She looks at Mr. Gregors and then at me, tightening her jaw so all of the bones stick out pointy and sharp. “Of course, Mr. Gregors,” she mutters.
“Another bright academy student. Just an impressive lot of them, if I do say so myself,” he says, once the door closes and Violet is gone. “Now where were we, Elimina?”
“You were explaining my debt,” I say.
“Ah yes. Of course. How could I forget? The Gutter System. A fascinating topic. I could quite literally talk about it for hours. I studied it in university and it never gets old. But don’t you worry, Elimina. I’ll spare you the torture of all those lectures,” he says, smiling at me with all of his straight teeth.
“Please, sir, I’d like to know,” I say. “Mother . . . didn’t tell me much.”
Mr. Gregors nods like he understands, but I wonder if he can.
“Your debt, your scar and your status as a ward of the nation are all tied together. Part of a very intricate economic system. It’s important for you to understand that, Elimina.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“The Mainland is built on one of the most advanced economic systems in the world. It’s a model of revolutionary forward-thinking. Thousands of books have been written about it, and nations from all over the world have tried to copy what we’ve done,” he says, using his hands in grand gestures as he moves along the walls of books. “But I truly believe that what we’ve done here can never be duplicated in quite the same way. That’s how impressive it is.”
He pauses at a painting of a Mainland ship pressing through waves in a storm.
“Tell me, Elimina, what do you know about the way the Mainland was founded?” he says.
I think back to the history lessons Mother provided, and the books we took out of the library. “I know that Mainlanders landed on the Sunset Coast a few hundred years ago. I know that’s how the Mainland became the Mainland.”
He smiles and nods proudly. “It was a remarkable time of travel. Mainlanders were just explorers at the time, and we were welcomed with open arms. Given places to live and observe and study the land and the people who lived on it. We brought gifts, of course, to make it worthwhile,” he says with a small laugh before moving toward the Covey statue, adjusting the head by turning it to the left.
“We saw the Sunset Coast as a prime location for future trade. Plenty of people had stopped here before, but all the things that had been written about it implied that beyond the coast, this place was just a wasteland of heat and dust, a wild jungle. Can you believe that? I mean, we’re inland now, and it’s simply beautiful,” he says, moving toward the window and staring out at the grounds.
“Did you know that this is the largest floating landmass in the world? No one had ever said that back then, but it’s true. It’s one of the reasons we decided to stay. To build something great on this massive land and to raise its people up at the same time. But nation-building is complicated work,” he says, moving to his bookshelves, his finger and thumb pinched around his chin. “I mean there were over fifty-four tribes living here, speaking different dialects of a very complicated language that was virtually impossible to understand or translate in any meaningful way. So when we decided to stay and do the hard work of building a nation, we had to take on the responsibility of drafting the first agreement—guidelines about how this future nation would be governed and developed, how it would grow with all of us in mind.”
He selects a book and flips through it, turning the pages and sliding his finger up and down each page.
“Now, I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but I’ve been trying to think of what you folks called yourselves initially. It’s on the very tip of my tongue. Either way, we called this place the Mainland for obvious reasons. I mean, if you’ve only ever lived here, you might not know that there are small islands and medium-sized places all around the world. But this one is the biggest. The Main Land,” he says, lifting his hands. “The land of all lands, as we like to say.”
He continues to turn pages, searching for a particular part of the book, then smacking the page suddenly.
“Sossi!” he shouts, and I jump, placing one hand on my chest. “That’s what they called this place! Sossi territory. Sossi people. How could I forget that?”
“Soh-see,” I say, letting the word roll around on my tongue.
“Yes. Exactly. Sossi people lived very simply at the time. Simple homes and villages. Which is a perfectly lovely way to live, don’t get me wrong. I mean, we could all stand to live with a little less, to trust the weather or the universe to guide us. But that way of life is less than ideal for building a nation. That story-and-drum-and-sit-around-the-fire country life is quaint. But it’s just not ideal for really prospering. Do you want to have a look at this?”
He holds the book out to me, and I take it: Building a Nation: The History of the Mainland by Norman Holloway. The pages are filled with small print, scattered with drawings of Mainland soldiers and Sossi people in thin strips of cloth or animal fur.
“Go on. Have a read,” he says, waving me on, like he wants me to read it out loud.
“‘Sossi people lived like great creatures of the land, marvelous beasts roaming the earth, guided by the animals they killed to eat of their flesh and adorn on their bodies—tawny skin they strip from the bones of God’s creation and stitch into cloth from miraculous feats of brute strength.’”
I close the page and Mr. Gregors smiles, pleased not only by the words of the book but my ability to read them so well.
“Feel free to take it out and read it whenever you like,” he says. “It’s fascinating. Impeccably written.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, holding it in my lap.
“Now, the tribes who lived here didn’t write anything down, if you can believe it. They had never formally documented anything. They had never seen an agreement like the one we created when we arrived—a written document that took years to create and craft, that defined and established a nation. But when the Mainland Agreement was done, we all sat down together and signed it into law. It was an exciting time, of course, but one of the most important aspects of the agreement, and one of the things I studied closely as an undergraduate, because to me it is the heart of the matter, was the care that was taken to spell out the values of this nation and how the land would be developed. There’s no sense having a bunch of huts and firepits on land that’s got valuable resources. That’s just bad economics. We wanted this land to prosper, so hard choices had to be made for the greater good. And I truly believe that everyone understood that—at least initially. You see, the Sunset Coast was a major draw. But it was the place where many Sossi tribes were already well-established. The development of the Mainland as a nation required us to develop the Sunset Coast into a place with more modern accoutrements.”
“So the people who lived there had to move?” I say, turning to drawings of Sossi people carrying their belongings with wide, toothy smiles on their faces.
“They weren’t forced. No one pushed them out, despite what some say. Sossi people were given useful incentives to go farther inland and to develop new areas, in accordance with the Mainland Agreement—to create more growth by developing the resources we all needed to survive. For the greatness of the nation, as we say. The mistake, if you can call it that, was the way land developers handled relocations. There were taxes and fees that weren’t carefully explained. Gutter folks had never had to pay for their homes, and they didn’t like the change. They didn’t understand how it benefited all of us,” he says. “Eventually, most of the fifty-four tribes decided they didn’t like what they’d agreed to and that it was time for us to go. Well, you can imagine how that went.”
“That’s what led to the Great War,” I say, and Mr. Gregors nods, looking out the window with one hand against his waist.
By the time Mainland kids start school, they all know about the Great War, which went on for three years and took more than ten thousand lives in a hard-fought war of ideals
.
“It’s important to know, Elimina, that there was a process for grievances that was built into the governance model embedded in the Mainland Agreement. It’s not talked about as much as it should be, but it’s important to note. This wasn’t a unilateral experience. But instead of following procedures, Sossi people resorted to what they knew. They attacked places all along the Sunset Coast, setting fire to important buildings and critical military hubs. And they did so quite recklessly,” he says. “But Mainlanders are resourceful, and after all we did here, we weren’t going to leave the nation we had started without fighting back.”
I look down at the book, turning to pictures of Mainlanders standing in fields, guns raised and pointed.
“The real tragedy of this rebellion is not just that it happened, but that so many people died along the way. Sossi plans were poorly conceived and particularly violent. In my opinion, they demonstrated a lack of military knowledge that cost far more lives than necessary. They had signed an agreement, and then they went back on their word, fighting us with the very weapons that were bestowed upon them when we arrived. They killed generals and soldiers, one of whom happened to be one of my great-great-great-grandfathers. They left women without husbands and children without fathers, and is there anything worse than that?” he says, shaking his head.
I think of the Victory Day celebrations, the biggest national holiday on the Mainland, when everyone celebrates the day the war ended and the point where the economy began to soar. A day when everyone remembers the Mainlanders who sacrificed their lives.
“Which brings us to the Gutter System,” Mr. Gregors says, clapping and extending his hands, like he’s finally arrived at the point. “Despite the victory—or perhaps because of it—Mainlanders felt very strongly that after the war there should be clear consequences to prevent something like this from happening again. If nothing was done, what would stop another group from turning to violence to solve their problems when they got upset about something, rather than trusting the processes that were built into the Mainland Agreement?” He gestures toward the Covey statue with a nod. “Which is why General Covey established the Gutter System.”
“The Gutter System,” I say, like I’m making notes in my head, like I’m finally going to understand exactly why I’m here and everything that’s ahead now that Mother is gone.
“The Great War was the destiny of this nation. Despite its losses, the war was an important part of establishing the Mainland’s presence in the world. We wouldn’t be who we are without fighting for what we believed in, without defending what we built and what we wanted. It’s why we remember it so fiercely. The war taught us that struggle and sacrifice, and the success that follows, would define us as a country. Struggle and sacrifice make us great. And the genius of the Gutter System is that it’s built on this same premise, that people need to struggle and succeed for their own good and for the good of the country.”
I think of what Mother used to say about hard work and sacrifice, of her response to the tears that came when I wished for friends or when I prayed for people to stop staring at me. Struggle makes you stronger, Elimina.
“To pay back the Mainland for the lives that were lost and the damages that were incurred, and to prove they wanted to be here and build with us, Sossi people were fined for their role in the rebellion. They were required to work off their individual debt and earn back their freedom. The Gutter System is built on the premise of Redemption Freedom,” he says. “It is rooted in the long-held belief that freedom is something you fight for and earn.”
“So I’m not free?” I say, pausing and staring at him, unsure what this all means. “Sir, I don’t understand.”
“You might believe you are free,” he says, tilting his head side to side. “You probably feel free in some ways based on your upbringing in particular. But like most Gutter folks, as they’re now called, you are a ward of this nation, with a debt that’s assigned and passed down until it’s paid off.”
“But Mother . . . But I don’t . . .”
Mr. Gregors shakes his head, raising his hand so I’ll stop. “The Gutter Enhancement Project—the initiative that brought you to Miss Dubois—does not protect you from your past. So long as you have that mark, Elimina, you are a Gutter child and you are in debt.”
I sit back with my arms crossed over my chest, my throat thick and tight as I think quietly about this for a moment while Mr. Gregors waits. “Why wouldn’t Mother tell me any of this?”
“Perhaps Miss Dubois had her reasons, perhaps she thought you would be debt-free before you discovered you weren’t. I don’t know,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “At least you got a proper education out of it. It’s more than what most get.”
“I never went to school, Mr. Gregors.”
Despite the approvals Mother received to enroll me in Capedown Elementary, I never attended a Mainland school. On my first day, crowds gathered and yelled for me to stay out, to go back home. They carried posters on wooden sticks with pictures of my face covered in a big red X. “Go home, Gutter,” they said. And I wanted to. I wanted to go back to our house on Harriet Street as soon as I saw them. But I knew what they really wanted to do was send me to the Gutter.
Mother insisted that once I was inside the school, I’d be fine. “The teachers and the police, they’re here to protect you,” she said. But when she left for her shift at the restaurant, a group of students pulled me into the washroom and stuck my face in a toilet that hadn’t been flushed, and when I stepped out into the hallway, students scrunched up their faces and pinched their noses, calling me shitface.
I locked the door to the bathroom and sat on the floor until I heard Mother’s voice calling sometime later. “Elimina? Elimina, are you in there? It’s okay, honey. I’m here.”
When I finally came out, Mother stormed down the hall, pulling me hard by the arm. “I have worked too hard for too long with Elimina for you to go and ruin her now,” she shouted at the teachers and the principal who stood cross-armed in the halls to watch us go.
Mother taught me from home after that, receiving small monthly checks from the Seaside School Board on contract as a substitute teacher. But I never forgot that first day. That was the day I decided that being a Gutter child was some kind of curse, and that I wanted no part of it. Mother was right. I was just like any other Mainlander. I could do or be anything. I belonged to the place I had lived all my life, not to a place I had never even visited—a place I never intended to go.
“I’m shocked to hear that you were treated that way. Disappointed, in fact,” Mr. Gregors says when I tell him the story. “But it will not be like that here at Livingstone. I assure you of that.”
I nod, fingering the book in my lap. “How much is my debt, sir?”
Mr. Gregors opens my file again and uses his index finger to search for the amount.
“You will graduate from Livingstone Academy with a debt of $25,000. That covers your room and board here, and it’s well below the national average, which seems to increase at an appalling rate every day.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars?” I whisper, trying to breathe evenly, which suddenly feels hard. “How am I supposed to pay that off?”
“Through hard work and discipline. Which is exactly what we teach here, Elimina. We’ll help you secure a job and work it all off.”
“But, sir, how long will that take?”
“It depends on your employer—on your salary and their investment—which will all be determined by your hiring package. But we will help you with all of that,” he says. “The national average for Gutter children graduating from a school like ours is $75,000. Some more. Some less. Every situation is unique. But it’s rare, Elimina, to have a student with less than $50,000 of debt. Families just aren’t doing their part, and it all falls on these young kids, who have to leave home and figure things out on their own. But, if you’re looking for an age, I would say that most people on the academy track are looking at Redemption Freedom by the t
ime they’re about sixty years old.”
“Sixty?” I say, my throat catching, like there’s something stuck inside.
“Sometimes sixty-five,” he says. “But students here fare a bit better than the average, and your freedom will come much faster based on your debt and your training here and your Mainland experience. I expect you’ll be forty years old at most. And if you get a good employer, it could be even earlier,” he says. “And we’ve got an outstanding reputation at this school. I really don’t want you to worry.”
But all I feel is worry. Mother was forty years old when she died.
“As I said, students from Livingstone Academy fare far better on the Mainland than those from other institutions. They do far better than the kids who come from other academies and certainly far better than those who are working for this from inside the Gutter. You have the best chance of doing this, Elimina. Best chance I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Chance,” I say, rubbing the lines of my scar.
“The scars are barbaric, I admit that,” he says. “No one has been able to agree on a better way. There’s been talk of turning to papers, but there’s concern over how to keep track of folks and how to know who is in debt and who’s Redemptioned out. Can’t get everyone to agree, and so nothing is done, I’m afraid. Fortunately, you just have the one.”
There’s a knock at the door, and I place the book down on the desk as Mr. Gregors rises quickly, like he’s anxious to change the subject. When he opens the door, Violet is standing in the doorway with a red garment draped over her arm, looking in my direction with a scowl.
She opens her mouth to say something, but Mr. Gregors just takes the coat and closes the door.
“Sir?” she says, extending one hand and sliding it forward to keep the door from closing.
“Now, now, Violet. Go on and get back to work,” he says. When the door is closed, he holds the coat proudly toward me. “Well, come along now, Elimina. This certainly isn’t going to fit me.”
Gutter Child Page 3