Time Next

by Carolyn Cohagan

  “But that’s the point of faith, Grace. You have to have it even when there’s no proof!” I surprise myself with this outburst. Didn’t I just promise to follow the Savior?

  After a few girls turn to stare, Grace pulls me into the corner, whispering, “You can’t talk like that.”

  Is she telling me not “to talk like that” in this room or in front of her? “Sorry,” I say.

  She smiles. “That’s okay. It’s not an easy evolution.”

  It seems to have been for her. The lightness I felt after walking on water disappears. What has happened to the Grace from the Laurel Society that wanted to question things from all angles?

  She rocks on her heels. “Are you excited for Prom? I can’t wait. It’s like a ball out of Anna Karenina. The girls will be in gorgeous dresses, and all the boys will want to dance with them. I wish we could be part of it, but at least we’ll hear the stories the next day.”

  I nod with what I hope is enthusiasm.

  “Don’t you love the food?” she says. “And the showers?”

  “I hate the showers,” I confess. “Why is it so hot and then so cold?”

  “For your health!” she says, as if I should know. “The cold water stimulates your immune system—adds years to your life!”

  I would rather have lovely hot baths and a shorter life.

  “What happened to your Nancy Drew book? Did it survive?” I say, happy to finally ask.

  She frowns. “It got drenched, and then, like, quadrupled in size. My host-mom says I can find another one in the library, but I don’t want another one.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I say. It’s her only relic from the Laurel Society, plus her parting gift from Rayna. It’s priceless. “Now it’s just more unique.” I smile.

  She gives me a doubtful look. “Now it’s more of a doorstop than a book.”

  I laugh. Looking around the room and trying to keep my voice light, I say, “Have you seen any of the others?”

  “No. Well, I saw Dekker at the Worship Hub, getting passed around before he fell.”

  “No one else?”

  She shakes her head. “You?”

  Disappointed, I say, “No.” I lower my voice. “I’m worried about Juda.”

  “Why? The Unbound are . . . are . . . They’re generous and kind and would never want to hurt anyone.”

  I’m unable to bite my tongue. “Then what were all those guns when we arrived? And why did they throw us to the ground and separate us?”

  “That was really intense and scary. I basically peed myself. My host-dad explained that they’ve had really dangerous people show up through the years. Some people from the island want to do them harm, and so they’re really, really careful. They have to do extreme vetting.”

  Grace is really smart. She’s read a ton of books. She’s really educated, and I’m not. I want to believe her that these people are good and kind and have my best interest at heart. I want to open myself up to them, have a normal life, and go to school. But why have I walked around with such an uneasy feeling the whole time? “How did you decide you could trust them?” I ask.

  “Because they don’t walk around shooting each other in the streets! They aren’t dragging each other into the Tunnel or poisoning each other’s water supply!” She is indignant. “Look around, Mina. These people are living a civilized life. They’re offering us everything—food, shelter, love—and asking nothing in return.”

  I gape at her blissful face. What’s happened to her? “What if they decided Juda didn’t pass their ‘vetting?’ What if they think he’s dangerous? He had a gun on him.”

  “So did Dekker and I, and we’re okay.”

  In Manhattan, when someone disappears, it always means the worst.

  “You’re going to see him soon. I know it,” she says. “And when you do, it will be so romantic! Like Heathcliff and Cathy meeting on the moors.”

  “You know when you say those things, I have no idea what you’re talking about, right?”

  “But you will! Did you know that the Unbound have a fabulous library? My host-mom keeps telling me about it. When I reach level Green, I’ll be able to go, and when I reach level Yellow, I can check out books! We can read novels together!”

  I confess, this sounds great.

  “My host-mom was so impressed that I already knew how to read. I told her you could, too. She couldn’t believe it!”

  Grace is the one who gave me away? I can’t believe how incautious she’s being.

  She removes her glasses to clean them on her shirt. “The higher level you are, the more freedom you have and the more school you can participate in. The lower you are, the more you’re stuck at home with host-parents and Bees watching your every move. It’s very well-thought-out.”

  “Okay, ladies, back to your seats,” says Mrs. Prue.

  Hugging Grace, I say, “I’ve been so scared.” Even if she’s changed, I’m still incredibly happy to see her.

  She squeezes me back. “Stop that. You have no reason to be frightened. Everyone loves you. Everyone’s on your side.”

  I whisper into her ear, “When can we talk alone?” The girls in the room, especially Deborah, keep glancing our way.

  She replaces her glasses. “Next class, I guess?”

  This isn’t what I meant. I want privacy.

  Moving back to the center of the room, I remember another question I have for her. “What’s a demerit?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, but I think you have to help the Fallen for a few hours.”

  “The Fallen?”

  “The women you see picking up garbage. They’ve sinned, and they have to clean up after the Unbound for the rest of their lives.”

  “That’s awful,” I say. “What did they do?”

  “No more talking, please,” says Mrs. Prue.

  Grace returns to her seat, while I sit back down in mine. If Grace is correct, then freedom comes from attaining higher levels, and Ram said this requires a “spiritual and inner awareness.” I’m afraid I need a lot of classes.

  Ten

  When class is finally over, Susanna and Frannie escort me home (with our Bees darting overhead).

  “What did you think?” Frannie asks.

  “I, uh, think I have a lot to learn,” I say, distracted by my conversation with Grace.

  “You’ll be luminary. Don’t worry!” Susanna says.

  Frannie loops her arm in mine (I think she still feels bad about calling me a woolie). “Susanna’s right. You’ll have the hang of everything soon, and you’ll have lots of friends, and everyone will love you as much as we do!”

  “You know, Ram is working on this, like, peace treaty thing with your people, right?” Susanna says. “So maybe one day you’ll be giving us a tour of Manhattan!”

  I can’t say I see this happening.

  “That would be so benny!” Frannie says.

  “You want the treaty?” I ask, surprised.

  “Of course,” Frannie says. “It’s God’s will.”

  “How do you know?” I ask, hoping I’m not being rude.

  “Because Ram told us,” she says, as if it’s obvious.

  God wants the Unbound to make peace with Uncle Ruho? Does that mean I might see Nana again? Or Sekena? Or my father? If Frannie and Susanna can picture themselves traipsing around Manhattan one day, then maybe it’s not impossible.

  “How often do we have refinement classes?” I ask.

  “Wednesdays and Fridays,” Susanna says.

  Today is Friday, so I have to wait five days until I see Grace again? We came through the tunnel on Tuesday. So much has happened, it feels like a lifetime ago.

  We arrive at the Dixon house, and the girls stop at the door to say good-bye.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask, smiling. Surely Gilad and Bithia would be happy to see me making friends.

  “Susanna sure would!” Frannie says with a big smile, and Susanna smiles demurely.

  “We can’t,” says Susanna, “
but thank you. We’re helping the decorations committee with Promise Prom.”

  “Okay,” I say. I’m sad to see them go. They’re nice, and they actually answer questions.

  Inside the house, I find Silas sitting on the couch in the front room. With his green clothes and yellow hair, sitting against the floral couch, he looks like a big dandelion. He’s staring into space, oblivious to my entrance. He must get it from Gilad, who also stares into space a lot.

  “Hello, Silas,” I say in a quiet voice. I’m still getting used to being able to speak to a male before he’s spoken to me. It feels impertinent.

  He blinks slowly, then turns to me and smiles. “Mina! You’re back. How was worship?”

  “Good, I guess. I’m one-day White—or one-morning White—or whatever.”

  “I see from your dress,” he says. Cringing, I want to cover my exposed chest. “How do you feel? Different?”

  “It was pretty amazing.” I assume he’s seen people walk on water before, but I wish I could convey how spectacular it was. “I didn’t drown, thank the Proph—I mean, thank the Savior.” Is that a thing people say? “How’s your wrist?”

  He holds up his arm, showing me a thin rubbery cast that covers his hand to his forearm. It’s a creepy flesh tone and looks nothing like the thick, rough cast our doorman got when he broke his elbow. “They fused the bone back together, so it’ll heal quickly.” Seeing my astonished face, he adds, “They use lasers. It’s major benny. Plus, they have good meds at the hospital.” He grins. “And it’s nothing compared to what’s going to happen to me when Tabby hears the Smoker suits are gone.”

  I wonder where she goes when she sneaks out? “Maybe she’ll feel sorry for you.”

  “If you think so, you don’t know Tabby very well,” he says, looking more tormented by the thought of his sister than by his wrist.

  I sit by him on the couch. “Silas, I have to ask you . . .”

  “Anything,” he says.

  “Have you heard anything more about Juda?”

  He frowns. “Hmmm. Judaaaaa . . .”

  “One of the boys in the house,” I say, frustrated.

  “Nooope. Sorry.”

  “Is there someone you can ask? The same person who told you where they were staying?”

  He seems irritated. “No. There’s no more information.” He leans in, grinning. “You maybe want to go to the Leisure Center later?”

  “You’re acting strange,” I say. I think it’s the medication.

  “If you’re going to be yawny, I’m going back to my Tact.”

  He’s acting like Tabby––bratty and mean.

  “I’m dumb, remember?” I say. “I don’t know what a ‘Tact’ is.”

  He gasps. “But they’re the best thing ever! You have to get one. I was watching mine when you came in.”

  Looking around the room, I see nothing. “Where?”

  “No, it’s here.” He points to his eye. “You have it installed at the Leisure Center. I upgrade about every two years, but people do it more often if they can afford it.”

  “What’s it for?” I ask, astonished.

  “Everything! Sending nods, scoping vid, touring the ‘scape. You have to have one!”

  “Silas?” Gilad’s voice comes from upstairs. Immediately, Silas becomes less animated, leaning back into the couch sleepily, letting his legs drift apart.

  Gilad appears at the bottom of the stairs. When he sees the two of us on the couch, he grins. I think this may be the first time I’ve seen him genuinely smile. “What are you two up to?”

  “Talking, Dad. Just talking.” He produces a goofy grin.

  Bithia comes stomping down the stairs behind Gilad. “Stop being nice to them, Gilad. They’re in trouble!”

  We are? I thought taking my pledge and getting my whites was my absolution.

  Bithia wags her finger at us. “Ram might think you’re reborn and all that, but we have rules in this house, and you both broke ’em. There are consequences to such things.”

  “But Mom––” Silas begins.

  “Don’t ‘but Mom’ me. You knew exactly what you were doing when you climbed out that window.”

  Silas says nothing more, and the two of us sit on the couch, staring at our knees as we wait for her pronouncement.

  “Tabby needs help getting ready for Promise Prom, and you’re going to help her. Whatever she wants for an entire day.”

  “But that’s cruel and unusual!” says Silas, misery entering his voice.

  I say nothing, thinking that this is the lightest sentence I’ve ever received for anything.

  “Listen to your mother,” says Gilad. He heads for the kitchen, giving Silas a wink before he leaves the room.

  Bithia rubs her stomach, while her eyes narrow. “Mina, I need you to come with me. There’s . . . a situation, and you’ve been requested.”

  “What is it?”

  “That’s not really your place to ask, is it?” Bithia says.

  Exhausted by the long morning, I’d been looking forward to time alone in my room. Resisting a heavy Tabby sigh, I leave Silas sitting on the couch and follow Bithia.

  She marches me out the door at a fast pace.

  My Bee hovers overhead as I hurry to keep up. “I wanted to say how sorry I am about last night.”

  “I should hope so,” she says, not looking at me. “We’ve sacrificed quite a bit to have you and disobedience is no way to thank us.”

  They seem to have so much of everything—enough for three families. Am I really a burden to them?

  “Becky Houseman wouldn’t even say hello to me at the hospital last night.”

  “Because of me?” I ask, confused.

  “Of course, child. Not everyone is as open as Mr. Dixon and me.”

  “Like Mr. Tanner,” I say, understanding.

  She gives me a sideways glance. “Yes, like Mr. Tanner and other Purists. They have strong ideas about your people and no amount of chitchat from you is going to change them.”

  “But why are they being rude to you?”

  We walk past a blue house with green trim and then a purple house with an enormous bed of orange flowers. I think Bithia isn’t going to answer me, when she says, “Some of them have the idea that you’ll spread your beliefs, that anyone who spends time with you will end up believing in your Prophet.”

  “So they think you and Gilad are people of weak faith?”

  “No!” she says, mouth twisting in annoyance. “They’re worried about anyone who spends time with you.”

  Picturing the faces of the girls at Gentility Gardens, I wonder how many had been warned not to speak to me. And why was the crowd at the Worship Hub so enthusiastic if they don’t want me here? “Everyone here seems so confident in their faith. Why are they threatened by mine?”

  She stops walking. “Don’t be smart with me. We believe in equality and all that here, but we also know a woman’s place. She shouldn’t overstep her bounds, and that’s exactly what you’ve done, missy. You need to learn to talk less and listen more. Pull another stunt like last night, and we won’t hesitate to send you to the Forgiveness Home.” She starts marching again.

  I was only asking questions. How is that “overstepping my bounds?” I wish she would explain, but, chastised, I stay quiet.

  Soon we reach a faded yellow house. A man opens the door. His face is tired and grim, his hair gray. He wears a frown that mimics the sad slump of his shoulders. “You’re late,” he mumbles.

  “We came as quickly as we could manage, Horton,” Bithia says.

  Horton takes me in from head to toe. His expression suggests he shares a lot of opinions with Mr. Tanner.

  “May we come in?” says Bithia.

  Opening the door wider, he reveals a dining room and living room identical to the Dixons’ and the Delfords’. He points up the stairs. “She’s in the first bedroom on the left.”

  “Thank you,” says Bithia, brushing by him.

  I follow, not wanting to be lef
t alone with Horton for even a moment.

  Despite the daylight, the bedroom is completely dark. Only after blinking a few times do I finally see a figure sitting in a chair in the corner.

  “Rose!” I cry, rushing to her side.

  She turns to look at me, but her head moves slowly, carefully.

  Her face is ashen, her brown eyes large and bloodshot. Her full lips are chapped and cracked, and her plump body seems to have shrunk in on itself, like fruit going bad.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her, horrified.

  “She won’t eat. And now she’s stopped drinking water,” says Bithia, behind me.

  “Rose, is that true?” I kneel at her feet. “Are you doing this to yourself or are they hurting you?”

  She studies me for a while. “Mina . . .” is all she’ll say.

  “Yes, it’s Mina!” I say, taking her hand in mine. “I’m here.”

  “No one’s hurting her,” Bithia says. “This is all her doing.”

  “Why won’t you eat?” I ask.

  She turns away from me, closing her eyes. She seems to go to sleep.

  I don’t understand how she could look so terrible when I saw her less than a week ago. Her tongue is yellow, the corners of her mouth crusty.

  She’s scaring me. How long can a person survive without food or water? When the Ashers locked me in a room for twenty-four hours without either, I felt like my insides had been scraped out by a nail file. “You have to eat or you’ll get really, really sick, Rose.”

  Her voice comes out as a scratchy whisper. “Where is my son?”

  Sadness overwhelms me. I can’t bear to tell her I don’t know. “He’s coming,” I whisper.

  “When?”

  “Soon. Probably tomorrow. He . . . has a little cold, and he wants to be well before he sees you.” What am I saying? I can’t magically make Juda appear.

  “That sounds like him,” she says, smiling for the first time.

  I squeeze her hand. “He misses you.”

  Her dark eyes expand as she says, “Ask him to forgive me for lying about his father. I can’t go to my grave knowing he’s angry at me.”