Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  I shift to better thoughts as I prepare for my workday. Darren will be waiting for me at the bus today. That alone clears a fraction of my exhaustion, and I quicken my pace as I get dressed and scarf down breakfast.

  I’m practically running by the time I leave my apartment and head toward the bus stop. I check my reader, seeing I’m going to be far too early, and slow down. He won’t be there if I get there too soon, and I don’t want to be caught loitering at the stop by an enforcer.

  My heart leaps as I round the corner and see a familiar head of dark, curly hair. Darren is crossing the street from the other apartment buildings toward the bus stop. When we lock eyes, we both freeze and break into smiles at the same time.

  I feel like I’m skipping inside, although I try to keep my cool as we close the distance between us and meet at the stop. We pause a few feet away from each other, and I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. No matter how easy it was beginning to feel with him when we last saw each other, I can’t help but feel shy upon seeing him again. My mind immediately goes to the kiss we almost had in my room. The memory makes my lips tingle, and my blush creeps higher.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “How was work the last few days?”

  I shrug. Miserable. Boring. All I thought about was you the entire time. “It was fine. A bit tiring.”

  He takes a step closer to me, concern drawing his brows together as he studies my face. “Yeah, are you feeling okay? You look terrible.”

  I lean away and burn him with a glare. “Uh, thanks.”

  He laughs. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just...” With a tentative hand, he reaches for my chin, turns my face this way and that. “You look paler than usual.”

  Good. That means he can’t see how deeply I’m blushing. In fact, the feeling of his fingers on my face is making me feel lightheaded. “Well, we can’t all be blessed with your perfect complexion.” Or perfect hair. Perfect eyes. Perfect lips just inches from mine. Damn, how have I not noticed this beautiful man walking the drab streets of the Public District before? How did he ever sit behind me on the bus without me taking notice?

  He pulls his hand away, and it takes all my willpower not to grab it and return it to my face. “Have you been sleeping?”

  I roll my eyes. “Who are you, Dr. Shelia?”

  “I’m serious. I...worry about you.”

  I smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Your words may say so, but your eyes are telling me something else.”

  I avert my gaze from his, suddenly self-conscious about the heavy, dark circles I know are beneath my eyes.

  He opens his mouth to say something more, but the bus rolls to a stop along the sidewalk. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if we can get a seat next to each other.”

  We are at the head of the queue, so we have no trouble finding a pair of open seats toward the back. I scoot into the seat closest to the window, and he sits next to me, his arm a heavy warmth against mine. I’m almost overcome with exhaustion as soon as the bus rolls into motion, as if the act of sitting has reminded my body what it so greatly lacks. My eyes flutter, and without meaning to, my head falls on Darren’s shoulder.

  I force my eyes open and pull my head upright. Darren brings his lips close to my ear. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “This happens sometimes,” I say, my words feeling as thick as molasses. “Especially on a rail or bus. My body never wants to sleep when I’m in my bed.”

  “Maybe you should try mine sometime.”

  I sit upright, as if I’ve been electrocuted, and stare at Darren with wide eyes.

  He laughs. “That woke you up.

  “Did you just...proposition me? On a Public bus? In front of dozens of strangers?” I’m trying to scowl, but I’m so amused that my lips keep slipping into a grin.

  “I’m just kidding, Claire.”

  My grin falters, and I’m surprised by my sudden pang of disappointment. I mean, yeah, his words were a bit brash, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want the sentiment to be at least partially true.

  “I’ve got more class than that,” he says. “We’d use your place, obviously. It’s bigger.”

  The heat is searing my cheeks and I swat him in the arm. “In your dreams! You haven’t even kissed me yet.” Once the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could swallow them back up. We have yet to establish what exactly we are, or what we want from each other. I know he likes me...but in what way?

  His expression takes on a serious quality, and for a moment I’m terrified that I’ve said the wrong thing. There’s still laughter in his eyes, but a steadiness too. His gaze locks with mine. “That can be arranged.”

  My breaths have grown shallow, and I’m at a loss for what to say. Oh my God, Claire. Say something. Say something! A fire of boldness floods my chest, and before I can stop myself I say, “I’d rather our first kiss wasn’t arranged. I’d rather it was spontaneous.”

  Holy shit. I just flirted with him. Like, obviously, flirted with him.

  He looks at me with such calm, eyes straying to my lips as if I’m the only person there. As if we aren’t crammed like sardines on a bus next to grumbling, groaning passengers at the crack of dawn. “What if I arrange for our first kiss to be spontaneous? Does that work for you? I can pencil you in tonight. Say...11:30?”

  My heart is doing somersaults, and I’m trying to keep a straight face. I can’t. Before I know it, I’m stifling giddy laughter, earning daggers in the form of glares from those nearby. “Stop making me laugh! You’re going to get us in trouble.”

  He doesn’t stop. He continues to make me laugh for the entire bus ride, then on the rail to the city as well. It isn’t until he leaves me with a wave in front of the Four Corners Bistro that I understand why. As my legs return to their leaden state and exhaustion pulls my bones, I realize he was trying to help me stay awake. It worked. For that glorious time with him by my side, I felt alive. Energized.

  Now it’s just me. I shiver, feeling that internal cold creeping back in even though I’m dying to shrug out of my leather jacket. It’s too warm. Everything feels too warm. What’s wrong with me today?

  There isn’t much time to consider it. What’s the point? Work awaits.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My head feels like a balloon filled with water by the time I make it to the Salish Diner for my evening shift. I’m late. I shouldn’t have insisted on walking all the way from the Bistro.

  Molly glares at me when I reach the sink, her eyes delivering a warning. “You cut it way too close,” she whispers. “You’re lucky Mr. Evans has been on break. When he sees your time punch, though, he’s gonna be furious.”

  “I know,” I say, and with the words comes a searing pain through my skull. I wince and close my eyes until the pain recedes.

  Molly’s expression shifts from warning to worry. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t feel that well today.”

  “Are you getting sick?”

  “Maybe.” I haven’t wanted to admit the possibility until now, but the question strikes a chord inside me. Getting sick is a Public’s worst nightmare, and it’s even worse for a probationary. We can’t afford to get sick. We can’t afford supplements or doctor visits. And, unlike Selects and Elites, we aren’t given paid days off for emergencies, so we can’t afford to miss work either.

  Worst of all, if I get sick, how am I supposed to kiss Darren? I think to myself, and I nearly laugh out loud at the absurdity. That’s my biggest concern right now? Kissing? I’m reminded of how lighthearted I felt with him this morning, and the shadow looming over me begins to dissipate.

  Then I deliver the same lie I’ve told again and again. To Dr. Shelia. To Darren. Now to Molly. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  My misery grows with every hour, and by the time dinner service begins, I can barely keep my eyes open. For once, it isn’t because I’m tired. I am still tired, but m
ore pressing is how the light of the kitchen shoots ripples of excruciating pain through my head. My pace is slow, and I’m not even trying to keep up with Molly anymore. I ignore her stares of concern as she watches me drag my way through my stacks of dishes. I don’t argue when she shuffles by and removes an armful of plates from my sink and brings them to hers. I should though. She could get in trouble for lightening my workload.

  After the plates, I move on to the wine glasses, scrubbing them with a soft sponge and detergent. I hate how badly my hands shake. Select dishware isn’t nearly as delicate as Elite, but I still get nervous when handling the glasses. Anything I break gets charged on my credits. Luckily, I haven’t broken anything yet.

  I’m on the last glass, sweat beading my brow even though I still feel that inner chill. How much longer can I do this? I lift my eyes to the clock, but the motion sends my head into a spin, and pain shoots through my skull.

  I squeeze my eyes.

  I squeeze my hands.

  There’s the sound of shattering glass.

  I open my eyes and see soap mingling with streams of red, running over what remains of the fractured wineglass lying at the bottom of the sink. Pain registers in my hand, and I realize the red is coming from me, from a gash slowly widening across my palm. The sight of blood renews the nausea I felt moments before, bringing with it a lightness in my head, a trembling in my knees.

  I hear Molly’s squeal of alarm as I hit the floor.

  WHEN I COME TO, MOLLY is leaning over me and a dishrag has been tied over my palm. Another face leans over me as well. It’s my supervisor, Mr. Evans. “Can you get up?” he asks with impatience.

  I force myself to sit, though each inch that I rise brings greater pain to my skull.

  Mr. Evans faces me with his hands on his hips. “Can you work?”

  “She needs stitches,” Molly says, hand on my shoulder. “And probably other kinds of medical care.”

  I try to lie, but ‘I’m fine,’ won’t seem to make it past my lips this time.

  Molly and Mr. Evans begin to argue, but their words seem suddenly too loud and too quiet at once, drowned out by the beating of my pulse echoing through my head.

  I take a deep breath and try to reorient myself. Molly’s words come clearly. “I’ll take her to the hospital. When I come back I’ll do both our dishes. I won’t leave until they’re done.”

  Mr. Evans stomps away without answering her.

  Without another word, Molly is lifting me, arm around my waist. I try as hard as I can to stand, but the blood feels like it’s draining from my head to my toes.

  “Come on,” Molly says. “The hospital isn’t far, and some air will do you good.”

  “I can’t go to the hospital,” I mumble.

  “You can and you will.”

  “No. Can’t afford it.”

  Molly faces me, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Can you afford to lose your arm to infection? Because that’s what happens to those who refuse medical treatment.”

  Her words send a chill up my spine. Is that what happened to her? “Not the Select then. I’ll take the rail to the Public Hospital.”

  “Oh yeah? Do you really think they will let you on the rail to bleed all over the other passengers?”

  I look at my hand and see the dishtowel has already become soaked in red.

  She tugs me forward. “You’re going. No more arguing so we can get this over with. I’m the one who has to stay late now.”

  We make our way to the locker room to grab my things, then out of the restaurant into the streets of the city. Citizens stream past us, either on their way home from work or out to dinner, and no one pays any attention to the one-armed girl dragging her half-conscious friend.

  The mild air outside feels good and helps clear my head somewhat. When I’m able to support myself better, I pull my weight off Molly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Life happened, Claire.” Her tone is bitter, but I don’t get the feeling it’s directed at me. “You worked too hard. You got sick. You worked harder. And now you’re paying for it. It’s the probationary way.”

  “You really think I need stitches?”

  “Yeah, and more.”

  I fight to maintain consciousness as we walk, my head still throbbing, sweat coating my face. Once we arrive at the hospital, Molly guides me to the Public wing, a small, dimly lit portion of the building reserved for the few Publics who need medical care while in the city.

  Molly checks me in at the front desk, then turns to face me. “I don’t care what kind of treatment they will say you need. Accept it. All of it.” Her tone is filled with annoyance, but beneath it is something else. Something I recognize from when my mom was fighting for her life the past few years.

  She cares about me.

  My throat feels tight as I meet her eyes. “Thank you for bringing me here. And I’m so sorry you have to stay late to do my share of the dishes.”

  “It’s fine. Just...get better, okay?” With that, she turns and leaves me alone in the waiting room.

  I sit in one of the chairs until a nurse comes to get me. She isn’t smiling as she leads me to a room and conducts her initial assessment. The next few hours pass in a blur. I lay on the hospital bed, the room spinning around me. A doctor comes to stitch my wounds. My vitals are taken. An IV is inserted. A needle goes into my arm. Then I’m left alone.

  I keep waiting for someone to return and tell me I’m well and it’s time for me to leave. It doesn’t happen. But whatever they injected me with is kicking in. I give in and close my eyes.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When I wake, disorientation falls over me as I stare up at the room that isn’t my room.

  I’m at the hospital, I remind myself.

  The room is small and cramped with an unpleasant sterile smell. There are no windows, and the lights have been dimmed, leaving most of the room in shadow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d be certain I was in the Public District. I suppose I should feel grateful that there’s even a place for Publics here at all.

  Now that I’ve received treatment, I realize it was probably the right choice. My mind is clear, the fog lifted, my skull devoid of pain. I lift my hand, finding my limbs still feel heavy, but it’s most likely from my nap. My hand has been bandaged, and when I flex it, I feel only the slightest sting. I try not to think about how many credits all of this is costing me, not to mention whatever medications they try to send me home with.

  “How do you feel, Claire?”

  I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the voice and crane my head toward the corner of the room. During my initial assessment of the room, I hadn’t noticed the shadowed figure sitting in the chair, and I have to sit upright to see her clearly.

  It’s Dr. Shelia.

  I’m so confused, I blink a few times to be sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. “What are you doing here?” It probably isn’t the politest thing to say, but it’s the most pressing question that comes to mind.

  “As a probationary and a minor, you require someone to approve suggested treatment, not to mention check you out. Nearest kin. Guardian.”

  “But I’m emancipated.”

  “Not where the hospital’s concerned. And since you have no living kin, it was either me or your probation officer.”

  I’m not sure what to say. Thank you, probably, but for some reason, I’m too embarrassed. If I knew the hospital was going to contact Dr. Shelia, I never would have come here. Besides, she’s looking at me with so much disappointment, my cheeks grow warm. “Does that mean I can leave?”

  She leans forward in her chair, elbows propped on her knees. “I’m going to have you stay here overnight.”

  My eyes bulge. “What? Why?”

  “Even if you left now, the last rail to the Public District would be long gone by the time you made it to the platform, and I don’t—”

  I’m already swinging my legs over the side of the bed, eager to catch the rail
even if I must run. Dr. Shelia stands at the same moment I remember the IV still in my arm.

  “Lay back down, Claire.” She says it with such authority, yet her voice isn’t unkind.

  My head spins from my sudden movement, and I close my eyes for a few seconds before obeying her words.

  Dr. Shelia stands at my side, but I refuse to meet her eyes. “I don’t want you straining yourself. You only feel as well as you do because you’re being medicated. You would have experienced nothing more than a common cold, but cutting your hand, losing blood, and your prolonged neglect of self-care has caused a severe crash in your vitals. I want you to stay overnight until you stabilize.”

  “But...I can’t.”

  “You don’t have many other choices. Publics who are, for whatever reason, stuck in the Select District overnight either stay in the Public wing of the hospital, or at the enforcer precinct.”

  I blanch at this. Staying at the hospital will certainly cost me a heavy fine in credits, but it can’t be worse than being locked in a jail cell overnight, can it? “Will they release me before work tomorrow?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You aren’t going to work tomorrow. I’ve already made arrangements for you to have the morning off. Tomorrow is Wednesday, so our weekly meeting will remain. What you do before you meet with me is up to you, but I suggest you remain in the city, get some food in you, and find somewhere to relax.”

  I’m so furious, I feel heat rise to my face. What right does she have changing my work schedule? I squeeze my uninjured hand, nails digging into my palm, to channel my rage and not shout at her. My words come out strained through clenched teeth. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but you know I can’t afford not to work. I can’t afford to eat in the city. I can’t afford to stay here overnight.”