Gutter Child

by Jael Richardson

  The sour stench of manure is so thick that I can feel it in my throat and taste it on my tongue. But Josephine just keeps going, talking to me like it doesn’t bother her at all.

  She points at tools and explains the role of the field hands, stopping at a stall where a girl with crooked braids sits on a low stool and scrapes mud from the hooves of a horse. A second girl stands next to her, brushing the horse and humming a song.

  They’re both dressed in white T-shirts and worn gray pants, just like the boys, and when I look at their faces, I notice fresh bruises running all the way around their necks in a dark band. I stare at the marks closely as the girl on the stool picks up a piece of manure and flings it, barely missing my nose.

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare, project kid,” she says, and I feel my face go red.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say.

  I look at Josephine, worried that I’ve done something wrong, and the two girls hold on to their bellies, laughing hard at my expression and the manure that’s splattered on the wall.

  “Ally and Sam are about as crazy as they come,” Josephine says, heading farther down the hallway. “Rumor has it Mr. Gregors tried to get them to wear dresses and do housekeeping when they first got here. But when he saw that they could work like the boys, only cleaner, well, he can get more for them doing that, so why not,” she says.

  We hear shouts from somewhere near the front entrance and we rush toward the doors, where a boy with thick muscles is dragging a skinny boy in a red vest into the Fieldhouse while the other boys gather around.

  “What’s going on?” Josephine says to one of the boys.

  “Rowan is about to fight Louis.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” she says, shaking her head as Ally and Sam join us at the back of the crowd.

  “Let me go, Rowan!” the red-vested boy says, pulling at his collar, which Rowan has gripped in his fist. “I’m warning you. Let me go!”

  Rowan looks at the boy and grits his teeth, slamming him against the side wall.

  “You better let me go, Rowan. I swear to god. Do you know what I can do to you?” Louis shouts.

  But I can tell by his thin arms and the sharp, pretty bones of his face that if this turns into a fistfight, Louis doesn’t stand a chance.

  “Louis, you can’t do a damn thing. You talk, but no one listens, man,” Rowan says.

  “Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!” the boys who’ve gathered around shout, their voices growing louder and louder as Louis looks at all of them, trying hard not to show that he’s scared.

  “Mr. Gregors won’t believe you,” he yells. “I’m the one he listens to!”

  The walls of the Fieldhouse start to shudder and shake as the boys bang their shovels, some grabbing slabs of wood or metal and clapping them together. “Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!”

  I think of the times in Capedown when people surrounded Mother and me and shouted “Gutter” over and over, and I press my hands against my ears and close my eyes, but I can still hear everything.

  “I’m about to end you and that stupid red vest,” Rowan says.

  “Then do it,” Louis says, nodding his head toward Rowan and the others, pretending he’s tough just for show.

  Rowan reaches back and punches the wall next to Louis’s head so the wood bends and splinters, and suddenly Louis looks genuinely afraid, like he knows his face is next.

  “I will get you leashed, Rowan. Two days. A week even, you hear me? Like I did with those two,” Louis squeaks, nodding toward Ally and Sam, their hands instinctively reaching for their necks, their faces filled with worry. “And not one of these Gutter-fools who are calling your name will be able to stop me.”

  Louis smiles, slow and wide, as though an idea has suddenly come to him. “In fact . . . maybe instead of leashing you, I’ll put one of them on the leashes instead.”

  The cheering quietens, as though this threat is actually working, as though they’re all really worried.

  But Rowan just turns to the crowd and raises his fist. “Woof, woof, woof,” he says, and the boys bark in response. “Woof! Woof! Woof!”

  Rowan smiles and bounces on his toes closer to Louis, then farther away, fists raised, like he’s waiting for Louis to step up. But Louis just stands there, wide-eyed and terrified, as the barking and banging get louder.

  “Woof, woof, woof!”

  “Stop. That’s enough. Stop it, Rowan!” a voice from behind the crowd says.

  The cheering gets quieter as David makes his way through the group, shovel in hand, blade up like a scepter—the tallest of all the boys, looking somehow like royalty.

  “Let him go, Rowan,” David says.

  Rowan grabs Louis by the collar of his shirt again, his other hand ready to strike. “But, David, he—”

  “Save your fists. Do you want to get leashed?”

  Rowan rolls his eyes like this threat is unconvincing, keeping his hand in a tight ball.

  “The Decos will be back for afternoon check-ins soon,” David says, loud enough so everyone can hear him. “You want them to find you all here, doing nothing good? You all want the leashes?”

  Ally and Sam scatter off quickly, like that’s all the warning they need, followed by a few of the younger boys. But the older boys nervously eye each other, unsure of whether to back Rowan up or listen to David and go.

  “Get back to work. Go on. There’s no fight today,” David says, and when Rowan finally releases his grip on Louis, the boys groan and head back to work.

  “Always nice talking to you, Rowan,” Louis sneers, slithering out of reach.

  “Today was your lucky day, Louis.”

  “Whatever, Rowan. I’m not afraid of you,” Louis says. But when Rowan makes a move toward him, Louis ducks behind David, who stands between the two of them.

  “Enough, Rowan. It’s not worth the trouble it’ll cause,” David says.

  Rowan reluctantly steps back, shaking his head as Louis heads toward the doors to the Fieldhouse. “I’ve got my eye on you, Rowan! You step out of line and I got you next time.”

  “Alright, Louis, that’s enough,” David says as he follows Louis out of the Fieldhouse, nudging him with his shovel to speed him along.

  When everyone is gone, Rowan grabs a dry rag from the wall and cleans the blood off his fist, spitting on the back of his hand and wiping it with the cloth. “If I had known we had real ladies in the room, I might have given Louis a swing just for show,” he says, smiling at us and moving closer.

  Josephine rolls her eyes, pulling me toward the door like it’s time for us to go.

  “So, you’re the project kid,” he says, stepping in front and blocking our way.

  “Her name is Elimina and you’re really lucky David stopped you today, Rowan.”

  “Louis needs a good punch in the face,” Rowan says, smirking and shrugging his shoulders.

  “Maybe. But you could have gotten yourself into a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Ah, Jose, you and David worry too much. Don’t they worry too much, Elimina?” He smiles at me, waiting for me to respond, and I nod.

  “We gotta go, Rowan,” Josephine says, shaking her head like she’s disappointed in me for taking his side. “Try and stay out of trouble.”

  “Does that mean you care about me, Jose?”

  Josephine doesn’t answer, but when I look back at Rowan, he winks and smiles. “See you around, Elimina.”

  “See ya around,” I say as Josephine pulls me toward the door.

  “Look, don’t talk to him, okay?” she says, stopping outside of the Fieldhouse and crossing her arms.

  “Who?”

  “Rowan! Just . . . keep your distance,” she says.

  “Why?”

  Josephine shakes her head. “Just take my word for it.”

  WE TOUR THE fruit trees and the greenhouse, where academy students grow spices and herbs for the kitchen and for sale at the local market, before making our way to a cobblestone courtyard behind the
Main House.

  A pair of long, thick chains are attached to the wall with cuffs that lay open on the ground.

  “Are these for the dogs?” I say, looking around.

  Josephine bites down hard on her lip and shakes her head. “Those aren’t for dogs, Elimina.”

  “Then what are they for?” I say, my skin suddenly cold, tiny bumps rising along my arms.

  “Those are the leashes. That’s what Louis was talking about back at the Fieldhouse . . . It’s what they do when you don’t follow the rules. It’s where you sleep. It’s where you eat. It’s where you take a piss. And they make the rest of us come out and bark at you.”

  I think of the boys barking in the Fieldhouse like dogs.

  “Who? Who makes you do that?”

  “Louis. Mr. Gregors.”

  “For how long?” I whisper. “How long do they leave you here?”

  “One day. Sometimes two. Ally and Sam—the girls from the Fieldhouse—they just finished three days.”

  I think of their bruises, the dark marks around their necks. “Why?” I say, my voice high and broken, my hands pressed against my face.

  “They got caught sneaking around the East Hall after hours.”

  I walk over to the chains, and Josephine follows, her eyes peering up at the window, like she’s checking to see if we’re being watched. I lean over and feel the metal chain and the collar, both hot from the sun.

  “They can’t do this,” I say, and Josephine scoffs and shakes her head.

  “Of course they can. This is an academy. This isn’t Mainland City or whatever fancy place you’ve been living. We’re here to work. This is how it is for people like us.”

  I swallow hard, my throat dry and tight like it may close up entirely if I don’t keep swallowing. People like us.

  “Just so we’re clear, you’re not to tell anyone about what you saw today,” she says. “You understand?”

  I nod, unsure of what exactly she means—the kiss from David or the fight between Rowan and Louis.

  “Tell Mr. Gregors you had a perfect tour of this fine, prestigious academy,” she says, in a voice that’s high and fancy. “Tell him you’re excited to be here and that you want to do whatever job he’s got for you. But do not mention anything else. Do you understand?”

  She watches me closely, waiting for me to respond.

  “I don’t belong here,” I say. Tears start rolling down my cheeks, like they’ve been waiting days to fall, and when I feel a ringing in my ear and a sting in my cheek, I look up at Josephine, shocked by the force of her hand.

  But she’s calm and relaxed, like she’ll slap me again if I don’t stop.

  “Listen, Elimina. We’ve lived in two different worlds, and we are not blood, but in this place, we are going to treat each other that way anyway. I will look out for you and you will do the same for me and for every other Gutter kid who’s just trying to make it out of here and get on with their lives. You may just have the one scar and you may have lived differently before now, but you are here, just like the rest of us.”

  I look down at the scar on my right hand, and when I look back up, I nod. But deep inside, I want to believe that Josephine is wrong.

  3

  MR. GREGORS IS STANDING IN FRONT OF A LARGE WINDOW that runs along one side of his office when I arrive the following morning, tired from a restless night. It’s the kind of office I imagine important Mainland officials having, the kind full of sunshine and light, and I pull my shoulders back in my new Livingstone uniform, just like Mother would want. Stand tall and confident, Elimina.

  The floors, the shelves, and all of the furniture in Mr. Gregors’s office are a deep reddish-brown and the air smells like stale cigars. A white General Covey statue sits on a pillar in the corner while an antelope with sprawling antlers stares from the wall—glossy black eyes, mouth slightly open, like it was killed mid-cry as a prize.

  “You’re right on time. I like that,” Mr. Gregors says, turning slightly as the sun streaks through the glass. “How was your tour?”

  “It was good, sir.”

  “I trust that Josephine was helpful, that she showed you just what a magnificent place we have here.”

  “She was very helpful, sir.”

  He sits down at a desk covered in files, gesturing toward one of the chairs and inviting me to sit down.

  “I have to say, there was a part of me that was rather worried about your arrival,” he says, picking up one folder from the small stack in front of him and reading the label before setting it aside.

  “Worried, sir?”

  “I understand that this is your first time being with children who are . . . like you, shall I say. But from what I can tell, you are handling it with an excellent measure of grace.”

  I sit there, unsure how to respond, unsure how to feel about his words “quite like you.” I’m not a Gutter child. They’re not like me at all.

  “Where is it you lived again?” he says, still searching the files, lifting and checking them one at a time before placing them off to the side.

  “Capedown,” I say. “On the coast.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Capedown. I traveled there once, on a fishing excursion,” he says. “Not a bite to be had, in the water that is, but the food was absolutely divine. The town has a quaint feel despite its size, if I recall. All those little shops. There was this delicious seafood restaurant. Marty’s, was it?”

  “Molly’s Seafood Shack,” I say.

  It’s the most popular place in the whole city, but I’ve never been allowed to eat there.

  “Yes. Yes. Just the most delicious salmon steak. I daresay it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

  He picks up a file and gives it a flick of approval, raising it up, like he’s found the one he wants. I see my name typed on the label on the left-hand side as he lays it down: Elimina Madeleine Dubois.

  “Elimina, my students usually come to see me on their first day for a little chat,” he says, and I notice how he pronounces his words so precisely, so the richness of his speech matches everything he wears and the decor of his office. “We talk about the kind of work they’ve been doing and the kind of work they would like to do here at the academy. But I know things have been different for you. So I have something else in mind. If you’re open to it.”

  I nod and he smiles, like this pleases him.

  “Your debt is almost negligible, which is a fantastic way to start. It’s one of the reasons—”

  “My debt?”

  “Your Gutter debt,” he says, as though this should be obvious.

  I look at him, and he stares back, tilting his head.

  “Miss Dubois must have told you about your debt?” he says and I sit taller, wiggling awkwardly in the chair.

  Mr. Gregors leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk, like he’s confused or maybe even angry. “You do know why you’re here, don’t you? I mean certainly you know that.”

  I bite down hard on my lip, wiggling my mouth side to side.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” he says. He lets out a long, slow exhale, pressing his fingers together and bringing them close to his mouth like he’s not sure where to start. “Let me ask you, Elimina: Do you consider yourself a Gutter child?”

  I look down at my hands before I respond, trying to relieve all the tightness in my chest, trying to keep my voice steady and calm. “Mother said I was only born a Gutter child. That that’s not who I am or how I should be treated or what I should be called, sir.”

  Mr. Gregors raises his eyebrows and pauses for a moment, squishing his mouth to one side. “Well, first of all, let me just say that I’m truly sorry for your loss. I lost my mother when I was a teenager, and it nearly ruined me. It certainly ruined my father. It’s a terrible thing to go through. For any child. But . . . regardless of what Miss Dubois told you, or what she wanted before she died, it’s important for you to know that legally you are a Gutter child. You are a ward of the nation. And there are rules and laws that dict
ate what that means for you, especially now that Miss Dubois has passed on. That scar still means something, Elimina. Even if you have just the one.”

  When I was growing up, Mother told me that my scar was just like a birthmark. Special. Unique. She said it didn’t matter what others said to me about it, and it didn’t matter how I got it. “Now, my dear, is all that matters,” she said.

  When I asked her more questions, she refused to answer. “Not now, Elimina,” she would say, like I was somehow being difficult.

  Eventually, she told me that my mother had given me up on the day I was born because she knew she couldn’t take care of me. She wanted me to be a part of a special project that meant I could have everything I wanted in life, just like a Mainlander. When I asked her why she couldn’t tell me more, she told me it was because she wanted me to live unfettered, a word that sounded so beautiful and boundless, like a bird on the wind—a word that made me trust that she knew best until it was too late to know better.

  In the hospital, I thought of all the questions she had never answered, and I prayed for her to wake up, whispering all my questions in her ear as though it might bring her back: “Where am I really from? What happened to my other family, the ones who look like me? Are they in the Gutter? Is it true what they say, that that’s where I belong?”

  But she never woke up. And when her brain shut off completely, when the beeps on the machine by her bed turned to one solid scream, I knew I had waited too long to ask.

  There’s a light knock on the door and, on Mr. Gregors’s command, a slender girl with a tight, dark ponytail that swirls like soft ice cream enters the room.

  “Do you need these right away, Mr. Gregors?” she says, holding up a handful of files just like the pile on his desk.

  “No, Violet. Leave them with Miss Templeton,” he says.

  She turns to leave but Mr. Gregors calls her name before the door closes all the way.

  “Violet, before you go,” he says, moving toward her and leaning in, lowering his voice. “Have Miss Darling prepare the red jacket.”

  “The red jacket?” she says, emphasizing red.

  “Yes. Have her check the buttons to see if they need tightening, and then bring it here as quickly as you can.”