A loud banging comes from the next street, and I whirl around to see a garbage truck. It’s a much newer and cleaner version of the ones we have at home. Both the garbagemen are actually garbagewomen, with short-cropped hair and blue jumpsuits. I’ve never seen a woman collect trash in my life.
Perhaps there are many job opportunities here for women. I allow myself a tiny drop of hope, like a dab of forbidden perfume.
As we walk out of range of the loud truck, I notice a low buzz, almost like the sound of the Ashers’ air conditioner.
I stop walking. I look at the nearest house, wondering if it’s coming from within.
“What’s wrong?” says Tabby.
“What’s that noise?”
“What noise?” she says, losing patience.
“It’s like humming,” I say. “It’s sort of like . . .” And then, remembering Beth and the machine with the peach, I look up.
Hovering about five feet over my head is the biggest bug I’ve ever seen. I instinctively jump toward Tabby. The bug jumps with me, staying high above.
“What is that?” I ask, frightened.
Tabby takes a bored step away from me. “Did you think they’d just let you walk out the door? I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without a Bee until I was sixteen! And you’re a woolie!”
“I’m a what?”
“I mean a refugee. Whatever.”
Looking more closely, I see now that the insect-like object is a microscopic version of the flying contraption that we saw land yesterday. “What’s it doing?” I ask.
“Don’t freak out. It just keeps track of where you are, and you know, what you’re doing. But it can’t make a decision or anything. AI is against the law.”
There are too many new words coming at me at once. What is AI? And who does this thing give its information to? “I’m feeling really uncomfortable right now,” I say.
Sighing deeply (which she seems to do a lot), Tabby puts her hand on her hip. “I don’t exactly love being your babysitter, but Mom said I had to take you to the Leisure Center, so that’s what I’m doing. Can we please make it quick?”
I look up at the “Bee.” Are people watching us right now, seeing me refuse to walk any farther with Tabby?
“What is the Leisure Center?” I ask, picturing something like a bathhouse.
“It’s kind of benny, I guess. It’s where everyone hangs most of the time. You can eat or shop or commune.”
I’m not sure what “benny” is, but by her tone, I’m guessing it means “good,” or “fine.”
She brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “I think Mom wants you to, you know, socialize, or whatever.”
On the one hand, I have no desire to be around a bunch of Apostates. So far, their behavior has been extremely unpredictable, making me feel guarded and unsafe. But on the other hand, Bithia said that Grace and the others were staying with different families. So maybe someone will take one of them to the Leisure Center, too.
“Okay,” I say. “We can go.”
“Gee, thanks,” Tabby says, turning to walk again.
I follow, the hum of the Bee setting my teeth on edge.
“You’d better get your act together,” Tabby says. “Or you’re never going to get out of those horrible green clothes.”
I have no idea what she means, but I’m too overwhelmed to ask.
I’ve never seen anything like the Leisure Center. It’s as big as Lincoln Center and the entire thing seems to be built of glass. The building is several stories tall, but all I can concentrate on is the atrium, which could hold twenty buses.
Seeing hundreds of people milling around inside, I’m tempted to turn and run; but reminding myself that Juda could be inside, I walk through the enormous glass door with Tabby.
I’m sorry to see that my Bee has swept in right behind me. Looking up, I see a stunning crisscross of metal beams, but the whole space is open to the sky. Trees and greenery line the edges of the room, and roses climb up the walls. How are they growing roses on glass?
My Bee has ample room to hover above my head. I notice a handful of other Bees suspended in the air over the crowd, and my breath catches. Maybe they’re monitoring the others.
“Let’s head to the food hall,” Tabby says.
She plows straight into the throng of people. While making sure not to lose her, I scan the faces around me, desperate to see Grace, Juda, or Rose. At this point, I’d even be happy to see Dekker.
I quickly realize that while I’m trying to be subtle about looking at people, everyone is gaping at me. Conversations near me all seem to cease, and I see a woman point at me, whispering to the man next to her.
“Why is everyone staring at me?” I ask Tabby, wondering if I should’ve taken more of her advice on what to wear.
She looks around, then keeps walking. “You're one of the Manhattan Five,” she says.
"Huh?"
"You can't pop out of a subway tunnel, say you're a Propheteer, and not expect to get famous."
I don’t like the way people are looking at me. Some of them have pity on their faces; others look angry; and others look like they’re studying an exotic food they’ve never tasted before. Worst of all––none of them seem to realize that I can see them studying me.
Tabby slows down and walks taller under the scrutiny of the crowd, and I could swear she sticks her breasts out a little. "Let's get compressions,” she says as we reach the end of the room.
I deflate with disappointment. Every other Bee I saw in the atrium was monitoring children or frail-looking old people. My friends are nowhere in sight.
Tabby takes me down a tunnel with a set of moving stairs, just like the ones in our prayer center, except these still move! I get a little nervous stepping on and can see that Tabby wants to laugh at me. My Bee stays behind in the atrium.
Tabby notices me watching it. “They aren’t allowed indoors,” she says. “They tried it for a while and people hated it. Can you imagine it, like, hovering there while you tried to sleep? How feeble.”
When we reach the bottom, I exit the stairs ungracefully. Hundreds of people sit at tables, eating, talking, and laughing. The noise is overpowering.
A blast of cold air jolts me like ice cubes going down the back of my shirt. This giant space has air-conditioning. I wish I had my cloak.
Past the tables are different food stalls. It looks like the Union Square market, but if the stalls were all made of glass and the pavement were shiny marble. Once again, men, women, and children stop talking to stare at me. I stare back, hoping they’ll realize how disrespectful they’re being.
Tabby smiles and in a sweet voice says, “I think a compression would be perfect, Mina. It's scrunched up fruit and pure vitamin infusions and should make you feel much better!”
I never said I felt bad. “I’m not hungry.” How could anyone eat a thing after the breakfast we just had?
She glides across the room, flipping her hair. She may not like me, but she’s decided she likes the attention I'm bringing her.
She stops at a stall that looks like an enormous glass strawberry. Behind the counter, a skinny boy with pimply skin and upswept hair gapes at me, then at Tabby.
“We'll have two mango ruby vitamin-D magnesium compressions, please,” says Tabby.
“Uh, okay,” the boy says.
“Isn’t it great how actual people wait on you here?” Tabby says, watching the boy move around his stall. “Out west, some computer would just spit your food out at you. It isn’t natural.”
A family of six stops eating so they can ogle me.
“It's really rude how everyone keeps staring at you,” Tabby says. She leans her elbows on the counter, giving everyone in the room a nice view of her bottom.
At home, her behavior would get her several lashings, if not a few days in the Tunnel, but no one seems appalled by her. The men aren't experiencing uncontrollable lust, the women aren't shaking their heads in judgment, and no Matrons are coming over to shock her with
a silver tube. In fact, everyone is ignoring her to keep staring at me.
Besides the fact that they are gaping at me, something about the Apostates has been bothering me, and I’ve finally realized what it is: Everyone is white. All the faces looking at me essentially look the same: pale with light eyes. Is all of Kingsboro like this?
The people of Manhattan are indescribably diverse, with every kind of eye, ear, nose, neck, body, skin tone, and voice you can imagine. With discomfort, I realize that with my blonde hair, I look pretty similar to the Apostates.
Two girls approach us. They wear bright yellow clothing, just like Tabby. One girl has green eyes and wavy black hair and the other has a long face and short brown hair cut like a boy’s. They’re both white, like everyone else.
“Tabby, no way. Got your nod!” says one.
“Is this her?” says the other.
Tabby looks at the girl with black hair like she's a moron. “What do you think, Deborah?”
“Whoa. Weird.”
“Right?” says Tabby.
Do they think I can’t hear them?
“Mom said I had to bring her with,” says Tabby, rolling her eyes.
“I think it's benny,” says the brown-haired girl. “Everyone's talking about it.”
“Really?” Tabby says, as if she’s not interested. “Cute top, Phoebe.”
Phoebe’s face lights up. “Thanks, Tabs!”
To me, Phoebe’s blouse looks identical to Tabby’s, but I guess I’m missing something. I don’t why anyone would want to wear such little clothing when it’s so cold inside.
Phoebe and Deborah slowly look me up and down, and I feel as scrutinized as if they had Senscans.
I wish I had the nerve to ask if they knew where my friends were, but I can only imagine this would lead to more contempt from Tabby.
The boy behind the counter announces, “Your compressions are ready.” He shyly hands us metal cups that look a foot tall. Mine is so cold I can barely hold it in my hands.
After a few greedy sucks on her straw, Tabby says, “What’s wrong? Aren’t you gonna try it?”
I take a sip, and although it is fruity and sweet, I don’t want it. I’m still full from breakfast, and the drink makes me shiver. I don’t want to be rude, and I don’t want to be wasteful, so I slurp down more, trying to smile.
I keep drinking until I feel a bit sick. Then I remember Mrs. Asher and how I drank her champagne because I was afraid of being rude. I can’t believe I just did it again. I stop drinking. Tabby’s attention is no longer on me anyway.
The boy tells Tabby a price and she waves her hand over the counter. After the enormous glass strawberry flickers with a pink light, the boy says, “Thank you.”
She runs her fingers through her bangs, giving him a big smile. When she’s not frowning, she’s really pretty.
The boy blushes, reminding me of how nervous I get around Juda. He must like Tabby a lot.
Turning away from him, she tells her friends, “Let’s find a table.” She grabs a napkin and another straw. They begin to meander through the crowd looking for a place to sit. Assuming I have little choice, I follow them. They find an abandoned table at the edge of the crowd. I’m happy to put down the cold compression.
Deborah and Phoebe soon notice everyone gawking at me.
“Whoa, this is intense,” says Deborah.
“Yeah,” says Phoebe. “It’s like how everyone stares at you at Promise Prom.”
“How would you know?” says Tabby.
“I mean, like, how it must be,” says Phoebe, looking away.
Smirking at Phoebe, Deborah turns to me and asks in an accusing tone, “Why are you wearing green?”
“I don’t . . . Tabby loaned her clothes to me,” I say.
She looks at Tabby like she’s done something wrong. Tabby shrugs. “Mom said it was fine until she meets Ram.”
“It seems weird, since she hasn’t earned it, you know?” says Deborah.
“Yeah, but would you want to be her age wearing white? How embarrassing,” says Phoebe.
After making a face suggesting the thought is nauseating, Deborah asks me, “How do you like Tabby’s old clothes?”
Still overwhelmed by the reek of Tabby’s perfume, I try to think of something nice to say. “They’re very soft.”
Phoebe’s eyes get wide. “Holy moly. I bet the Propheteers don’t even have spider silk yet!”
I sit back in my chair, touching my shirt. “Spiders made this?” I shudder, thinking of a factory full of thousands and thousands of spiders.
The three girls smile. Tabby says, “Yeps. It takes them years to make one piece of clothing.”
“Th-that’s amazing,” I say, still horrified. “Please don’t ever take me to wherever they do that.”
They all giggle. “Don’t worry,” Tabby says. “We won’t.”
Deborah turns to Tabby, excited. “What are you wearing to Promise Prom, Tabs?”
Tabby runs her fingers through her hair. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Phoebe and Deborah are scandalized.
“It’s less than a WEEK away,” says Phoebe.
“Gee, thanks for the calendar update,” says Tabby.
“You, have, like, a few things to choose from, right?” asks Deborah gravely, as if Tabby needs to choose between medications to save her life.
Tabby raises an eyebrow, saying nothing.
“Of course she does!” says Phoebe, relieved.
Deborah grins hugely. “My dress is fuchsia, and it’s major razzmatazz.”
I have a headache, and I don’t know if it’s from the frozen drink or the fluctuating conversation. It’s like listening to squirrels discuss nut recipes. I tune out the girls and take in the room.
Lots of teenagers wear the bright yellow of the girls next to me. Some wear crimson. The adults seem to be wearing darker colors: blues, purples, and grays. What does it all mean?
I lock eyes with a man who’s glaring at me with disapproval. Many people are inspecting me, but he’s scowling as if he’s spotted a destructive new weed in his garden. Unlike all the Apostates I’ve seen so far, this man is very disheveled: His hair is white and uncombed; he hasn’t shaved in several days; and his skin is awful—ruddy and pitted. Is he ill? Should he be here?
His hostile inspection makes me squirm. “Who is that?” I ask, interrupting the girls.
They turn to look.
“Who?” asks Phoebe.
The one who appears to want to stone me for being alive? “The one with the red skin,” I say.
Phoebe goes quiet as Tabby tries not to laugh.
“That’s my dad,” says Deborah, voice going icy. “He wouldn’t let me come here alone.”
That’s her father? He looks like a homeless man.
“Why not?” Tabby asks her, giggling. “We’re surrounded by, like, hundreds of people.”
“Yeah, but,” Deborah says, giving me the side eye. “No one knows what she’s capable of.”
I almost laugh out loud. Should I bare my teeth at her?
In a voice barely above a whisper, Phoebe says, “Ram says helping our neighbors is one of our greatest callings.”
Deborah leans forward, pointing at Phoebe and Tabby. “You’re my neighbor, and you’re my neighbor.” She jabs a thumb in my direction. “This woolie is not my neighbor.”
“Deb, just be benny,” Tabby says, her voice clear and forceful. “Don’t make a scene or everyone will think we’re completely feeble.”
Deborah sits back with an eye roll, admonished.
“Phoebe, what color do you think looks best on me?” Tabby says, changing the subject. Phoebe enthusiastically launches into an answer.
Resolved to ignore Deborah’s father, I look around at the other tables, wondering if there are other parents worried about their children’s safety. What do they think I might do? Put a curse on them? Convert them?
I’m wondering how much longer we have to stay here when my breath catches. On
the far side of the room, I see the curly mop of hair that is unmistakably Grace’s.
Her back is turned, but in addition to the hair, I recognize the stooped, self-conscious way of sitting that she has. She’s seated with parents that look a lot like Tabby’s: plump and pink with gleaming white smiles.
I stand, saying a small prayer to the Prophet: Make Grace turn around. Please let her see me. Please!
“Hey, what’s she doing?” says Deborah.
“Do you need something?” asks Tabby.
I’m wondering what kind of scene I’ll make, if everyone in the food hall will panic if I run across the room. Deborah might slam me to the ground.
“Is there a problem?” Tabby says, agitated.
“No . . . . I . . . .” I don’t know what to say, but I’m not going to sit back down. Turn around, Grace!
“The little girl’s room is over there,” says Phoebe, pointing toward the metal stairs.
Little girl’s room? Is that a special room where young girls gather?
Seeing my confusion, Tabby says, “She’s talking about the bathroom. Jeez.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thank you.” Phoebe giggles.
I walk toward the stairs, which will take me right by Grace’s table.
I have to pass by Deborah’s dad. He keeps his eyes glued to mine, and when I walk by, he mutters something that I can’t understand. By the tone, I understand that it wasn’t nice.
I try not to stare directly at Grace, but I can’t help it. What will I say? Peace? Nice to see you? Will the people at her table try to keep us from speaking? My heart pummels my chest like it’s trying to break free.
I remember the question I’ve been dying to ask her: How is your Nancy Drew book? Did it get ruined in the subway tunnel?
I’m about ten feet away from her table, when Grace suddenly looks over her shoulder and locks eyes with me.
I feel faint. Tears come to my eyes, as I realize it isn’t her. It’s not Grace. This girl is much older and is looking at me with alarm.
I pass her table and keep walking.
Inside the bathroom, the sound of chatter and laughter from the hall penetrates the door. My tiny moment of hope has caused a new despair. Loneliness and dread envelope me.
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