But when Nana talked about “change,” I sensed she was talking about something real, as if it were a person she’d met once whom she expected to see walking through the door again any minute. When I’d ask her to get specific, though, she’d stop talking.
“Ignorance is the enemy of what kind of change, Nana?” I asked that day.
She opened her mouth as if she were going to answer, but instead she opened up the Primer and pointed to a word. “Start here today.”
If anyone else on the planet had approached me about reading, I would’ve told them to suck pavement, but this was Nana. If she’d asked me to, I would’ve taken up a sword and faced Satan himself.
I’M STILL ON MY BIKE, WISHING THE WOMEN pedaling in front of me would move about a hundred times faster, when I hear the deep chime of the Bell sounding from every direction. Not now!
The Bell means everyone has to stop whatever they’re doing and pray. It’ll delay me at least twenty minutes. I contemplate not stopping. I’ll just keep pedaling as if I didn’t hear. But then I could be stopped by a Teacher, or a Twitcher, and they could discover the Primer. I have to stop.
The Bell continues to sound, a clanging that blares down the sidewalks, reverberates up the avenues, and bounces off the abandoned skyscrapers. I’m heading across 17th Street by now, but Union Square is the closest prayer center, so I turn around. The Bell used to come from speakers that were attached to the street lamps, but people always stole the batteries or the wiring, so now the speakers are built right into the helmets of the Twitchers. Three times a day, the Bell is projected straight from their heads. It must make them even more twitchy.
I arrive back at Union Square to see hundreds of people streaming out of the local businesses. Boys and men get out of stopped buses or taxis, and, like me, the girls and women walk up with their bikes. Despite the sweltering heat, the men prefer to profess their faith in the open air, so they gather all over the square.
I spot some male Convenes preparing to pray, which is unusual. The Convenes are a different sect from mine, the Deservers, and their members usually like to stick to their own prayer centers. Today they stand out here, with extra long beards, tatty clothes, and thick East Side accents. They make me nervous.
Mother says Convenes commit most of the crimes in the city, and that if it weren’t for Uncle Ruho, they would’ve overrun us long ago. Father disagrees. He feels bad for them, not only because they’re poor, but because so many of them are sick. A lot of Convene children have died, and the women can’t seem to get pregnant anymore. My grandpa Silna thinks God is punishing them for questioning the leadership of Uncle Ruho. I don’t really know what to think.
The men in the Square are giving the two Convenes a wide berth.
I walk my bike to the women’s prayer center on the north edge of the Square. Men and women aren’t allowed to pray together. The Prophet said that if a man watched a woman pray from behind, it might give him “impure thoughts.” I wear the cloak and veil for the same reason. If a man were to see my bare arms and legs or my face, he could become so aroused that he wouldn’t be able to function. Supposedly, if all women walked around uncovered, society would fall into complete disarray. Having seen myself naked, I can’t say I really understand this fear.
I place my bike on a stand and walk into the prayer center. It’s a red brick building, six stories high, that has big windows overlooking the Square where the men are praying. I guess there’s no danger of us having impure thoughts while we watch them.
There’s a very old, chiseled sign above the doorway of the center that says BARNES & NOBLE. It’s my secret that I know that. There are old metal stairs inside that used to move when electricity was like sunlight and everyone could have it. Now, we clomp up the stairs, hoping that today isn’t the day they decide to collapse from decay.
Uncle Ruho lives in a building even older than this one, called the Cloisters, at the northern tip of the island. Father says it looks like it’s been there for a thousand years. I thought he meant it was falling apart, but he said no, it was beautiful, full of lush gardens, stained-glass windows, and wall-size tapestries—a castle meant for a king. When I was little, people, my mother and neighbors included, were always gossiping about who Uncle Ruho might marry, but now he’s older than my father and the subject seems to have become taboo.
The Heralds live in the Cloisters, too. After being handpicked by Uncle Ruho from the top one percent of Students at the Lyceum, they take vows of celibacy. They’re promised lifelong residency at the castle, and they’re responsible for leading prayer services all over the city. Most importantly, they become part of Uncle Ruho’s inner circle.
I’m not sure how Twitchers are picked. They go to the Lyceum, hoping to be Teachers or Heralds, but instead of becoming religious scholars, they end up patrolling the streets with handguns. Perhaps their instructors find them antisocial?
Twitchers come and go from the Cloisters, but Father says there’s not enough space for them to live there, too. Sekena thinks they take off their helmets at the end of the day and head home, just like anyone else, and that maybe some of our neighbors are Twitchers. But I’m not sure. After a long day, I think a Twitcher without his uniform would still twitch a little.
In the Barnes & Noble, hundreds of empty shelves line the walls. Nana says this place used to be a bank, and that’s where they piled up the money—which used to be drawings on bits of paper, which is weird. I don’t understand how paper was useful to anyone, like BTUs. Maybe they burned it for fuel?
The wonderful thing was that women used to be able to come inside the Barnes & Noble and say, “Give us some money, please,” without permission from their husbands, and the bank would give them as much as they wanted. Imagine.
What would I have done with all that money? The Primer is full of suggestions.
Do this: Go kayaking in Puerto Rico for a tour of PR’s bioluminescent bay, full of plankton that sparkle a brilliant blue when disturbed—you can’t swim here, but your paddles and boat will glow.
I loved this word, “bioluminescent,” from the first moment I saw it. I like to say it to myself when I’m stuck at home, washing my brother’s laundry. I often wonder, if I had enough money, could I maybe find this Puerto Rico?
I reach the second floor, which is covered in a huge, patterned rug that was probably very beautiful at one time but is now threadbare and smells like cheesy feet. But the room is spacious, the ceiling is high, and light streams through the massive windows. I wait my turn to wash my hands and face in one of the many pails. I must be pure before I pray. Removing my veil, I gratefully splash my face with the cool water and then go find my place on the rug between two girls my age.
Matrons comb the floor. They’re checking us for infractions, just like the Twitchers, but because they’re women they aren’t allowed access to any computers—so, no Senscans. They have to use their eyes. They look for fingernails that are too long, cloaks that are too short, or hair that is not properly bound. Matrons wear chocolate-brown cloaks and carry little silver tubes capable of giving you a shock that’ll make your tongue wobble.
My head is down when I hear the first zap of a tube, and a young woman cries out in pain. The Matron growls, “I can see the shape of your brassiere through your cloak! Are you trying to court Satan?!”
“No, Matron,” the girl says, whimpering.
“Then you need heavier clothes,” the Matron declares.
While the Matrons police the room, my hands begin to tremble, so I fold them in my lap. Nana and I have broken the rules by reading in her apartment, but I’ve never broken the law in public. Once, I accidentally wore my hair too loose—my elastic band was old—and a Matron gave me a quick zap. I learned then that pain could reach into the marrow of your bones. If I’m caught with the Primer, the shock of a Matron’s tube will only be the beginning. I try to fill my mind with images of a sparkling blue sea full of glimmering plankton.
I hear the Herald outside start
to lead the men in prayer. This is our signal to begin. The Matrons must stop patrolling to pray, so I’m relieved, for now. Standing, I take the hands of the girls next to me, and we create a large ring. Together we pray.
“Lord, forgive me. Lord, make me strong. Lord, keep me safe. Lord, allow me into Paradise to be near you.” We repeat this over and over, these words I’ve been saying three times a day since I could speak. They’re automatic, and, as I repeat them, a calming energy fills my body. It’s going to be fine. I’m not going to get caught. I am safe. Breathe in. Breathe out. Nana is safe. She’s in the Lord’s care. My heart slows down, and, for the first time since I left my apartment, I stop sweating.
Before I know it, we’re finished, and we give thanks to the Prophet for Her wisdom and for bringing us the Wall. I smile at the girl next to me, releasing her hand. She smiles back, eyes twinkling. We’re both filled with God’s love.
The Heralds say, “When God looks down upon the Earth, He is warmed by the faith that radiates out of Manhattan”—because we all pray together, in the same way, at the same time, all ninety thousand of us.
Life here can be difficult, but it’s nothing compared with life outside the island. Outside, there are nothing but Apostates who crave violence and want to destroy us. I must remember to be more grateful.
After we’ve snapped our veils back into place, the other women and I start to pour out of the prayer center, eager to escape the eyes of the Matrons. Before I can reach the exit, I hear a commotion, and suddenly everyone is shoving forward to find out what’s going on. As I emerge outside, I see a pale man with a belly standing on a trash can, and he’s yelling and pointing to someone exiting our building.
“That woman is Satan’s whore! She’s nothing but a mongrel slut, and I demand justice!”
All the women look around, wondering which woman has dared to dishonor her husband. The man spits, hollering, “Delia Solomon is an adulteress!”
The women standing where the man points scatter like flies avoiding a swatter. A tiny woman in a black cloak is left behind. Her dark hair shows a few streaks of gray. “No, treasured husband, never. I’ve never betrayed you, n-n-n-never invited Satan into our bed.” Her voice trembles, and her small hands clutch at her cloak in dismay, and I believe what she says. I look around, waiting for someone to speak on her behalf.
Bellowing more loudly, making sure all the other men can hear him, the man says, “My brother saw her! He followed her to the market and saw her share looks and insinuations with another man, some sort of sex slave she has hypnotized with her sin!”
A crowd of men has now gathered around the shouting man, and they all have the same hard, hateful expression. Then I hear someone say, “You must have two witnesses to the sin!”
And the accuser says, “My brother is the first, and I am the second. I saw her strumpet herself at the bewitched man! She is a Saitch!”
Everyone gasps in horror, and many women shake their heads in disbelief. A Saitch is the worst possible thing you can call a woman, because it can describe someone possessed by the Devil but can also refer to a woman’s private parts. I’ve never heard it said in public before.
The men are now whipped into a frenzy, and a beefy one not far from me yells, “A Saitch must be put down! The Book says she must be stoned!”
“Yes! Yes, we must stone her!” another shouts.
“Destroy temptation wherever it festers!”
“Let not rise a lewd woman!”
“The woman who sins against her husband sins against her people!”
Wait! What about a trial? The Book also speaks of trials! I look around and spot a Twitcher watching from the edge of the Square. Why isn’t he intervening?
Opening my mouth, I imagine speaking on Delia’s behalf. Then I picture these men discovering the Primer, and I know I could be stoned right next to her.
The words stick in my throat.
The first rock is thrown, and I see it hit poor Delia in the arm.
She turns to run away, but the beefy man shoves her back toward her husband, tearing away her veil in the process. Her brown eyes are so large with fright, she looks like an owl, her head turning left and then right, searching for a sympathetic face. She falls to her knees, clasping her hands in prayer. “Please, darling, please. I did nothing. God sees I am loyal.”
I hope that the sight of her face will bring mercy, make it harder for these men to think of her as an anonymous creature of no worth. But a second rock comes from somewhere behind me and narrowly misses Delia’s neck. She begins to cry.
A rock hits Delia’s forehead with a dull thud, and I see blood pouring down from the wound. With horror, I think of the first crack of an egg. The women around me scream, jostling and pushing to leave as quickly as they can.
We have to help her. That could be me. I would be terrified, praying so hard that just one person would speak up for me.
Temporarily forgetting about the Primer, I grab the wrist of a woman next to me, who is trying to flee. “Wait!” I say, pleading, but she wrenches herself away with surprising force.
“I can’t,” she says, remorse in her voice.
Shrieking and crying build around me as the women try to leave, each of them determined not to see Delia’s fate. Hundreds of men, even boys, are trying to get closer to the disgraced woman, to join in on the punishment, so we are squeezed back.
I search the faces of the men moving forward, looking for a hint of sympathy. Spotting an old man with soft eyes, I push toward him. “Help her,” I say, as loudly as I dare. “You must—”
Eyes narrowing into slits, he spits on the ground, thrusting a hand out to grab me.
Lunging out of reach, I trip backward over someone’s foot and land on the pavement. The crowd keeps shoving and pushing above me. Someone steps on my hand, and I cry out in pain. I’m going to be crushed to death.
Two arms snatch me up from behind. I thrash and kick. Is it the old man? A Twitcher? The stranger carries me through the crowd, holding me out in front of him like a rag doll.
“Put me down!” I say. “What are you doing?” I scratch at the bare hands under my armpits and hear my captor curse. I’m happy he knows I won’t go easily, and his lack of gloves means he can’t be a Twitcher.
He drags me away from the mob, across 17th Street and into an alley. My skin seems to shrink against the bone as I realize that the situation is much worse than being arrested.
I continue to writhe and kick, but the man is too big, too powerful, for me to break free. I’m ready to fight to the death. If I’m raped and I survive, my parents would rather force me to marry my assailant than admit that dishonor has been done to our name.
The stranger sets me down next to a garbage bin, and finally, I see my enemy.
I gasp. It’s just a boy!
He wears a uniform—an olive jumpsuit with black boots and a gun on his hip. Not government, maybe private militia. He’s tall and broad, like a man, but he can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.
He examines the back of his hand. “Ever think of having those nails trimmed? It’s like I was trying to bathe a cat.”
This is perhaps the last thing I expect him to say.
“You broke the skin!” He holds his fist forward to show me, and I flinch. He realizes I’m frightened of him, and I’m sorry I let him see my fear. He pulls back the fist. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I imagine how I must look to him—a heap of purple cloth on the ground, a square of fabric placed dully on top. If only he could see the fuming eyes boring holes into his head and the clenched fist longing for a knife to plunge into his leg.
He smiles. “Okay, I forgive you the scrapes. You were only protecting yourself. But I needed to get you away from that mob. Sorry I tripped you.”
“That was you?” I say, surprised to hear my own voice.
“I know you were trying to help that woman. But a mob like that . . . they were only a few seconds from turning on you.”
“Why didn’t you do something?” I know I should be grateful to him, but I can only feel anger. “You’re a man!”
“Maybe it seems that simple to you,” he says, looking at the ground. “But there were probably two hundred other men there, all of them ready to kill or cripple anyone who disagreed with them. No matter how wrong a mob may be, it’s still a mob.” His words are certain, but his face betrays shame, even pain, at his decision to leave Delia behind.
“Why did you bring me to this alley?” I ask, wondering if I can outrun him.
“If anyone saw us talking,” he says, pointing to the street, “we could be forced to marry, and although you seem nice . . .”
“You didn’t have to talk to me,” I say. “You could’ve rescued me and walked away.”
Now he blushes a little. “Yeah, well, that’s true. But you were struggling so much, I knew you thought I meant you harm, and if I didn’t talk to you, I wouldn’t have a chance to explain myself.”
“You’ve risked a lot to prevent a misunderstanding that would’ve cost you nothing.”
He looks at me intensely, like maybe if he concentrates deeply enough, he’ll be able to see through my veil. “The truth is . . . I . . . what you did was very brave.”
“But I . . . didn’t do anything. None of us did!” I think again of the rock hitting Delia’s head, the sound it made, and the blood pouring down her face. Thinking of the terror in her eyes, I burst into tears. “They k-k-killed h-h-her.”
“No, please don’t do that. I, uh, are you in pain? Are you hurt?”
I sob uncontrollably, shaking.
“Breathe. You just need to breathe.”
I nod at him but can’t stop, feeling as if no air is reaching my lungs.
Looking completely helpless, he checks to make sure no one is coming, and then he kneels down, putting his arms around me. “Shhh. It’s okay. It’ll be all right. Shhh,” he says, patting my back over and over, like I’m a baby.
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