It’s natural to feel hatred,” said Fanny.
Honor couldn’t help smiling at Fanny’s perfect imitation of Miss Blessing.
“It’s natural to want to KILL somebody,” said Fanny. “But don’t worry. We’ve killed your parents for you.”
Elspeth’s laughter trailed off. She and Honor looked at Fanny uncertainly.
“That wasn’t funny,” said Elspeth.
“I have a dark sense of humor,” Fanny explained.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Honor.
“It means I’m funny once you get to know me,” Fanny said.
At afternoon chore time, Honor helped Quintilian whenever she could. She helped him push his wheelbarrow and his laundry bins. Helix and the other big boys helped him too. She saw Helix weeding with Quintilian in the gardens. Even with help, Quintilian dragged behind. Honor went to Mrs. Edwards and said, “Quintilian is too little for chores.”
Mrs. Edwards shook her head at Honor and told her, “Mr. Edwards and I have been guardians for over ten years. Even the youngest children do their share.”
FOUR
WHEN HONOR CLOSED HER EYES TO SLEEP, SHE TRIED TO picture her mother and father. Sometimes she saw them clearly and sometimes only a piece of them: her mother’s straight and shining hair sweeping over her shoulders, her father’s smile. She wanted to practice remembering them, but strangely, when she closed her eyes and concentrated, her parents’ faces didn’t come to her. Only when she drifted off to sleep and almost forgot to look for them did her mother and father float back into her mind.
She asked Quintilian whenever she had a chance, “Do you remember what they looked like?” and he always said yes, but she didn’t believe him. She quizzed, “What color was Mommy’s hair? What color were Dad’s eyes?” until he ran away from her. Then she got upset. She and Quintilian had no photographs, and she was afraid he would end up like Eglantine and forget what his parents looked like altogether.
She was tired all the time. She was no longer a perfect student. She didn’t check her work when she did her math homework. What was the point? She’d tried being a perfect girl, and her parents had been taken anyway. She also knew that there was an O by her name in her permanent record. The O was for orphan and it meant the best she could qualify for when she finished school was a low-level job. Even if she got perfect scores on her exams, she would end up working alongside orderlies.
Eva, Eglantine, and Elspeth were all taking their exams soon, and they were worried.
“I’m afraid,”
Eglantine confessed one morning as the girls ate their early breakfast of granola and milk.
“Don’t you think you’ll pass?” asked Fanny.
“I think I’ll pass,” said Eglantine. She hesitated. “I’m afraid of leaving school.”
Fanny scoffed at that. “Afraid of leaving school? I can’t wait,” she said. “I can’t wait till I get out of here.”
“But who will take care of you?” Eglantine asked.
“I’ll be seventeen years old! I’ll take care of myself,” said Fanny. “I’m going to have my own little house and my own little garden and I’ll grow grapes and dry them into raisins so when I have breakfast, I can put raisins on top!”
“Mmm, raisins,” said Gretel.
The other girls hushed. They’d all heard of raisins, but they couldn’t remember them. Because of Scarcity there had been no raisins in the Colonies for years.
“Can I come live with you?” Honor asked Fanny.
Fanny shook her head. “Don’t you know orphans never get to stay together?”
“Why not?” Honor asked.
“Safety Measures, of course,” said Fanny. “Since our parents were dangerous. There can’t be too many of us in one place.”
Eglantine explained, “Orphans are always reassigned.”
“We’ll just spread our love and caring throughout the world,” said Fanny. She said this in such a funny voice that Elspeth and Gretel started giggling.
Honor didn’t laugh. She put down her spoon.
That day she couldn’t concentrate in history. Ms. Lynch was asking her a question, and Honor was thinking—After I leave school, I won’t see Quintilian anymore. I won’t see . . . She was thinking about Helix too, although he wasn’t really her friend anymore.
“I don’t want to ask you again,” said Ms. Lynch. “What was the agenda of the First Global Conference?”
“War? Toxic waste?” Honor ventured.
“Are you asking me or telling me?” demanded Ms. Lynch.
“Telling you,” said Honor.
“That’s unfortunate,” Ms. Lynch said. “Your answers are Inaccurate. Hester?”
“Famine, overpopulation, scarcity of resources, the end of the ozone . . .” Hester recited in perfect order.
“Excellent,” said Ms. Lynch, and Hester smiled a little smile. Hester was excellent. She was Accurate. Honor hated her.
That very day, sitting alone in the lunch area of the classroom, Honor heard Hester and Helena whispering.
“. . . How could she? They don’t get their uniforms pressed . . . That’s why she’s . . . Ooh, I’d hate to look like that,” said Hester.
“Did you see how she looked up at Ms. Lynch today? She looked so orphanish,” said Helena. “I can’t believe she used to be my friend.”
Honor turned around and gazed straight at Hester and Helena where they sat cozily at their own table. Suddenly the girls stopped talking. Helena looked frightened.
Honor stood and took a step toward the girls. She kept her gaze on Helena. “Oh, I look orphanish now?” she asked. “My clothes are too wrinkled?”
“Leave her alone,” said Hester, and she drew herself up, prim and neat, in her crisp uniform.
“How would you like it if your parents disappeared?” Honor demanded, her voice rising. She knew she must never touch another student. She knew the hands-off policy at school, but she stepped toward the girls anyway. She knew she shouldn’t, but she reached out and pulled Hester’s hat down over her eyes. Her hands seized Hester’s starched white shirt and squeezed the fabric until it wrinkled and the pocket ripped. Hester was screaming. Helena was shrieking too. “What would you do if they never came back?” Honor cried out. “Then you’d be just like me. You’d be exactly like me.”
Ms. Lynch came rushing over. She took Honor by the arm and said, “Heloise! What were you thinking? Go to Miss Blessing’s office. Now.”
She didn’t have to tell Honor twice. All the children at school knew to take their consequences quickly or the punishment would be doubled. While Ms. Lynch comforted Helena, Honor took a red card from the box on her teacher’s desk and marched to the principal’s office.
When she got there, she was surprised to find the door closed. She had never seen Miss Blessing’s door closed before. She knocked softly.
“Just a moment,” Miss Blessing sang out.
But she did not come to the door for a long time. Honor stood out in the hall until her legs got tired. She stood on one foot and then on the other. Finally, she sat down on the floor and waited. Then, all at once, the door opened. Helix ambled out, carelessly, as if going to Miss Blessing’s office were the easiest thing in the world. He didn’t look at Honor, but she heard him whisper, “Have fun.”
“Come in, Heloise,” said Miss Blessing. She glanced at the red card in Honor’s hand. “I am very sorry to see that.”
Honor took her seat across from Miss Blessing’s desk.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Miss Blessing asked. Her voice was so strange. Her words chimed like silver bells.
“I’m sorry,” said Honor.
“Is that the truth?” asked Miss Blessing.
“Of course it is,” said Honor.
Then suddenly, Miss Blessing’s eyes narrowed. She did not seem sweet at all. “Don’t get orphanish with me, young lady,” she said.
Honor was shocked. She had not known orphanish was a word that adults used.
“What do you say?” Miss Blessing demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Honor said.
“There is a way orphans become that is sullen,” Miss Blessing said. “When orphans become that way, they are Unhelpful and fall into bad mistakes. You may observe other orphans act that way. See that you don’t. Now,” Miss Blessing said, “tell me what you did.”
“Hester and Helena were saying—”
“But I didn’t ask what they were saying,” said Miss Blessing. “I asked what you did.”
“I wrinkled Hester’s uniform,” said Honor.
“And was that all?”
“The pocket ripped,” admitted Honor.
“Was that all?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will work in recycling for Mr. Sweeney three early mornings,” said Miss Blessing. “You’ll have an hour each day before your chores.”
“But I start chores at sunrise,” said Honor.
“Those who fight will lose some sleep,” said Miss Blessing.
Honor did not know how she would wake up on time. She had no alarm clock. She couldn’t sleep for fear she’d oversleep, and then when she did drift off, she’d wake with a start and stare at the clock on the wall, fearing it was now time. The colors of the night sky didn’t help, because heavy shades covered all the windows. At last Honor gave up sleeping altogether and sat up in bed. When the wall clock showed almost hour four, she dressed and pulled on her work overalls and walked outside.
The air was cool before the sun began burning through the atmosphere. The sky was still indigo. In two hours orderlies would begin the day shift, but now the school grounds were empty. Honor hurried to the recycling plant behind the gymnasium. The plant was built of cinder blocks. There were no proper windows, only places where the walls were built of glass bricks. Inside were separate sorting rooms for metal, glass, paper, and plastic. Ancient posters decorated the walls. They were printed with the legends DON’T BE A LITTERBUG! and REDUCE, RECYCLE, AND REUSE.
Honor heard a clanging, thumping sound inside the building. That was Mr. Sweeney smashing cans. He was an old white-haired man with bright blue eyes and gardening gloves. He stomped on the cans as though he liked his job.
“Let’s get to work,” said Mr. Sweeney when he saw Honor. “And you too,” he called over his shoulder.
Honor saw Helix leaning against the wall.
“The two of you can start in the paper room and fill the wheelbarrows with white.” He pushed a wheelbarrow toward Honor and one toward Helix and the two of them trundled the w
heelbarrows to the door of the paper room. They left their wheelbarrows in the hall.
Honor stopped short in the doorway of the school’s paper room. She’d never seen so much paper in her life. The room was stacked high, almost to the ceiling, with newspapers, broken-down boxes, folded brown paper bags. The floor was covered with white paper scraps. She and Helix could barely take a step; they were knee-deep in white paper. Some of the white paper was printed all over, some was blank, some pieces were large, and some snippets were as thin as Honor’s finger.
“We have to collect all of this?” Honor asked. “How can we do this in an hour?”
“We can’t,” said Helix.
“But it won’t get done,” Honor said, almost despairing.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Helix. “It will never get done. Nothing ever does.” His voice was hard and careless, as if to remind Honor that they weren’t friends.
“I’ll shovel, you push,” said Helix. He took a great metal shovel and began filling the first wheelbarrow.
“I could shovel too,” said Honor.
“I doubt it,” said Helix. “You’re not strong enough.” He scooped a load of white scraps into the wheelbarrow. “And besides—there’s just one shovel.”
Honor tried to pick up piles of paper with her hands and carry them into the hall. The paper was heavy and slippery too. Her arms hurt. She tried to carry too much, and the paper slipped onto the floor. Stacking it up again, she cut her hand between her thumb and forefinger. The cut was small but painful. Tears started in her eyes.
Helix pretended not to notice. He said, “Wheel this down to the end of the hall and dump it in the bin while I fill the other one.”
“My finger’s bleeding,” she said.
“It’s just a paper cut.”
She hesitated, but then she did as he said and wheeled the full load of paper down to the end of the hall. By the time she came back, Helix had the second wheelbarrow almost full of white paper. Honor watched him shoveling the white scraps. Suddenly a memory returned to her. “The paper is like snow.”