“Olo wanted this land so that they could be seen and known by others. But that is not our way. Our people don’t long for that same thing. We are guardians and farmers and shepherds,” she says, bringing my hands together in prayer.
“Is that why they fought in the Great War?” I say, and she nods sadly.
“Sossi people did not always agree, baby girl. There were many tribes and ways of living back then. There were loud fights about what should be done. Our people fought like thunder. You see, Olo are tricky. They knew how to divide so that the fight is smaller,” she says. “They met secretly with each of the tribes and bargained, giving different leaders whatever they needed—weapons and supplies—in exchange for more land. Sossi people believed the Olo would show honor the same way we show honor, that they would not take too much, that they would leave when asked. But Olo people are not Sossi people. They don’t think like us, baby girl. And we did not realize, until it was too late, that Olo people are joda,” she says, smacking her hands together with a loud clap.
“Joda?”
“It means ‘one who devours.’ But not like food. Olo are joda because they devour like fire. They had begun to consume our Great Land with a fire no one could tame.”
I think of Capedown, where buildings were always growing, where there was always a push for bigger and more, and I see how Olo ways are Mainland ways, how we are what we know.
“Olo say that promises made on paper are the only promises that stand. And when Sossi tribes signed papers to give away land, to move away from the coast so that this nation could grow, they gave up their rights to everything else.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“The rules are only fair for those who make them, Elimina.”
“But couldn’t they—”
“We did not have proof that the land was ours, only stories told in a language they couldn’t understand. And what are stories but lies that are told too often, Olo said. But stories, baby girl, stories are life. They are on our tongues. They are with us now,” she says, holding my hands to her mouth.
I think of how those poems from Violet’s book fed me in a way no other story has.
“Olo took the land along the coast to build their nation. They gave Sossi some land that was farther away, hard and dry, and they made us pay for this and for that, again and again,” she says. “Our families got smaller and hungrier and thinner. Our babies did not survive. And Sossi fought each other in ugly ways over what we had left. While the Olo built and laughed.”
I shake my head, full of something hot that burns as Ida talks, a rage that’s too hard to hold down.
“There was talk of sending Olo away, of putting out the joda fire with fire of our own. Some believed we should fight, risk our lives for what we loved, for what was ours. Others believed that things would change with time, that we should work with them, learn from them. ‘Be patient,’ they said. But you see, baby girl, Olo know how to devour not just the land, but who we are. In my mama’s last letter before she died, she said that that’s the slow death you don’t see coming, the hardest one to fight. The one that comes for your mind.”
Ida smiles with her mouth but her eyes seem to frown.
“Sossi fought the Great War because we wanted our lives and our land. But not everyone fought. Those who had gotten rich working alongside them hid, waiting for things to settle down. But when more Olo dropped from the sky on ships, bringing their weapons, the ones in hiding came out and surrendered, fearing for their lives.”
“The ones who fought must have been angry,” I say.
Ida nods. “Those Sossi who hid had a different way of surviving. They spoke the Olo language well, so they negotiated with Covey and paid their way to the Hill, while we were taken to the Gutter—a tiny bit of land that dangles off the edge of the Mainland, connected by a bridge you cross only once in your lifetime.”
I think about Ida’s mother telling her this story before she left—by her crib at night, over dinner. I study my hands, the scar that matches Ida’s, the unmarked one that looks like Mabel Freeman’s.
“Are you mad . . . at the people on the Hill? Are Gutter people angry?”
Ida takes a breath. “I don’t know, baby girl. Hill folks have the life I’ll never have, and for that, I feel something,” she says, turning her hand into a fist and holding it near her belly. “They come back when they can, or when they want, to help a few. So there are many in the Gutter who believe in them, who trust in the Hill Coalition. But there are many who think little of them because they put themselves first long ago. Because they left so many behind.”
Ida grabs a broom and starts sweeping so the bristles scratch against the floor like claws as I think of David and Josephine on the Hill with the Freemans.
“But they’re helping, aren’t they? The people on the Hill. They’re good, right?”
She stops sweeping and turns to me. “Mainlanders said they were helping you when they took you from your birth mother. But it’s not right for a child so young to be separated from a mother. And that project proved that.”
“My birth mother wasn’t forced to give me up,” I say. “She volunteered.”
“There’s no such thing as volunteering when it comes to something like that, baby girl,” she says, her voice tight and angry. “Mainlanders build things in such a way that giving a baby up is the best option you’ve got. Don’t you see how your mother couldn’t keep you? My mother too? They had nothing to offer us, and they believed what we’re all told from birth: From the Gutter to greatness. For the greatness of the country.”
“For the greatness of the country,” I repeat as Ida shakes her head.
“We are told that over and over, and now that I’m here, I see how they lied, how nothing here is great, how there’s so much greatness back in the Gutter with my family.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“You cross that bridge only once. And then you bring others along after. That’s what my mama told me. So that’s why I’m here and why I stay. To be great for her and for the rest of my family. No matter what. No matter what I now know or think.”
“I want to be great, Ida,” I say, tears filling my eyes, like it’s a truth I’ve always known but never been able to admit because I don’t know how.
Ida leans the broom against the wall and places her hands on my face, bending over so we are close, so I can feel her breath on my face. “Then be great.”
“How can I be great when I’ve got nothing but debt?”
Ida takes my hands in hers again. “You fight for whatever you can take, bit by bit, baby girl.”
Before I leave, Ida reminds me to repeat the story every night, and when she pulls me in close, I hold her tight and promise to never forget.
15
THE WIND WHIRLS LOUD AND HARD, SO I CLOSE THE Fieldhouse doors slowly, using all of my strength. When they’re shut, I lean up against the wall and my whole body shakes—like my bones and nerves know it’s not safe to be here, especially without the red coat.
Rumors are spreading about what’s become of Josephine, and Murray is determined to find answers, but all I can think about is when I can finally leave Livingstone Academy for good, and this worry keeps me up most nights.
I creep through the halls of the Fieldhouse until I reach the back corner where a single oil lamp flickers near Rowan’s leg. I stand there watching him for a moment, wondering if I should sit down or head back to the West Hall.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says, sitting in the corner, his legs spread wide like a V. There’s a red gash on his temple, and a bump on the bridge of his nose.
“What happened to you?”
“Don’t worry, I won,” he says, smirking at me as I stand over him. “It’s still so weird seeing you without that red coat.”
“Why did you invite me here?”
“I needed someone to talk to.”
“No. The first time. You weren’t surprised when you caught me. You weren
’t bothered like the others,” I say. “You just let me right in like it was nothing. Did you do it because you needed a Red Coat to keep an eye on things? Were you always planning on making me take the blame?”
“There was no master plan, Elimina,” he says, leaning his head against the wall. “I didn’t ask you to come here or let you join just so you could help Josephine. I didn’t know all this would happen.”
“So it was luck?” I say, sitting down a few feet away. “It was just dumb luck that you welcomed me in and then used me to take the fall?”
“I knew Mr. Gregors would try to . . . that you didn’t know the way things are here. I knew that the first day I saw you,” he says, shaking his head. “But I didn’t know that you would follow Josephine. How could I? And I fought for you to be here because I wanted you to be here . . . and because I thought you needed it.”
“Needed it?” I say with a laugh, and Rowan frowns.
“We shared the book with you. We told you things about our lives that no one else knows.”
“And then you lied. You all lied,” I say.
I’ve tried to write the poems I can remember from Violet’s book in an empty notebook I took from the office. But every poem is broken and unfinished, fragments of what we read. Lately, I’ve started writing things of my own—unfinished thoughts about all of the things I don’t understand and the things I don’t want to forget, including the story Ida told me about the way things began.
“How do I know any of that was real?” I say. “What am I supposed to think?”
“Everything we told you about our lives was true, Elimina. And we didn’t lie to you about Josephine. We just didn’t tell you. We couldn’t risk it,” he says. “David wanted to tell you but—”
“And Josephine?”
“She . . . said you weren’t a very good liar.”
“And you?”
“I agreed with Jose,” he says, lowering his head.
I think of my talk with Mr. Gregors and how hard it was to lie, how difficult it’s always been for me to hide the truth, and the fact that they knew me so well makes me even angrier.
“We thought it would be better if you could say you really didn’t know, if you didn’t have to pretend,” he says softly.
“Why are we here tonight, Rowan?”
He looks over at me, reaching his hand along the ground, like he’s not sure what to say or do next when we’re so far apart. “I know what it’s like to feel alone here, Elimina. I know how hard it is to have no one.”
My lip quivers and I close my eyes, taking deep breaths in and out to keep everything—all the anger and the sadness and the loneliness—somewhere deep inside.
“You used me from the start.”
“I’m not that smart,” he says with a smile.
I try not to smile back, but when the corners of my mouth wiggle upwards, he smiles even bigger, like he’s proud to have broken me down.
“None of us planned to be at Livingstone Academy,” he says. “My mother sent me because she thought boxing was the best way to get out. Your mother died. We didn’t plan this or ask for this. But we ended up here anyway. And all we can do is try to survive.”
There’s a long quiet where I just sit and think, listening to the wind. Part of me wants to be angry, but part of me wants to forgive. And I lift my knees and put my head in my hands because I don’t know which feeling to let in.
“I’m going out there to fight next week,” he says, moving closer and wrapping his arm around my shoulder.
I lift my head and nod at the bruise on his eye. “Looks like you already started.”
“This was just a practice,” he says with a sly grin. “And you should see the other guy.”
“Oh, really?” I say.
“I’ve got a big match in five days, and then I’m off.”
“You’re leaving?”
I try not to sound as horrified and desperate as I feel, but Rowan squeezes my shoulder like he doesn’t want me to worry.
“Not permanently. At least for now. They’ve entered me in a tournament. A real Mainland one. Outside the academy league. This match is just a warm-up, to see how I’ll rank,” he says. “I’ll go into the circuit after that. And then, if I do well, I’ll be making real money.”
I run my fingers along the hem of my gray dress, thinking about Rowan’s new life.
“Soon enough, I’ll be making enough to get Redemption Freedom for myself and my mom, and she’ll bring one of my sister’s kids, I’m sure. Cuz you can bring someone under five with you, cuz they’re not a whole person with debt yet. Maybe I can make enough to bring my sister eventually too, who knows?”
“You have a sister?” I say, reaching for a blanket and stretching it over our legs.
“She was twelve when I left. She got married, has a few kids.”
“You’re an uncle!”
“Uncle Rowan,” he says, smiling and nodding at the title.
He fiddles with a piece of straw, peeling it back in thin strands, and I wonder if he’s thinking about all the time that’s passed since he left, all of the family that’s happened without him.
I reach out and touch his face—the stitched-up gash on his head and the bump on his nose—and even though I do it gently, he flinches from the pain.
“Does it hurt—when you get hit? Does it hurt right away?”
“Yeah, it hurts,” Rowan says. “Although it’s not until I sit down that I really feel it, you know.”
I nod, even though I don’t know at all.
He picks up another piece of straw and begins pulling it apart, one strand at a time. “Do you think I’ll do okay on the Mainland?” he says.
I think of how it felt to walk around Capedown—the staring, the curiosity, like I wasn’t supposed to be there, like I was somehow dangerous. But I don’t share any of this with Rowan. Maybe they’ll treat him differently on the boxing circuit, a place where he’s invited and wanted. Maybe it will be different for him.
“Do you think they’ll be better fighters? Because they’re Mainlanders?” he says.
“I don’t know.”
I can tell he’s disappointed by my answer, like he was hoping I would share more, and I wonder if that’s why he wanted to meet, so he could talk to someone who lived where he is going. I slide my hand over his and squeeze it the way David did when I was sad about May.
“Those boys you’ll be fighting will be more afraid of you than you can ever be of them,” I say.
“I’m not afraid,” he says, pulling his hand back.
“It’s normal to fear what you don’t know, Rowan. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Rowan’s lips tighten and he starts fiddling with the straw again, his knee bobbing up and down.
I think about what Ida says about telling things clearly so that people can really understand, and I wonder how I can explain things to Rowan in a way that will help as I stare at the other side of the stall where David and Josephine sat.
“They would never even look at me,” I say.
“Who?” he says.
“Mainlanders. People in Capedown. They would never look me in the eye. Especially the boys,” I say softly. “I told myself that they didn’t look at me because they were afraid they would fall desperately in love with me, that I had special powers. I made up stories like that so it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
I pick up a piece of straw, pulling it back bit by bit, just like Rowan.
“I used to love reading and spelling. One year, Mother fought to get me into the local spelling bee. I must have been in fifth grade.”
“Spelling bee?” Rowan says.
“It’s like a boxing match. Well, kind of. Except instead of punching each other, you take turns spelling words.”
“Yuck,” Rowan says, and I laugh.
“Well, the spelling bee is a pretty big deal in Capedown, and I ended up making it to the final round with Edgar Turpentine. I was wearing my favorite dress—red and pink with swirling f
lowers. It was a dress Mother got at a secondhand shop for a really good deal. Looked brand-new. We were both standing there, facing a crowd of Mainlanders, waiting for our last word. He was given miscellaneous.”
“Miss-a-what?”
“Miscellaneous.”
Rowan scowls. “I don’t think I would like spelling bees,” he says, and I smile.
“Well, Edgar spelled it wrong, and then I spelled metamorphosis for the win. Metamorphosis. M-E-T-A-M-O-R-P-H-O-S-I-S. Metamorphosis,” I say, as though I’m back in that auditorium in front of those judges, waiting for folks to cheer. “But they didn’t cheer when I won. They just watched me. Like what they really wanted to do was boo. I looked at Mother and she looked back at me with so much pride and joy that I realized right there on the stage that everyone else was hoping I would lose.”
Rowan shakes his head, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me closer.
“It was all over the local news. ‘Local Boy Chokes in Face-Off with Gutter Child.’ No one came to my house for an interview like they did with the other winners—the ones from the years before. All everyone talked about was how Edgar Turpentine choked. And Edgar’s family was furious.”
I rub my finger against the blanket, remembering those stories, the conversations that whispered around me every time I left the house.
“They said it was unfair, that it was rigged, that the organizers wanted me to win for ratings, which was silly and untrue. They had tried to keep me from participating. But no one cared about the truth.”
“And Edgar?” Rowan says.
I pull at the straw, strip by strip. “Kids in the neighborhood tormented him. To have lost to a Gutter child was beyond humiliation. I thought it would eventually die down and that Edgar and everyone else would forget about it. But Edgar never forgot.”
I shake my head, remembering not just the spelling bee but what came after, the thing I never told anyone.
“A year later, maybe a month before the next bee, I saw Edgar on the street while I was waiting outside a coffee shop for Mother. He pulled me into the alley and pushed me against a brick wall, squeezing my neck until I couldn’t breathe, until I was gasping for air. He used his other hand to grab me, to touch me underneath my dress. He said, ‘You’re so dark I can hardly tell if this is working. I can’t tell if you’re dying or if you’re enjoying it.’”
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