Praise for
TIME ZERO
“A powerfully realized dystopian tale . . . Featuring strong characters and crisp writing, this is a solid first entry in a series worth keeping an eye on.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In Time Zero, Carolyn Cohagan brings to life a young heroine who represents countless girls living in today’s world. Mina’s rights and opportunities are restricted, but she is undeterred. Like so many girls and young women around the world, she has the courage and determination to pursue a new future—not only for herself, but for all girls.”
—Alyse Nelson, President & CEO, Vital Voices Global Partnership
and bestselling author of Vital Voices: The Power of Women
Leading Change Around the World
“The genius of Time Zero is in its subversion of the reader’s expectations, not only with its wonderful plot twists, but by the way Cohagan deftly folds the themes of sexual empowerment and religious extremism within the telling of a thrilling love story. I look forward to Book Two!”
—Mark Richard, Pen/Hemingway Award-winning novelist and
producer of Tyrant and Hell on Wheels
“Time Zero could easily be used as a curriculum tie-in for a global studies, religion, or history classroom with nonfiction titles like I Am Malala.”
—Sarah Tansley, Branch Manager, Chicago Public Library
“Time Zero is a social novel wearing the cloak of a thriller, and author Carolyn Cohagan deftly combines these traditions and sensibilities. The pace is breakneck, stakes are sky-high, and the characters are forced to make quicksilver choices. Time Zero lights the fire of rebellion.”
—Julia Gibson, author of Copper Magic
“Topical and sensitively written, Time Zero manages to be a suspenseful adventure, a touching love story, and a clear-eyed examination of the treatment of women in organized religion all at once, while still retaining a fresh, youthful voice and humor. I couldn't put it down.”
—Andrea Eames, author of The White Shadow and
The Cry of the Go-Away Bird
TIME ZERO
Copyright © 2016 Carolyn Cohagan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2016
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-072-3 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-073-0 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015958068
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All excerpts from Time Out magazine were reproduced with permission from Time Out New York.
For my father,
who set a budget at the toy store,
but who let me buy as much as I wanted at the bookstore
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
NOTE TO READER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The religion that governs the city in Time Zero is fictional, yet I’ve taken its rules from various religions around the world, including those that originate in the United States. Each rule Mina follows is governing the life of a girl somewhere in the world right now.
For more information, please visit:
www.timezerobook.com/religious-rules
All I want is an education, and I am afraid of no one.
—MALALA YOUSAFZAI
ONE
HAS ANYONE EVER DREADED A FIFTEENTH birthday more than me?
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and wonder: If I were to stay here, could I prevent the rest of the day from happening? I pull the sheet up over my head and pretend it’s still dark outside, that the sun isn’t creeping through my window and slowly baking me like a holiday ham. If only the sun were devouring me for real. I would just lie here and welcome the consuming heat, the enveloping flames, and when my parents came to find me, they’d discover a pile of ash in the shape of a girl.
My Offering is tonight. Mother’s been planning it for months. She’s been running around, excited and anxious, while, as the day’s drawn closer, I’ve become more and more miserable. If only I’d been born a boy.
My bedroom door opens, and Mother walks in. Her hair is pinned in its usual bun, and she’s wearing her cleaning clothes. I brace myself for her to snap at me for sleeping in, but she has a strange expression on her face. She sits down beside me on the bed.
“How did you sleep?” she asks.
I shrug.
“You look tired,” she says. “That’s not good.”
Did she really expect me to sleep on the eve of such a depressing occasion?
“I need to tell you something, Mina, but you have to promise you won’t get upset. Today is too important for you to go getting all dramatic like you do.”
I sit up in alarm. “What is it?”
“It’s Nana.”
I can’t breathe until I hear what she says next.
“She fell.”
“But how . . . Does that . . . Is she . . . ?” I can’t ask the question.
“She’s alive. She’s been taken to the Women’s Hospital on 14th Street.”
I exhale, saying a small prayer of thanks to the Prophet.
“It sounded as if she were trying to walk down the stairs,” Mother says, using a tone that suggests Nana is some toddler who tried to crawl out of her crib. “I can’t imagine what she was thinking.”
“I want to see her,” I say, rising out of bed and heading for my closet.
“Not today,” Mother says. “I have a big list of things for you to do for your party. You can see her tomorrow.”
“But she’ll wonder where I am!” I say, thinking of Nana lying all alone in a strange hospital.
Mother has never approved of Nana or liked the time I spend with her. My grandmother is my favorite person, which is probably odd for a girl my age. But she’s the only one in my life who really listens to what I have to say, and, more importantly, she tells me the truth about things.
“She knows exactly where you are: preparing yourself for suitors.” Standing, Mother hea
ds for the door. “Before you shower, I have chores for you. The girl I hired won’t be here until noon, so say your morning prayer, get dressed, and come straight to the kitchen.”
“No.”
The word pops out of my mouth, and for a brief moment, I feel brave, but as soon as I see Mother’s face, I know I’ve been stupid. Her azure eyes narrow into slits, so all I see are her rutted forehead and clenched jaw. She strides toward me, and I don’t even see her raise a hand. I just hear the slap and feel a searing pain on my left cheek.
“I won’t ask again.”
She walks out of the room, letting the door slam behind her.
Tears fill my eyes, but I tell myself they’re for Nana, not the slap. I don’t want Mother to have the satisfaction. I can only hope that Nana knows how much I want to be sitting beside her, holding her hand, talking about her neighbors, my stupid Offering, or maybe Time Zero.
I stop crying.
The Primer. I have to go and get it.
Nana always warned me this day might come, when something might happen to her, and she told me there was one thing I had to do: get the Primer out of her apartment and keep it safe.
Mother doesn’t like Nana, but she would LOSE HER MIND if she knew how Nana and I were really spending our time together.
My grandmother has been teaching me how to read.
The punishment for teaching females to read is prison. And for me, the girl learning how to read, the penalty is either prison or a public whipping, depending on how long the crime has been taking place. But to Mother, the worst price of all would be the disgrace to our name, which might keep anyone from wanting to marry me.
Nana said that if anything ever happened to her, I had to get the Primer we were using out of her apartment as soon as possible, before the Teachers, the religious authorities, could find it. It’s incriminating evidence; plus, Nana wanted me to have it so that one day I could pass on the gift of reading to my own daughter, just as her mother passed it on to her, and her mother before that.
I need to leave immediately. If Nana’s apartment is empty, there’s no telling who could be there—neighbors, vagrants. She lives in a rougher neighborhood than we do, and anyone could turn her in if they found a forbidden artifact.
I’ve never snuck out of our apartment before, and the punishment from Mother will be severe, especially on the day of my Offering. I weigh the problem in my mind and whisper a prayer, hoping God might give me guidance, but instead I hear Nana’s silvery voice.
Go, Chickpea. Run.
I’ve always been her Chickpea, a nickname I started to hate a few years ago, when I decided it was a baby name. What if no one calls me Chickpea ever again? The tears threaten to well up, but I swallow and hold them back. Not yet. I have to get this done.
I quickly get dressed in plain cotton pants and a T-shirt. Grabbing a cloak from the closet, I throw it over my clothes. I take my veil from on top of the dresser and fit the band around my forehead, snapping the back closed just above a modest ponytail. The veil’s rectangle of fabric reaches from my temple to my chest, covering my face but leaving the back of my head exposed. The gauzy black material allows me to see out, while no one can see in.
Tiptoeing out of my room into the hallway, I stand at the head of the stairs and see that the living room is clear. A low monotone voice on the radio drifts out of the kitchen: God created the family to provide the utmost love, comfort, and morality that one can imagine. It is a man’s job to support the family, and a woman’s job to support the man.
It’s midmorning. Father’s at work, and my brother is off training to be a Teacher, so it’s only Mother at home, but my disobedience will be the most infuriating to her. I need to accept now that if I manage to sneak out of the apartment, there will be a beating waiting for me when I get home.
But I made a promise to Nana.
I take a deep breath, lift my cloak away from my feet, and race down the stairs and across the living room, not bothering to see whether my mother is standing in the dining room. If she is, she’ll start screaming at me soon enough.
I make it to the front door, and there’s no sign of her, so my hand reaches for the doorknob. Then I’m turning it and stepping into the hallway. Am I actually doing this?
I close the door behind me, hear it click, and pray for forgiveness for disobeying my parents. I run down the hallway, hoping the prying neighbors don’t decide to stick their noses out in the next ten seconds. Diving into the stairwell, I sprint down the stairs, seven flights. They are only half-lit, but I know them with my eyes closed, having lived here my entire fifteen years.
We live in a tall building in Midtown, better than most, because my father works in energy. The poor neighborhoods have more guards, more Twitchers, and much less light. Barely anyone on the Lower East Side, in the slums, can afford electricity.
I slow down as I reach the bottom floor, pushing on a door that leads out to a marbled corridor. I try to catch my breath—to look as if everything is normal. Our building has a constant rotation of doormen. The one on duty right now, Rab, is the hairy one who smells like an old armpit. He would love to report to the Teachers that I left home without permission.
Anytime I’m without my father or brother, my leaving home is considered questionable. Luckily, I take Nana groceries every week. I pray that Rab doesn’t realize that this isn’t grocery day. I keep my head down to avoid looking at his froggy face and overgrown mustache, wishing that in my cloak and veil I looked like every other young girl living in the building, but I know that my fair hair sets me apart.
I feel his eyes following me.
“Peace,” he mutters.
“Peace,” I echo.
Gliding by him, relieved he hasn’t stopped me, I shove open the big glass doors that lead outside. I lift my hand to block the glare of the sun. The heat is so oppressive that when I take a breath, it’s like inhaling hot metal. Within seconds, my cloak is sticking to my body, and the synthetic fabric releases a stale, sour odor. I scold myself for not having washed it the day before.
There are two armed men that always guard our building. They’ve never told me their names, so, privately, I call them Toots and Buddy, names I got from the Primer.
I grab my bike, which leans against the back alley of our building next to dozens of other bikes. I walk it to the street and look up the avenue. Hundreds of women on bikes fly by, their cloaks billowing behind them like bat wings. I climb onto my bike and scoot into the modesty basket, which surrounds the seat and looks like the top of a baby’s high chair. The basket assures that no man is subjected to the movement of my hips when I ride.
Tucking the bottom of my veil into my cloak, I pedal into the flock of women. We fly down the avenue as one, mobbing the street, leaving only a scant path for the rare electric bus or taxi, which females are forbidden to take alone.
I’m picking up speed, when a thought flashes across my mind and my foot misses the pedal. I don’t know if any new Ordinances were announced today. Mother listens to the radio every morning so that we’ll know whether the Teachers have declared any new rules. I was so focused on the Primer that I walked out without even thinking about them. Nyek. The street curse slips out before I can stop it.
I keep pedaling, but I look to my left and then to my right. I see that the woman cycling next to me is in black, because she’s married, and that next to her is a young girl wearing a cloak in the same shade of purple as mine, with a veil the same size as mine. We also wear the same-shaped white canvas shoes. Praise God. The clothing Ordinances haven’t changed since yesterday.
The Teachers enforce God’s laws, as set forth in the Book, but they also regularly dictate new laws, which protect us as a people and test our dedication to the Faith.
My moment of panic has passed, and my legs and shoulders relax into the rhythm of pedaling, until I imagine Nana urging me on: quickly, Chickpea! I pump the pedals harder, my tires bumping over the huge potholes and cracks in the long-neglected stree
t.
On the next block, I spot one of the huge posters of Uncle Ruho, our Divine Leader, looking down on me. He has a short black beard, a bushy mustache, and a small, knowing smile. On his left cheek he has a thick, dark mole that my brother says looks like a tick that’s filled to the brim. Uncle Ruho is a direct descendent of the Prophet, so God chose him to keep us safe. As long as I’ve been alive, he’s been our leader. His eyes make me uncomfortable. No matter where I go in the city, I feel like they’re watching me.
I see that someone has dared to spray graffiti on the bottom of his poster. The paint is green, and the shape is like an ear, or maybe a leaf. It must have happened just seconds ago, or the authorities would’ve already covered it up. I look around, wondering if the culprit is near. Does he look guilty? Is he like me, heart beating, palms sweating? I want to look at the graffiti more closely, but I don’t dare. What if someone suspects I had something to do with it?
It’s time to turn east, toward the market, but a turn west would take me to the hospital where Nana is. I could just stop by quickly, make sure she’s okay. But I know how upset she’ll be if I haven’t taken care of the Primer, so I weave through several bikes to get on the east side of traffic. When I see my turn, I swerve and jerk my bike to the left. Through the whirring of bike wheels and flapping of cloaks, I hear several women cursing at me as I almost knock someone from her bike. I yell an apology and make my turn.
I reach the market. The smell of roasted pork hits me first, followed by the seductive aroma of hot pastries and empanadas, alongside hints of mint, basil, and oregano emanating from the spice stalls. The sharp stench of the horses used to cart in vegetables from the Fields lies beneath everything. Men holler loudly, announcing their daily produce. Most days, I like to get off my bike and meander through the stalls, to watch the butcher haggle over a goat shank or the hardware man overcharge for his lightbulbs, but today I’m in too much of a hurry. I hustle through the rest of the market and turn right down the next avenue.
One more block, and I’ve finally arrived at Nana’s apartment. After leaning my bike against a rusted, disintegrating mailbox, I try to walk calmly toward her building. What if Twitchers have already been here? If they’ve found the Primer, they could be at the hospital, interrogating Nana right now, preparing to take her to the Tunnel.
Time Zero Page 1