Breathe

by Sarah Crossan

  “And I could come, too. When Niamh is done with candy-ass Quinn she’ll no doubt wanna cop a feel of a real man,” Riley says, running his hands down his own body. I have no idea what they’re talking about. Under the table I stretch out my leg so my foot is touching Quinn’s.

  “Oh, God, it’s Ms. Kechroud. I didn’t show up for detention with her last night. Let’s roll out of here,” Ferris says. He grabs Riley by the shirt and hauls him away. “Bye, Bea!” he calls.

  “Shit!” Quinn says when they’re out of earshot. “They’re the last people I wanted to see.” I don’t say anything. I wait for Quinn to explain what Riley was talking about. He doesn’t. He takes his tray to the counter to clear it off. I wait a few seconds, then follow him.

  Once we’re out in the yard he leads me to a hidden nook where the water fountain is and finally turns to me. “When she was over last night, my father organized for Niamh Knavery and me to go out next week. I had to say yes.”

  I think of Niamh Knavery, her long spindly legs and mammoth breasts, her shiny hair and perfectly proportioned face. I hate the idea of Quinn and Niamh alone, maybe at dinner or seeing a movie in the dark, and I feel my hands curl into fists.

  “But we’re still together,” I say. I want him to do whatever it takes to help the Resistance. Even so, I don’t want to lose him.

  “Bea, I want you and no one else. I promise.” He leans on me, pushing me toward the wall, and kisses me hard on the mouth. Then he steps away and takes my hands.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask.

  “I think it’s time you went into hiding. If they decide to make an example of me, there’s at least a chance my father will intervene.”

  “Where will I go?”

  “Meet me at the three-B tram station after school. I’m going to leave my pad in my locker and you should, too, in case they’re using them to track us. Bring a bag of clothes. I have an address,” he says.

  “I don’t want to endanger anyone, Quinn. It isn’t right.”

  He takes my hand and kisses my palm. “I know you don’t, but they’re the only people we can trust. It isn’t safe in the pod anymore.”

  45

  ALINA

  I’m in the shooting range every day training drifters. Some of the older ones, who brought their own guns with them, take one look at the dummy and hit the bull’s-eye the first time. I send them on their way, down to Levi for cardiovascular training or to Petra for yoga and meditation practice. Those who’ve been defending themselves with knives and swords need a bit more help knowing how to aim the rifle and keep it steady when it goes off.

  Once I’m done with drifters, the Resistance members come up to practice. Most of them need no training at all; they’ve become accomplished snipers and could hit a running man from five hundred feet. Jazz was sent up by Petra a few minutes ago to do drills. Surprisingly, as she fiddles with the gun, she doesn’t even seem to know where the trigger is. When I try to give her a few words of instruction, she pushes me out of the way and stamps her feet.

  “Don’t tell me how to shoot or I’ll point this baby at you! Tell me where.” The other Resistance members in the range look over at us. Dorian is up here, too. He sneers, aims his rifle in Jazz’s direction, and pretends to shoot, stepping back to give the effect of the gun going off. I shake my head and bite away the smile.

  “See that dummy there? I want you to plug her little finger.” Jazz gulps and points the gun at the target. She shoots and staggers backward, almost falling over from the force of the blast.

  “There’s something wrong with the rifle,” she says when she realizes that all she’s managed to hit is an old vent in the wall.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that piece, Jazz. I just used it.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s broken!”

  Dorian coughs and sputters in the lane next to us, and I turn my back on him because if I look at his face I’ll laugh out loud. Then I’ll be in real trouble.

  “Here, try this,” I say, handing her a pistol. It’s smaller and I hope that the force from it when she shoots won’t send her flying. She aims for the dummy again and fires. She takes only one step back this time, steadies herself on me, and sucks her teeth.

  “Target down,” Jazz tells me, pointing to the dummy’s knee, which she’s managed to hit.

  “I said her little finger,” I remind her.

  “You did not! You said hit her leg.” She turns to Dorian. “Isn’t that what she said?”

  Dorian puts down his gun and steps over to us. “Jazz, have you been practicing?” Jazz nods vehemently, then puts her thumb into her mouth and starts to suck on it. Dorian continues. “The thing is, when Petra tells me to come up here and train, well, sometimes I go down and sit with the trees. Have you ever done that?” Jazz nods again. “And sometimes, when I look at those trees, I wonder what it would be like to climb up into one and just sit there. You know, just sit there all day.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Jazz asks. Dorian turns his head to reveal a willing ear. “I do that all the time. I climb the trees and imagine all the things that the world used to have. And I imagine things I used to have. Like my parents.” Here she stops and looks at me. “Petra said your parents died.” My stomach does a somersault.

  “They’re missing, yes.” Dorian rests one hand on my shoulder, the other on Jazz’s.

  “How about we go down to the trees now,” he says. Jazz looks at the pistol she’s still holding.

  “I never practiced. When the army comes, I won’t be able to fight.”

  “We could go to the trees for a while and come back here for an intensive course in gun fighting later,” I say. Jazz cheers and dashes out of the room.

  “She’s so young,” I say. Dorian shakes his head and takes the heavy rifle I’ve been holding and places it on the rack.

  “We all are, Alina. We’re all really young.”

  46

  QUINN

  I don’t know what’s come over me, but I’ve got a really bad feeling—like a sour pain in the pit of my stomach. At lunch today I couldn’t bring myself to tell Bea how vile the Pod Minister was when he came around for dinner yesterday or how anxious my parents were to arrange a date with Niamh. Plus, last night I dreamed they came for Bea. They dragged her away by her feet, her head cracking against the ground, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even when they threw her out of the pod, I just stood at the viewing station watching her gasp for breath.

  I meet Bea at the tram station and she is all ready with a packed bag. She agrees that we have to find a place for her to hide, and there are only two people who will be able to help us find somewhere safe: Alina’s aunt and uncle.

  When we step out of the winch, we turn right and start searching for the door to Alina’s apartment. They all look the same, as most do in Zone Three, white with a letter and number above a peephole. “We’re looking for J fifty-two,�� I whisper to Bea, who is squinting to read the characters above the doorframes.

  “Here,” she says, and presses her ear against the outer door. “Are you sure you got the right address?” I nod, join her at the door, and ring the bell. We wait for a minute and when no one answers, I ring again. We stand for another few minutes, but nothing happens. I ring again. And then again and again and again. “They must be at work. Or what if they were arrested? Now what?” Bea says. I have no idea, now what. Bea’s not safe at my house, and I know I couldn’t trust Riley or Ferris with her life. I slump onto the floor and Bea sinks down next to me. “Do you think Maude’s okay?” she asks. I’ve hardly thought of Maude since we’ve been back, although that’s exactly why we’re back here at all: Maude was their guarantee that we wouldn’t betray them.

  “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably plugged into some solar respirator wielding a machete.” I try to sound light. I put my arm around Bea’s shoulder, kiss her cheek, then turn her face toward mine and kiss her on the lips. It never gets old, kissing Bea, and when we’re kissing,
I don’t forget everything like I did with other girls. I don’t space out. When I’m with Bea I remember everything—my whole life feels like it’s in that kiss—everything I’ve ever known is right there in her mouth. She rests her head on my shoulder and sighs.

  “I hope they fed her. She isn’t bad.”

  “Neither is Petra. Maude Blue’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe I should go home. Mom and Dad were still at work when I left, and I don’t have my pad anymore. I need to say good-bye. Let’s try again in a couple of hours. Or tomorrow,” she says. Usually I have terrible instincts and my gut tells me to do all kinds of things that get me into trouble, but this time the feeling is physical. There’s no way Bea should go home.

  “It isn’t safe,” I say.

  “We don’t know that for sure. Maybe we’re being paranoid.”

  “You didn’t hear Cain Knavery. He wants someone’s head on a plate.”

  She doesn’t believe me. “What’s one more night?” she says. She presses the button to call the winch and within seconds the doors open and she steps inside. “You coming?”

  “Wait!” A voice. I jump up from the ground and Bea steps out of the winch. I stand in front of Alina’s outer door thinking it will slide open, but it remains shut tight. “Psst! Here!” the voice calls again. That’s when we see two eyes peering at us from a crack in the door next to Alina’s. “Who you looking for?”

  “Alina’s aunt and uncle,” Bea mutters.

  “The Moons. Can you tell us where they are?” I ask.

  The door beeps and buzzes and when it opens fully, an old man appears.

  “At a guess, I’d say you’re on the run from the Ministry. Come on, get in here quick.”

  Old Man Watson, who could be a lunatic for all we know, agrees to keep Bea hidden until we can find a way for her to escape. I’m afraid to leave her, but we’re running out of options, and with all the plants in his living room, he can be trusted not to hand us over to the Ministry at least.

  “But what about you?” Old Watson asks. “The Pod Minister threatened you both.”

  “I have a plan. I’ll be fine.” Bea sees right through this lie.

  “Stay here. Be safe,” she pleads. The old man turns tactfully and shuffles to the other side of the room. Bea’s right; in some ways, it makes no sense for me to go home. If they decide to arrest her, my arrest will follow. The Pod Minister wants answers and when it comes down to it, I have no idea whether or not my father will help me.

  “It isn’t enough to save ourselves. We have to find a way to tell people what’s happening. We have to let people choose a new future.” As I say this, I know it’s true. I want to help other people. I want to make a difference and I can’t do that in hiding. “If you find a way to escape, go to The Grove. I’ll meet you there.”

  “No, Quinn,” she says, tugging on the sleeves of her sweater and hiding her hands inside them.

  “We’ll meet at The Grove.” I brush her hair out of her eyes and she smiles reluctantly. She looks so beautiful that for a second I just stare at her. I can’t believe I’ve had this girl in front of me my whole life and didn’t see her.

  “I didn’t want my parents to worry, so I told them what we told the Ministry. They haven’t a clue about anything. Can you get word to them?” Bea asks.

  “I’ll do it,” Watson says. “I’m not on any dead-or-alive list. Yet.”

  “How can we thank you?” I ask.

  “Stay alive,” he says.

  When I get home, I know I’m right. My father is pacing the living room. He looks like he’s about to have some kind of fit. Lennon and Keane are hiding behind the couch, peeking out at him. My mother is lying on the floor to relieve her back pain.

  “Where the hell have you been? Don’t you ever look at your pad?” my father bellows as I creep in and sit on the edge of the sideboard.

  “I left it at school by mistake,” I say.

  My father squints. “Cain Knavery will be here in a few minutes. He might be bringing Niamh over.”

  “A fine girl,” my mother says.

  “What’s happening? Why are you home so early?” I ask my father.

  “Where is Bea Whitcraft?” He looks at me directly, like he’s convinced he would spot a lie if I tried to tell one.

  “How should I know? We don’t hang out anymore.”

  “I got off the pad with Riley Weeze a couple of minutes ago. He says he saw you two at lunch.” He shakes his head. “The stewards went to find her. She wasn’t at home. Her parents say they don’t know where she is. If you do, I want to know.” He is speaking into the mirror, talking to my reflection as though he can’t bear to look at the real me any longer.

  “Why were the stewards trying to pick up Bea?” my mother asks. Can she really be that stupid? She was right there when the Pod Minister threatened Bea, me, and her unborn child.

  My father whips around, grabs the collar of my shirt, and marches me into the hall. “The Ministry has searched the entire southern coastline, up and back—twice. I’ve tried to stall the Pod Minister, but he wants answers. Now tell me the truth.”

  I keep my expression blank. My father pushes me into the wall.

  “I can’t help you if you lie to me. You’re practically asking me to hand you over. Don’t try to protect her. It’s happened before, you know. Auxiliaries have been trying to butter up Premiums for years just so they’ll have someone on the inside. She isn’t worth it, son. Save yourself. Save your family.”

  And this is exactly why he’s been so desperate to see Niamh and me together; he wants the Pod Minister to have some grounds for keeping us alive.

  “I don’t know where the terrorists are. Bea was the one who heard them talking. She told me and I had no reason to distrust her. I did meet her today, and she told me she’d lied about hearing where they were taking us. She wanted to give our kidnappers a chance to escape. I’m sorry.” My father pats me on the shoulder and steps back. He almost allows himself a smile, and this makes me sad; he is proud of me and it’s because he thinks I’ve betrayed my best friend. Or maybe he doesn’t see it that way; maybe he sees it as a sign of my loyalty—to him, to my family, and mostly to the Ministry.

  “Where is she now?” he asks.

  “She told me she was running away. She said she had people she could be safe with. She told me I should run too.”

  “RATS.”

  “I think so.” I peer down at the floor, and at that moment there is a pounding at the front door and three silhouettes appear in the opaque glass.

  “Let me do the talking,” my father says, opening the door. “Welcome! Welcome! I put the whiskey on ice an hour ago. It should be nice and cold. And you’ve brought the youngsters!” Niamh and Ronan step into the hallway and smile politely.

  “Niamh! What a beauty she is,” my father says, taking Niamh’s hand between his own and squeezing it.

  “Ha! She didn’t look like that an hour ago. And you should see her when she gets out of bed. A horror! Ha!” The Pod Minister barges right past my father and into the living room, where he pulls my mother up off the floor and kisses her right on the lips, his mouth opening slightly. My father lets go of Niamh’s hand and follows him in.

  “All right?” Ronan asks, offering me his hand in a perfunctory kind of way. When I shake it, I notice that his white shirt has a red paint stain down the length of one sleeve.

  “You still doing the art, then?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Why did you drop it? You were good.”

  “Me? No way,” I tell him. “Ms. Kechroud said my pencil drawings looked like something a nine-year-old would draw.”

  Ronan shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. “She’s not a real teacher. You should come around some time and I’ll show you my studio. If you like.” He is about to say something else when Niamh nudges him aside.

  “Quinn,” she says. She looks at me from under her eyelashes. “I’m so excited for our date next week.” She flick
s her thick hair from her shoulders and pulls at the hem of her incredibly short dress. I’ve never met a person more in love with herself. Ronan rolls his eyes and strolls into the living room.

  “Come on, you two,” my mother says, tottering into the hallway and taking Niamh’s hand. “Oh, what lovely shoes.” The shoes are actually strappy sandals and the heels must be eight inches high. I have no idea how she’s managing to keep her balance. She looks like she’s about to go clubbing somewhere very hot and very seedy. How can my parents think this is better than Bea? This?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Caffrey,” Niamh simpers.

  “Oh, call me Cynthia, please.”

  In the sitting room my father and the Pod Minister have already hit the bottle and are deep in conversation. When they see me, they stop talking. The Pod Minister beckons me closer with one of his ringed fingers. Ronan is sitting next to the twins on the couch looking utterly bored.

  “Your father tells me you haven’t been altogether truthful with us, Caffrey Junior.” His breath stinks of booze; he must have been drunk when he arrived. He looks at Niamh and beams. “But we are all such friends, I think we can arrange something. Will you help us protect the pod?”

  “Of course, Pod Minister,” I say. My father looks relieved and refills his whiskey glass.

  “I’ll arrange it,” the Pod Minister says.

  I sit in the armchair opposite them. “Arrange what?” I ask.

  “A sort of press conference. Tomorrow, while your father is … at work … we’ll get you to do a little interview. There are murmurings of dissent within Zone Three and I don’t like it.”

  “A press conference?” I say.

  “Expose those dirty RATS for what they really are, so people will see what we’re up against. Tell them what you know,” the Pod Minister suggests. He raises his glass of whiskey and guzzles it down in one long slurp. He crunches on the ice.

  “You’re going to be famous, Quinn,” Niamh says, running a cold finger down the back of my neck. I shiver and reach around to pull her hand away.