by D. K. Dailey
Keeping a straight face, I take a slow, calming breath. People assume I’m lucky. I wish I could tell him it’s because of my dad’s advances in fertility. If you’ve never been sick, people assume you’re Dreg. “So what you’re saying is when you’re not around me, you embarrass yourself by wearing a melt?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes, man.”
My mind shifts to my encounter with the Dreg girl again. “Did you see that girl?” I should ask, Did you see the cops chasing the Dreg? But “the girl” is stuck in my mind.
“What girl?”
“The Dreg girl? Just outside—”
He raises his voice. “How many times must I say we need a gate to keep that filth out?”
I flinch. “Start a petition already.” No good can come from telling him what happened, that’s obvious. “Well, forget about it. What took you so long to get here this time?”
“I told you, my parents watch me more. I’m always doing something to ‘threaten their place in society.’ ” His deepened voice mimics an adult voice to perfection. Marcus is a born entertainer. We were five when we first met, and he sucked a noodle through his nose and then out his mouth. Hence the shortname.
“It can’t be that bad.”
Noodle pats a hand over his hi-top fade. I’ve always been envious that he doesn’t need hairspray or gel to keep his hair standing straight up. “You’re in the richest sector, Kade.” He rolls his eyes. “Only thing ’tween me and the slums is Sector Four.”
I’ve heard this motto plenty of times before. “What excuse did you use this time to get away?”
“I told them I was going to the rec center.”
The recreation center is about the only place under-eighteen Goldens can socialize since school classes are gender-segregated. Soon, I’ll be eighteen, and the world will be ripe for exploring—not just the skate park, school, and rec center—without my parents talking about sickness exposure. I’m of the majority that believes sterile environments don’t exist. Sickness lives everywhere. No use hiding from it anymore, like most did after the worldquake. Then, people were quarantined, which seemed to make them sicker.
“I told mine I was going to the market.”
Grinning at each other, we plop down on top of the ramp, feet hanging over the edge, we look down the long drop.
I place my board on the ground next to me. “How are you pulling off the rec-center lie with the tracking system? Did you log in and out?”
“Checked in and snuck out. I’ll sneak back in, then log out. Nell’s covering me.”
“You’re dumb for using that excuse. Wait, what’d you say about Nell?” My voice rises on her name. Nell’s fine, the only girl I kind of feel for. “Kind of” because girls in the sectors bore me.
Noodle’s brown eyes glow, matching his skin tone. “I was thinking of throwing a party.”
“You can’t lie properly or get your parents off your back. How do you plan on pulling off an unauthorized party?”
“I can and I will.”
“Then you don’t need me to have a good time.”
He raises his brows. “You’re right. I don’t need you to have a good time. ’Sides, you’re always complaining.” His voice changes, mimicking a whiny girl. “‘My life isn’t in my hands. I want to make my own decisions.’” He laughs. “Not to mention all the rest of the shucky you say.”
“The rest of the shucky?” He’s managed to amuse me.
The lines around Noodle’s mouth tighten. “You say a lot and never do anything about it.”
“We built the skate park.” I motion to our sprawl of repurposed metal and stolen wooden beams made into a secret haven. Memories of digging the hole and how we fit wood over it, then installed fiberglass come to mind.
He snorts. “A measly skate park?”
“You didn’t have any better ideas.” My mind sidetracks, thinking of other ways we could’ve stood up to a system that’s been in play for hundreds of years. The only other choice is to step off our predetermined career paths and lose our Golden status, family, wealth, and our future just to become Dreg. But that’s hardly a choice. “So, who’s coming to your party?”
Noodle’s smile is a trap, a promise of unchaperoned bliss. “Nell and every other fine girl we know.”
I laugh and rise to board the ramp. Looking down from the top, the hill sectors at the four corners of the city are like a cup’s rim that overlooks the bottom, where Dregs live. One of my teachers says hill dwellers are the gods of Olympus, looking down on the wretched poor. I sigh at the irony.
Noodle and I have constructed freedom by building and expanding our skate park and doing cuckoo stunts off its grind boxes, ramps, and rails instead of studying. This freedom hides between tree trunks. Invisible…it must be felt. And now this same freedom pulls at me, grabbing and gliding with every stride. Being suspended in the air is so adrenaline charged that it makes me think: What’s the worst that could happen at an unauthorized party? I’ve been to my share of good ones that weren’t interrupted by cop squads.
After reaching the top of the ramp a few times, we switch places. His turn to feel free. I yell out while he’s floating midair, “Count me in.”
Chapter Two
“I can’t wait until you’re eighteen and can drive. Or if Mom lets me go on your board. Or maybe she can get me a kid-flit flutterboard. They aren’t dangerous. I hate walking.” Emmaline’s last words resonate with my thoughts.
“Less than a year left.”
The walk from Hill Sector One to the downtown Battle Creek market is the longest. The city used to be named San Francisco before cities across America were quarantined by the Centers for Disease Control. During reconstruction, we gained a premier—a new president—and were named the capitol of what is now known as the Americas. Full of metal, rubbish, stacked housing, mirrors, and a speedy transportation system—as well as destroyed, burned, and unfinished buildings and abandoned underground BART stations—our city boasts opulence and destitution.
“How come Mom has pantry food, but we still use prep meals?”
“I think she was Dreg in another life. She’s definitely a food hoarder.”
“What’s a food horser?” My sister looks up at me.
“Hoarder.” I chuckle. “Never mind, Ems. I think Mom’s saving that food.”
“For what? She hates cooking the olden way.”
In other words, on the stove. Mom hates manual labor. But once she settles on something, she has to have it, whether it’s diamond earrings, the fifty-thousand-point Gloria Herrera dress, or beluga caviar. The list is infinite. The canned goods and vacuum-sealed meals in the pantry serve as evidence of Mom wanting what she doesn’t need.
“What meals we getting this time?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have a look at the list.” I run a finger along my left wrist, over the raised half-moon scar where my c-chip is implanted. No one else except people who constantly remove their chips have scars. Mine’s from cutting myself on a glass table when I was two. My parents didn’t have a biohealer on hand to heal the wound instantly. Pressing hard on my c-chip extracts a beam of light that projects about a foot upward. Within the sparkles, solid words appear:
Twelve prep meals and twelve dessert meals. Points uploaded: forty.
Ems taps her wrist. “I wish Mom or Dad would put points on my c-chip.”
“You have your ID on it.” I sweep a finger back over my wrist, and the list dwindles and the light fades into nothingness.
“Everybody has stupid IDs. But I can’t make light come out of my wrist like you do.”
“When you’re thirteen, you’ll be able to.”
“I wish I was thirteen.”
I laugh. Whenever I say an age, she promptly responds she wishes she were that age.
We’ve reached the flatlands that connect the base of the hill sectors to the rest of the city. In the distance, bubbles bob between tracks. Ems thinks they look like marbles reflecting lights, shining as they move.
A pretty sight, I must admit.
Fifteen minutes into our walk, the market smells of sweet fruit, fragrant spices, and seasoned meat waft across the night air. Fresh bread is mixed in too, like an afterthought. The rich, warm, yeasty scent—my favorite—tickles my nose.
“Smells yummy,” my sister says.
Holding hands tightly, we walk through the crowded streets together. An older Dreg woman sings next to an overflowing garbage bin, guitar in hand. Sometimes I give her points, but today I’m in too much of a rush and don’t want Ems to see me give Dregs anything. The woman revives our normal exchange, reaching out one of her hands, but then recoils when I don’t respond.
According to the Universal Socialization Law, Dregs and Goldens shouldn’t socialize unless for business or serious purposes. Once I was caught in a market stampede, and if I had gotten hurt and needed help, that would have been a serious purpose. I’m fully aware the laws are built for protecting Goldens.
I pull my sister away from other loitering Dregs begging for food and points and boisterous children roaming around by themselves. Some wear melts on their faces like Noodle, helping to circulate clean, sickness-free air directly to them.
Through the crowd, I spot one of my favorite shops. “Hey, Sal,” I call to the permanently happy vendor.
“Kade! You two are out later than usual.” His chocolate-stained apron drapes over his protruding belly, making him look pregnant.
Ems lets go of my hand and dashes up to him. “Sal, what about giving us chocolates?” She bats her big hazel eyes at him. She’ll be a heartbreaker when she grows up.
“Ems, Goldens don’t beg.”
Sal strums his apron straps, winking at me. “It’s not begging if a Golden asks.”
I flip my left wrist over, which he knows means he should take points from my c-chip. Instead, he shakes his head and peers down at my sister. “How can I resist that sweet little face?” He hands us a square box from the bag meant for garbage. We buy these fifteen-piece boxes all the time.
“They expired today, but you can eat them up to two days after. Regulations say I can’t sell them, so I’m happy to give ‘em to my two favorite customers.”
Ems beams. “Thanks, Sal.”
“We’ll have to hide them from Mom, but thanks.” I look down at my sister, emphasizing the former part of my reply with a fleeting look.
“No problem, kids.”
We walk away, and he heaves the rest of the expired chocolates into a nearby communal bin. I’m positive Dregs will pick through that once the market is closed. Unable to wait, Ems asks to eat some now, and we agree to open the chocolate box and take one each.
Sticking to the middle of the market is key since the outer edges are open and Dregs try scanning wrists for points. No barrier keeps them from loitering. If you leave your wrist right side up, they’ll rob you—repeatedly.
We weave in and out of foot traffic, munching on our bounty. The fruit-and-chocolate mixture reminds me of the succulent taste of my favorite chef-prepared dessert: fresh chocolate and fruit slices on a bed of rich cheese. Makes my mouth water with each bite. Mom doesn’t let me have it often, saying it’s full of calories and fat. But I like calories and fat.
I buy a bunch of prep meals from the chef stand tucked into its own corner. Since Mom wasn’t specific, I choose our favorite dessert and prep meals. The vendor packs the square boxes into a cloth sack, and I fling it over my shoulder.
My sister’s eyes shift, taking in sights like a greedy little monster suckling floating energy. Watching people makes her happy. She likes seeing them bargain and socialize while vendors yell out the names and prices of items for sale.
“Animal skins, ten points!”
“Rare jewelry, fifteen points each!” Though I’d bet by the look of the Dreg selling them, it’s fake “rare” jewelry.
“Get your deals on prep meals!”
“Disposable washing cloths! Maintain cleanliness for one point each.”
After exiting the market, we head back to the house. Without warning, Ems bumps into a little girl, who drops a raggedy doll on the ground. My sister picks it up and stares, first at the toy’s missing eye and leg—she’s used to digital dolls, and the few real ones she has look different—then at the girl, who is wearing a filthy red shirt with a teddy bear on it and some gray dirt-stained leggings. Ems stretches out her arm, the dirty doll dangling from her fingers. Her hand looks so white holding the torn toy, like she’s holding an oily cloth.
“Say thank you, Cricket,” an older girl prompts.
The girl from the skate park! Her purple-dyed hair is cut brazenly around her face. To me, it means she’s self-aware, the kind who knows the power beauty can hold over others. Thick strands frame her round, tawny face to perfection, emphasizing her dominant features. Without the forest grime and dirt, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
“Um, thank you.” The little Dreg girl breaks my concentration as she takes the doll. Her greasy, black, matted hair shines in the moonlight, and she’s adorable in her own right with her oval face and dimples. She looks like she’s a year or so older than my sister. Eight or nine, maybe?
I adjust the cloth sack on my shoulder and return my gaze to the girl. I smile, hoping to exude easiness. Her eyes harden as they sweep over me and then settle on my face. Her full lips curl brutally around her teeth. She’s disgusted? I’m too busy adoring her to care.
“We meet again.” I flash her a confident smile. “My name’s Kade.”
“So. Why should I care?” She places one hand on her hip. Her slinky, gray, form-fitting shirt with black leather leggings and worn-out buckled-and-laced black combat boots make her look striking. No badass.
I sniff hard to capture her smell beneath the aromas of food, perfumes, and other fragrances around us. Her scent catches in my nostrils: honey buns or baked treats. Not all Dregs are homeless, but the ones that are usually emit overwhelmingly bad odors. She must have a home.
Everything about this girl draws me in, especially since she saved my life. Being enamored by someone isn’t a typical feeling. I’m rooted to the spot, unable to leave without at least learning her full name. On the flipside, seeming desperate is for losers. I can’t act like I want her or anything. She is Dreg, after all.
“What’s your name?”
Her lips pinch, and her nostrils flare. “None of your business.”
“That’s a funny name.” Emmaline hides a giggle behind her hand. A slight smirk briefly graces the mysterious girl’s face.
“Okay, Miss None-Of-Your-Business.” I recover from her blatant diss. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re welcome, you doink.”
“Ohhhhhh, she said a bad word.” Ems pulls on the bottom of my jacket. “Let’s go, Kade.”
It pains me that my little sister follows laws better than me. I look around, searching for the nearest cop squad. I’m not supposed to be talking to a Dreg, least of all in the market.
“Is there a problem here?” A menacing officer moves between our group like a barricade, looking at us, then at the Dregs and back again.
I take a step backward. “No, no problem, sir. We were about to leave.”
“Why are you socializing with Goldens?” He nods at her.
She shakes her head. “Always think we’re up to no good.”
Did she talk back to a cop? I’m flabbergasted but shouldn’t be since she was so brazen near the skate park, entering the forbidden hill sectors.
“What’d you say, Dreg?” The officer withdraws his Stun-Stick, rapping the thin metal rod against his open palm.
An urge to stand up for her blazes through me, to rage against authority and whatnot, but what will me saying anything do? It’s not like I can change how the world is. Goldens are on top, and Dregs are at the bottom. I’ve seen people make stands. Nothing changed. Not a zarding thing. Their families were shamed, they were demoted to Dreg stat
us, or they were killed.
She gazes at the cop’s weapon and raises her voice. “I said…”
A spurt of adrenaline rushes through me. “She said they we’re looking for this.” I point to Cricket’s doll. “She dropped it, and my sister picked it up. We’re sorry.”
My heart races. What was she about to say to the officer? No matter, I guess. I know one thing: she’s dangerous. What a turn-on.
Ems tugs my hand, probably wanting me to tell the full truth, but she knows not to say anything in front of cops. They scare her anyway.
Saving the Dreg girl from a night in jail may be all I can do to pay her back for pushing me out of the way of that bubble in the forest.
The officer looks down at the doll, grunts, then holsters his Stun-Stick before turning on his heels and walking away. In seconds, he’s messing with other Dregs a few yards away.
That girl has balls, for real. Already I’m anticipating seeing her again. They say third time’s a charm, right?
Ems and I walk away, needing to get back home. What are the chances of running into the Dreg girl again in such a small timeframe? Maybe that meant-to-be thing people say is true? But meant-to-be what? By law, we are enemies.
When my sister cranes her neck to stare back at Cricket—who waves at us—it’s the perfect excuse to look back too. Miss None-Of-Your-Business shreds my insides with a stare down.
Ems and I turn our heads forward, and the meal sack shifts on my shoulder. We walk for a while without talking. Then, ascending the hill near our house, she asks, “How come that girl’s doll was so filthy?”
“She must drop it a lot.” I’m still distracted by S and wish things could be different. I never let a Dreg occupy my mind for more than mere seconds. But her dangerous, mysterious aura pulled me in. I want to know more about her. I’ve never had this feeling before.
“She should bring her doll to the house-pit-ta-tal,” Ems replies.
I chuckle. I love the way she says hospital, over-pronouncing and adding an extra syllable. Makes me laugh every time.