Time Next

by Carolyn Cohagan

  When I don’t begin to undress, Frannie seems to sense the problem. She says, “Hey, look Susanna, there’s makeup over here!”

  Frannie joins Susanna at the dressing table and while they examine the contents of the drawers, I quickly change into the dress.

  When I’m finished, I say, “Okay,” and the girls spin around.

  “Oooh!” says Frannie. “You look beautiful!”

  “It’s not too revealing?”

  “I think it’s perfect,” Frannie says.

  Susanna inspects me. “Adorable.” Turning back to the table, she grabs a small brush. “But I think you’re missing something.”

  “Susanna, you’re so bad!” says Frannie.

  “It’s just blush!” Susanna slowly sweeps the brush across my cheeks. “Have you ever worn makeup before?”

  “It’s, um, not allowed where I’m from.”

  “It’s not allowed until level Yellow here,” says Frannie, raising an eyebrow at Susanna.

  “The band members wear it on stage. And I’ve even heard . . .” Susanna lowers her voice, “that Ram wears it during the show.”

  “Susanna!!” says Frannie, looking at the door. “You’re so going to get us into trouble.”

  “You’re major boring, Fran.” Susanna puts the brush back on the table.

  Feeling the soft, smooth fabric of my new dress, I ask, “Did spiders make this too?”

  Susanna and Frannie stop what they’re doing. “Spiders?” asks Frannie, a grin forming.

  “Yeah, uh,” I say, getting nervous. “Tabby said her clothes were made from spider silk.”

  “They were,” says Susanna.

  I relax. “Oh good. I thought I’d said something stupid. When Tabby told me, I said I never wanted to go to where all the spiders were. I would be completely terrified.”

  They burst out laughing.

  I have said something dumb.

  “It’s spider silk,” Susanna says, catching her breath, “but it’s not actually made by spiders. It’s synthetic. Like, a hundred years ago, a guy figured out how to imitate what a spider makes, and it’s super strong and soft and stuff, so it’s all we use.”

  “No need for blush now!” says Frannie. “She’s gone pink for real!”

  I’m mortified. Why did Tabby and her friends let me think that the Unbound kept thousands of spiders somewhere?

  I don’t need to ask. Tabby loves humiliating me.

  “Let’s get going. It’s almost time for class.” Seeing my confusion, Susanna adds, “‘Refinement Training.’ Ram wants you to join us.”

  “It’s pretty yawny, but at least you get to hang with friends,” says Frannie.

  Having decided to be more well behaved, I nod with enthusiasm.

  We walk out a back door, avoiding the crowd. My Bee swoops in, and to my surprise, two other Bees arrive for Frannie and Susanna. They must be under sixteen.

  We walk toward a neighborhood I’ve never seen before, but it looks just like the one the Dixons live in.

  I ask Susanna, “So do, um, a lot of people walk on water?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Like, maybe five in ten?”

  “So five people fall in the tank?”

  “Yeps,” she says. “It can be pretty funny.”

  A tremor of fear ripples through me, as I imagine pounding on that glass, trying to get out.

  “Did you walk?” I ask them.

  “We don’t need to,” says Frannie, as if it’s obvious. “We were born innocent, into our whites. We don’t need a Day of Validation.”

  “So everyone who goes in the tank is from Manhattan?” I wonder how many of us are here.

  “No,” says Frannie. “Sometimes people really mess up, and they have to start their levels all over again.”

  “You have to do a test to get your final whites,” says Susanna, “when you’re old and stuff, but that’s a completely different test.”

  For several blocks, I can still hear Ram’s voice rumbling out of the Hub. Part of me wants to go back.

  “Are there always movies during the service?” I ask.

  Frannie giggles. “What movie?”

  “With the mountains and clouds and stuff.” Maybe the girls were backstage and missed it.

  Susanna puts her hand gently on my arm. “That wasn’t a ‘movie.’ That was just like, an intro, I guess.”

  How many times will I embarrass myself today? “So what’s a movie?”

  “It has like a big, long story, and beautiful people, and a lesson at the end,” says Frannie.

  “Like you’ve seen one,” says Susanna.

  “I have!”

  “Have not.”

  “I have . . . sort of,” she says. “My grandfather saw one, and he told me all about, like every detail from start to finish.”

  “You don’t have them then?” I ask, deflating.

  “No. Ram doesn’t like them,” says Susanna. “He says atheists made them.”

  “What’s an atheist?” I ask.

  “Someone who doesn’t believe in God,” says Susanna.

  “You know—the people who live in the West?” says Frannie.

  “People who don’t believe in God live west of here?” A chill creeps up my back.

  “Don’t worry,” says Frannie. “It’s really far, like, days and days and days far.”

  “Can we stop talking about yawny stuff and start talking about what’s major important?” Susanna’s face and body go slack with impatience.

  When neither of us answers, she says, “Silas Dixon! He’s, like, the most beautiful guy in Kingsboro, and Mina is living with him.”

  Frannie wags her finger. “Ram is the most beautiful man in Kingsboro––”

  “You have to get over it, Frannie. He’s a billion years older than you.” Susanna turns back to me. “Tell us about Silas.”

  “He’s nice,” I say.

  “No way. You’re not getting away with ‘nice.’ What does he look like when he wakes up? Have you seen him with his shirt off?”

  Looking up at our Bees, Frannie exclaims, “Susanna!”

  “I heard he major likes you,” Susanna says, her eyebrows shooting up.

  My whole body goes hot. Just listening to her feels like a betrayal of Juda.

  Susanna drops her voice to a whisper. “Is it true you got caught sneaking out with him?”

  Frannie gasps.

  How does Susanna know? Does everyone know?

  “You don’t have to answer,” she says, “but if you don’t say, ‘nope,’ I will assume the answer is ‘yeps.’”

  What do I do? At home, my reputation would be ruined forever if it was known I’d been alone with a boy at night. But the rules seem to be different here, and I don’t want to be caught in a lie. Before I know what’s happening, I let the moment pass without saying anything.

  “Wow,” says Frannie.

  “I knew it!” says Susanna. “This is gigantic. Silas has never liked anyone this much.”

  “He’s your boyfriend?” Frannie’s voice is full of awe. “Grats.”

  Grats? “It wasn’t like that,” I say. “He was trying to help me find––”

  “I think it’s romantic,” she says. “An Unbound member and a woolie.”

  “What’s a woolie?” I ask. Tabby used that word.

  There’s an awkward silence, then Susanna says, “It’s a word people use to describe refugees from the island. It’s not very nice.” She gives a scolding eye-brow-raise to Frannie, who looks mortified. “It means, um, people who’ve had the wool pulled over their eyes.”

  I see. It means fool.

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks for explaining.”

  “I’m sorry, Mina. It was an accident,” says Frannie, who looks close to tears.

  “It’s okay,” I say, my mood ruined. When people are being nice to me, I can easily forget what they must really think of me. Think of my opinion of them before I arrived: vicious, savage Apostates ready to gleefully murder me. I guess I’d
hoped that once I started to change my mind about them, they would change their minds about me.

  “I was just trying to say that I’m happy about you and Silas,” says Frannie.

  “There is no me and Silas,” I say with sharpness. “Why would he like someone who grew up so stupid?”

  Neither of them responds.

  We arrive at a cute peach house with white curtains in the windows. “This is it. Gentility Gardens!” says Susanna, trying to be light.

  Before we walk inside, Frannie hugs me. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive.”

  Susanna hugs me too, and in a serious voice, different than the one she’s been using all morning, she whispers too low for Frannie to hear, “Be good to Silas. He needs your help.”

  We walk into the house, and I’m more confused than ever.

  Nine

  Walking into Gentility Gardens, I see no flowers, only a reception area with a table and a fancy carpet. When I ask Susanna where the garden is, she stands tall, saying, “We are the flowers, here to be tended to.”

  They walk me back into a larger space full of desks and chairs which is decorated sweetly in pink and green. The smell of luxurious soaps fills the air—so strong my eyes water. The room is surprisingly packed and everyone seems to be around my age. I spot Deborah, Phoebe, and Tabby against the far wall, and in the front row, I see a big bush of hair. It looks like Grace, but I refuse to be fooled again.

  Susanna, Frannie, and I take a seat in the back row. A girl who doesn’t look much older than us stands at the front of the class. She’s as dainty as a little bird, with huge eyelashes, curled red hair, and perfect cupid bow lips. Her purple dress poofs out from her tiny waist. I doubt she’s ever worn anything with a wrinkle or had a hair out of place.

  “Pssssst, Mina,” someone whispers. I look up. It is Grace in the front row. I can’t believe it! She has a huge smile on her face, her hair is as big as ever, and she looks positively radiant in yellow. She waves at me. I wave back. Can I go sit by her? There doesn’t appear to be a seat. I can’t believe she’s here! My heart swells with relief.

  The bird girl in front starts speaking. “Good afternoon, girls. My name is Mrs. Prue.” Her voice is so light and airy, it could be carried away by a breeze. “Welcome to class. Today is very significant. We have two special guests: The refugees Grace and Mina. Let’s give them a round of applause.” Several girls applaud loudly and smile, but I notice a few of them glowering. “Some of you more experienced girls will have to help them out today, okay? Joanne, posture please.”

  A girl in the third row sits up straighter.

  “A lot of the ideas we talk about today might be new and some might be old, but it’s important that we have a refresher as Promise Prom approaches.”

  Tabby rolls her eyes toward Deborah.

  “Everyone is looking very fresh and pretty today, but I suggest that you all search the room for eye traps.”

  I freeze, having no idea what she’s talking about.

  The girls scrutinize one another as if they might discover bits of dirt. Several girls scan me, sneering. Are they checking to see who did or didn’t bathe?

  The girl named Joanne raises her hand. “I see one, Mrs. Prue.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. Prue says, blinking her lashes. “Where?”

  “Phoebe’s shorts don’t reach her knee.”

  “Excellent.”

  Phoebe squirms while the other girls look at her with disapproval. She tries to pull the shorts down a bit without much success.

  “Phoebe, you’ve been warned before. That’s a demerit.” Mrs. Prue searches the room. “Anything else?”

  “Yeps,” says a girl in my row, raising her hand.

  Mrs. Prue frowns. “Nice young women say ‘yes,’ not ‘yeps,’ Jane.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Prue,” Jane says. “Yes, I see one.”

  “Go ahead,” says Mrs. Prue.

  “The new girl, I forgot her name. I can see cleavage.” To my horror, Jane turns and points at me.

  I look down at my pretty new dress. I was worried it was too revealing, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I put it on, and now I’m being reprimanded. Why can’t I learn to speak up for myself?

  Frannie has an apologetic look on her face, while Tabby smirks with pleasure.

  I say, “Ram gave me this dress.”

  “What’s that dear?” Mrs. Prue says.

  I clear my throat, repeating, “Ram gave me this dress.”

  “That was very kind of him, but what do we say to this, girls?”

  As a group the girls say, “A woman is responsible for her own modesty.”

  Phoebe raises her hand, concerned. “Even when it’s Ram?”

  “Mina, dear, has Ram seen you in this dress?”

  I shake my head.

  Mrs. Prue is triumphant. “If he had, I’m sure he would’ve had you change immediately. He probably didn’t realize you were so far along in your womanhood.” She says to the others, “Let’s explain eye traps to our newcomers.”

  A girl with freckles raises her hand, shaking it with enthusiasm.

  “Yes, Louise, you may tell us.”

  “An ‘eye trap’ is any piece of clothing or lack or clothing that attracts the eyes of a male.”

  I’m confused. Everyone I’ve met seems so horrified by the veil, and yet wouldn’t the eye trap problem be solved if everyone threw a cloak over their clothes? This is why we wear them—to contain the lusts of men.

  “Very good!” Closing her eyes, Mrs. Prue pats her chest. “The men of the Unbound are honorable and devout, but men by nature are not very strong when it comes to the opposite sex. We don’t need to tempt them. Offering temptation is as much a sin as the sin itself. We can live in harmony as men and women and not divide our society as the Propheteers do, because we know how to protect our femininity.” She opens her eyes. “Mina, this was your first infraction, so you will not get a demerit, but next time you will.” She looks around the room. “Promise Prom is coming up, and I know you’re all very excited about it. Who here will be participating?”

  Several girls, including Tabby and Deborah, raise their hands. The energy in the room is now buzzing. I’ve heard several people mention the Prom since I arrived, but I still have no idea what it is.

  “I remember my Prom day,” Mrs. Prue says. “It was so beautiful. My father and I still talk about it. I keep my necklace in a shadow box in our living room. I love that my husband can look at it and know I waited for him.”

  I don’t see her hit any buttons, but the lights turn off. A 3-D image of a strange green fruit appears next to her.

  “Look at this avocado. Isn’t it beautiful? When you first cut into it, it’s creamy and green and incredibly delicious.”

  The image changes. “This is the avocado on the second day. Its green fruit has turned brown. Maybe there is still a little of that beautiful color underneath. Maybe.”

  A new image comes into view. “The third day. The avocado is now black and rotted. You do whatever you can to keep it fresh, but nothing works. It’s ruined. You only have one chance to cut into it and find ripe, beautiful fruit.”

  The lights come back up, and the avocado disappears.

  I wish I could see Grace’s face to learn what she thinks of this lesson, which reminded me of something one of my aunties would say.

  “I’m not worried about you girls,” says Mrs. Prue. “I look into your bright faces, and I know that none of you wants to let your husband discover rotted fruit.”

  Tabby guffaws.

  “Miss Dixon, do you have a problem?”

  “No, Mrs. Prue. I’m sorry. I just never thought of avocados as being very, um, sensual.”

  A few other girls giggle.

  “Miss Dixon, I am a little concerned that you do know what is sensual. Would you care to explain to the class where your vast knowledge comes from?”

  Everyone stops giggling. Tabby glares at Mrs. Prue. “I didn’t mean to say that I know about sensual th
ings. I just think avocados are vomit-inducing.”

  The laughter starts again.

  “Okay, Miss Dixon. That’s a demerit. Now, let’s move on,” says Mrs. Prue.

  As Mrs. Prue introduces the topic of proper makeup techniques, I watch Tabby. Is she upset about the demerit? I can’t tell.

  I try to refocus on Mrs. Prue, who is saying, “Rouge should only be heavy enough to look like you are flushed from a long walk, no more. Mascara should be applied to make eyes look innocent and sweet. Eye pencil should be avoided unless you have particularly deep-set eyes. If you think you fall under this category, please see me after class. Questions?”

  I have a lot, including what is a demerit, but I’m afraid if I ask, I’ll get one.

  “Okay,” says Mrs. Prue. “Let’s take a five-minute break while I set up the cooking demo.”

  The girls immediately begin to huddle and whisper. Grace rushes to me, almost knocking me over with her hug.

  “Oh, Mina, I am SO happy to see you. I have so much to tell you, and I know you have so much to tell me! Isn’t it amazing here? Just everything you ever dreamed of?”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I saw you walk on water! I didn’t even know you were there, and then, all of a sudden, Ram was saying your name! It was, like, the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.” She squeezes my arms. “How did it feel?”

  “Pretty incredible,” I admit. “I was terrified I would fall in.”

  “Of course! And that crowd was major immense.”

  I smile. Her halting, shy way of speaking is gone.

  “I’m staying with a fabulous family,” she says. “There’s a son, and I’m allowed to sit and play games with him after dinner in the same room. Can you believe it?”

  Seeing her, with her frizzy hair and big glasses, fills me with joy.

  “Ram says my Day of Validation will be next week. Then we’ll both be wearing white!” She must be borrowing the yellow clothes. “I’m so grateful to the Unbound for opening my eyes.”

  “So you’re not upset about the Prophet?” I ask. Her tone suggests she hasn’t been struggling with the news.

  “It was a rude awakening, but the more I thought about it, the more it just made sense, you know? In all of my reading in the library, I never read anything that really proved that Sarah was divine. A lot of academics spoke out against Her, but most of their work was burned.”