Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  “I told you, I have connections. You aren’t my only friend who works at a restaurant.”

  A sudden pang of jealousy squeezes my chest, and I feel the blood leave my face. So...I’m just a friend? And he has more than me?

  Something shifts in his face as he watches me, and he rushes to say, “He’s an old friend from one of the group homes I lived in when I was a kid. Mitchell. We’ve kept in touch over the years. He’s a line cook at the Golden Tempest. Turns out, they waste a lot of food there since a lot of it gets returned by visiting Elites.”

  The Golden Tempest is a restaurant belonging to one of the hotels in the city. I feel a wave of relief that his mystery friend isn’t a girl.

  “It’s table scraps, basically,” he continues. “Waste that we’re putting to good use.”

  “You could still get in trouble for accepting it,” I say, but I sit on the blanket next to him. What’s the use arguing when the food smells so good?

  This time he’s brought sautéed asparagus, roasted chicken, and mashed potatoes.

  “Why would anyone return this?” I say with my mouth full. The flavors put my earlier apple to shame.

  “Elites are used to more flavor, so I’m told. Bolder pairings. Richer meats. Is that true?”

  I nod. “I can barely remember what Elite food tastes like. But I do remember it being different.”

  When we finish our meal, Darren opens the wine. I realize the bottle is only half full, the cork haphazardly replaced. He pours the red liquid into a cup and hands it to me. I stare at it, feeling a rush of excitement. I remember stealing sips of wine with my friends when I was a Select, but it was more for the thrill of doing it than for the taste. Now that I’m older, I wonder if I’ll like it. I take a sip, feeling a warmth in my gut and a buzzing sensation in my head. The taste is far from pleasant, but the results are delightful.

  Darren eyes me over the rim of his cup, his gaze hovering over my bandaged palm. “So...how are you?”

  I can tell he’s trying not to seem too eager, but his face is tinged with worry. With a deep sigh, I unload my burden. I tell him everything that happened yesterday.

  His face looks crestfallen. “I knew you weren’t feeling well. I shouldn’t have made light of things on our way to the city yesterday. I thought if I could make you laugh and feel better, then maybe you’d actually be better.”

  I’m surprised at his guilt. “What else could you have done?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, talk you into seeing a doctor.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. I never would have listened.”

  “I’m sorry you were hurt.”

  “I brought it on myself,” I say. “I feel like an idiot for not seeing it coming. I thought things couldn’t possibly be worse than what happened the night I met you.”

  “When you almost got hit by the bus?”

  I shift uncomfortably, then take another sip of wine. “That’s not all that happened that night. I...hallucinated. I thought I saw my mom on the street corner. I thought I heard her voice. That’s why I was walking into the street. That’s why I didn’t see the bus.”

  Darren watches me without a word, without judgment in his eyes.

  I continue. “I slept well that night, remember? After that, things changed inside me. I started talking more to my coworkers. I opened up to you. My mind felt clearer. My emotions returned. I thought that meant I was better. That I was no longer a danger to myself. But I was wrong. My emotional state may have improved. I may have let Molly become my friend, and I may have let myself enjoy my time with you, but I still wasn’t taking care of myself physically. It was like I felt I should be punished more for finding any sort of happiness as a probationary.”

  I’m surprised I’m telling him so much. I’m surprised he’s listening so raptly. Most of all, I’m surprised that everything I’m admitting to him, I’m admitting to myself for the first time as well. It must be the wine. Regardless, it feels good to say these things.

  Darren stands and pulls me to my feet. He cups my face in both hands and locks his eyes with mine. My heart races at the closeness, and I fight my urge to shy away from him. “Claire,” he says, his voice rich with tenderness, “you are not your status. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a probationary or an Elite. You, exactly as you are, deserve happiness.” My eyes glaze with tears as his words tear my heart in two.

  His next words stitch my heart back together and wrap it in a blanket of warmth. “You deserve love.”

  I press into him, and his lips find mine as my arms wrap around his waist. I’ve been kissed before, but not like this. Not like the air is being crushed out of me at the same time as I’m being given new life, renewed by every breath we share. My lips part slightly, and I feel his tongue brush against mine. He tastes like wine, and a chill runs down my spine. One of his hands remains on my face while the other tangles in the hair at the back of my neck.

  I pull him tighter against me, my hands exploring the flat, hard surface of his back. Our kisses rise like a wave, growing deeper, more urgent, until they crash and slow, our breathing steadying as our hearts hammer between us. Our lips linger together before we pull away and Darren presses his forehead to mine. I keep my hands on his waist while his fall on my shoulders.

  When I finally catch my breath, I find my voice. “You’re late.”

  “Late?”

  “Our first kiss was scheduled for last night at 11:30.”

  “Yeah, well, I stood outside your building all night until I got your message. You have no idea how worried I was.”

  I pull away just far enough to see if he’s serious. “You did?”

  He laughs. “It sure didn’t help my I’m not a stalker cause.”

  I lean in close again. “That’s okay. I like this kiss better.”

  “How do you know? I could have planned fireworks last night.”

  I touch my lips lightly to his, feel his sharp intake of breath. “That was fireworks.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I’m dizzy with happiness as Darren walks me back to my room. He kisses me goodnight, and I pull him against me as tight as I can until fear of him being caught by an enforcer on his way home prompts me to release him. After he leaves, I fall back on my bed with a heavy sigh, lips tingling. Curfew has come and gone, leaving my room in darkness, but I don’t need light to see. Darren’s face fills my memories, my senses.

  It isn’t until the buzz of wine wears off that I remember there’s a thing called sleep. This, in turn, reminds me of the pills I’m supposed to take. I never did take my morning dose, as I was in such a rush to leave the hospital and get back home. In the dark, I search inside my backpack until I feel the bottles. I set them on the desk next to the two bottles I already have.

  From the fridge, I extract a bottle of water, then take the pills to the window, where I find a sliver of moonlight. I combine the two bottles of sleep aids into one, and do the same with the antidepressants, then toss the empty bottles into my waste bin. With a huge gulp of water, I take two of each pill, then chase them with more water.

  Only once they are down my throat do I consider the wine I drank and wonder if there are any ill effects from taking pills with alcohol.

  Too late now.

  The next morning, I wake to a knock on my door. It’s Darren. Before I can open it all the way, his lips are on mine, and I squeal with surprise as he wraps me in his arms.

  “I had to see you before work,” he says breathlessly, slamming the door behind us.

  It’s Thursday, and I don’t return to the hotel laundry room until Friday, which means I have another day off. I’m still blinking sleep out of my eyes, but I must admit, I couldn’t ask for a better way to wake up. “How much time do we have?”

  “Like five minutes. The bus will be here in ten.”

  So we make it the best five minutes of my life.

  What follows is the happiest I think I’ve ever been—a week of kisses, of fingers entwined as we walk do
wn the street, of his arm around me while we ride to the city.

  I feel guilty admitting this since my happiest memories should involve my mom or dad, right? But they don’t. The last few years with my mom have been misery. And the happiness I felt as a child doesn’t hold a candle to this. My childhood happiness was the result of circumstance. I felt safe. I was taken care of. But the happiness I feel with Darren is the result of choice. Of action. Of healing. Of opening up to new potential.

  The potential for love.

  We don’t call it that. Not yet. At this point, it’s only been a week since our first kiss.

  But I can feel my heart opening for him. Cracking wide and shattering into a million pieces with every kiss, stitching back together with each smile, each touch, each tender word.

  I only hope he feels the same way.

  TRANSITIONING FROM my rigorous schedule with three jobs to working only one job is strange at first. I’m surprised how quickly I get tired, even with my new, less burdensome schedule. Then again, I am still recovering from the incident.

  Idle time continues to make me anxious. But I’ve slept all night every night since I started my medication, and I do feel like the antidepressants help take the edge off my anxiety. Besides, I now have Darren to fill a lot of that idle time.

  Today is my first appointment with Dr. Shelia since the night at the hospital. For once I’m looking forward to it. Probably because this is the first time I’ve taken her advice. When I get to the clinic, I’m exhausted despite my shorter shift in the laundry room this morning. It’s strange how my body’s signals are stronger now that I’m listening to them.

  I take a seat on the couch in Dr. Shelia’s office. When she enters, she offers me her cold smile, then sits at her desk chair, studying me over her glasses. “How are you feeling?” she finally asks.

  “Better,” I say. “I’ve been taking my medication. My hand doesn’t hurt so bad, even when I work.”

  “How are you feeling about working one job?”

  I can’t help the wave of anxiety that comes over me. “It still makes me feel uncomfortable that I’m not doing more, but I think it’s the right thing to do for now.”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Any other improvements?”

  All I can think about is Darren, and a smile breaks across my face despite my best efforts to suppress it.

  Dr. Shelia’s brows twitch, a hint of amusement on her face. “Perhaps something more than an improvement?”

  I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She already knows so much. There’s no point in hiding it.

  I tell her about Darren. At least, I tell her the things I feel most comfortable telling her. I don’t tell her about the kissing or the smuggled Select food or the rooftop dinners. Instead, I share what it’s like having him in my life—my fears, my joys, my worries, my excitement.

  When I finish, Dr. Shelia studies me again before saying, “He sounds good for you, Claire. I think it’s important that you allow yourself to be vulnerable and loved.”

  Her words remind me of Darren’s. Then I think about his lips again.

  She continues. “But don’t rely on his love alone. I want you to continue to develop your relationship with yourself.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  We change to the subject of my childhood. Dr. Shelia asks me vague questions and I answer her as best I can. It’s getting easier to talk to her now. We don’t touch on anything nearly as shattering as we did at the hospital, but with every word I say, I feel a bit lighter.

  At the end of our appointment, Dr. Grand comes in to take my vitals and Dr. Shelia smiles with approval. I’m finally making progress, she says. Keep doing what I’m doing.

  Outside the building, I take out my reader but there’s no message from Darren. I’m not sure what time he’s off today, but I’m certain I’ll see him before bed. He’s made the effort to see me at least once a day since our kiss.

  I try not to be too disappointed when it’s lights out and there’s still nothing from Darren. Maybe he forgot his reader at home. Maybe he’s saving credits by not messaging me.

  I lie in bed, but I know I can’t sleep yet. Not until I take my medication. But I don’t want to take my medication until I know Darren won’t be coming.

  I check my reader.

  11:15.

  11:28.

  11:46.

  It’s almost midnight. He isn’t coming.

  I drag myself to the desk and shake two pills of each onto its surface.

  That’s when I hear the quiet knock.

  I fling the door open with a smile and find Darren standing outside my door, his head lowered. He doesn’t move. “Hey,” I say, the smile fading from my lips.

  He lifts his head, eyes barely meeting mine. “Hey,” he says back, not a single hint of warmth in his tone.

  My hands are trembling as I push the door open wider. “Are you...okay? Do you want to come in?”

  He nods, but his eyes have moved to the floor. I cross my arms over my chest as if I can squeeze out the sense of dread I feel. This is the end. He’s breaking up with me. Or were we even together in the first place? Darren runs his hands through his hair and starts pacing. I back away from him until my knees hit the bed, forcing me to sit.

  “Something’s happening,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

  “What is it?” I croak.

  “I don’t know. I think someone’s after me.”

  I shake my head to clear it. That wasn’t what I was expecting. “After you? Who? Why?”

  He stops his pacing, stares at a wall. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m being followed.”

  I study his hunched posture, his tangled hair, his wild eyes. This isn’t the man I’ve gotten to know over the past couple weeks. What could have changed? Then it dawns on me. I keep my voice as even as I ask, “Have you taken your medication today?”

  “No,” he barks with more force than I expect. “It’s doing something to me. Something bad.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”

  I stand, place my hands on his shoulders. He meets my eyes for only a moment. “It’s okay, Darren. I’m here.”

  He takes a step closer to me, eyes on our feet. I feel some of the tension begin to leave his shoulders. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  I feel like my chest is going to collapse. Does he mean here, as inside my apartment? Or here with me?

  With a sigh, he meets my eyes. “Let’s run away together.”

  I’m so caught off guard, I can barely form a word in response. “What?”

  He seems excited at the thought. “Yeah. Let’s go. We can get out of Seattle, move to the outlands.”

  The blood leaves my face. “The...outlands?”

  He turns away from me and starts pacing again. “We can go. People have snuck out of the city before and made it past the pharms. We could do it too.”

  I shake my head, mouth open wide. “No one can survive the outlands. They’re toxic.”

  He freezes and looks at me like I’m crazy. “No, Claire. The pharms are toxic. That’s how they keep us in here. Sure, we would need hazmat suits to get past the pharms, but I know where we can get some without anyone finding out.”

  His words make no sense. Everyone knows the war ravaged most of the country, leaving behind poisoned land. The pharms are the reason we have food to eat. They aren’t toxic. They simply thrive despite the toxicity.

  I hear a light buzz near my ear, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My blood goes cold as I think about the cameras. What will happen to Darren if someone is watching us right now? Everything he’s saying about the outlands could get him in serious trouble. Probably me too. I know the likelihood that someone is watching my lifestream is slim, but...what if?

  I need to change the subject. “Why do you want to leave, Darren? Did something happen?”

  His expression is be
wildered as he spreads his arms out wide. “Of course something happened! All of this happened. The Public District. Probation. This place is horrible, Claire.” His every word is punctured with rage. Even my name sounds laced with venom.

  This conversation isn’t getting any safer. I take a step toward him, my voice pleading. “It doesn’t have to be like this forever. We can move up the ranks. We can—”

  “And do what? Become Selects? Elites? Rise higher and higher in a society that has turned every good thing about our country into a cage?”

  I want to tell him to keep his voice down. To remind him about the cameras. But the passion in his voice chills me to the bone. It’s like he knows something I don’t. “What do you mean?” I whisper.

  “It’s all bullshit,” he says. Luckily his voice has lowered to meet mine. “The Tithe. Forgiveness. Do you know what tithe used to mean?”

  I shake my head.

  “Long before the war, a tithe was something given and received freely. People gave to organizations they respected. These funds were given back to important causes or people in need.”

  “That sounds like the Tithe as we know it.”

  “No, it isn’t. People tithed unconditionally. People received funds from a tithe unconditionally. They weren’t punished.”

  I remember what I learned in history. Things used to be the way he says, right after the war. The wealthy saved those in need by giving a portion of what they had. But there were too many people in need. Too many people living off these funds without the ability to give back. Our society almost collapsed. That’s when we were structured into three classes and a system of rungs were put into place. Not only did it make those on the receiving end of the Tithe give back to society, it gave them a goal, a clear path to move toward.

  But even as I remember this, it contrasts with how I feel now. Stuck. Small. Overworked. I shake these thoughts from my head and return my attention to Darren.

  He clenches and unclenches his fists, eyes unfocused. “Why do they call it filing Forgiveness if they aren’t forgiving anything? Forgiveness means letting go. A clean slate. Never in the history of the word does forgiveness mean holding a grudge. Not until now where we are punished for choices we rarely have control over.”