Shymers

by Jen Naumann

  I am so wrapped up in my thoughts I almost jump out of my skin when a hand yanks at my arm. I whirl around to find Harrison. “This way,” he says, motioning to where the soldiers stand.

  My steps are hurried in an effort to keep up with Harrison’s long strides. As we near the soldiers, my heart thrums in my chest. What if something unusual shows up on my registration and they say something? I wouldn’t want Bree to find out from Harrison that I had lied to her.

  Following Harrison’s lead, I stand before the two soldiers. The shorter one produces the same scanning device as before to check each of our eyes before giving a quick nod of his head, excusing us. I close my eyes momentarily, relieved.

  Harrison clasps his fingers around my arm, leading me off in yet another direction. We follow a narrow path behind one of the tall buildings. The space is tight and crowded, forcing me to walk closer to Harrison than I intend. This side of Society is deserted, and the path formidable, like there is something lurking in it, waiting for us.

  “We have fifteen minutes from when the shuttle arrives to when we have to report to the orphanage,” Harrison says. He won’t look at me. “It isn’t good to hang around.”

  “How long have you been in the orphanage?” I ask.

  “Two years,” he answers, still holding my arm. My skin feels like it will ignite into flames where his fingers rest against it.

  “I’m sorry about your family.” Almost immediately after the words cross my lips, I wish I could take them back. I bite down on my lip, waiting for his reaction.

  He glares down on me with dark eyes. “Why would you be sorry? What didyouhave to do with it?”

  I stop walking, breaking his hold on my arm. Now I know that saying something so personal was a terrible idea. I feel like I’ll never understand what I can and can’t say in this new world. “I…I didn’t mean…” I stammer.

  I only wanted to let him know how terrible I feel for him. Why should it make him angry? As much as he seems to hate me, I am still drawn to him. Earlier in the day I thought I had seen the same interest reflected in his eyes, but maybe I was wrong. His eyes refuse to soften as they burn into me. I remind myself that living your whole life knowing your family will die on the same day had probably been like a horrible nightmare that didn’t end until that day finally came.

  Then again, what if he isn’t upset with me? What if he’sjealousthat I don’t yet know my DOD andjealous of the life I once lived in the Free Lands with my parents?

  “You don’t know anything about me,” he says coldly. “You don’t want to, either. My DOD is coming soon, so I’m not worth getting to know.”

  I nearly cry out. His statement is ridiculous. “You’rewrong!” I snap, trying to narrow my eyes in the same furious way as his. “I actually think youare worth getting to know. You, Bree—even Kai with her cigarettes and sour attitude. I don’t care if you’re a Shymer or a Future. None of that makes any sense to me anyway! If you still have any amount of time left on this earth, then you should be able do the things you’ve always wanted to do in life and see the places you’ve always wanted to visit. Nothing should hold you back from being happy during the time you have left!”

  He steps forward with such a dark look that I shrink away. “Look around you! Things may have been happy and wonderful where you came from, but here we don’t have the opportunity to do the things we want. We are only here a short time, and no one cares what happens to us. I’m not going to do any of the things on my playlist, mostly because I never bothered tomakeone. I don’tcarewhat else is out there. I don’tcare about the things I haven’t seen in my lifetime. Whatever it is you’re trying to do by pretending to be my friend, you can just stop!”

  When he is done yelling, I am trembling. “I’m not pretending,” I whisper.

  His face turns stoic and his tense posture sags. He realizes how much he has upset me. As I’m quickly learning, however, compassion is not a common feeling that is freely indulged in the Shymer world, and just like that, he turns on his heels to walk away.

  I follow him from a distance into the large, stone building. Harrison mutters something about having to check in before he sulks off, leaving me all alone.

  The orphanage feels even more depressing in the afternoon when everyone is just returning from school. The front room is so stuffy that my shirt clings to my chest. A few metal fans hang crookedly from the high, peaked ceiling and spin at a speed too low to do much of anything. A sharp, bitter smell assaults my nose, making me think of stale urine. The stone walls have crumbled, leaving chunks carved out in places. From everything I have learned today, I guess a place where Shymers live is not considered a priority and not worth fixing up.

  A cluster of young children somewhere between the age of five and ten shove their way past, their gazes questioning when I excuse myself from their path. Like all of the other Shymers I have met, their expressions remain flat and their clothing is drab. One of the little girls with dark brown hair wears a braid in back like Taylor always wore. I catch the glowing mark behind her ear where Bree’s had been. I bring my hand to my left ear, then my right, realizing I don’t even know which side mine is on. I can’t believe I lived all these years without knowing I had a mark of death tattooed somewhere on my body.

  A woman sitting behind a tall, stone counter chuckles. “You must be new here. You look lost.”

  I turn to her and nod, crossing the final distance between us. She is short with broad shoulders an almost perfectly round head that resembles a child’s ball. The sides of her mouth push out in a neutral recognition rather than a smile. She is dressed like my instructors in a crisp shirt and long skirt in a floral pattern. Her hair, too short and too curly to be styled in any way, merely surrounds her head in a little cloud of ringlets.

  “I was brought here late last night,” I say.

  Her emerald green eyes grow wide. “Oh! You’re that girl—“

  “From the Free Lands,” I cut in. “Yes, that’s me.”

  Her mouth morphs into something else—pity maybe. “Since they brought you in so late I’m guessing you didn’t get a proper tour of the building.”

  I look off to where the group of children disappeared down the hallway. “No. They didn’t tell me anything either. Will I ever—“

  “Just one moment,” the woman says, putting her hand to her ear and looking away. “Yes, she’s just arrived…I will do that.”

  It takes a moment before I realize she is speaking to someone through her communicator. Having someone interrupt you at any moment has got to be irritating. I don’t understand why the government would make everyone get such a thing. When the conversation is through, the woman gives me a smile that is too large for her face and reveals too many of her yellowing teeth.

  “If you go down the hallway and take a left, you’ll find the director’s office. He would like to speak to you before you get any kind of orientation.”

  With that, her oversized smile is gone and her attention returns to the tablet on the counter. I’ve been dismissed.

  Still, it is the first time since my mother was taken away that another adult has shown me the slightest bit of compassion. “Thank you,” I tell her before turning to the hallway ahead.

  My sandals are muffled against the rugged stone floor as I move. My heart, however, beats so loudly that I am sure everyone around me must hear it. The long hallway is flanked with a row of windows between each arched pillar, casting small squares of light onto my path.

  Another group of younger Shymers pass by quietly, veering off to the right and leaving me alone. I stop in front of a tall wooden door three times my height where the name KRISTOFF MAHR flashes across a screen. Gathering all the courage I can, I slowly bring my knuckles up to rap against the door. All at once, the door opens on its own.

  The room is much darker than the hallway. Either there aren’t any windows, or they are covered with heavy material to keep any sunlight out. The room smells curiously of cinnamon. Musical instruments
play softly and distantly in a melody I vaguely remember as something my father would sing to me at bedtime. So many nights I had fallen asleep while his deep voice carried the same tune in perfect pitch. I can’t remember the words, only the melody of different notes strung together, slow and low.

  The only furniture—a large desk in the corner and leather chairs on either side—is bulky and takes up nearly the entire room. I pause in the doorway, afraid to take a step inside until a deep, commanding voice barks for me to come in. My feet are reluctant to budge after being scared by the sudden instruction. I nearly trip over a rug.

  I find the silhouette of a man sitting behind the desk. As his features are revealed to me, I discover him to be quite unusually large—much like the girl who I met in the schoolyard—only this man is even bigger. His dark, beady eyes are nearly lost behind rolls of fat in his cheeks, and there are too many chins to count them all. His long hair curls behind his ears and is a shocking shade of blond—almost appearing to be white. With each breath, his large chest rises up and his nose wheezes with the forced air passing through.

  “Miss Mensing,” says the man. Each of the rolls of his chin shakes as he speaks. “Welcome to the Traverse Orphanage.” Although his hard eyes don’t change much in appearance, there is a slight curl to the edge of his lips that makes him look to be smirking in amusement.

  “Thank you,” I say, my insides quivering.

  The man leans forward in his seat. The top of his eyelids disappear into their sockets, making him appear angry. Considering I have only just met him, I think I must be imagining things. As more seconds pass by, however, I’m not sure.

  “I understand they found you in the Free Lands.” His voice is even deeper now, as if he is disgusted to even speak about the place.

  I give him a very miniscule nod of my head. “Yes, they did.” I don’t know what else would be considered an appropriate response to his question.

  “So your family thought they were too good for Society, did they?” he asks, folding his hands and bringing his arms to rest against his giant chest. The edge to his voice comes across as some kind of cold warning. Without question, this man dislikes me.

  I shake so badly that I have to squeeze my arms together and will myself to calm down. “My parents didn’t want me to live counting down every minute of my life.”

  He snorts. It’s a sharp, deep noise. “Is that what they told you?”

  I only nod, too fearful to speak.

  “Well that wouldn’t make any sense, considering you are registered as aFuture. I suspect your parents had some other reason to keep you hidden away.”

  I don’t answer, although the same thought had crossed my mind a few times. Whywould they keep me away from Society if I am truly a Future? It must be because my parents were against Society in general and didn’t want to raise me in such a cold, hard place. Then again, Bree said I have the Shymer mark. What other explanation could there be? Does this man know about my mark?

  “Let me tell you something.” He rests his hands on the desk, leaning forward to glare at me. “You’re in my facility now, and I follow the rules of Society. You followmy rules and you only do things as you’re told. Don’t be getting any ideas that you can go against the way things are, just because your parents did. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes,” I answer in a tight voice.

  He settles back into the chair. “I’ll arrange for one of the other children to give you a tour before you start in on your selected job. In the meantime, I don’t want to hear any reports of you acting up. I will be watching you.”

  His eyes are filled with so much hate and anger as he looks back at me, it feels like an ice-cold hand has reached down to scoop my insides out.

  7 – You Shouldn’t Have to Live This Way

  There are so many long hallways and winding stairways in the orphanage that I begin to fear I will easily become lost. My tour of the old building is given by a young girl named Ivy who is as quiet as she is small, and won’t look at me when she speaks.

  Our last stop is the girl’s lavatory on the second level of the building, where I will start my selected job. Dozens of toilets and showers line the walls of the deep room. Although I had seen the remains of bathrooms in some of the houses my father fixed up, we did not have running water. Earlier at school I had figured out how to flush the toilets, but I have yet to use my first shower.

  Ivy shows me where to find the cleaning supplies, and shoves a piece of cloth into my hands. “Scrub each and every one of them until you hear the dinner whistle sound,” she tells me before disappearing.

  I discover another girl crouched underneath the showers, staring at me. She looks too old to be here with lines on her face and an empty, hollow look in her eyes. I offer her a smile, but she turns away to scrub at the tile floor.

  The liquid for cleaning is strong and vile smelling. I hold a hand to my mouth to keep from breathing it in while scrubbing until my knees ache and my fingers throb. Tears fill my eyes when I realize this could be the rest of my life—attending lessons in a place I’m not welcome, followed by hours of hard work, and nothing more. No music, no campfires, no love.

  Finally, the whistle rings through the hallways, bouncing off the walls into the lavatory. I return the cleaning supplies as instructed and find my way back down to the dining hall, mostly by following the unusual smell that makes my stomach roll.

  The hall is large enough for hundreds of people. It is filled with more high ceilings and arched pillars that make the tables and chairs underneath look miniature sized. A line of Shymers stretches behind a wall of glass. The hall is quiet except for the sound of plates clinking together and the low hum of the long, bright lights above. I stare at the lights, having seen very few electrical things in my lifetime. Before long the brightness burns against my eyeballs. The slight pain is almost a welcoming sensation to keep my mind off the dreadful visit with Director Mahr.

  When golden halos fill my vision, I press on my eyes and turn sharply, slamming into a hard body.

  “What now?” Harrison asks in his low voice. I remove my hands from my face to see him giving me the dismayed look I have come to expect.

  “Sorry,” I say, flushed with embarrassment.

  I can’t tell him what just happened with the lightsorwith the director. Everyone already thinks I am so odd. Besides, Harrison is angry with me for bringing up his family and I will have to go out of my way not to irritate him again.

  He looks to the line ahead. “Did you eat yet?” When I shake my head he nudges my back. “C’mon. You’re in for a real treat. I’m guessing this meal won’t be like anything you had out in the Free Lands.”

  From my tasteless breakfast earlier in the day, I already knew that would be the case. We gather the food when it is our turn and find an open spot across from each other at one of the rectangular tables. After taking small nibbles with my fork, I discover it all to be horribly bland, lacking in any flavor. I should be excited by the rare chance to eat any kind of meat, but it is dry and almost too tough to chew. The potatoes are not much different than eating air. The remaining food sits in lifeless clumps on my tray.

  Once again, I find myself yearning for my mother, only this time it’s for the wonderful talent she has for making everything taste delicious. I would do anything for even a slice of fruit from the forest.

  Across the table, Harrison shovels the mystery meat into his mouth, obviously having grown accustomed to it in his time here. Is this how all food tastes in Society? Had his mother known how to cook like mine?

  “Does it always taste like this?” I whisper. His blue eyes flicker up to mine. I look down, not wanting him to see the heat that is once again filling into my cheeks. Why does my body always react in such strange ways to him?

  “You’ll get used to it. We have the same meal every night, so youhave to get used to it unless you want to starve to death.”

  The thought of having something so plain tastingevery nightmakes my
stomach turn again. I push the meat around with my fork before finally shoving my plate away. “Why even bother?”

  Harrison takes his last bite and then nudges his own plate to the side. He folds his arms and looks back at me with his eyebrows drawn together. “What do you mean?”

  I wish I could see him smile—to see how that would transform the light in his eyes and the curve of his rose-colored lips. He is so maddeningly attractive, and it really doesn’t help things any when he is staring at me so intensely. Between the almost turquoise color of his eyes behind his incredibly thick lashes and the way his nose bends down to meet the curvature of his lips, he takes my breath away. Why does he seem to have a natural aversion to me?

  My thoughts revert back to the way Shymers are treated, and I frown along with him. It doesn’t matter if I’m a Shymer or Future. No one should have to live in a Society that treats humans so differently based on something they can’t control.

  “Why even bother feeding us? Our lives apparently mean absolutely nothing to anyone in Society. Why go to all the trouble of keeping us fed and housed here? Why bother keeping us out of the sun? Why even make us go to school? They are obviously just counting down the moments until each of us dies!”

  Harrison looks around the dining hall, fearful that someone may have heard my ranting. Only a few Shymers remain a few tables away. Guardians mill around, their eyes mostly trained on the floor. They don’t show the slightest bit of interest in our conversation. From what I’ve seen so far, there wouldn’t be any reason for them to be on alert. Everyone here does as they’re told and acts how they’re expected to act.

  Slammed with rage and frustration, I push away from the table and run blindly to the hallway, past the staring gazes and stunned silences. These people—who will never know the joy of playing carefree with a friend in the forest where rules and sullen moods are not seen—somehow thinkI’m the unusual one. They were abandoned by their parents all because they will never amount to anything important in the eyes of Society. Anger takes over every part of my body, making my blood boil.