My Life with the Liars

by Caela Carter

  “I’m coming,” I whisper, even though I know I shouldn’t talk to her. It’s no longer an emergency.

  I dash behind the nearest bush to get myself ready. I peel off my shorts and shirt, ring out the sweat and change my socks and underwear. I pour some water on my head and smooth my hair back. I won’t have a pretty dress and a head full of sparkling pins for my ceremony, but at least I’ll be sort of clean.

  Then I ditch Elsie’s backpack. I ditch Elsie herself, and Junior and Jakey. I ditch Louis and Uncle Alan and strawberries and colors and ice cream. I ditch Target and Turtle and Charita. I ditch Darkness right there on the side of the road.

  And I run toward the Light.

  Twenty-Four

  AS THE COMPOUND COMES SPEEDING IN front of me, I slow to a walk, then a tiptoe.

  I made it. Thank you, thank you. I made it.

  I wonder why Father Prophet and the Teachers and Caretakers never told us what it looked like from the Outside: how the walls are the same pristine white above the prickly hedges that hug them inside and out; how they stretch so high they could scratch the bottom of the clouds if there were any; how from the Outside our home looks like nothing but walls and shining silver roofs.

  I wonder why they never told us anything real about the Outside. I wonder why they only gave us words and no information. The words were not enough. Why didn’t they give us a map? Or chains to pull ourselves back with? I had to grow my own chains to get back here.

  But I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t want to think about all of the times it felt like Father let me down. Or how, sometimes, it seemed like the Liars took better care of me than the Light. I’ll push all of that from my mind until I forget.

  I’m back now. I’m back.

  I can see only one break in the wall that snakes across the end of the road. It’s a wooden gate slumping in the middle of all of that white concrete. I see it and then I see everything from ten days ago and then I’m shaking. But those gates, they’re parted slightly, and I know that they’re left open for me and that this nightmare-that-was-real is almost over. I stand still in front of them and listen. The entire wall, the entire compound, is breathing, snoring. I can hear the in and out, in and out, in and out. It begs me to slip inside and turn on the Chapel lights and wake it up.

  I tiptoe tiptoe tiptoe until I could reach out a hand and touch the weathered splinters of the Darkness side of the gate. It is the last bit of Darkness that I will ever touch.

  Then I jump.

  The dogs erupt into ferocious barking and scamper around where they’re tied to both sides of the wall. I can hear them all, even the ones I can’t see. The ones I can see strain against their chains and jump at me with claw-filled paws batting in front of their faces and they waggle their heads quick quick quick showing off every shiny, pointy, gray tooth.

  I don’t run.

  I forgot about the dogs. Worse: they forgot about me. What if everyone did?

  When the noise they’re making goes unanswered—no alarmed screaming from the kids Inside, none of the men appearing out of breath to make sure that the Light is safe from a Dark infiltrator—I know the day is over in there. They’re all already asleep. I look at the sky. The sun is low, but there. I still have time.

  I didn’t come this far to give up only because it’s after teatime.

  I’ll have to wake up Father Prophet.

  I know how to calm the dogs down. They taught us over and over again every day or every week or something how to stay safe if the dogs ever forget us. “Shh, shh,” I say. I sit on the ground. “I’m here for the Light,” I say.

  They get quieter. Some of them hide their teeth behind their gums.

  “Shh, shh.” I crawl toward the gate and—“Shh, shh”—crack it open with my palm. “I’m here for the Light.” But that last sentence is just for me. The dogs are lying still again. They remember me now.

  Then I’m Inside. Home.

  Even the darkening air smells like her Light.

  I tiptoe down the main path until I stand right at the entrance to the first, the smallest circle of buildings: Girls’ Dorm to my left, Dining Hall on my right, bathroom, Boys’ Dorm, and classrooms spread out across the empty circle. This circle is small enough to see all of the buildings, even the ones across from where I stand. It’s like I remember. Everything, except the emptiness, is the same. My breath tastes like music: I made it. My heart becomes one of those helium balloons Jaycia told me about, so big and light and high in my body I’m sure I’ll float away straight to Mother God herself: I’m thirteen.

  Tonight, my ceremony. Tomorrow, I start training to Gather.

  Before I take another step, I crouch and slip off my shoes and socks. Whoever heard of a Thirteenth Ceremony while wearing shoes? I smile to myself, the picture is so funny.

  I tiptoe about ten paces to the right, then pull open the screen door to the Girls’ Dorm. I’ll stash my shoes and socks—I’ll need them for Exercise tomorrow—then I’ll run across the compound to fetch Father.

  He might want to wake everyone up for my ceremony anyway. Or else it’ll be just him and me. I don’t know which one I want more.

  Light. That’s all I want.

  The door creaks when it opens and I gasp, sure I’m about to be caught. Who is in charge now? Sunuko? Or Lixathia?

  No one moves. The only noises are sighs and shifting sheets. (And folding stomachs: it was a Hungry Day. I can tell by the sound of it.) I step from the clay path to the sandy floor and let the door bounce shut behind me. A wall of pomegranate tea slaps me in the nostrils. Did it always smell this strong?

  Still, no one stirs.

  I drop each shoe onto the floorboards with a thud.

  Then my heart stops. Why am I doing this? What if they don’t even remember me? What if they hate me now?

  There are visions folded into the dark and twisted parts of my brain: hugs and cheering and “happy birthdays” but I know those things are impossible here. I didn’t ever want the impossible until Louis stole my Light.

  A beam of sunshine comes through the window and pokes me in the eye, like it did this morning. Waking up feels like days and weeks and months ago now.

  These sleeping girls won’t sing at my Ceremony but that’s OK because I will. I will sing. I will turn on the lights. I made it.

  The red dust that collects on the soles of my feet feels as good as a hug as I scurry through the second circle. I pass two classrooms and the Exercise Fields and the Teen Dorms, and then, at the very center of everything, the Chapel.

  I can’t help but slow down and glance inside the cracked-open metal doors. The stone benches look gray and shadowy from out here even though I know they’re white. The windows are high and I can see the light still falling through the one closest to the door. But I don’t have much time.

  Do I go in now? Do I try to do it once without Father? Do I make sure I have the Light, first?

  No. I’m here. I did more to get here by thirteen than any other girl has done ever. I went through so much to turn those lights on. She has to be pleased with me. It will work.

  If I get back to the Chapel with Father in time.

  I run through the rest of the second circle.

  I know where Father Prophet lives even though I’ve never been there. In fact, I’ve barely ever been in the third circle: the last time I remember crossing from second to third was a year ago to see Brother Tomlinkin. The third circle is the most exciting and interesting, so full of paths and buildings and fields that you can’t even see that it’s shaped like a circle unless you walk all the way around it. I don’t know what most of the buildings are for. Before, I never wondered. Today, I don’t have time. I rush past big ones and small ones to the very back end of those whitewashed walls. To Father Prophet’s house.

  I climb up the front stairs slowly. They’re made of stone, like the Chapel. Nothing else here is made of stone, but these stairs are. In fact, his whole house is. I reach out a hand and touch my knu
ckles to the wall to be sure. Yes: stone.

  Why is it stone when the rest of us sleep in plywood and metal? Why does Father have his own house and the rest of us have dorms? Why have I never thought of this before?

  And why is there noise, so much noise, spilling out of the windows over my head when the rest of the compound is empty and asleep?

  I knock. I knock and knock and knock but he doesn’t come.

  It’s too noisy. He can’t hear me.

  But he should already know I’m here. I’ve been talking to him all day.

  I wait a second, check the setting sun, then knock again. His door is different too: big and metal and heavy like Louis and Charita’s door.

  No one comes.

  I reach for the knob, my fingertips sizzling on the hot metal surface. It turns. Then I’m inside.

  “Good night, sweet Zylynn,” a deep voice said.

  My tiny body was wrapped tight in blankets and tucked next to another snoring body. A woman’s body.

  There was a man leaning over us.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  I strained to open my eyes, to move my arms out of the blankets, to shake my head, to get my thick, pomegranate-coated tongue to speak. To do anything to make that voice stay another minute.

  I was so . . . so . . . tired . . .

  Lips brushed against the top of my head.

  “Your momma’s gonna take good care of you, Zy-baby. I know she will. And this isn’t good-bye. It’s just . . . see you later. I’ve got to . . . figure some things out, but—”

  Why wouldn’t my eyes open? Why couldn’t I move my mouth to tell him to stay?

  “I’ll be back,” he finished.

  I heard him turn. I heard footsteps getting further from the bed.

  I finally pried my left eye open. Just in time to see him disappear through the screen door.

  Daddy.

  Louis.

  Twenty-Five

  THE HALLWAY IS DARK. SO DARK. I didn’t know dark like this existed in Light, Inside, in Father’s house. The floor is made of wood but not like our floor in the dorm. It’s fancy, polished, deep brown wood.

  Above my head there’s nothing but noise: calling and shouting, music from some sort of music-player, laughing, singing, chairs scraping, feet bouncing off the floor, and the clinking of utensils against plates.

  There are many voices. More than just Father’s. But his is there, clear, distinct, low, powerful. He’s right above my head.

  In front of me there’s a set of carpeted stairs.

  Carpet. Music. Shouting.

  Curiosity is wound around me so tightly now I can’t make myself move. She squeezes my legs and stomach and arms and shoulders. She pushes frigid fingers into each muscle and freezes them one by one. She whispers two storms of questions, one into each ear, making them meet in the middle of my skull and morph and multiply until I’m no longer made of blood and organs but only words and questions.

  I don’t know how long it takes me to move, but I know the sun is still there. Here. Outside this dark house, in the sky.

  Curiosity is still here too, a backpack filled with bricks rubbing against the raw skin on my shoulders and back. But I manage to contain her so that I can move.

  Father’s carpet is not soft on the soles of my feet. It’s scratchy. Softness is for the Outside. Light has edges.

  I count the steps: One, two, three, four . . . and then, twelve. I’m at the top. There’s a small hallway and at the end is a bright room crammed with noise. Curiosity hangs like a chain on one foot, fear on the other, as I take three steps to get to the doorway of the room.

  I shouldn’t be afraid anymore. I’m back Inside. I’m finding Father.

  But fear hangs from me anyway, heavy and smelly and there.

  I gape in the open doorway. I think I might actually be invisible because I stand there for seconds or minutes or hours and no one notices.

  I know what I’m seeing. I know what it is.

  Party (n.): a social gathering of invited guests to one’s home or elsewhere for purpose of conversation, refreshment, entertainment, etc.

  But how can a word from Outside Studies tell me about something that’s happening Inside?

  There are men and women around a big table. More women, maybe six and only three or four men. I recognize them. Brother Wrinklesky. Brother Chansayzar. Only the most important men are here. The rest must be where they should be: sleeping in the Men’s Dorm.

  But the women—there are only a few of them here too—they shouldn’t be Inside at all. Not yet.

  At the end of the table, even larger than I remember him, is Father. He holds up a goblet filled with red liquid and bounces back and forth on his toes singing something I can’t understand. Two women hug him on either side and then . . . Father plants his fat lips into their hair. He kisses them.

  I almost retch in the doorway. What is this?

  Another man, Brother Crissakey—I recognize him as the doctor who took over for Brother Tomlinkin—circles the table with a bottle and adds more red liquid to everyone’s glasses. The women all sort of rock where they’re sitting or standing. And in front of everyone is a plate heaping with all sorts of things—meat and green vegetables and rice and potatoes and gravy. An entire roasted bird sits in the center of the table.

  “But today was a Hungry Day.” I say it out loud, but no one can hear me through the music and the sloppy laughter.

  Father Prophet spins one of the ladies around in his arms and lets go. She stumbles a few steps toward a little table in the corner. I get distracted by that table for a second because I see a big TV on it. We have television? And next to the TV I see something small and silver and shiny and terrifying. I know what it is. But it can’t be that.

  I can’t help thinking of all the times he stood up in Chapel and talked about the evil, the violence, the guns in Darkness.

  Gun (n.): a weapon consisting of a metal tube, with mechanical attachments, from which projectiles are shot by the force of an explosive

  Gun (n.): the most obvious sign of evil, greed, and Darkness

  How can he have one in his own living room? Has it always been here? Does he carry it around? Has it been in the Chapel?

  There are so many things in this room that don’t belong Inside, that belong only in Darkness: guns and televisions and wine and hugging and kissing and laughter.

  I can’t try to understand it. I can’t let the questions spinning in my brain take a shape. I can’t let Curiosity win.

  There’s probably only a few minutes until sunset. I have to get to the Chapel with Father.

  Once I’m a full part of the Light, once I turn those lights on, once Mother shows him how pleased she is with me, then I will understand. Or I will forget. Either one is better than standing in this doorway shaking with my eyes getting wet and my feet so sore and my head so stuffed with words and questions.

  “Zylynn!” a lady gasps.

  I’m not invisible after all.

  All of the men and women in the room freeze. The singing stops. The music buzzes off. Their eyes swing to find me cowering in the doorway while I turn my head back and forth until I find the smallest, skinniest, most-alone woman huddled under layers of white dress on the window seat in the corner. “Zylynn?” she says again. A question this time.

  It’s Thesmerelda.

  She stands with her arms reaching for me and I know everything that I don’t want to know: this is my mother. Not like God, but like Charita said. This is my mother. This is—

  “Tessie!” Father’s voice booms across the room. “Sit. You know you cannot touch that child.”

  Thesmerelda sits and so does everyone else. They lock their lips and deaden their eyes. They sit straight and still like they’re in Chapel. It’s like they all climbed back into their Inside bodies and forgot what was going on only seconds ago.

  I can forget too. I can forget that the woman I’m staring at is my mother. I can join the Light and forget everyt
hing I’ve seen. I promise.

  I don’t know why I’m talking to him in my head with Father right in front of me. I thought he was with me all day, but now he looks surprised to see me.

  “Zylynn,” Father says. “Come here.”

  He sits on his chair. It’s different from everyone else’s: made of stone instead of that dark shiny wood, filled with cushions, bigger and taller, like his throne in the Chapel.

  “Come!” he says again. He puts his hand out like he wants me to stand with my head underneath it. I don’t know why I’m shaking. I used to stand with his hand on my head or my cheek all the time.

  I have to walk past the still and silent men and women to get there. There are women here, and there shouldn’t be. But that’s not the worst part. I got used to that with Charita. The worst is that they’re so still, like they’re Elsie’s dolls instead of real people.

  Then his hand is on my head. I should feel calm. I should feel good. I can’t stop Curiosity from ruining this for me.

  “Do not be afraid of this, child,” Father says. His gray eyes search my face deeply. It’s instantly familiar. I relax. “Do not be afraid. You walked into a private feast, that’s all. Doesn’t this look like a Feast Day to you?”

  It does. I nod.

  “Well, sometimes I host a small Feast Day for the most important men and women. For the ones who work the hardest. That will be you one day, will it not?”

  It will be me. I will work so hard for Father Prophet, for Mother God. It will be me at this private feast.

  “It might seem strange to you,” Brother Wrinkesley adds from behind me. “But Father says this is how Mother God would want it to be. Mother rewards us for our special commitment and dedication.”

  Brother Wrinkesley sort of speaks like he’s reciting the definition of a word in Outside Studies. But I can tell he believes it too.