by Sara Wolf
I can’t betray her memory any more than I already have, because her memory is all I have left.
Shadus and I have avoided each other since that night. Or, I’m avoiding him. I can’t meet his gaze. Even sitting across from him in the library generates a static buzz of anxiety and guilt in my head that makes it impossible to talk to him. What would I say, anyway? ‘I’m sorry I tried to kiss you’? Was kissing even what I was going for? I had no idea. Maybe a ‘sorry you think I can use zol’ would do. Or maybe not. I’m so unsure of so much. He’s been wary of me, reluctant to breach the silence with a bridge of words first. Sometimes in his bloodstone eyes I catch a flicker of fear, but he always looks away too fast for me to confirm it. Why would Executioner sotho be afraid of me? His reflexes are better than mine; he’s stronger than me, and taller. It’s not me he’s afraid of. It’s the zol. The zol I can’t actually have.
There’s fear and suspicion in the air, like insidious, infectious pollen.
And then the mharata arrive.
Four black SUVs pull up to the gravel roundabout six days after the second explosion. Adult Gutters in sharp black suits get out. Unlike every Gutter I’ve seen, these Gutters have shaved their heads. Even the females. They wear identical thick sunglasses.
“What’s with the Agent Smiths?” I wonder aloud. Dakota, sitting on the bench next to me with a cup of cocoa, tilts her head curiously. Ulsi goes pale, and stiff.
“Ulsi?” Dakota pokes her arm. “What’s w-wrong?”
“Mharata,” She breathes. “The sotho have sent the mharata here.”
“Shadus said something about them, too,” I lead.
“Who are t-they?” Dakota asks. Ulsi clears her throat, but doesn’t take her eyes off the mharata as they pass us, walking up the stairs and into the main hall in perfect formation.
“They are priests of Ki’eth. They swear vows of deprivation – they do not mate, and they are above belonging to factions. They have no family, and devote themselves to the scrolls and prophecies. They are a neutral party who only involve themselves if Ki’eth is being threatened.”
“Or if someone starts using zol,” I murmur. Ulsi nods.
“W-Why do you look so scared of them, Ulsi?” Dakota asks.
Ulsi doesn’t meet our gazes. She looks at the snow-dusted grass instead.
“It’s nothing.”
The mharata keep sunglasses on at all times, but I see the sides of their eyes as they pass – irises a translucent pink like albino rats. They stand in the halls, their posture rigid, hands clasped behind their backs, and heads shifting. They must have excellent hearing – when I round corners their gaze is already riveted on me. They don’t speak, not even to other Gutters, and they’re stationed in every hall – even the dorms. The irritability of the explosion aftermath is dampened by the creepy mharata. No one wants to start a fight and see what they’re hiding under those emotionless gazes. Whispers fly among the Gutters; is the zol user a Gutter teacher? Or a sotho, like Taj? The Gutter rumors differ, but they all have one thing in common; they are terrified of the mharata. Some Gutters avoid a hall entirely if a mharata is in it. Us humans might be slow, but we aren’t stupid – the Gutter’s fear is picked up on, and human students start avoiding the mharata too, even if we don’t know why.
Principal Freeson holds an assembly in the auditorium. It looks different now that it isn’t swathed in the colors of Owakess. I’m seven rows back, but I can still see the weariness etched into every line of his face.
“Hello,” he speaks into the mic. “And good morning. I hope you all slept well.”
The chatter in the auditorium dulls, and Freeson tries a wane smile.
“I understand that things are hard for you all. And they are only getting harder. I apologize. You’re growing up. This is the most difficult time of your life, and due to our negligence it’s been made even more difficult for you. And for that, I’m truly sorry.”
The auditorium is dead silent, now, even the troublemakers falling quiet at his heartfelt apology. Freeson looks like he’s about to break down, but he clears his throat and looks up, eyes strong.
“We promised your parents we’d keep you safe. Gutter, or human, we resolved to never let anything harm you while you were here at Green Hills. But as you know, things have been happening that are less than safe for all involved. This is why you see so much new security, and this is why I must now introduce our friends, the mharata.”
He sweeps his arms to the side, and several mharata filter out of stage right. They stand, hands behind their backs, posture perfect, all of them in a straight line. Freeson looks back to us.
“In order to catch the offender who has breached our protection, the Gutters have loaned us some of their best officers.”
“Officers? Why are they calling them that?” I whisper to Taj.
“They would never tell human students about zol,” Taj says. “Or the paparazzi. Or the humans, period. Perhaps Freeson himself doesn’t even know. So the mharata are posing as advanced security officers.”
“And in reality?”
“In reality, they’re here to locate the zol user, and take them back to the reservation for, Asara, I don’t know. Study? Seclusion? Worship? Training?” He shudders. “I don’t envy whoever it is. The factions will tear themselves apart trying to use their power. But the mharata will protect the zol at all costs.”
His shudder this time is almost violent as he looks at the silent mharata on stage.
“Why do they scare you so much?” I whisper.
Taj just shakes his head. Frustrated, I tune back in to Freeson’s words. He says the mharata are to be treated with respect, and that they are harmless to any who follow the rules. He apologizes again, and extends the offer for any EVE or Gutter to contact their parents to be taken home. I look around the auditorium – a third of the students have already gone home. Any more, and this will practically be a summer camp, not a proper high school. Taj and I leave, walking along the lawn. The protester’s chants are audible even from here.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” Taj says. “We’ve heard about zol; stories and songs are sung about its power. But they are fiction - bedtime stories told to hatchlings. Asara and Umala are so storied they’ve been made into gods, so long dead they are nothing more than fantastic ghosts.”
I watch him, his gold eyes like molten amber in the weak winter sunlight.
“But now, zol is real. Zol has returned, and all the stories come flooding back to us. It is terrifying. More terrifying than our crash landing. More terrifying than the thought of never going home again. Zol enabled the Grand War on our planet. It was a massacre of our own people, a genocide. When I think about what kind of war zol would cause on this planet, with two races –”
His gaze is far-off, focused on something I can’t see and will never see. His fist clenches, and his jaw sets.
“I won’t let that happen,” He says finally. “As sotho, I will do everything in my power to prevent it.”
“I wish I –” I swallow. “I wish I could help. I wish I had influence, or, shit. Some kind of power. Then I could help. Then I could make a difference.”
Taj grins at me grimly. “But you do. You have the power to change the fate of your sister, do you not?” He must see my shock, because he quickly explains. “Shadus told Raine and I of your predicament. You are very noble.”
I scoff. “I’m just greedy, like every other human.”
“Greedy to make things better for those you love. That isn’t greed at all. That is…well…love. And love is always noble. You have the power, you saw you had the power, and you signed the contract. You decided to use that power. You are helping, Victoria. You are making a very big difference.”
The wind teases my hair. I pull it back, and sigh.
“My mom was the kind to make a bigger difference. She went out and protested. She organized marches. She lobbied politicians and worked tirelessly, and even though it was for a stupid cause, her determination was incredible.
She got shit done, and got it done well.”
Taj is quiet, and then he clears his throat.
“Not many humans would come here of their own volition, to a strange new school in the middle of your high school career. Fewer still would stay amid explosions, and bullying, and still find the heart to embrace an alien culture. You are every bit as determined as she was.”
I feel my heart squeeze, my EVE organ flaring up with equal parts remorse and gratitude.
“I miss her,” My voice cracks. Hot tears gather in the corner of my eyes. I try to stop them but gravity pulls them down and I’m crying, crying in front of an alien. Again. He must think I’m weak, or stupid, or –
Strong arms wrap around my shoulders, and suddenly I’m in Taj’s arms, my face against his shirt. I don’t pull away. My shaking hands lift, and I lace my arms around his torso and let the tears flow.
***
The tense, gray dread reaches its peak just in time for the countdown to Christmas to begin.
In spite of, or maybe because of the recent downer events, the human faculty isn’t skimping out on the Christmas celebrations in the slightest. There’s a whole masquerade ball being held, called the Winter Ball, replete with costumes and masquerade masks. Supposedly a few media reporters will be let in to take pictures of the event, which is huge, since no reporter has been allowed to set foot on the grounds until now.
Even with the mharata hanging around and the general fear that things could possibly go boom at any time, it doesn’t take long for the anticipation of the dance to blow completely out of proportion. Excitement hums in the air. Our EVE organs are filling with elation and dread and disappointment all at once. Boys hesitate before storming over to a girl and blurting what sounds like an invitation. Girls isolate their target and go in for a quieter kill. Gutters look lost but they seem to understand this human ritual better than Halloween - they watch the interactions with knowing smirks, some of them asking each other to the dance. A Gutter and human couple is rare, but talked about in hushed whispers and laughter.
The last Friday before the dance is reserved for a special lesson; ballroom dancing.
“It was once a vital aspect of human culture, and today is considered the most refined dance style in the world.” Our homeroom teacher coughs. His flush evidences how excited he is to teach us how to step on each other’s toes.
“Also known as the most boring thing on the face of the planet,” I whisper to Raine and Dakota. Raine rolls her eyes. Dakota laughs behind her hand.
“I have two hats here,” Our teacher continues. “One for young women and one for young men, from which you’ll choose a piece of paper with a number on it. Find the person with the matching number; they will be your partner for this lesson. There’s an even number of genders. It’s the small mercies that make my job easier.”
I watch panic flicker through girls’ eyes as they look at their numbers, scanning the crowd of boys. No one wants the guy that smells weird, or the guy that likes knives and military stuff way too much. Bossy Taj is also on the list of least desirables. Raine is paired with an Illuminator with a lisp, but she smiles gracefully the whole time. Dakota is paired with Aiden - tall, dark-eyed Aiden. She flushes and trips over herself more than usual.
Taj clutches my hand like it’s a life-ring thrown overboard. As we turn with the rest of the class, he accidentally kicks my shin. I bite my lip. I’m going to be graceful about this, like Raine. Yes. Just like Raine -
“Ow! That’s the third time you kicked me!”
“Your hand is all sweaty!” He shoots back.
“My hand? Yours feels like you climbed out of a freaking river!”
“Children,” Raine singsongs as she glides by with her partner. “Do play nice.”
I flip her off with my free hand and rub it on my jeans. “There. It’s dry. Let’s try again.”
Taj dries his hand on his sweatshirt, too. We kick each other like we’re in a soccer match.
“You’re doing good, but you’re too fast,” I sigh. “How can you be so good at fighting, and so bad at this?”
“Your steps are too big,” He snaps back.
“Fine, let’s just take it really slow.”
By the end of it, we’re not injuring each other, and moving at a decent pace. Taj smiles.
“Pas’ara. Doesn’t seem so hard anymore.”
“You have a date?” I raise an eyebrow. “You should mention you’re a dancing master when you ask them out.”
“I’m not going to ask anyone,” He laughs despondently. “Who would want to go with me? I give people detentions. I’m ‘Hitler’. They all resent me.”
I’m quiet for a moment. The class shuffles out, and he grabs his bag. I start after him.
“Oi, wait up. Go with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“To the Christmas dance. Go with me.”
He smirks. “No offense, but tall, blonde, and human isn’t exactly my type.”
I feel my eyebrow twitch. “Look, I’ll meet you outside the boy’s dorm at seven. How’s that sound?”
Taj frowns. “Isn’t this important for human girls? Asking males to go with them to school functions?”
“Uh, yeah? That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Don’t waste your asking on me. Ask someone you really wish to.”
“But I do. Go with me. Please?”
Taj’s face flushes, and he fights to contain it and fails, the red creeping up to his curls. Finally, he nods and walks away. Raine comes up from behind me, clicking her tongue.
“My my, you must have been very taken with him.”
“You think anyone else was gonna ask him?”
“They might have; he’s quite the charmer. When he isn’t restraining people against walls.”
She makes me promise to decide on one of her dresses by tonight. I’ve tried them all on – every dress of red velvet, blue silk, and green gauze. I don’t like how any of them look on me. I’m too bony and flat to fill anything out nicely. I’d probably look better in a tux. Or a paper bag. I choose the least-fancy one. It’s a weird color - pale jade green with long sleeves, but it’s warm and covers my ass, and that’s all I really ask from a dress. Some frilly fabric is dangling from the back, but I can suck it up and deal. Or use it as a makeshift noose when I decide to kill myself out of boredom tonight.
“I’m so out of my element.” I sigh.
“It will be fun!” Raine helps me zip up the back of the dress. “Just smile more often, and you‘ll be the prettiest girl there. Besides me, of course.”
Raine hasn’t been back to the dorm much, but this is an exception. She still hasn’t broached the subject of me leaving again, which I appreciate. In the mirror I stand taller than Raine, her blue lamé dress elegant. Her hair’s piled on top of her head in curly waves. She runs a hair brush through my hair and cuts with scissors here and there.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“Just cutting the dead ends. Don’t ‘flip a bowel movement’.”
When she’s done it doesn’t look much different. She combs some hair product through.
“It’s shiny,” I marvel.
“If there’s one thing humans have mastered, it is the art of making themselves look not-terrible.” She stuffs a few sticks of makeup in my hands. “Put those on. I assume you know how. Liner to the eyes, gloss to the mouth, and concealer on parts you want no one to notice.”
“I know how to do it. I’ve got a little sister. I’m anti-give-a-shit, not anti-makeup.” I swat her hand away. She laughs.
Girls filter into the hall, all in nice dresses. Some look awkward, but all of them look pretty, and well-suited to their dresses. Raine walks with me, drawing envious looks. Her face might be torqued, but her figure is as beautiful and model-esque as ever. My dress sags because I don’t have enough boobage to hold it up. I don’t belong in it, and the thought of being in a room full of people seeing me wearing it has me in cold sweats.
“T
his is stupid.” I stop. “I look stupid. I’m gonna go back and change.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Raine grabs my arm tighter. “You have a date. Keeping a date waiting is unforgivable by adolescent human movie standards.”
The air is freezing, the stars crystal punctures in the dark bowl of the sky. Raine walks me to the boy’s dorm. Taj walks out, in a well-fitted tux that makes him look taller, and barely conceals his musculature. His gold eyes dart nervously as he searches the steps. He sees me and I nod in greeting.
“Hey.”
“Good evening.”
“Don’t get all formal now. Where’s the hellbent Taj I know?”
He smirks. We start toward the reception hall in the teacher’s building.
“Hargan told me human females like polite guys,” He says.
“Hargan’s a moron,” I say. “Just loosen up and be you.”
The open doors of the ballroom spill light. Teachers smile in their black-tie attire as they sign students in on clipboards. I wave to Yulan, and he waves back. He looks different in a crisp suit; more masculine. Ms. Gianca is stunning in a tiny black, backless dress. It seems like mostly Gutter teachers are here - the human teachers have somewhere to be on Christmas Eve.
I’ve never been in the teacher’s dorms before. The red carpeting, the polished stone walls; it looks like a hotel. In the dining room are marble tiles and a vast glass dome for a roof. Centered around an ice sculpture of a swan on the refreshment table are plates of shrimp cocktails, bacon-wrapped oysters, and raw salmon slices with lemon. The punch bowl gleams hot pink, and below it are the desserts - tiny éclairs, miniature tea cakes with frosting flowers, fresh fruits glittering with sugar and ice. On the other side are the Gutter vials.
“Sometimes I envy you,” Taj sighs next to me, eyes glued to the human side of the table. “You put a lot of care into the presentation of your food. It makes it look very appetizing.”
“You can do that for your food too, right?” I ask.
“Look at it - it’s in a vial. It looks like water. Nothing much you can do with that. Gutter chefs can mix and match different types of emotions for a different taste, though.”