Gutter Child

by Jael Richardson

  “Fine, Louis. You’re in charge. Call me whatever you want. But I’d like to get to work now,” I say, even though it’s not true. I’m never in a rush to spend a day with Violet, especially when Mr. Gregors is gone.

  “Woah, woah, woah. Slow down, Junior. As of right now, you’ve got nowhere to go till I say so.”

  I sigh, trying to decide which option is worse, a morning with Violet or Louis.

  “Consider this your official Red Coat training,” he says.

  I shake my head and slide down to the ground, legs crossed at the ankles.

  “Now, Mr. Gregors gave you that red coat. But the way I see it, you still have to earn it. You have to make it count, and to do that you have to know the rules,” Louis says, waving his hands as he paces back and forth.

  “I know the rules, Louis,” I say.

  “But do you know what happens when folks break them?” he whispers, leaning in close, and when I shrug and shake my head, he points his finger too close to my face.

  “Exactly,” he says. “When folks obey the rules, life is good. But when folks break the rules at Livingstone, their debt becomes the least of their problems.”

  I take a deep breath and exhale because whenever I hear the word debt, I feel like all that money I owe is piled high on my shoulders.

  “Our job as Red Coats is to enforce the law,” Louis says.

  “Mr. Gregors said our job was to ‘maintain happiness.’”

  “They’re the exact same thing. Enforcing the law for those who need reminders means happiness for everyone.”

  I think about these words together—enforcing and happiness.

  “You see, Junior, you’ve been around Mainlanders your whole life. You’re used to folks acting right, obeying the rules—am I right?” Louis says, placing his hands behind his back and intertwining his fingers.

  I nod.

  “But Gutter folks don’t like rules—especially Mainland rules,” Louis says. “It’s that rebellious spirit. Truth is, if Gutter folks really want to get Redemption Freedom, knowing Mainland rules and following them is key.”

  I think about the rules that kept me from going into Capedown restaurants and stores, and the rules Mother had about staying inside—how we spent most of our time in our small house because of what others might do or say.

  “I didn’t grow up in the Gutter either, Elimina. Never even been there. And I never intend to go if I can help it,” he says.

  I look over at him, surprised, like I’m not sure I heard him right.

  “My mama got herself knocked up while she was in an academy just like this,” he says.

  “Where is she now?”

  He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “She went back to work, and I got sent to a junior academy. Nobody wants kid debt on top of their own debt. You’ll never get out if you do that.”

  “So they have junior academies too?” I say. “For babies?”

  Louis nods. “Junior academies take in MMEs, like me. Mandatory Mainland Entries. Babies born out here to mothers working their way out. I practically potty-trained myself. I could cook and do general maintenance before they even sent me to a senior academy, which is one of the reasons I became a Red Coat. I know how to do all of this work, and Mr. Gregors knows he can trust me to keep an eye on things.”

  “So you’ve never been to the Gutter?” I say.

  He shakes his head. “My first academy was a few hours away, other side of Haven. But I learned how to do things and how to survive, just like you. See, you and I, we have to teach them what we know.” He points across the campus, toward the start of the road that leads to the Main House. “You see those security guards, those old guys near the gate? The security guards keep folks out, but we are the real law and order, Elimina. We teach them to work hard. You hear me?”

  I nod.

  “Our most important job is to keep an eye out for students who need a reminder about why they’re here, who can’t seem to follow the rules,” he says, pacing slowly. “See, I could get Rowan leashed for what he did, pulling me around like he did that first day I saw you. And I could punish any one of them fools for taking time away from their work. But what good would that do me? That’s what I have to ask myself. Rowan’s going to do what Rowan’s going to do. That boy doesn’t listen to nobody. He is who he is and I don’t have time for that. But the rest, they need to be taught. They can still be taught.”

  He heads over to the leashes, and I follow him to the chains that are staining the concrete with rust.

  “Don’t you think there’s something wrong with chaining people up like dogs?”

  Louis laughs like I just don’t get it. “Do you know what will happen to them if they steal food or try to escape from an employer after they’re hired?”

  I shake my head.

  “The Gutter. And do you think they know that, Junior? Do you think they really understand that and how that impacts their families? No. They don’t. Because if they did, they wouldn’t disobey. Nobody wants to go back to the Gutter. There’s nothing but shame and pain if you get sent back with nothing to offer your family but a bigger dose of debt. No matter how bad it seems here, what everyone really wants is to survive on the Mainland,” he says.

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Well, that’s easy,” he says, smiling and sliding his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Information. You know those girls who were so awful to you when you got here?”

  I nod, thinking of Josephine and Violet standing with all of the girls, and the stink of dead rat in my mouth.

  “You’re going to keep an eye on them. They’re always scheming in there, just like they did with that rat prank. I was the one who caught Ally and Sam sneaking into the East Hall, and I’m willing to bet someone in one of the dorms knew about their plan and didn’t say anything. So you’re going to tell me everything you learn in the West Hall as soon as you learn it so we can keep this place running good. In exchange, why don’t I see if I can stop those nasty notes from showing up.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  I think about Josephine and the night I saw her run into the Fieldhouse. But I don’t tell Louis. I just extend my hand the way Mainlanders do when they’re hoping to seal a promise. “Deal,” I say.

  6

  THE BASEMENT OF THE MAIN HOUSE IS GRITTY AND cold, with concrete floors, stone walls, and pipes that hover low. At the end of a long hallway, past the rumble and heat of the laundry facilities and the clanging of the maintenance department, I find Ida Mason’s living quarters and a studio that looks like a small version of the salons Mother went to in Capedown.

  A black leather chair with a metal base is bolted to the floor in front of a mirror surrounded in lights, and there’s a small sink in the corner with a long counter covered in bottles.

  When I enter the room, a full-bodied woman in a gray dress appears from around the back corner, sweeping bits of hair into a pile. She has a white apron tied around her waist and a colorful scarf wrapped around her head, like a crown.

  “Miss Mason?”

  The woman stands tall and graceful and part of me wants to bow, but I just hang my head low and pass her the note, scratching at my scalp.

  My hair has grown quickly since arriving at Livingstone, but I have no idea what to do with it. Yesterday, I started pulling at the knots with a comb, hoping it would help, but I only made things worse. When I showed up at the office, Violet laughed into her hand and Miss Templeton sent me down to the basement right away with a note: “Ida, fix this.”

  Ida reads the note and shakes her head, tossing it in a garbage bin and opening her arms wide. “Baby girl, I’m glad you finally made your way down to see me. I was wondering when you’d come.”

  I step into her slowly, and she hugs me so tight I feel swallowed in warmth. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze back, hoping she doesn’t let go.

  “You’re okay. You’re safe here,” she says, and I sob into he
r shoulder, leaving dark stains on her chest.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Miss Mason,” I say when I lift up my head, wiping my tears away with the back of my wrist.

  “Don’t be sorry, baby girl,” she says, pulling me in again to show that it’s really okay. “And it’s Ida in here. Just Ida when you talk to me.”

  I step back, and she hands me a handkerchief.

  “Well, this coat is fancy,” she says, sliding her hands down the sleeves with a strange look on her face, and I don’t know whether to feel proud or ashamed.

  “I . . . I . . .” But I don’t know what to say.

  “It’ll help. That’s for sure,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “You take your help where you can get it, baby girl. I know how that goes. But you don’t need all that in here, so you can hang that coat right outside the door when you come in from now on.”

  I nod, hanging up the coat just like she asked, and settling into the chair.

  “Never combed your own hair, have you?” Ida says, touching my hair as her mouth bunches like a prune.

  “No, ma’am,” I say, trying to look anywhere but the mirror.

  When I was younger, I used to stare at myself for hours. I’d study my face and the strangeness of it in comparison with the faces I saw at the park and on the covers of Mother’s magazines. I would gaze at every feature, and I would ask myself the same questions, tilting my head this way and that to see it at different angles. Am I pretty? Am I kind of pretty or really pretty or almost pretty? How about now?

  When Mother asked what I was doing in the bathroom and why I was taking so long, I would tell her I was studying. And it was true. I was studying how I looked, creating a list of the things I liked, things that made me happy or proud—like the round of my head and the shape of my eyes. I liked the way I smiled and the way my top lip slipped up over my gum, like it was too big to hold inside.

  But eventually, I saw uneven teeth, an oversized grin and a head that was bald like a boy’s. I longed for hair like Mother’s, with skin just as fair and scar-free. And I started to wash my face and brush my teeth with the lights off or with my eyes closed, like my own face was something no one else should have to see, including me.

  “You never had a Gutter woman do your hair?” Ida says, and I shake my head. “Weren’t there any Gutter women in that town where you were raised?”

  I watch Ida standing behind me, hands on my shoulders, waiting for me to respond.

  “Miss Ida, you’re the first Gutter woman I’ve ever met. First one I’ve ever spoken to as far as I can remember.”

  Ida closes her eyes and shakes her head before clearing her throat. “Now then, you’re going to have to tell me what it was like being out there with all of them Mainlanders instead,” she says.

  I shrug. “It was different.”

  “Well, I figured that much, baby girl. But when you’ve lived something no one else has, you have to tell folks what it’s like as though they can’t see and they’re asking you what red looks like. When someone asks you for a picture, you got to spell it out in color for them,” she says.

  I try to think of how to explain Capedown, but I can’t find the words. “How long have you been here?” I say.

  “Left the Gutter when I was five years old for the academy track. Spent ten years at North End Academy, which is a place I don’t care to remember, that’s for sure. I worked down the way for a bit until Mr. Gregors hired me. Been working for twenty years maybe, so . . . thirty years on the Mainland is my guess. Though I’m sure my debt manager could count it better.”

  “Thirty years?”

  “Sounds like a whole lot, I know. But the truth is, it doesn’t feel that long at all. Besides, I got it real good here,” she says with a toothy smile that’s full of gaps and one tooth that’s mostly brown.

  “How much longer till you’re done? Till you get Redemption Freedom?” I say.

  She takes a comb and pulls it through my hair, and when a piece of the comb breaks off, she grabs another from the pile and tries again.

  “I’ll be done in twenty or so, I think. But truth is, I’ll probably work as long as I can. Maybe I’ll buy a house in the city and come in with the Mainland Decos,” she says. “But I gotta keep going.”

  “Why?”

  “I got family who are counting on me. I was the one that got out to make the way. When I get Redemption Freedom for myself, I get to give it to one other person. I figure I can get one of my grand-nieces out, hopefully one with a baby. That way I can get two more generations out at the same time—set our family up right for the future. But there’s still others. There’s always others. Don’t think I could enjoy my own life knowing they’re still in the Gutter—that I didn’t do everything in my power to help,” she says.

  “In Capedown, you aren’t allowed to work until you’re eighteen. And even then, it’s optional,” I say. “Mainlanders can’t start until eighteen. It’s the law.”

  “It’s the law that you can’t work?” she says, and when I nod, she shakes her head, like the unfairness of it is almost too much.

  I tell her about the Kids-Being-Kids Legislation and the Youth Enjoyment Opportunities, how Mainland kids are encouraged to explore and how Mother used to take me to Capedown museums during the day—when other kids were at school—where they’d let us in at twice the price.

  Ida shakes her head again, her jaw stiff with anger. I feel a sharp pain in my scalp as she pulls the plastic comb through my hair a little harder.

  “Do you miss your family?” I say through gritted teeth, and Ida nods.

  “Most days I miss them fine, just in passing. But some days, I’ll admit, it’s hard. Knowing they’re there. And I’m here. That the little ones don’t know anything about me, except what I write down in letters. But I try not to worry because nothing good comes from it. All worrying can do is bring a sickness that starts deep inside. And I got no time to be sick, baby girl. I got to stay well up here most of all,” she says, tapping her finger against the side of her head. “Besides, I’d rather be here making a way than waiting in the Gutter. Can’t complain about that.”

  But there’s a lot she could complain about, and I think about telling her that it’s another way Mainland life is different. Mainlanders get up-in-arms angry when things don’t go their way. And when they complain loud enough, the Mainland government usually does something about it.

  The year before I was supposed to attend Capedown Elementary, the school board established tests to ensure that all students were on track and making good progress. The Mother’s Alliance made signs and yelled outside the board offices and in the lobby at city hall. They said standardized tests were the equivalent of work and should be against the law, and the tests were banned, just like they wanted. One year later, those same people grabbed new signs and stood in front of Capedown Elementary to protest my enrollment in a school that had always been exclusively for Mainlanders—in a town that prided itself on the same. “Keep the Mainland for Mainlanders,” they said, and when Mother dragged me out, never to return, they got their way again.

  I ask Ida if there’s a way to change things for her or her family, but she shakes her head.

  “It doesn’t work that way for us,” she says.

  She sprays my hair with water, picking at the tips with a few sharp tugs, and I try not to let her see how much this hurts.

  “I wondered about you project cases—how you would do out there with no one,” Ida says, scowling at my hair before starting again. “I only got five years in the Gutter with my family, but those five years mean everything to me, especially now that I’ve been gone for so long. I can’t imagine what it was like to have no one—to know nothing.”

  I tell her about a photograph of a Gutter family I saw in a library book before I could read, how I ripped the picture out and studied those faces carefully for signs that we were related. I had never seen faces like mine before, and I decided they were my long-lost family. I gave them all names, an
d I held that photo inside one of my books until it was so thin and worn it fell apart in my fingers.

  “Is that all you know about your own—that picture?” Ida says, with her eyebrows pushed down toward her nose.

  “Mr. Gregors told me things, and Mother taught me history for school,” I say.

  “Don’t believe everything them Mainlanders tell you,” she says, shaking her head like I’m making her tired and sad. “And don’t believe what you read in those books either.”

  She stops working and takes a long, deep breath, looking down at the hair that’s still tightly packed and knotted, like she’s ready to give up.

  “Please don’t. You just can’t,” I say, my voice wobbling as my eyes fill with tears.

  “Baby girl, what’s wrong?”

  “Please don’t cut it.”

  “Baby girl, this side here is just knots on knots.”

  I look in the mirror, horrified, and when she turns the chair, I drop my head and press my palms against my face.

  “What’s wrong, baby girl?”

  “When my hair got too long or too hard to comb, Mother just cut it off. She always cut it off. And I didn’t know how to stop her. But I want it back,” I say, tears thick in my throat.

  Sharing this feels like a betrayal, like I’m turning on Mother. She lived alone because of me. It’s only hair, I told myself. But it always felt like something more.

  “You ever met your real mother?” Ida says, hands on my shoulders. “Ever even seen a picture of her?”

  I shake my head, unsure whether “real mother” is a fair term. I’ve never known how to feel about the woman who gave me up to be raised by a Mainlander. I’ve tried to just feel grateful to Mother for giving up everything to love me.

  “A girl learns who she is from the woman she sees loving her,” Ida says. “She learns what’s good and what’s lovely about herself, and the further apart she is from that woman, and the more different they are, the harder it is for her to know what to love about herself. Especially when everything around her tells her she’s not right. You know what I’m saying, baby girl?”