It’s the first time any male besides my father or brother has ever touched me—a severe breach of law—but the thudding in my chest seems to slow down. I gulp for air. The shuddering stops little by little.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s right,” he whispers, his voice deep and soothing.
Finally, I seem to be able to breathe normally, so I lean back and he releases me. Hearing me sniffle, he searches his pocket and finds a handkerchief. I take it, lifting up my veil slightly so I can wipe my nose.
I catch him sneaking a look at my face, and his eyes widen.
Embarrassed, I return the handkerchief and rise to my feet. I can still feel the Primer scratching at the skin on my back. Thank the Prophet. I could have lost it back at the Square.
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” he asks.
Realizing that my right hand is throbbing, I look down to see that it’s swollen and pink where a shoe crunched it. He steps toward me, reaching for it. “I’ve studied first aid, as part of my job. Let me see.”
I slowly raise my hand, amazed at my boldness. What if one of my relatives were to see us?
He takes my hand gently, like it’s made of freshly blown glass, and slowly turns it around, examining it, allowing me to really look at his face. He has a bit of stubble on his chin where he’s trying, and failing, to grow a beard, but mostly his olive skin is smooth. His hair is light brown, and his eyebrows are a little bushy, but they only make his eyes more striking. Jade green, they seem to have a light shining behind them, like the water in the fountain at Lincoln Center. They lit it up once to celebrate Uncle Ruho’s birthday, and I’ve never forgotten it. It was . . . bioluminescent.
He presses my hand. “Does this hurt?”
I shake my head, and he does it again in a different place, and then another, and then another, which makes me squeak with pain.
“Okay, it’s not broken, which is lucky. But when you get home, put ice on it, for the swelling, and maybe take some ibuprofen for the pain. Can your family afford it?” he asks with concern.
“Yes,” I say. He doesn’t let go of my hand.
Hearing a noise outside the alley, I panic. “I have to go.”
“Yeah. I have to get back to my boss.” Releasing my hand, he looks around in dismay. “I dropped the figs. Nyek.” Looking up at me, he adds, “Excuse my language.”
“If you’re going to keep rescuing girls from mobs,” I say, smiling under my veil, “you should really work on your vocabulary.”
He looks ashamed, but then a second passes and his mouth breaks into a wide grin. He laughs, his chest shaking, while no sound comes out of his mouth. “What’s your name?”
I hesitate. It’s really stupid to give a stranger my name. He could change his mind and report me to the Teachers for talking with him. He could force me into marriage for letting him touch my hand. But, somehow, looking into his eyes, I know that he won’t. I can’t explain why. “Mina.”
“Mina,” he repeats. “I’m Juda.”
“Thank you, Juda. For helping me.” I walk to the entry of the alleyway. Thoughts of Nana, the Primer, and Mother waiting angrily for me at home start to flood my mind, and I can’t believe how long I’ve been away. I have to go! My legs are reluctant.
“Mina!” Juda says.
I turn.
“Meet me again.”
I’m shocked, but I feel warm and dizzy. “How? We can’t—”
“Meet me here tomorrow, at noon. Stand outside the alley, and I’ll find you. We’ll stroll in the market. No one will know we’re talking. My friends do it all the time.”
Feeling like a crazy person, and before I know what’s happening, I say, “Okay.” And then I run to find my bike.
THREE
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I LET MYSELF INTO our apartment. I’ve been gone for nearly two hours. I’m dead.
I expect to see Mother standing directly in front of me when I open the door, but the living room is empty. I rush to the stairs, thinking maybe I can make it to my room without seeing her, but I hear the kitchen door open.
“How DARE you leave this home without permission! You have SHAMED this ENTIRE family!”
I keep walking, but she grabs my ponytail, yanking me back, and it’s like my hair is being torn out at the roots.
“Perhaps you’re not even my daughter. You’re more likely the daughter of some PROSTITUTE or other filth, if you’re so willing to go wandering around the streets dishonoring your father and me!”
She jerks down on the ponytail, forcing me to my knees. I know it’s useless, but I say, “I’m sorry.”
“How could you do this to me? The day of your OFFERING? GUESTS are coming to this house! I’ve NEEDED you ALL day to cook and clean. You’re the most SELFISH GIRL to ever walk the earth!”
“I wanted—”
“Do you know how important this day is? For your future? For OUR future?”
I don’t answer.
“You went to see her, didn’t you? When I expressly told you not to.”
I knew my mother would assume I went to see Nana. “Yes,” I say, wishing I’d been able to.
She tugs harder on my hair, and it feels like skin is being ripped off my skull.
Leaning down, she says quietly into my ear, “I told you I’d let you go tomorrow.” Her whisper scares me more than the shrieking.
“I know.”
“But you went anyway.”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Then you’re not going to visit her.”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, my skin growing cold.
“Ever.” She releases my hair, and my head seems to snap forward. Does she mean it? She can’t just leave Nana lying alone in a hospital bed.
I turn to her, seeing her face for the first time since I entered the apartment. Her cheeks are scarlet; her hair is frizzy and coming out of its bun.
“But she doesn’t have anyone else!” I say. “What will she—”
“You should have thought of that before you disobeyed me,” she says. “God will send you to burn in hellfire, Mina. The Devil will boil you alive in his vat full of liars and blasphemers.”
I disobeyed my mother in order to obey my grandmother. Will God understand, or will he only see that I disrespected my parents and make me suffer for an eternity?
I did what Nana wanted—I got the Primer—but I can’t believe the price. Would Nana really have wanted me to save it if she’d known it would mean I’d never see her again? Or if she’d thought it would keep me out of Paradise?
Mother smoothes her bun and says, “Go upstairs and shower right away. Wash your hair and use your nice shampoo. Then put on your good dress, the one that matches your eyes.”
Desperate to get away from her, I sprint up the stairs as fast as I can, but not before she yells, “You haven’t heard the last of this, Mina!”
I get inside my bedroom, shut the door, and wait for my thumping heart to return to normal.
My room is small and simple: a single bed with plain sheets, a closet for my few items of clothing, and a vanity table for my hairbrush and barrettes. I’m not allowed to have anything on the walls. There’s just the medium-size window that allows me my little patch of sky.
Where will the Primer be safe? Mother gives me little privacy.
If I had tape, I could stick the Primer to the bottom of the table, but that might cause me to tear the pages later; plus, it would be hard to remove quickly. I could put it in the laundry hamper with my dirty clothes, but who knows when Mother might decide to do my wash, instead of leaving it to me? That leaves the bed or the closet.
Opening the closet, I scan the contents and my eyes land on a shoebox on the floor. Mother bought me a pair of red flats last year, but a new Ordinance was decreed that stated only Teachers could wear red, so the new shoes stayed in the box. I crouch down, pulling it out. The flats inside are surrounded by pink tissue paper.
Taking the shoes and tissue out of the box, I quickly pull the Primer ou
t from inside the back of my cotton pants and curl it gently inside the shoebox. I’m covering it with the pink paper and the shoes, when a voice comes up behind me.
“’Scuse me. The lady . . . Mrs. Clark . . . told me to do yer nails?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn my head to see a girl just a little older than I am standing in my room. I replace the lid on the shoebox and stand up.
“What?” I ask.
“Yer nails . . .” She points to her hands and makes a buffing motion. She’s a Convene. I can tell from her accent. Mother probably hired her to help with the housework for the day. The girl’s face is unremarkable, her skin dull, but I can see that under her cleaning clothes she has a strikingly curvy figure. She looks at me with eyes that are tired and weary, as if she’s already seen too much of life.
“Yeah, uh, what’s your name?” I ask.
She looks around the room, like she’ll find the answer on my walls. After an awkward silence, she finally says, “Katla.”
I remove my veil. “Hi, Katla. I’m Mina. Nice to meet you.”
She continues to give me her tired stare, every word I say making her more exhausted. I hope she’s not ill. I would be worried about myself, but so far, no Deservers have caught whatever it is that the Convenes have. Like Grandpa Silna, the Teachers assume they’ve angered God, but Father says it must be something genetic.
I remove my cloak and canvas shoes, so I’m in just my T-shirt and pants. “I need to shower and change,” I say, “before you help me with my nails.” I grab a towel and head for the bathroom down the hall, but Katla just stays in my room, staring at the wall, and I realize she’s not going to leave. But there’s no part of me that wants to leave her alone in my room with the Primer. What if she saw me hiding it?
“Why don’t you go ask Mother which dress I should wear?” I suggest, even though I know perfectly well which one Mother meant. Katla nods without looking at me and meanders out of the room, in as much hurry as a worn-out turtle.
I go into the bathroom to turn on the flame on the hot-water tank. This is the biggest extravagance we have. The tank is fueled by some sort of gas, and Mother and Father argue about it often. Father says one tank of gas costs as much as two months’ rent, but Mother says she doesn’t care, she’s not going to bathe in cold water “like an East Side peasant!”
I have to confess, there have been a few times when we’ve run out of gas, or I haven’t had time to wait for the tank to heat up, and I’ve taken a cold shower. It was awful, especially when it was cold outside. I felt like I just couldn’t get warm all day. Most Convenes, like Katla, have probably never had a hot shower in their whole life. I don’t know how they do it.
While I wait for the water to get hot, I look in the mirror. My cheek is still flushed where Mother hit me this morning. The cold water I splash on my face makes it feel better.
Father says that Mother means well, that she acts the way she does because she has a lot of anxiety. Things have been better since Father got his promotion. He’s now the deputy chief energy engineer for the city, and the day he told Mother about it, she fell to the ground and started praising God. She’s so dramatic.
There were times in my childhood when she was really sweet. Like the time she traded our salt rations and got me a doll for my sixth birthday. Or the time she made a cake in the shape of a train for my brother.
Father says she was really beautiful, too. She used to have blonde hair like mine, and she has much better cheekbones than I do, and her eyes are deep-set and cerulean blue. Father says the first time he saw her without her veil, on their wedding night, she was so bright and pretty that she was like the sun, and so he became a sunflower, turning his face wherever she might go. It’s hard to imagine them that way now, so in love. Father works most of the time, and when he’s at home, he stays in his office all day.
I see a little green light flicker next to the tank, and I know my water is ready. Now I have just enough hot water to wash my hair and rub a soapy washrag everywhere else. Because Mother told me to, I’m going to use the special shampoo—it’s in a tall green bottle, and there’s a pretty woman on the front, but all the words have been blacked out, which means it’s a Relic, something from Time Zero. It smells delicious, like crisp apples. Mother gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday, but I was told it was only for very special occasions.
Massaging the shampoo into my scalp, I’m aware of a dull pain in my right hand. I smile thinking of Juda holding it, examining every inch for damage. What if he knew my Offering was tonight? How could I have said yes to meeting him tomorrow? What was I thinking?
My smile disappears as I admit to myself that not only will I not be able to meet him tomorrow, I’ll probably never see him again.
When I emerge, clean and steamed, Katla is waiting in the hallway with the dress. It’s knee-length and royal blue, with what Mother calls a “sweetheart neckline.” It has a little pink bow on the chest. It’s really dumb. I hate it, and I can’t believe I have to wear it now. But it will be covered with my cloak, so it could be worse.
It’s worse. The dress doesn’t fit me properly anymore. I guess I’ve grown since the winter. The hemline is hitting me an inch higher than it should, the shoulders are too tight, and, worst of all, the stupid sweetheart neckline is now way too small and my breasts are threatening to pop out. I can’t breathe!
I show my mother, assuming that when she sees the terrible fit, she’ll tell me to change at once. Instead, she tells Katla to do my hair. After all the money that she and Father have spent on this day, I can’t believe she’s content to let me wear this ill-fitting dress. Maybe it’s part of my punishment. At least she didn’t notice my swollen hand.
Katla brushes out my hair, one hundred strokes, each yank harsher than the last, and twists it up into an elaborate bun with a dozen sections twirled into tiny curls, using what seem like a thousand pins to hold it in place. She then buffs and files my chewed, neglected nails, making my hands look long and feminine and less like those of a ten-year-old boy. Lastly, she uses some beige-colored powder I didn’t even know Mother owned to cover the pink mark on my cheek. Frowning at the result of the powder, she pinches the other cheek.
“Ow!” I say.
“Better,” Katla says, shrugging. “Now they match.”
I’m about to leave the room, when I remember my manners and say thank you to her for all her hard work. It’s not her fault I’m miserable.
I return to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I don’t recognize the girl in blue staring back, with the pin curls and rosy cheeks. I look like that birthday doll Mother gave me. None of this is even for my suitors, who won’t be able to see anything but the fancy hairdo once I’m in my cloak and veil. But their mothers or sisters might get a glimpse of me in the kitchen, where men aren’t allowed, so Mother is leaving nothing to chance.
One time, Mother went to the market, visiting the most upscale butcher, to purchase a pound of steak, which cost a fortune. Unwrapping the package at home, she discovered she’d been swindled into buying a pound of raccoon meat. Mother is going to a lot of trouble to make me look nice for my Offering, but I worry that if I do attract a husband, he’ll get me home and discover he’s ended up with a gussied-up raccoon.
FOUR
THE OFFERING IS MEANT TO BEGIN AT SIX. When I walk downstairs at five thirty, I barely recognize our apartment. Mother has set up a long buffet table in the living room, covered with food and drinks. Fifteen candles are set in large, ornate holders made of silver and amber and are spread throughout the room, causing the light to flicker off the walls. I grimace with guilt when I realize that, among other things, Mother and Katla must have spent hours today polishing the silver candleholders.
I can’t remember the last time we had so much food in the house. There are pastries and cakes, cheese, and even what look like two or three kinds of meat. The smell of warm bread, cinnamon, olives, grilled chicken, and ham, mixed with the sandalwood candles, makes m
y head swim.
My father has arrived home, and he stands gaping at the food. He must be thinking the same thing as I am: Where did my mother get the money for all of this? My father makes a good living, better than most, but almost everything she has set out is an extravagance. The pastries alone must have used up our sugar ration for the year. And I can’t imagine where she found apples for the tart I see. Or how she found the hard cheese. There are only a few cows left in the city.
My father acknowledges my arrival with a nod of his head.
He’s shorter than my mother, but he’s always seemed larger than life. He has a gray goatee, which he scratches when he’s thinking, and his serious face can be very intimidating, unless you’ve seen him smack his lips over bread pudding or roar laughing at one of his own awful puns. His eyebrows are still black, and they keep close guard over his dark brown eyes. Everyone says I have his tall forehead, but luckily I didn’t get his nose, which he likes to say looks like an old potato. He wears the black tunic and black cotton pants of a married man.
“Your mother has created quite a display,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “The guests will be impressed.”
“That’s certainly your mother’s intention.”
Turning from the food to look at me, he takes in Katla’s handiwork. “Lovely,” he says. “You look just as your mother did when we got married.”
“Thank you, Father,” I reply, although I can’t believe my mother would’ve ever worn an unbecoming dress.
His expression becomes grave. “You behaved very badly today.”
I say nothing. There’s no use denying it.
“I can’t imagine what you were thinking, Mina. With every year, you seem to get more foolish.”
I look at the floor, pained to know my father thinks I’m a fool. In many ways, I’d rather he knew I was a liar.
He’s a scientist, and he’s always shared a lot of his work and ideas with the family, especially at dinner. Not many daughters can say the same. He’s never been around as much as I would have liked, but I’ll always be grateful for his knowledge.
Time Zero Page 4