Pucker

by Melanie Gideon

  This time Dash listens. He backs away from me slowly. Even unflappable Nancy is taken aback when she sees the blood streaming down my face.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  Emma’s trying to mop up the blood with the sleeve of her shirt. I take her hand away. She nods, but I can see she’s terribly upset. I draw her into my hip protectively.

  “He just went crazy,” I say to Nancy.

  Dash doesn’t say a word in his defense and this astounds me. Now would be the perfect time to turn me in. Instead he just looks at me tiredly and somehow I feel like I’m the one who’s betrayed him.

  “Dash—you’re on probation as of now,” says Nancy. “Thomas 16 will be transferred to my house immediately.”

  “No,” says Dash. “Give me one more week to prove myself.”

  “You’ve just sliced open his cheek,” says Nancy.

  “It was a little scratch,” he says.

  The blood is copious, but I realize he’s right. This is a little scratch compared to everything else I’ve been through in my life. I stand there, panting, trying to make sense of what’s just happened. As my heart races and I try and catch my breath, I realize it felt good; I’ve never been in a position to fight over a girl before. And then I know why Dash hasn’t turned me in. There is a code of honor between us. You can cut each other open. But you will not give each other up.

  “I’ll stay,” I tell her.

  “What?” asks Nancy, swiveling around.

  I shrug. “I was asking for it.”

  She eyes me distrustfully. “Well, since you seem to be so suddenly fond of each other, one week. After that you move to my house.” She takes the ax out of Dash’s hands and props it up against the woodpile. “You, meet me in the Refectory in ten minutes.”

  Dash walks away. Nancy takes my chin in her hand and turns my face to the left. “You better get to the infirmary. They’ll have some sort of salve to aid the healing.”

  “I’ll take him,” chirps Emma.

  Nancy looks down at Emma like she’s a shrub she’s just stumbled over. “You do that, little girl.” Then she looks back at me. “You have quite the fan club.”

  “No, ma’am,” I say.

  “I’ll be watching you, Thomas.”

  And she does. She watches Emma and me until we disappear from her sight. And even after we have entered the infirmary, she is still watching, standing by the woodpile, her hand resting lightly on the ax.

  FORTY-NINE

  IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN DASH returns. I’ve fallen asleep at the table. He kicks the leg of my chair, waking me. “Get to bed.”

  “What happened?” I mumble, my speech slurred with sleep.

  “What the hell do you think happened?”

  “You’re in trouble?”

  He sneers. “I’m on probation. You think that’s a good thing?”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I begin.

  “Stow it.”

  He rummages through the back of a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. He pours himself two fingers’ worth, sits down, and tosses the amber liquid down his throat.

  “I’ll stay here,” I say. “I won’t go to Nancy’s.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “Well, maybe it’s for the best. That way you won’t have to see me and . . .”

  He glares at me and pours himself another shot.

  “Can I have some?” I ask.

  He looks at me disdainfully. “You’re pathetic, Quicksilver.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Probably.”

  He empties the glass and then rolls it across the table with his palm. “Imagine this is you. You’re in the middle of a lake. Sitting in a rowboat. One oar in the water,” he says.

  “What is this?” I blurt. “A sample question from the SATs?”

  Dash glares at me. “Just shut up and listen for once.” He runs his finger around the lip of his glass. “Here you are. Spinning around in circles.”

  “Just get to the point.”

  “Let me ask you something, Thomas.”

  “What, already?” I say.

  The last thing my father said to me was, I’ll be here when you get back. A lie, of course, for he was about to die. He would never be back. But what’s the fuss? It’s only one lie out of the millions to be filed with all the rest of the lies that children are told. But a lie such as this has a blunt tip and it slowly works its way into the body, week by week, year by year. Until one day you find you have been tunneled. Within you is a trench through which the twin currents of grief and betrayal flow.

  Dash lunges forward. “When are you going to put both damn oars in the water and row?”

  FIFTY

  COOK SUMMONS ME. THIS TIME it’s under the auspices of repairing the roof of her garden shed. It’s a bright, cool morning. When I arrive, she’s waiting in the front yard. She wades though her garden to greet me. The door of her house is flung wide open and it gapes at me like an angry mouth. Something’s not right. She hands me two things: a letter and a butcher’s knife.

  “These belong to you. I should have given them to you long ago. I’m sorry, Thomas,” she says.

  The letter is from my father and the knife—well, the last time I saw it was the day he died. Horrified, I let it drop to the ground.

  Slowly, with trembling hands, I unfold the letter.

  This morning your mother made waffles. You sat at the table, humming. You ate like a bear cub, stabbing the pieces with your fork and catapulting them into your mouth. I can barely stand to look at you. Your goodness dazzles me. The perfection of an eight-year-old boy.

  Of all I have done and accomplished, I am most proud of you.

  Here is the answer to your question. There is no seam. You must slice the skin open and then peel it off. Your mother and I believe in what we are doing. We will shed our skins as easily as stepping out of a pair of pants and then we will be free of this curse. Believe me, even if it turns out I am telling you lies.

  Here is my wish for you. It is not so very different from what all fathers wish for their sons:

  May you swim in warm seas.

  May you never go to war.

  May you one day forgive us.

  I read the letter a second time and then a third, trying to absorb it. Finally I let it flutter to the ground. The Ministry didn’t flay my parents of their Seerskins. They did it to themselves.

  Noises that aren’t human come out of my mouth. A string of gurgles and gasps.

  “Thomas,” Cook says. “Breathe.”

  She reaches out to touch me and I bat her away.

  “I wanted to tell you,” she explains. “Your mother wouldn’t let me. She said she’d tell you when the time was right. Come inside. I’ll make tea.” She glances nervously at the neighbors’ house.

  “Screw your tea,” I say coldly.

  Cook grabs my elbow. “They did it because they wanted a better life for you. They wanted to leave Isaura, Thomas.”

  “We had to leave. Otak banished us!” I cry.

  “No, he didn’t,” says Cook. “Your mother traded her skin for passage to Earth. That was the plan all along. To barter with her skin to get out.”

  I stare at Cook in silence. Suddenly she looks a hundred years old. She was young once. This woman who used to make me corn muffins, who cut my fingernails—who has lied to me just like everybody else.

  “You can’t go back in this state,” says Cook. “You’ve got to calm down.”

  “You’re right,” I tell her.

  “Good,” says Cook, clearly relieved I’ve come to my senses.

  “I’m not going back,” I say. It’s clear to both of us that I’m not talking about the Compound.

  Her face crumples.

  “All these years my mother has let me believe she’s the victim. I was burned. I’m the victim,” I tell her.

  “You were all victims,” says Cook.

  “You want to know what they call me at school? Pucker,” I hiss.

  �
��I’m sorry, Thomas,” Cook says gently. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters. I’ve got a second chance. I’m not going back to Earth.”

  “But she was doing what she thought was best for you,” Cook persists.

  “Really?” I ask. “Lying to me all these years? Sending me back here?”

  “Thomas, don’t. You’re better than this,” Cook exclaims.

  “I’m not better than this. I’ve tried to be better, but I’m not.”

  “I never should have given you that letter.” Cook reaches up to touch my cheek. “I did this to you.”

  “Yes, you did,” I say, brushing her hand away. “You all did.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  I LEAVE COOK’S HOUSE CLUTCHING another bag of the tea that will stop the Change. Cook doesn’t realize that showing me that letter was a favor. She’s set me free by telling me the truth.

  That evening I gather my group together. We meet down by the river; I don’t want to risk being seen. As I explain to them about the Change and what it does to our personalities, I empty the tea out onto a cloth on the ground. I half expect a round of applause. I have, after all, just revealed myself as their savior. Certainty fills me with its white light. I feel hard, brilliant, empty.

  “What’s she doing here?” Michael says, glaring at Phaidra, who stands beside me. “She’s not in our group.”

  “She is now,” I say.

  I sift through the pile of tea, tossing out twigs and an errant blossom. Michael is predictably unimpressed.

  “Tea?” He picks up a handful and sniffs it. His face wrinkles in disgust and he crushes the herbs before dropping them on the ground. “Smells like marijuana.”

  “Smells like you’re an idiot,” I say. “Don’t waste it.”

  “I’m not drinking that crap,” Michael replies.

  “Fine,” I say. “Come see me in a hundred days when you’ve turned into Mr. Roboto.”

  “I’ll drink it,” says Emma.

  “We’re all drinking it,” I say. “Twice a day. Morning and night.” I divide the mound of tea into six portions.

  “We’ll get into trouble,” Rose moans, wringing her hands.

  “It’s worth the risk,” I say. “Nobody has to know. Just be careful.”

  “So what’s the deal with this cook?” Michael asks.

  I haven’t told them everything. Only that there are Isaurians who want to help us and that I had the good fortune of working for one—a cook who gave me the tea.

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s just somebody who feels bad for us.”

  “Why?” asks Michael suspiciously, eyeing the diminishing pile of herbs.

  I sigh. “Look. If you’re not interested in saving yourself, then go away.”

  “I am saved!” Michael shouts. “And you want me to screw it up.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” I say.

  “Who in God’s name asked for your help?”

  Phaidra puts her hand on my forearm to stop me from speaking. “Nobody’s trying to trick you,” she says softly to Michael.

  “Fine, then I want my share,” Michael says petulantly.

  “Here. Take mine. I’ll get more.” I throw my portion into a bag and hand it to him.

  “I’m not saying I’ll drink it,” he replies.

  I shake my head. “Will you just take it and stop being so suspicious? It’s tea. You obviously didn’t have a problem eating or drinking whatever was put in front of you before.”

  The group falls silent at my words. I feel a twinge of shame, but it’s distant, impersonal. Nothing can touch me right now.

  Michael stares at me hard. When he finally speaks, he mumbles quietly, “You shouldn’t have said that.” He slams the bag of tea into my chest.

  “He didn’t mean it,” Phaidra interjects.

  “Yes, he did,” Michael replies, and then he gets up and leaves.

  FIFTY-TWO

  THAT NIGHT PHAIDRA COMES FOR ME.

  She doesn’t stand in the backyard and toss pebbles at my window. Instead she comes in through the front door. She pads noiselessly to my room and taps me on the shoulder. The scent of roses rises from her just-washed hair.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Shhh,” she says, pulling me out of bed.

  We tiptoe down the hall. Dash’s snores fill the house. She clamps her hand over her mouth so she won’t giggle. Once we get outside, we run. Her nightgown glows blue in the moonlight, like a hard-boiled egg. She takes me down to the river.

  “Wait up,” I shout.

  She wades into the water. “No more waiting,” she calls out.

  There is a boy. There is a girl. There is some invisible tether that connects them. I follow her into the river. Her nightgown floats up around her like a halo.

  “Now, under,” she says.

  I take her hand and we dive deep into the water, down to the bottom. We grab handfuls of cattails before the current takes us. When we cannot hold our breath any longer; we surface and swim with long, clean strokes to the river’s edge.

  “Your nightgown,” I whisper. It’s plastered to her body. I can see every curve, every notch, every groove of her. I try not to stare, but it’s impossible.

  She pulls it up over her head and tosses it on the ground beside her.

  When I touch her, she shudders. But we are not alone. All that we were pulses beside us.

  “Ghosts,” I say. “Get out.”

  I take her head in my hands and smooth the hair back from her temples.

  I kiss her forehead, her damp cheeks; I kiss the thumbprint indentation above her upper lip.

  “My eyes,” she whispers. “You’ve forgotten my eyes.”

  She closes her eyes and I kiss the lids. My lips come away wet.

  “I never was with Dash. He wants everyone to think I was, but it never happened,” she says.

  Oh, my girl. My stubborn, clear-hearted girl.

  “I’m going to stay, Phaidra. I’ve figured out a way,” I tell her.

  Her face floods with happiness and then worry. “But Thomas . . . your mother—”

  I put my hand over her mouth, silencing her. Then I lean her back gently into the river grass.

  FIFTY-THREE

  WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, I’m light-headed from lack of sleep. Phaidra left a few hours ago. I still feel some layer of her pressed up against me, as if she’s forgotten to take her shadow along with her.

  I go back to the Compound. It’s deserted. The scent of bread unfurls from the Refectory, but there’s still an hour until breakfast. I haven’t given a thought to my mother; my mind is completely filled with Phaidra, with the hours that we spent together.

  Still, a finger of guilt worms its way in at the edges of my consciousness. I feel horrible for how I left things with Cook. If I’m to stay in Isaura, I’ve got to go work it out with her.

  I walk beside myself this morning, as if there are two of me. I gasp when I replay last night in my head. I slow my stride when I reach Cook’s gate.

  “Phaidra.” I say her name once to calm me.

  “Oh, Phaidra,” I say again.

  Cook’s house has been burned to the ground.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  I SPRINT TO THE NEIGHBORS’ and ring the bell. It takes a long time for anyone to answer. Finally a woman opens the door.

  “You did it. You set Adalia’s house on fire,” she says simply.

  “What?” I cry.

  “Well, you might as well have,” she says. “The Ministry knows all about you now, Thomas Gale.”

  When I hear my true name spoken out loud in Isaura, everything drops away. It’s all over now. I stare at her in a stunned silence.

  The woman glares at me. “Don’t you want to know about Adalia?” she asks.

  Oh God, Cook. “Was she hurt?” I burst out.

  The woman shrugs. “That remains to be seen,” she says, and then shuts the door.

  “No, wait!” I run
to the window and rap on the glass. “Please!” I yell.

  Panic blooms in my mouth, a red flower with a thousand petals.

  “You’re the one they’re looking for,” a voice says behind me.

  I whirl around. A small boy watches me solemnly.

  “You better go. She’ll tell them you’ve come back,” he says in an eerily adult voice. He can’t be more than five years old.

  “Who burned her house down?” I ask, although I know it was the Ministry.

  He shrugs.

  “Where is she?”

  “They took her.”

  “Jesus,” I bleat. They are going to make an example of her. Punishment for helping me.

  The boy looks at me calmly. “What do you want?” he asks.

  “What I can’t have,” I whisper.

  I spend the day hiding in the woods. When night falls, I creep back to the Compound. I peek in the Refectory windows: dinner is long over; the kitchen staff is hard at work washing dishes and wiping down the long tables. I glance across the green; Dash’s house is dark. This is not a good sign. I squat in the bushes.

  I’m not there for long before Rose and Emma come walking down the path holding hands. They’re talking softly. I grab Emma’s arm and yank her down next to me. She gives a small shriek and I clamp my hand over her mouth. “It’s me,” I whisper. Slowly Rose lowers her hand to her chest.

  “My God, you gave me a fright,” she says.

  Emma relaxes in my arms. “I’m sorry, kid,” I tell her. She stares up at me beatifically; then her face prunes up with worry.

  “Where have you been?” she asks. “Everyone’s looking for you.” She strokes the back of my hand. It’s a disturbingly maternal gesture, coming from an eleven-year-old girl.

  Rose joins us in the bushes. Tiny diamonds of light from the mullioned Refectory windows spill down on us. For the first time since this morning I feel safe; then I think of Cook.

  “They burned her house down,” I say.

  “Whose house?” asks Rose.

  “Cook. The woman who gave us the tea.”

  Rose inhales sharply.