The Secret Under My Skin

by Janet Mcnaughton

  “Well, she’s the one,” the bio-indicator Marrella says. “Is she a good reader?” the Master asks.

  “Oh, yes,” one of the warders says.

  “Then she will do,” the Master adds his approval.

  “We’ll deliver her to your house.”

  “No, she will come with me now,” the Master says in that calm, insistent tone.

  I remember my Object. “But my things,” I say. The warders laugh. I look directly at the Master. “Please. I don’t have much, but I want to take it with me.” I’m begging.

  I expect him to ignore me but, to my surprise, he softens.

  “Yes, of course,” he says.

  Warder November steps forward, too quickly I think. “We’ll bring her to you soon.”

  “No,” he replies, “I will come with you.” I feel like a bone caught between two dogs. There’s some kind of struggle going on here and I am at the center, but I don’t know why.

  I move like a sleepwalker as we go downstairs. Why would anyone choose me? Why would she? In the sleeping room, I gather my few clothes, sliding my Object out of its hiding place in my sleeping bag and into the bundle. A warder points to the gloves around my neck. “You won’t need those now,” she says.

  Poppy, the girl who lost her handmade guy on Memory Day, is nearby. Her gloves are already full of holes. I lift the gloves from my neck and offer them to her, a gift. She looks afraid. “Take them,” I say. She says nothing but her eyes thank me as she takes the gloves.

  I hold my head up as we leave. I was chosen. Nothing will ever be the same.

  The Master’s House

  When the door to the Master’s house opens, the housekeeper frowns. “This one?” she asks. Her nose wrinkles. I hardly know where to look. The house is all wood and warmth, filled with bright colors and pretty things. I don’t belong here. The bio-indicator has not spoken to me since we left the Rotunda. The feeling of being chosen is gone. I want to bolt out the door and back to safety. The woman is old, perhaps fifty. She is spotlessly clean and stout, a thick, graying braid down her back. She looks puzzled rather than angry.

  “Just show her to my rooms,” Marrella says. She doesn’t even glance at me.

  The older woman hesitates, then speaks firmly. “She must bathe before she can be part of this household. And she must have new clothes.” She gestures toward the bundle in my arms. “These I will burn.”

  The bio-indicator looks annoyed but before she can speak, the Master’s voice flows between the two women like soothing oil. “Of course, Erica. Do whatever’s necessary. She can begin her duties tomorrow.”

  I follow this woman through the bright kitchen and into the basement, which smells earthy but is just as warm as the rest of the house. “The bathrooms are upstairs,” the woman called Erica says, “but I wouldn’t trust you to them yet. Here’s the hot tub. I’ll put you in it now. Get you all scrubbed.” The big wooden tub is already full of steaming water. “I suppose you have lice,” she adds.

  I am not sure I like this woman, who my bio-indicator seems to dislike. I shake my head. “We were treated just last week. I don’t have lice.” I have had, but I’m almost certain I don’t now.

  She purses her lips. “Well, we can’t be too careful. Do you know how old you are?”

  I shake my head. “Not for certain. The warders say about thirteen.”

  She makes a tsking sound as she gingerly peels my clothes away. “Undernourished. How long have you been at that workcamp?” It surprises me to hear her call it a workcamp Most adults say Model Social Welfare Project.

  “Four years in September. That’s why they called me Lobelia September.”

  “Is it what you’d like to be called?”

  A tight knot loosens in my throat. No one ever asked me this before. “No. It’s not my name. I have a name. Not much of one, but it’s mine.” The words pour out in a grateful rush.

  “And what is this name?” I hear the smile in her voice. “Blay Raytee.”

  “A strange name. How old were you when you landed on the streets?”

  “It’s hard to say. Very little. I was just beginning to talk.”

  “Maybe Blay Raytee was as close as you could come to your real name,” she says.

  I nod. That fits with what I remember. I wait for her to ask the questions I do not want to answer. I cannot speak of Hilary.

  “And how long were you on the street?”

  I am naked now. “I don’t know,” I say. I shiver a little even in the warm air.

  “You’re cold, poor thing. Get into the tub.” I am relieved to obey. She hands me a cloth and a piece of something hard, white, and fragrant.

  “What’s this?”

  She gives me a funny look. “Soap. What did you wash with in that place?”

  “They have showers by the spirulina tank. We get one every week. The soap comes through with the water first, and then we rinse in plain water.” I do not tell her how badly this system worked. Most of us ended up with a scalp full of soap for the rest of the week. Instead, I sit on the bench in the tub up to my neck in hot water. “I like this,” I tell her.

  “Good,” she says. “You can bathe as often as you want here. More than once a week. Here.” She shows me how to use the cloth and soap. “Now you wash. I’ll get rid of these clothes. I have others that should fit you.” As she gathers my clothes, my Object falls to the tiles with a clatter. “This is strange,” she says, picking it up. I wish I could grab it back. I never show my Object to anyone. She turns the flat black case, which is held together by small metal screws. Shiny brown ribbon runs between two spools inside. “What is it?”

  Too late to hide it now. “I don’t know,” I tell her truthfully. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember. It’s the only thing I’ve always had.” I wonder if I should trust her, then plunge on. “Maybe . . . maybe it came from my parents. But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Looks like some kind of obsolete technology,” she says.

  She lays it on a shelf by some clean cloths. “It will be safe here. I’ll be back in a minute to help you wash your hair.”

  “I can use the soap.”

  “No. Don’t. We have something else for hair.”

  When she leaves, I sink in right up to the tips of my ears and sigh. I can never remember being so comfortable. Could Blay Raytee be a childish version of my real name? It makes sense. Hilary told me over and over how she found me. It was one of my favorite bedtime stories. “I had a name all picked out for you, sweetie,” she would say, smoothing my hair back as I settled down to sleep. “I was going to call you Honey-Pie. But you just insisted you already had a name. ‘Blay Raytee, Blay Raytee, my name Blay Raytee!’ You yelled until I was afraid someone would hear you and find us. So that’s your name. Blay Raytee.” And I would fall asleep in her arms, happy that she was the one who’d found me.

  I scrub myself. Erica notices when she returns. “You look ten shades cleaner,” she says. “Duck your head under.” She takes a bottle from a shelf and pours something cool and sweet-smelling into my hair. As she rubs my head, it foams. It feels wonderful.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Shampoo. We can have things ordinary people never see,” she says, “because of the bio-indicator. Any soap, any cream or medicine she needs. Tip your head back now.” She rinses my hair then washes it again until it’s so clean it squeaks. I am in heaven. She lifts a strand of my hair, as if weighing it. “Your hair would look quite nice with a proper cut.” She’s kinder than she seemed at first. I’m starting to like her.

  As she finishes washing my hair, she says, “Marrella is not what we expected. Bio-indicators are usually eager to learn, but she resists. William finds her difficult to teach. Still, we have great hopes for her.” Her sigh does not sound hopeful. I find it odd that she should criticize my bio-indicator and call the Master by his first name.

  “Out you come now,” she says. “It’s getting late.” She hands me a large, soft cloth and a w
hite robe and cloak, then turns to give me privacy. I grab my Object as we leave the basement.

  In the kitchen, she opens a doorway. “These are the servants’ stairs,” she says. “They lead to your room.” We climb to a room with bare white walls. It is more comfortable than I could have imagined. There is a bed, a chest of drawers, and a window with white curtains. She shows me a little bathroom, then points to a door opposite the one we entered. “Those are the bio-indicator’s quarters.”

  “But where do you sleep?” I didn’t mean to ask. The question just slips out.

  She smiles. “With William, of course. Across the hall.” Shock must show in my face. She laughs. “Did you think I was a servant? Child, I am Erica Townsend, the Master’s wife.” But she’s not laughing at me and I find I can return her smile.

  When Erica leaves, I wonder if this can be real. The room is plain and small, but it’s mine. The bed is clean, soft, and comfortable. There are sheets instead of a sleeping bag, even a pillow. My body is relaxed from the easy day, from the bath. But I run over the events of this evening again and again. I am almost afraid if I sleep, I will wake up back in the basement of the Grand Hotel. After a while, I hear the Master, Erica, and my bio-indicator come upstairs. Then I hear Marrella’s voice, but her voice alone. It goes on and on without stopping, like a song without music. Finally, the house powers down and everything is still. I pull the clean blankets over my clean ears. I will do everything I can to help Marrella. Maybe we will even become friends. Finally I sleep.

  Green Tea

  When I wake, someone is trying to rip my ear off. It must be one of the older girls. I open my mouth to scream loud enough to be heard by the warders, but another hand, covers my mouth. “Don’t you dare,” a voice says. I fall back onto the bed, rubbing my ear, trying to remember how to breathe. I am in the room where Erica left me. Soft light filters through the white curtains. Marrella stands beside my bed. She is already dressed in her bio-indicator’s robes, her head wrapped in cloth.

  “I have been awake for fifteen minutes,” she says. “This must never happen again. Do you understand?” I’d like to tell her I didn’t know what she expected of me, but I’m afraid to contradict her, so I nod instead. “Good,” she says. “Now get out of bed.”

  When she closes the door, I realize I haven’t any clothes.

  But, in the top drawer of the dresser, I find clean underclothes. The next drawer holds tunics and leggings that almost fit. Erica must have brought them here last night while I was washing. I pull the clothes on and hurry through the door.

  Two filtered skylights pour pale gold light into the bio-indicator’s room. A bright coverlet is flung across her bed, tangled with blankets and pillows. The furniture is made of beautifully carved wood. Strange, pretty objects decorate the room, brightly colored glass and lumps of glittering stone. I cannot see Marrella but then I hear a noise.

  Looking around the corner, I find an alcove beside the wall where my bedroom juts into this space. It is bright with windows. Marrella sits at a small table looking out toward Ski Slope. As I approach, I see a kitchen counter built into the nearest wall. “You may make tea,” she says. I have no idea what this means. In the workcamp, food service was job training for some of the older ones. My confusion seems to please her.

  “My, you are ignorant. I will show you this one time.” She stresses the last three words. “Then, you will wake me up every morning with a pot of green tea. Is that clear?” I nod, following the swift movements of her hands. When she is finished, she says, “Tell me how I made it.” When I do, she smiles a thin smile. “Now you are good for something.” She sits at the table. I don’t know what to do. “Bring me the tray,” she says, “then tidy my room.” The table is not two metres from where she stood, but I carry the tray to her. When I have picked up her clothes and made the bed, she comes back from the kitchen area. “I am going to have breakfast now,” she says. “Wash my dishes, then you can see Erica.” She leaves through the door that leads into the central hall.

  I wash the dishes then tidy my room, trying, all the while, to push my disappointment aside. Marrella is not kind, but why should she be? Just because she chose me, I let myself hope we might be friends. When I first came to the workcamp, I’d hoped to find someone like Hilary but I never did. The warders keep as far away from the kids as they can, and the other kids look out for themselves. I should have learned by now. I give my little room one last glance, then take the servants’ stairs, my stairs, to the kitchen.

  Erica is already at work pushing a large lump of something soft around on a board. “Those two may relax before lessons begin, but I have work to do.” She pounds the lump with such violence that I jump. “Bread will not make itself.” She pounds again. I begin to realize she means no harm.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Bread dough, child.” She pauses, then gives me another of her looks. “You do know what bread is, don’t you?”

  As I nod, a lump rises in my throat, forcing me to turn away. Hilary was a master thief. That was what kept us under the protection of a Tribe. She could steal almost anything, but she loved bread most. Hot and fresh from alleys behind the bakeries. She would run back to our hiding place, tear the loaf open, and give great, steaming chunks of it to me. We could eat a loaf, the two of us, in just a few minutes. She was also good at trading for things we needed. Once, she even got a funny-looking doll in a bright pink dress for me. “Every kid should have a doll, sweetie,” she said.

  Erica did not notice when I turned away. “What did you eat in that workcamp?”

  “Texturized vegetable protein, processed kelp, spirulina, and vegetables from the gardens.” With or without permission, I do not add.

  She purses her lips. “Spirulina. People shouldn’t have to eat algae. It’s impossible for people with low U-Rs to get real food. No wonder you’re so small.” She punches the lump again. It doesn’t look like the bread I remember. “Our food is much better.” She runs a critical eye over me. “So it should be possible to fatten you up. Sit down.”

  I do. I wonder what she means by “real food.” When I lived on the streets, I ate anything, but in the workcamp, they taught us that civilized people only eat plant products, never the flesh of animals. Spirulina tastes awful, but I thought eating it made us more like ordinary people. Erica brings me slabs of bread on a plate. Not the spongy stuff she is working with now, but bread as I remember it. Then she hands me a glass filled with something white. A real glass, not the chipped and scratched celluloid containers they gave us at the workcamp.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “Milk.”

  “What is milk?”

  This time, she just sighs. “Milk is a protein. It will help you grow. It has calcium to make your bones strong.”

  I slosh the liquid around in my glass. I pretend to sip but only smell it. It has no smell. It doesn’t look like something anyone would eat. “How do you make it?”

  “We don’t make it. Cows and goats do. They make milk inside their bodies to feed their young.” She’s beginning to sound annoyed.

  My stomach heaves. “You want me to drink something made inside the body of a cow?” I push the glass away. “I can’t.” The idea is disgusting.

  Erica looks angry. For a moment, I am afraid she will force me, then she relaxes. “I cannot make you do things that are good for you.” She takes the milk away. “Tea?” she asks.

  “Yes, please.” At least I know tea is not made inside the body of a cow. The bread is delicious. I have to stop myself from cramming it into my mouth, the way Hilary and I did. Erica puts a mug full of tea in front of me. It is not pale green like Marrella’s tea, but dark brown like bog water. I take a big mouthful. It burns my throat all the way down. “Hot,” I gasp.

  “Most people,” Erica says, “put milk in their tea.” She turns to some food containers on the counter. She runs each past a built-in scanner, which beeps. When she’s finished, she packs the containers into a ba
sket. “William won’t need you until this afternoon. When you’ve eaten, you can do something for me. You know where the ski slope is?” I nod. “Good. You can take this food up to Lem Howell.”

  A crust of bread just about to go into my mouth falls to the plate, but Erica has her back to me. How foolish I was to fuss over food. She is already annoyed with me. If I refuse to do this, how will they let me stay here? Would I rather be eaten by Lem Howell or go back to the workcamp? My answer surprises me. “All right,” I say. But I push the plate away.

  Erica sniffs. “For someone who looks to be starving, you’re an awfully fussy eater.” I would like to tell her the bread tasted wonderful until I was asked to risk my life but I say nothing. “You look pale,” Erica says. “Are you feeling ill?” I shake my head. She holds the full basket out to me. It’s heavy. As I take it, I wonder if this is some kind of test. But Erica looks so unconcerned. Could it be that she has no idea what she’s asking me to do?

  I pause at the back door. “Where are the UV visors?”

  “Oh, you don’t need one.” Erica says. The alarm must show on my face, because she continues. “Really, Blay. They aren’t necessary.” She hands me a bottle. “Put some of this on your face, and I’ll find you some glasses.”

  The bottle contains a thin lotion. “What is it?” I ask. “Sunscreen. It will protect your skin from the UV rays.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And take these.” She hands me a pair of dark glasses. The idea of going out without a UV visor seems so dangerous, I can’t bring myself to do it. Erica notices. “I’m not lying, Blay. You’ll be safe, I promise.”

  “Then why do they make us wear visors in the camp?”

  Erica frowns and quickly glances over her shoulder as if someone might be listening. “I’ll explain later,” she says, and I am out the door. It’s so strange to be outside without a UV visor that I have to stop to orient myself. The Grand Hotel is down the hill. Just yesterday, it was my home. Just a few minutes ago, I thought I was lucky to be free of it. Now I’m not sure. I know where the path to Ski Slope is. They made sure we knew so we’d never wander up there by mistake. Yesterday, if anyone had told me I would willingly go to Lem Howell’s house, I would have laughed. I am not laughing now. The path is steep, sheltered by birches, maples, and spruce. It’s beautiful but it fills me with dread. Somewhere from deep inside my memory I find pieces of a story about a girl walking through the woods, just like this, carrying a basket of food. And she is going to a house where someone dangerous waits, someone with big teeth who wants to eat her. Maybe does eat her. But the memory is so faint, I can barely hold on to it.