Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  I blanch, opening my mouth to lie, to say it’s been great, but there’s something about the way she’s looking at me that stick the words in my throat.

  “You aren’t sleeping, are you? That’s common in a situation like yours. I imagine you aren’t processing your mother’s death well.” She turns to her desk and presses her thumb over a small metal sensor inlaid in its surface. A keyboard hologram appears beneath her fingers, as well as a projection of a computer screen, and I see her typing something. “I am filling a prescription for you to help you sleep.”

  A sedative. I’m not sure how I feel about that. It would be nice to sleep for once, but the cost to my credits...

  The screen hologram dims, and Dr. Shelia presses a button on her keyboard. “Dr. Grand, we’re ready for you.” I look around, wondering who she’s talking to, but after a few seconds, the door opens. A man with dark brown skin, thinning black hair, and wire-rimmed glasses enters the room, carrying a metal case. He wears black slacks and a white lab coat, fitting for a doctor. Most medical professionals are Elites, but the uncharacteristic wear at the cuffs of his sleeves and the hems of his slacks make it hard to place his rung.

  He stops before me and tips his head, like a subtle bow. “Ms. Harper, I’m Dr. Grand.” I’m surprised by his formality as well as his blank expression. Even when he smiles, his face still reminds me of an empty canvas. He sets the case next to me on the couch, opening it to reveal two-dozen flat metal disks. My breath catches, remembering what Kori did to my wrist. It’s still tender where the metal edges of the tracker meet my flesh. I lean away, watching Dr. Grand with alarm.

  His eyes flash to my fingers clutching reflexively around my wrist. As if he understands my worry, he takes a step back and opens his hands, palms forward. “These will do you no harm,” he says slowly. It may be his gentle tone or the way his eyes turn down at the corners when he looks at me—the only hint of emotion on his otherwise blank face—but for some reason, I believe him.

  I take a deep breath and relax back into my seat while Dr. Grand removes the disks from their case. With bated breath, I feel him place the cold metal in the middle of my forehead, then two others at my temples, and several more over my scalp. They remain in place without latching into my skin, prompting a shaky exhale from my lips. With all the disks in place, Dr. Grand faces a corner of the room where a hologram has illuminated. I glance at it, seeing what looks like an image of a brain. My brain. Different colors swirl over the image with rows of numbers, letters, and abbreviations below it, but I don’t know what any of it means.

  “Your vitals don’t look too good, Claire,” Dr. Shelia says. “If I didn’t already know you weren’t sleeping, I’d know now.”

  Dr. Grand types some information into a reader. When he’s finished, he sets the reader down and the hologram disappears.

  “We will begin our official work together next week,” Dr. Shelia says as Dr. Grand removes the disks from me and replaces them in the case. “In the meantime, I want you to take care of yourself. Take your pills. Emily will have them waiting for you at the front desk when you leave. I want you to get a good night’s sleep.”

  Her tone conveys a clear dismissal, but I still have questions. “How much will the medication cost me?”

  She frowns. “Emily will have a total for you at the front desk. You don’t need to worry about it. It will be charged to your credits.”

  That’s exactly what I’m worried about. But instead of arguing, I stand and leave her office. As I approach the desk in the waiting room, I consider brushing past it. I can’t be charged for a medication I don’t claim, right? Before I can ponder it a moment longer, the girl at the desk—Emily—turns and locks eyes with me.

  “I have your medication,” she says with a smile as she puts a pill bottle on the counter.

  I sigh and round the desk to face her. “How much will it cost my credits?”

  She eyes the screen in front of her for a moment. “Seven hundred credits.”

  My mouth falls open. “How long is the supply for?”

  “The dosage is for one pill, and there are thirty total.”

  “Seven hundred credits for a month supply?” I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my head. I remember my mom’s medication being expensive, but hers were more than basic sedatives.

  Emily shrugs. “You don’t have to take them every night. Only when you have trouble sleeping.”

  That is every night, but I don’t say so out loud. I’m about to refuse when movement catches my eye from behind the desk. Dr. Shelia is leaning against the corner of the wall that leads to the corridor, watching me. Her lips hold a smile, but I can’t help feeling like I’m being judged, bored into by those cold eyes of hers.

  “Fine,” I say under my breath.

  Emily hands me the pill bottle, and I leave the clinic in a daze. An unsettled feeling creeps into me as I reflect upon my abrupt meeting with Dr. Shelia. I’m not sure what I expected of my first appointment with her, but that wasn’t it. It felt so rushed. So...impersonal, despite the meeting revolving around me and my health. Maybe that’s what it was supposed to feel like. Like I was being looked at—looked into, even—without being truly seen.

  By the time I arrive at my apartment, it’s almost curfew. I scrape together another unsatisfying meal, then check the calendar on my reader. I’ll be starting work at six the next morning, which means I’ll need to wake up a couple hours earlier than that. My eyes light on the bottle of pills on my desk, my stomach sinking. I can hear Dr. Shelia’s voice in my head. I want you to get a good night’s sleep. The problem is, I have no idea how these pills work. What if they knock me out so deep, I can’t get up in the morning? I can’t risk being late on my first day of work.

  Maybe I’ll try them some other night. Not tonight.

  Besides, the less often I take them, the fewer refills I pay for. The fewer credits I accumulate. The sooner I can work off my probation.

  What does Dr. Shelia know, anyway? She doesn’t know me at all.

  I turn off the light and get into bed, staring at the ceiling for another sleepless night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Both Dr. Shelia and my probation officer were right. Working three jobs is way harder than I thought. What they weren’t right about, though, was how much I like it.

  It’s not that I enjoy the work, or the lack of rest, or the physical aches and mental exhaustion that result from it. But I like how it keeps me busy. How it keeps my mind from wandering. It helps me forget the numbness that still lurks inside me, forcing me to focus on the tasks at hand.

  On Thursday, it’s back-to-back shifts doing dishes at the Four Corners Bistro followed by the same at Salish Diner. The next day, it’s laundry at the Great Northwest Hotel. Saturday and Sunday, it’s double dishes again. Monday back to laundry. Tuesday, back to double dishes. Wednesday is the only day with any sort of a break, when I do laundry at the hotel for six hours in the morning with a three-hour break before my meeting with Dr. Shelia.

  That will be tomorrow. I know I should be glad for the break from the endless physical labor, but I’m not looking forward to meeting with Dr. Shelia again. My stomach sinks just thinking about her bright office, her forced smile, and her abrupt demeanor.

  A shoulder rams into mine, bringing me back to my present moment of dirty dishes and soggy hands. My eyes flash from the plate I’ve been washing too long to the figure next to me.

  It’s Molly. “Don’t get caught slacking off,” she snaps in a rushed whisper before moving to the sink next to mine. Molly is one of the other dishwashers at the Salish Diner and works almost all the same shifts as me. While I wouldn’t call her my friend, I know her short remarks are made in my favor. She’s looking out for me, I can tell. And if anyone knows how a Public can keep a job here, it’s her. She’s a few inches shorter than me with short brown hair and clever brown eyes. She’s rail thin and has one good arm. The other arm ends in a stump beneath the tucked-away sleeve of her unifo
rm. Regardless of this, she still manages to finish a sink full of dishes in half the time I can.

  I nod and stack the plate in the sanitizing machine, shaking my previous thoughts from my head. This is why I like work. There’s no time to think.

  Molly and I work hard through dinner service, neither of us speaking as trays and trays of plates, bowls, silverware, and scraps of half-eaten food are placed by our sinks. Behind us, the chaos of a busy kitchen roars with shouts, searing heat, and mingling aromas. I barely have time to look at the clock as the night wears on.

  The Salish Diner is always busy. Being in the heart of the city’s tech center, it’s often the place for mid-rung Selects to grab lunch on their breaks, then dinner after work before they head home to their apartments in the housing centers. Busy is good for me. Busy keeps me sane.

  My hands are raw and red, black uniform drenched in soapy water and bits of food, by the time the dishes start to slow. This is also when my hands start to slow, muscles screaming with every repetitive move, eyelids fluttering, vision swimming over the chocolate-stained dessert plates.

  I’m halfway through my final stack when Molly brushes by, already done with hers, of course. “See you Thursday,” she says tonelessly.

  “See you,” I say back. I miss having friends. At least I think I do. I haven’t had a true friend since the last time I was a Select. Sure, I’ve had a few acquaintances over the past couple years as a Public. A boyfriend, even, for a time. Although, I wouldn’t call that relationship anything close to serious. It was nothing more than two people looking for a distraction from our miserable lives in the form of heated make out sessions behind our school. There was no point in having anything more serious than that. Not when I’d convinced myself my situation was temporary. Any day now, Mom will get better, I remember telling myself. Any day now, we’ll get back to the city. Back to our old life. My old school. My old friends. I didn’t even care about becoming an Elite again. A Select would’ve been enough.

  But Mom didn’t get better. Nothing got better.

  “Harper,” barks a voice behind me, much more aggressive than Molly’s had been. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s my supervisor. I immediately grab another plate and start scrubbing. “I know it’s past your bedtime, Public, but that doesn’t mean you get to waste water.”

  “Yes, sir.” I force the annoyance from my face. He thinks he’s something, calling me Public when he can’t be more than a first rung Select. I’ve seen him in his cheap jeans and clearance-rack button-up shirts before he changes into his uniform. He’s not the hotshot he thinks he is.

  I feel a flicker of flame deep inside, a stirring of something like anger. It almost takes hold, almost grows, and I nearly shiver at the excitement that I’m feeling...something. Then just like that, it’s gone, forgotten. Back to the dishes. Numbness.

  My eyes are burning, both from tiredness and the heat of the kitchen, by the time I make my way to the locker room to change. I toss my uniform—starchy black pants with an elastic waistband and a matching short-sleeved shirt—in the laundry basket before putting on my jeans, loose gray t-shirt, and black leather jacket. My jacket is the only thing I own that I like. It’s an older style, but only old enough to be found in a Public thrift store, not so old that it’s considered vintage. Vintage is Elite territory.

  The streets are beginning to empty as I hurry to catch the last rail of the night. If I don’t catch it, I’ll never make it back to the Public District by midnight. Midnight is my extended curfew allowance since it’s the curfew of the Select District where work keeps me in the city later than the Public curfew of 10 p.m. My allowance is only valid on the days specified according to my work schedule, and any enforcer can find out which days apply by scanning my city badge. I’m not sure what happens to Publics who get stuck in the city overnight, but I know it isn’t legal.

  I’m panting for breath as I race through the doors of the rail before they close, then sink into an empty seat. Most of the seats are empty since only a rare few Publics are given an allowance extension for work. I look around, wondering if Molly is somewhere nearby or if she caught an earlier route when the rail rolls into motion.

  As it speeds along the tracks over the barren land between the Select and Public districts, my body sinks lower and lower in my seat. I dig my nails into my thighs to keep my eyes open. Why does my body only want to sleep when I’m not in bed?

  Sleep. The word is like a fantasy, and for a moment I wonder what it would be like if I let myself drift off on the rail. Would I sleep long? Would an enforcer wake me? Or would I find myself here in the morning, still in the same position as the rail lurches back into motion for its morning route?

  I almost give in and close my eyes. Almost.

  The ride is over before my fantasy can linger, and I force my aching legs to stand, force one foot in front of the other and propel myself onto the platform with the other tired citizens. Here, the Public District is black, lit only by the faint light of the cloud-covered moon. I check my reader. Thirty minutes until midnight. Thirty minutes since lights out.

  The others have already left the platform and are disappearing into the streets. No one speaks, no one turns and asks where I’m heading, asks if they can walk with me. I’ve been a Public for two years, yet I still find myself in confused moments like this, where for one split-second I expect to be treated as a Select. It’s like I’m a ghost who doesn’t know she’s dead.

  I surge forward, the stress of being out past curfew sending a shock of urgency through me. It was almost this late when I made my way home after my double shifts over the weekend, but the sky had been clearer then, the moon brighter. The darkness less menacing.

  The buses don’t run past curfew, so it will be a miracle if I can make it home in time. I haven’t been stopped by an enforcer since I’ve been on probation, but I’d rather not find out what it’s like. What if there’s something wrong with my badge? What if the system hasn’t updated my extended curfew allowance yet? I think of the beatings I’ve witnessed, of enforcers doling out justice with their clubs. Without the rights of citizenship, there’s nothing to stop such a thing from happening. I swallow hard and quicken my pace.

  I make my way through silent streets, nearly tripping over garbage and debris in my rush to make it home. If I thought my eyes were raw before, they are melting out of my skull as the housing centers come into view. It’s even darker here, eerier too, with the apartments rising higher in the sky, blocking more light from the already-hidden moon. I use my reader to light my way, but it doesn’t show me more than a few steps ahead.

  I get lost trying to find the correct street to building seven and have to check my place on my map in my reader twice before I head the right direction. Something skitters in the street behind me, a rat perhaps, and I pick up my pace yet again. I think I see my building ahead, even though all the apartments look even more alike at night than they do during the day. Another sound falls behind me, a rhythmic beat, like footsteps. I pause and whirl around, but there’s nothing to see. Just another rat, I try to convince myself. All I hear now is my panting breath and ragged heartbeat.

  I continue toward my apartment, almost running, promising myself I’ll wash my dishes three times as fast from now on, determined never to be out this late again. I catch that rhythmic sound again—it has to be feet. An enforcer? I don’t turn around to look, I just keep going.

  That’s when I see it. Movement. Nothing more than blackness moving through blackness, but it’s there, just ahead, on the other side of the street. I slow down and squint into the dark, my heart pounding in my chest as if it might explode. Movement again. I look from side to side, seeking a direction to run.

  Then a sound, chilling and strangled, sending a shiver up my spine, breaks the silence of the night. “Claire?”

  I could never forget that voice, no matter how quiet, how distant, how nearly imperceptible it is. With shaking hands, I lift my reader, letting the subtle glow fall
on the street across from me. There, at the corner, stands a familiar figure.

  She looks scared, confused, her face frozen as she waits motionless, staring back at me.

  My voice cracks on the word that breaks from my throat. “Mom?”

  Without realizing it, I am crossing the street, eager to reach her. In that moment, I see nothing else. Hear nothing else. Not the darkened streets, not the buildings rising around us, not the lights of the bus that barrels my way. I only notice it when I’m on the ground, my arm crushed beneath me, something heavy pinning me down. My breath wheezes out as the weight rolls off me. I watch the bus round the corner, shining its dull lights over where my mother just stood.

  I remember the weight that crushed me to the ground and turn, finding a figure scrambling to his feet. I stand too, taking an unsteady step away. He grabs my arm as I stumble over a crushed can, nearly losing my balance.

  “Easy,” he says as I find my footing. “Are you okay?”

  His voice somehow calms me, although I would feel a lot better if I could see his face. Is he an enforcer? But no, enforcers wear helmets. This man is only wearing a hooded jacket. His hand isn’t holding a club, just the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder. “I’m fine,” I say and shrug from his grasp.

  He lets go of my arm and walks into the street. I realize he’s reaching for my reader, the screen still illuminated, just a few inches from the sidewalk. As he hands it to me, I look up, catching a glimpse of his features. I’m taken aback at how young he is. He can’t be much older than I am.

  I take the reader, but keep it on, the light like a protective barrier between us. “Who are you?”

  His brow furrows, then his lips pull into a crooked smile. “No, thank you, kind soul, for saving my life?”

  He has a point, but I think of the footsteps I heard behind me. “Were you following me?”

  “Not intentionally,” he says, “but I need to get home before extended curfew just as much as you do, and we’re apparently going the same direction.”