Stealing Liberty

by Jennifer Froelich

  “Know what?”

  He studied his feet. “I just assumed you two were close.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I’m never sure what I feel for Xoey except responsible. Her bruised face on the bus is easy to conjure. “I just want her to be safe,” I said.

  He nodded. “Well, Kino locks her in a closet every Sunday.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because she asked for religious accommodation.”

  I nodded. “I remember — on our first night here.”

  Oliver gazed off into the distance, seeing nothing through the fog. “She doesn’t have to go. Kino told her she could quit any time. She won’t, though. She won’t let Kino win.”

  I shake my head. “She’s evil. And now I’ve offered to help her.”

  “Finding the bomber is a good thing to do. Even if it helps Kino.”

  “Did you notice how angry she was in the cafeteria, though? I’ve never seen her so—”

  “Scared?”

  “Yeah. So why were the SS investigators in and out of here so fast? They didn’t do much more than brutalize a bunch of innocent kids.”

  “Typical,” Oliver said. “They did the minimum, rubber stamped their orders. They don’t care what happens out here.”

  “But Kino cares.”

  “Not about the students.”

  “Which means…” I trailed off, staring off into the fog.

  “What are you thinking?”

  I lifted my eyes. “The bomber was targeting her.”

  The next day was a UN Inspection Day, so I couldn’t get to Kino’s office until after class. Chad was there instead of Zak. He never answers my questions.

  Kino was curled up in a chair by the fire.

  “Come in, Reed.”

  As I crossed the room, Chad stepped behind her chair and stood there like a bodyguard, which meant I was right. Kino thinks she’s in danger.

  “I need to examine the detonated bomb,” I said. “And also a land mine — disarmed, of course — to see how the bomber altered it. You said it was stolen from outside the fence?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. “Also, I need to figure out where he got it, how he took it without the Cit-Track or Sentribots spotting him.”

  “Fine. I’ll have Chad go with you.”

  “I’d rather have Zak.” I glanced at Chad. “No offense, but I need someone who will share ideas. Chad is…”

  Kino tilted her head back so she could look up at him. Then she licked her lower lip and trailed one fingernail down his arm. “As thick as a brick, aren’t you, my lovely boy?”

  I felt sick, but swallowed the feeling. “One more thing. I need to see any threats you’ve received.”

  Kino dropped her hand.

  “Threats?” she asked icily.

  I nodded. “You were his target, right?”

  Kino said nothing.

  “You want me to find this person? Fine. But I need to know everything.”

  For a moment we just stared at each other. Finally, she rose and walked to her desk. Chad followed. “There,” she said after several keystrokes. “I’ve sent everything I have to your nanochip.”

  “And the bomb? The mine?”

  “Zak will be here soon. He’ll take you to them.”

  I nodded and turned toward the door.

  “Reed?”

  “Yes?”

  “You do this right and your mother may be transferred to a nicer cell.”

  I clenched my jaw, unwilling to let her see my disgust. “One jail cell is like any other. Feed her properly, starting today. If you do, I promise — I’ll find your bomber.”

  Chapter 20

  Adam

  * * *

  I remember Christmas. Vague things from when I was a kid. A small tree with lights, special food and a gift for me, wrapped in bright paper. It was a private celebration. We kept the blinds closed. I don’t know if our neighbors celebrated. Some oppose the tradition, its ties to religion. Others just can’t afford the expense. I was never told to keep quiet about Christmas, but I did. It seemed like I should.

  I have always been good at keeping secrets.

  Today is the twenty-fifth of December, but no one is celebrating at the House. The tackle league championship game was a few days ago, but the victory was short lived. All evidence of joy and good will have vanished. We’re studying for exams instead, huddled together in the common room to keep warm. Xoey’s hats and mittens are coveted, fought over even. She hates the idea of creating turmoil, so she works faster, imagining everyone will be happy when there are enough for everyone.

  She hasn’t been here long enough to understand. There’s never enough.

  The heater worked when I first got to the House, but it broke last year. No one bothered to repair it. No one cares. Last winter a boy rolled an empty barrel from the maintenance garage to the common room. He started a fire inside, drafting the smoke out the back window through a chimney made from an old cement chute. The warmth of that fire sticks with me, even now. When Haak found out, he made him sit outside in the snow for two hours as punishment. The kid died of pneumonia a week later. I wish I could remember his name.

  I wonder if I’ll soon forget Jeanine’s.

  The Short Timers study in their own common room. Heated, of course. We don’t see them much. They are especially desperate to get back to the Sand after the explosion.

  There have been several defectors. You can almost see the switch in their brains, the day they decide to sell out. Their hands start flying up in class, their mouths open to spew the party line. Then they move to the Short Timers’ dorm, twitching to be patted on the head and sent home.

  I think about telling them the whole thing is a lie. Whether we go back to the Sand, on to labor camps or out to the front line, we’ll always be outsiders.

  But why take away their hope?

  I don’t know if hope is what those of us in the detention crew have. The ones reading forbidden books. It’s something like hope, maybe. Anger. Desperation. I read things that don’t match what we’ve been taught.

  Beautiful things. Horrible things.

  I think about my father. Did he have some kind of awakening too? Some knowledge of truth which turned him from an obedient UDR soldier into a man who was publicly executed?

  I’m sitting in the corner, reviewing history. None of us are wearing Xoey hats and Reed is grumbling about it.

  “Doesn’t friendship have privileges?”

  “We can only make so many a day,” Xoey says. Her fingers wield a hook, pulling yarn in a hypnotic rhythm. “Sick kids are my priority.”

  Riley mumbles something under her breath that sounds like “not liars.” She sits close to me. A benefit of her renewed hatred for Reed. She hasn’t said it so much, but her voice is softer. Her eyes stay on mine a few seconds longer.

  Maybe she sees me now, since I’ve taken her side. Maybe. I try not to hope.

  “When were the state governors brought under the control of the executive branch?” Riley reads.

  “Right before the Second Civil War,” Sam answers.

  “Wait. Was that the blue and gray one or the blue and red one?” Reed asks.

  Riley rolls her eyes. “Idiot,” she mutters.

  Our eyes lock for a minute before she focuses on her tablet again. I shift in my seat and our shoulders touch. She doesn’t move away.

  Maybe it is Christmas after all.

  Chapter 21

  Xoey

  * * *

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Better.” I stamp my feet against the cold.

  “Let’s move fast, then. We don’t have much time.”

  Oliver grabs my hand and we run. The school is still cloaked in fog, masking everything more than a few feet in front of us. It does not slow him down, or me either since I am letting him guide me through the unseen, trusting him. I am breathless by the time we reach the library. My ankle feels tight. My chest too, but I say nothing. We ge
t to the basement and crawl through the opening to the tunnel without wasting time.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  My father used to watch old movies featuring explorers who lit torches and searched murky caverns for treasure. I feel like one now as we head down the uncharted tunnel, dodging cobwebs and sidestepping pipes and cables. Unlike those torches, the blue light of my Readybeam adds no warmth to our adventure.

  Oliver must hear my teeth chattering.

  “You’re cold.”

  “I am always cold. How about you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I’m not good at holding still. I guess it has its benefits. Plus, this isn’t cold. Not compared to where I’m from.”

  “Well, I am from a place with palm trees and sunshine.” I step around an empty box. “I would be quite happy if we found something useful down here. Like warm boots.”

  Oliver glances at me sideways. “But you wouldn’t trade the books…”

  “No!” I laugh. “Not for anything.”

  He nods. “What’s your favorite so far?”

  “It is hard to pick one.”

  “I won’t hold you to it. You can change your mind tomorrow.”

  “Then I will say To Kill a Mockingbird. I read it once before, when I lived in the Sand. But they took out some things.”

  “Like what?”

  I think for a minute. “Like where a teacher told Scout her father should stop teaching her to read at home or risk ruining her education.”

  “Huh. I wonder why?”

  I shrug. “Have you read it?”

  He shakes his head. “What did you like most?”

  I focus on the blue light dancing across the floor. “Atticus Finch, I guess. He was an amazing father.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Caring. Smart, but not arrogant. Patient, but strict sometimes. Kind. Maybe too perfect, now that I think about it.”

  “Not like your father, I guess?”

  “No.”

  “Mine either. Then again, I would have settled for…”

  He stops.

  “For what?”

  “Neglect.”

  His hand is next to mine, so I reach out and squeeze it. He falters for just a second and I let go, glad the tunnel is dark.

  “What about you? What have you been reading?”

  “Hmm? Oh. A biography of George Washington. Other histories of the U.S.” He is silent for a minute. “It’s different from what they’ve taught us in school.”

  “Different how?”

  “Not all bad. More complicated, at least. We’ve always been taught it was horrible. You know: America was all about imperialism, atomic bombs, and internment camps. Privilege, racism. Violence, environmental waste, bigotry, corporate greed.”

  “It’s not true?”

  He grimaces. “Some of it is, it’s just not the whole story. Our teachers have taught us the darkest parts of American history and deleted the good, twisting it to show something different than the truth.”

  “Our teachers would say these books should be destroyed, and that our current texts are more reliable.”

  “I can’t trust people who want to burn books or hide opinions, even if they’re not popular. Even if they’re wrong! Why can’t we read them and decide for ourselves?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, there had to be something good about a country that lasted so long with open elections and the freedom to say what you want, work where you want, travel freely, assemble... From what I’ve read, our ancestors sacrificed a lot to protect all that ‘life, liberty and pursuit of happiness’ Reed keeps talking about. It wasn’t just corruption or greed. Ignorance or domination. Not to them. It was about liberating people, fighting tyrants all over the world, defending freedom for people who were too weak to defend themselves.”

  I think about it for a minute. “I have seen so many pictures of war, weapons and conflict. Piles of bombs, death and destruction. The old America always makes me think of those things.”

  “I think they want us to see it like that,” Oliver says. “The ones who write our texts have revised history. Painted everything with a wide brush. They don’t encourage us to question things, to dig deeper. To disagree and discuss so we can form our own ideas. I think they’re afraid if we know the whole truth — the good and the bad — we’ll...”

  “We’ll what?”

  “We’ll want what they fought for. We’ll start chasing our own freedom, just like Floodlight wrote.”

  I laugh. “Reed has you reading Floodlight too?”

  “Yeah. It’s not always easy to understand, though. It’s so…”

  “Political?” I wrinkle my nose. “But some of it sticks with me. She wrote something like, ‘An incomplete truth, told to deceive or control, is nothing but a dressed up lie.’”

  “Telling the truth matters a lot to you?”

  I nod. “Truth leads to freedom. Isn’t that what you were just trying to say?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “It is also the foundation of my faith.”

  “I’ve always been taught faith is superstitious while truth is scientific. Doesn’t that make them opposites?”

  “But you were taught that by the same people who are lying about American history, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He laughs. “Good point.”

  “Jesus said it was his purpose in being born. To tell the truth.”

  I say it quietly, but as soon as his name leaves my mouth, I feel a warm surge of fear pulse through me. It is illegal, what I have just done. The government would say promoting one faith is the same as criticizing another. It is considered discriminatory. But my fear is reflexive. I swallow it and take a deep breath, trusting Oliver. “If we would all try to be honest, it would be a better world.”

  “Honesty requires trust,” he says.

  “Mm. And courage.”

  The tunnel curves and slopes downward. It feels like it is narrowing too, but I try not to think about it.

  “I admire you, Xoey. Your faith,” Oliver says. “I just don’t know if I could ever believe what you believe.”

  I nod in the darkness but say nothing.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “You mean you don’t believe in God?”

  He stays focused on his Readybeam. “It’s just hard for me to wrap my head around the idea of a Creator. It seems… I guess it just seems like fantasy, not reality.”

  I think about it. “Well, do you believe in Good?”

  “Good? Like with a capital G?”

  I laugh. “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I even know what that is.”

  “Like…rain falling when there’s a drought. A laughing baby. Feeding someone who’s hungry, helping someone who has fallen down—”

  “Meeting someone who makes you want to be a better person?”

  I am grateful the darkness hides my blush. “Yes. Good.”

  “I haven’t seen a lot of Good in my life. Have you?”

  “Maybe not. But I believe in it. I believe it’s what we are trying to do here. Trying to figure out what is true and what is not, even while we are locked up like criminals. Trying to help each other, to give each other hope.”

  “And you think Good is God?”

  “Yes. And God is Good. They’re inseparable. That’s exactly what I believe.”

  Moments later, we reach a fork.

  “Left or right?”

  “Right.”

  We turn and keep walking. Unless we find something soon, we will need to head back to beat the Cit-Track. At least Oliver’s pace is helping. I am having trouble matching his stride, but I bite my tongue. Thinking of Reed’s threat to board up the tunnel spurs me on.

  “Have you been singing?”

  Oliver’s Readybeam light bounces from right to left, creating a silent rhythm.

  “What?”

  “Singing. In Kino’s closet.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why
not? I thought it helped during the cave-in.”

  I think about it. “Well, it did. But you were there.”

  For a minute he says nothing.

  “So you need an audience?”

  “No!”

  “Admit it. You’re a diva!”

  I nudge him with my shoulder. “Are you mocking me?”

  “No…yes. Maybe a little.”

  We laugh. It’s a beautiful sound, echoing off the tunnel walls.

  “Wait. Stop here,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  I sweep my Readybeam back along the left wall.

  “Something is boarded up.”

  “Here. Let me.”

  I focus my Readybeam while Oliver tugs on the boards. They give way without much resistance, and we both lean forward, our heads tucked inside. Our beams light up a narrow passageway.

  “If we go farther, you are going to have to duck.” My voice is too bright, almost shrill. It is so narrow in there, almost as narrow as a closet.

  “We don’t have to,” Oliver says. “But if we don’t try it, we need to go back.”

  I shake my head, thinking of the books I haven’t read and the music I have yet to hear. “No. We are not going back. Not when we have come this far.”

  Oliver holds out his hand. “After you.”

  I say a quick prayer and crawl through. Even I have to bend to avoid grazing the ceiling. Oliver must be doubled over behind me. More pipes and cables line the wall on one side, and the air smells strange. What if it’s not safe to breathe? The thought only adds to my anxiety. I start to breathe hard.

  “Xoey?”

  “No.” I can barely get the words out. “No, I am fine.”

  But it’s not true. I am heading toward the unseen and the tunnel is narrowing. I think about the library floor caving in and imagine it happening again, right here, trapping Oliver and me under a pile of rubble with no one to hear us scream. No one to rescue us.

  “Xoey?” Oliver sounds alarmed. I realize I am crying.

  Stop it, I tell myself. One foot in front of the other. Focus on the light. Keep praying. But there is nothing but blackness in front of me. Hopeless blackness. Each step forward is either foolishness or faith, I cannot decide which. My cheeks are covered in tears. I must keep moving forward.