We will find a way out of here, it reads.
Chapter Seven
Adam
* * *
Riley disappears from the field for seven minutes, then slips back in line. She wipes her forehead with her sleeve. Groaning, she digs her first potato.
Like she’s been at it nonstop.
She’s fooled the rest of them. Even the Cit-Track, somehow. She hasn’t fooled me. I saw her leave.
Rain has been coming down hard all morning. Made it easier for her to sneak off, I guess. We dig through ankle-deep mud. A lot of work, poor results.
It doesn’t matter. Not like Haak’ll let us stop.
Riley doesn’t know I exist. Not in the way that matters. I’ve been watching her ever since she got here. She talks to Oliver. Laughs with him. She gets between Sam and Brock sometimes. Mostly she keeps her head down. She’s never gone searching for trouble.
Not until yesterday when Reed Paine showed up. Now I’m watching him too.
No one’s been at the House longer than me. It doesn’t give me any bully rank, though. I’m more of a fixture. Like the pipes running along the walls, feeding water to the toilets, showers, and kitchen. No one notices unless they stop working.
Work is the key to survival. I’m slow in the classroom, but teachers don’t care. I haven’t been to the director’s office since my first day, back when old Mandel was in charge. Oliver tells me that’s a good thing. His frequent bruises and busted lip tell me not to argue. I put all my energy into whatever work they put in front of me.
My memories of life in the Sand are blurry, but I remember my mother chasing after me when I was little. Keeping me from knocking over everything in the house.
“He’s built like a linebacker,” my father said.
“Mmm. But watching everything,” my mother added.
They were both right. I’ve seen a lot. I remember everyone who passed through here. Short Timers, with their heated dorm, better chow, cush jobs. Typical shells, scared into compliance with Kino’s reeducation plan. Quickly sent back to the Sand. Then there are the stubborn ones. Those who reject “moral correction” get sent to labor camps or the front line to fight rebels. Some disappear without explanation.
I keep waiting for the day I’m called to move on. Don’t know why it hasn’t come.
Haak’s truck heads our way. He’s coming to crack the whip, I suppose, in his own sluggish way. Our crew will be sanctioned if we don’t meet our quota, despite the weather.
“Pick up the pace,” Oliver says. He hoists a box of potatoes on his shoulders, pivoting with ease in the mud, then winks at Rita as he heads toward the truck. She blushes, bending back to her work.
I’d probably hate him if he wasn’t my best friend.
Chapter 8
Reed
* * *
“Take a seat.”
Mr. Patrick points to the only empty seat in his social studies class. It’s in the front row.
“Any chance you have a tablet better than this one?”
I flip my tablet over, showing him the cracked screen and back panel, which is covered with duct tape. I laughed when Ms. Lura handed it to me this morning in language arts. She wasn’t amused. After spending an hour in her class, I have the feeling she’s never amused.
“Is something funny?”
“It’s practically spitting sparks!” I told her. “Isn’t there a better one?”
She ignored my question and pointed to an empty seat. Mr. Patrick at least looks sympathetic. “Check the cabinet under the window.”
I manage to find one without duct tape holding it together. I switch it on, go through the security prompts to access my nanochip, then pull up our social studies text.
Chapter Fifteen - America’s Second Civil War
The easy thing about core academies is they all follow the same schedule. No matter how often you change schools, you’re always on the same page with every other student in your grade. Last week in the Sand, we talked about the years leading up to the second civil war. Today, at Windmill Bay, I’ll pick up right where we left off.
The display on my tablet pixelates without warning. I bang it against my desk, muttering.
“Mine’s not much better,” Oliver says from the seat behind me. “You should get Sam to look at it. He’s good at fixing things.”
“This one might be beyond fixing.” I’m shaking it now. The screen has gone black.
“Nope. That was Mr. Patrick. He turns them all off when class starts. Otherwise, no one pays attention.”
Mr. Patrick clears his throat. “Eyes on the pixel wall, everyone.” He dims the lights and starts a vid montage beginning with police officers in SWAT gear firing on soldiers in camouflage. Next, a crowd of protestors erupts past a police line and throws bricks through a bank window while chanting something about tyranny and the one percent. Finally, smoke rises from a city in ruins. Piles of marble, stone, and metal make up a new skyline. A little girl is silhouetted against the horror, clutching a doll. Her mother lies dead at her feet.
Mr. Patrick turns up the lights. “Can anyone name the causes of America’s second civil war?”
I can, but I keep my hand in my lap. I like to answer questions. The trouble is, I can never do it without annoying my teachers. The details I learned from my parents don’t exactly match the tone of our text. It never bothered me at my old academies, but this time I have my mom to worry about so I bite my tongue.
“I remember a couple,” Oliver says. “An uneven distribution of wealth, for one. And riots when the Electoral College was dissolved. More after the institution of the Governors Supervision Act.”
“And what was the Governors Supervision Act?”
“Treason.”
Did I just say that out loud?
Mr. Patrick lowers his tablet and stares at me. “What did you say?”
Too late to back down now. “I said treason. By executive order, the president broke with the Constitution and put all state governors under his control, enforced by gunpoint until state rights were dissolved — their revenues siphoned into the federal treasury. No wonder there were riots.”
Mr. Patrick frowns. “Fifty states, each acting on their own? A flaw in the original plan for this continent, which made corruption and discrimination impossible to control. The goal was unity and fairness, Mr. Paine. Equality, not treason.”
He turns away. “Any other ideas?”
“Hate crimes,” says a girl in the back.
“Yes. And?”
“The Shale Surplus Act.”
“Good. And what was that?”
When no one answers, Mr. Patrick points to a girl sitting between Riley and the window. “Any ideas, Tabatha?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“The Shale Surplus Act was a law redistributing tax revenue from rich areas to aid bankrupt areas.”
“From Dirt states to Sand states you mean.” I can’t seem to stop myself. “Punishing states good at managing their industries by giving their surplus to wasteful ones.”
“Or pioneering the principal that no one should live in luxury while others are in want,” Mr. Patrick says.
I laugh. “We’ve come a long way then. Unless you’re a celebrity or a politician, there’s no such thing as luxury. All of us live in want.”
A couple of students snort. I’m afraid I’ve gone too far this time, but then my eyes meet Mr. Patrick’s and I see it — a spark of rebellion in his eyes. He agrees with me. It lasts for only a second, then his expression flattens into social correctness.
“Careful, Mr. Paine,” he says mildly. “Graduation from this institution requires you to think like a citizen, not a malcontent.” He turns toward the pixel wall. “Now let’s talk about the Reverse Gadsden Purchase.”
The week passes quickly. We harvest potatoes in the morning, go to class, and then work in the warehouse until dinner. Back in the Sand, I would have spent part of every evening meeting my mandatory steps quota, but
it’s not necessary here. We get plenty of exercise working in the fields.
Before curfew, most students gather in the common room. Lots of old chairs are scattered around, usually clustered near the few functional recharging stations. Two pixel walls stream satellite and web content — a lot of gossip and reality shows from what I can tell. Gaming tables and open consoles litter one dark corner, but they are so ancient, most kids don’t touch them unless they’re looking for a quiet place for a little nick-nacking. Even that is rare from what I’ve seen. I think everyone is too exhausted. I tell Kino this both times she summons me to her office. It doesn’t satisfy her.
“Teenage lust in dark corners?” Her lips twist. “That’s the best you can do?”
“If you could tell me what you’re searching for… Something specific?”
She doesn’t answer, just stares at the video feed of my mom, her head tilted to one side. “She seems thinner, don’t you think?”
I try to think, but my heart is creeping up my throat, burning behind my eyes. “What more can I do?”
Kino leans toward me, her eyes narrow. “You can look for information, truly look.” She glances at my mom again, her teeth sparkling between red lips. “Like you would, say, look for food. If you were starving.”
I clench and unclench my hands into fists.
“With the right amount of pressure, applied in the perfect spot, you should be able to get what you want, don’t you think?”
When I walk out of Kino’s office, Zak is waiting in the hall.
“Can you hear what we talk about in there?” I demand.
“No. Don’t want to.”
I storm off toward the stairs, my hands shaking. Zak catches up. I want to scream and break things. I want to throw him against those stupid posters and watch sparks fly as the screens crack and fall to the floor. I resist.
“How’d you get this job as Kino’s tool?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “She picked me.”
“And you agreed?” I sneer. “I would never—”
“Never what?”
“Never mind.” Suddenly I’m exhausted. “What did your parents do, anyway? To get you sent here?”
“Broke the law, same as yours.”
After class, we head to one of the warehouses built alongside the train tracks. Some of us bag and box potatoes, others load them into crates and send them along conveyor belts to the other side of a security fence. I can see more workers in the train yard on the other side, using forklifts to load the crates onto boxcars. By morning, the loaded cars will be transferred to a passing freight train and empty ones will take their place so we can do the whole thing again tomorrow.
“But tomorrow will be easier,” Oliver says as we walk back to the dorms. “The UN inspector is coming, which always means more food and less work. And next week’s the draft, so we have something to look forward to. Do you play tackle?”
“I’ve developed a few players.” I rotate my wrist, where they are stored on my nanochip. “How big is your league?”
Oliver laughs. “As big as you’d expect from a crew of potato farming terrorist teenagers stuck in the middle of nowhere. You in?”
I hate to admit it, but I’m starting to like this guy. “Yeah, I’m in.”
The next day breakfast is a feast. Eggs, milk, and oatmeal with real butter and brown sugar. The cafeteria buzzes as students shovel it in. The UN inspector and his team circle the room, watching us and tapping data into their high-end tablets. I overhear Ms. Rhim telling the inspector, “Of course, they eat this way every morning.” For the rest of the day, they randomly choose students to examine and interview. Xoey is picked and so am I, making me think it’s not so random. New kids would be healthier than the ones who have been here a while, wouldn’t we? So who rigs the data — Director Kino or the inspector? I intend to give them an earful, but don’t get the chance. Their questions are bland and I am not allowed to elaborate on my answers.
Our teachers are more animated in class, pretending they care, I guess. After school, we don’t go to the warehouse, but gather behind the cafeteria to unload crates of oranges, apples, and bananas from a Red Cross truck. We haven’t had fruit since I got here and my mouth waters in anticipation. Zak catches my expression and shakes his head.
“We ain’t actually gonna eat them,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Just wait. You’ll see.”
He’s right. As soon as the UN inspector pulls out of the drive, an alarm sounds and Kino’s voice calls us back to the cafeteria where we load the fruit on another truck. It also displays the Red Cross symbol, but it’s faded and old. Zak tells me it stays parked in the train yard most of the time, but gets pulled out after every UN visit.
“We put on this show once a month,” he says. “Only what’s in the boxes changes.”
“But what does Kino do with the food?” I still don’t want to believe I won’t get even one apple.
Zak shrugs. “Sell it on the black market? Cheer up. Last time it was bacon and ground beef. Now that was brutal.”
The next few days are brutal. Our meals are bland and inadequate; our workloads doubled. By Friday night I’m too tired to think. I’m also sick with worry. I haven’t learned anything new to share with Kino and I know she’ll be sending for me again soon. My only hope is that signing up for Oliver’s tackle league will give me more time for spying.
I stay in the shower too long, almost sleeping standing up as the dirt falls off my body and circles the drain in brown misery. The other boys joke and laugh as they dry off and head toward the common room. They are used to heavy workloads by now.
Maybe their mothers are still dead.
Just as Oliver turns off the shower and grabs a towel, Adam’s head appears around the corner, floating weirdly in the steam.
“You seen Sam?”
“He was in the courtyard, pacing.”
“He’s not there now.”
Oliver taps his ear. “Lights out in fifteen. He’s always back in time.”
Five minutes pass. Sam still hasn’t returned.
Oliver grabs his shoes. “He’s never late for curfew.”
“He got cranked by Ms. Lura today,” Adam says. “Maybe…”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
Sam’s not in my language arts class, but it would be the same assignment. Students gave oral reports on how mythological stories might have evolved from reality. It was assigned two weeks ago, when I was still in the Sand. My teacher there was excited about it. “Here’s your chance to be creative!” she said.
I don’t think Ms. Lura values creativity. Today she seemed more annoyed with each passing presentation, which ranged from evolutionary mutations to explain the Minotaur to fireflies mistaken for fairies.
I pull my shirt on and turn to Adam. “What happened?”
“He built a computer model to show how Noah’s Ark could have housed every family or genus of animal during a global flood,” Adam says. “The thing had three decks and was bigger than a tackle field. It was pretty cool, actually.”
“He’s always so detailed,” Oliver says.
“Well Lura came unglued,” Adam said. “Accused him of using unofficial source material. Then she went off about marsupials and how many dog breeds exist. Sam tried to explain his idea, but she just kept yelling at him.”
Oliver runs his finger along his throat. “The vein popping on her neck?”
Adam nods. “Oh, yeah. Her face turned purple — the whole thing. Then she called him a mutation.”
“We’ve got to find him before curfew,” Oliver says. “I’ll take the common room roof.”
“I’ll check the bleachers.” Adam heads out the door.
Oliver turns to me. “Can you get help? We need Riley.”
I run to the girls’ dorm, unsure of what will happen if I go inside. Will an alarm sound? Will anyone care? Neither, it seems. Luckily, the first girl I run into is Xoey.
“Do you
know a girl named Riley?”
“Yes. She’s one of my roommates.”
“Can you get her?”
She nods and turns away.
“Wait! Don’t mention me. Just tell her Oliver needs her. Sam’s missing.”
Both girls come back in less than a minute. Riley’s eyes narrow when she sees me.
“Where?”
“Adam’s checking the bleachers. Oliver’s on the roof.”
Riley shakes her head. “He’s got a new hiding spot, behind the cafeteria where the blackberry bushes have taken over.”
Xoey follows Riley to the door. “Can I help?”
“Go get them.” Riley is already taking off at a run, yelling over her shoulder. “Tell them to meet me there.”
“I’ll get Adam,” I say. “You get Oliver.”
Xoey nods and I run toward the fields. Bleachers are on the other side of the library, past an abandoned parking lot and an old gym with a buckled roof. Rusted and leaning toward the east, they face what was once a real tackle field. The goal posts are still in place, but the turf is gone and potatoes grow between the end zones. By the time I grab Adam and we head back to the blackberry bush, everyone else is already there. Riley has coaxed Sam out of his hiding place beneath the thorns, but not back to the dorms. He leans against the cafeteria wall with his brow furrowed and his arms crossed.
“I followed the rules,” he says.
“I know,” Oliver says.
Sam kicks the wall. “I spent hours on it!”
Xoey wrings her hands helplessly, but Riley steps closer to Sam before stopping to tuck her hands under her arms.
“Ms. Lura is hateful,” she says. “Angry — mad at everyone, not just you.”
“Bet she never said you should have never been born,” Sam says.
Oliver has been crouching by the blackberry bush, randomly picking leaves and throwing them on the ground. Now he looks up. “So what? Who knows you better — her or us?”
Stealing Liberty Page 5