by Marie Lu
Something he lost. The words bring a lump to my throat, a sudden surge of wild hope. “It’s not strange at all,” I hear myself reply.
Day smiles in return. Something sweet and yearning appears in his eyes. “I felt like I found something when I saw you back there. Are you sure . . . do you know me? Do I know you?”
I don’t know what to say. The part of me that had once decided to step out of his life tells me to do it again, to protect him from this knowledge that had hurt him so long ago. Ten years . . . has it really been that long? The other part of me, the girl who had first met him on the streets, urges me to tell him the truth. Finally, when I do manage to open my mouth, I say, “I have to go meet up with some friends.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Day clears his throat, unsure of himself. “I do too, actually. An old friend down in Ruby.”
An old friend down in Ruby. My eyes widen. Suddenly I know why Tess sounded so mischievous on her message, why she told me to watch the news tonight. “Is your friend’s name Tess?” I ask hesitantly.
It’s Day’s turn to look surprised. He gives me an intrigued, puzzled smile. “You know her.”
What am I doing? What’s happening? This really is all a dream, and I’m terrified to wake up from it. I’ve had this dream too many times. I don’t want it taken away again. “Yes,” I murmur. “I’m having dinner with her tonight.”
We stare at each other in silence. Day’s face is serious now, and his gaze is so intense that I can feel warmth running through every inch of my body. We stand together like this for a long, long moment, and for once, I have no idea how much time has passed. “I do remember,” he finally says. I search his eyes for that same aching sadness, the torment and anguish that had always been there whenever we were together. But I can no longer see it. Instead, I find something else . . . I see a healed wound, a permanent scar that has nevertheless closed, something from a chapter of his life that he has finally, after all these years, made peace with. I see . . . Can it be possible? Can this be true?
I see pieces of memories in his eyes. Pieces of us. They are broken, and scattered, but they are there, gradually coming together again at the sight of me. They are there.
“It’s you,” he whispers. There is wonder in his voice.
“Is it?” I whisper back, my voice trembling with all the emotions I’ve kept hidden for so long.
Day is so close, and his eyes are so bright. “I hope,” he replies softly, “to get to know you again. If you are open to it. There is a fog around you that I would like to clear away.”
His scars will never fade. I am certain of that much. But perhaps . . . perhaps . . . with time, with age, we can be friends again. We can heal. Perhaps we can return to that same place we once stood, when we were both young and innocent. Perhaps we really can meet like other people do, on some street one balmy evening, where we each catch the other’s eye and stop to introduce ourselves. Echoes of Day’s old wish come back to me now, emerging from the mist of our early days.
Perhaps there is such a thing as fate.
Still I wait, too unsure of myself to answer. I cannot take the first step. I shouldn’t. That step belongs to him.
For a moment, I think it won’t happen.
Then Day reaches out and touches my hand with his. He encloses it in a handshake. And just like that, I am linked with him again, I feel the pulse of our bond and history and love through our hands, like a wave of magic, the return of a long-lost friend. Of something meant to be. The feeling brings tears to my eyes. Perhaps we can take a step forward together.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Daniel.”
“Hi,” I reply. “I’m June.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The end of the path is a strange and wistful place. For the past few years, I’ve breathed the world of Legend; my life became the lives of Day and June, and through them I saw my own fears, hopes, and aspirations play out across their canvas. Now I’ve reached the point where our stories diverge. They are off to live beyond the confines of the trilogy; I am left waving to them from the sidelines. I don’t know where they’ll go, but I think they’re going to be okay.
I’m not alone on the sidelines, of course. With me are those I started with and those I met along the way:
My inimitable literary agent, Kristin Nelson, and Team NLA: Anita Mumm, Sara Megibow, Lori Bennett, and Angie Hodapp. Thank you, thank you, thank you for standing with me on every hill.
My amazing editors, Jen Besser, Ari Lewin, and Shauna Fay Rossano, who vanquished my Book 3 demons with stalwart battle cries. We made it! I don’t know what I’d do without you. Love you ladies.
Team Putnam Children’s, Team Speak, and Team Penguin: Don Weisberg, Jennifer Loja, Marisa Russell, Laura Antonacci, Anna Jarzab, Jessica Schoffel, Elyse Marshall, Jill Bailey, Scottie Bowditch, Lori Thorn, Linda McCarthy, Erin Dempsey, Shanta Newlin, Emily Romero, Erin Gallagher, Mia Garcia, Lisa Kelly, Courtney Wood, Marie Kent, Sara Ortiz, Elizabeth Zajac, Kristin Gilson, and Eileen Kreit. You guys are the most epic teams a girl could have on her side.
The incredible people at CBS Films, Temple Hill, UTA, and ALF&L: Wolfgang Hammer, Grey Munford, Matt Gilhooley, Ally Mielnicki, Isaac Klausner, Wyck Godfrey, Marty Bowen, Gina Martinez, Wayne Alexander, and my fabulous film agent, Kassie Evashevski. Thank you all for continuing to believe in this writer’s dreams.
Wicked Sweet Games: Matt Sherwood, Phil Harvey, Kole Hicks, Bobby Hernandez, and of course, the Elector Primo. Cities of Legend is a game full of badassery, because you guys are badass.
My incredible foreign publishers for taking Legend above and beyond, and sometimes even straight to Pasadena with fans in tow! (I’m looking at you, marvelous Ruth.)
My irreplaceable writer friends: JJ, Ello, Andrea, Beth, Jess Spotswood, Jess Khoury, Leigh, Sandy, Amie, Ridley, Kami, Margie, Tahereh, Ransom, Cindy, Malinda, and the fabulous PubCrawl ladies. Finding one’s tribe is a precious thing. I cannot properly express what you all mean to me. Thank you for your friendship.
The fam bam, my friends, Andre, my aunt and uncle, my wonderful fiancé, and most of all, my mom. You are always there, no matter what. Love you.
Finally, I need to give a special acknowledgment at the end of this path:
To my readers. It is because of you that I can continue to do what I love. I am so grateful. To my young readers, in particular: the books I read as a child occupy a protected, golden space in my heart. It is a deeply humbling thought that Legend might have the privilege of sitting in that golden space in some of your hearts. I am so touched by the e-mails and letters that you all have sent over the years. You are a remarkable generation of young people, and you are all going to do amazing things with your lives.
Thank you for the honor of telling you stories.
LIFE BEFORE
STORIES OF
THE CRIMINAL AND THE PRODIGY
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, USA.
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d, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.
Copyright © 2013 by Xiwei Lu.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat & Tm. Off. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Published simultaneously in Canada.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-101-62211-7
CONTENTS
EPISODE 1: DAY
EPISODE 2: JUNE
EPISODE ONE
DAY
THREE YEARS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF
LEGEND
Author’s Note: In Prodigy (the sequel to Legend), June asks Day to tell her about his very first kiss. This is a short story answering that question.
I’M TWELVE YEARS OLD.
I live in the Republic of America.
My name is Day.
My name used to be Daniel Altan Wing, younger brother to John, older brother to Eden, son to a mom and dad who lived in Los Angeles’s slum sectors.
When you’ve been poor all your life, you never really think it could be any other way. And sometimes you’re even happy, because at least you’ve got your family and your health and your arms and legs and a roof over your head.
But now I’m without most of those things. My mother and brothers think I’m dead. I have an injured knee that might never heal. I live on the streets of Lake sector, a slum sitting along the shore of Los Angeles’s giant lake, and every day I manage to do just enough to survive.
But things could always be worse, yeah? At least I’m alive; at least my mom and brothers are alive. There’s still hope.
This morning I’m perched on the balcony of a three-story, torn-up apartment complex that has all its windows boarded up. My bad leg dangles over the edge while I lean casually on my good one. My eyes are fixed on one of the piers lining the lakeshore, its waters glittering through the haze of morning smog. All around me, JumboTrons on the sides of buildings broadcast the latest Republic news above the steady, never-ending stream of Lake sector’s factory workers. Several streets over, I can see a crowd of boys and girls heading off to the local high school. They seem like they’re around my age—if I hadn’t failed my Trial, I’d probably be walking with them. I look up and squint at the sun.
Pledge is about to start any second. I hate that goddy pledge.
The newsreel running on the JumboTrons pauses for a second, and then a familiar voice rings out across the city from every building’s speakers. Along the streets, people stop whatever they’re doing, turn to face the direction of the capital, and then raise their arms in salutes. They chant along with the speaker’s voice.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo, to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!
When I was really little, I’d say this pledge like everyone else, and for a while I even thought it was pretty cool, declaring my undying love for our country or whatever. Now I just stay silent throughout the whole thing, even though all the people on the streets recite the lines obediently. Why bother playing along to something I don’t believe in? It’s not like anyone can see me up here, anyway.
When it’s over and the streets’ bustle returns, the JumboTrons switch in sync back to a newsreel. I read the headlines as they roll:
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD TRIAL PRODIGY JUNE IPARIS BECOMES YOUNGEST STUDENT EVER ADMITTED TO DRAKE UNIVERSITY, TO BE OFFICIALLY INDUCTED NEXT WEEK.
“Ugh,” I snort in disgust. No doubt that girl’s some goddy rich trot living the sweet life farther inland, in one of LA’s upper-class sectors. Who cares what she scored on her Trial? The whole test is rigged in favor of the wealthy kids, anyway, and she’s probably just someone with average smarts who bought her high score. I turn away as the headline goes on, listing the girl’s gaggle of achievements. The whole thing gives me a headache.
My attention wanders back to the pier. One of the boats has workers bustling along its deck. They’re unloading a bunch of crates that probably have canned food inside, stacks of beef hash and potatoes and spaghetti, sausage and pygmy pig hot dogs. My stomach rumbles. First things first: stealing breakfast. I haven’t eaten in almost two days, and the sight of the crates makes me light-headed.
I inch along the side of the apartment complex, careful to stay inside the building’s early-morning shadows. A few street police are patrolling the pier, but most of them look bored, already exhausted by the day’s humid heat. They usually don’t pay attention to the street orphans that sit on practically every corner of the Lake sector, and on a good day, they’re too lazy to catch all the ones that attempt to steal food.
I reach the edge of the building. A drainage pipe runs along the side, shakily bolted to the wall. Still, it seems strong enough to support my weight. I test it first by tentatively putting one foot against it and giving it a good push. When it doesn’t budge, I grab the pipe and slide all the way down into the building’s narrow alley. My bad leg hits the pavement wrong—I lose my balance, then fall backward onto the ground.
One of these days, this stupid knee will get better. I hope. And then I’ll finally get to shimmy up and down these buildings the way I want to.
It’s a warm day. The smells of smoke, street food, grease, and ocean salt linger in the air. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my threadbare shoes. Hardly anyone notices me as I limp toward the pier—I’m just another slum sector boy, after all—but then a girl heading off to school meets my gaze. She blushes when I look back, then quickly glances away.
I pause at the water’s edge to adjust the cap on my head, making sure all my hair is tucked underneath it. The orange and gold light reflecting off the water makes me squint. Out along the pier, workers are stacking the food crates right next to a little office where an inspector is typing up notes about the shipment. Now and then he looks away and talks into an earpiece. I stay where I am for a while, watching the pattern of the workers and the inspector. Then I glance down the street that runs along the shore.
No street police in sight. Perfect.
When I’m sure no one’s looking, I hop down the edge of the bank and limp into the shadows beneath the pier. Beams crisscross the pier’s underbelly, supporting it as it juts out into the water. I grab some rocks from the mud near the water and shove them into my pockets. Then I pull myself up into the maze of beams and start climbing through them toward the crates. Salt water sprays me. The sound of waves lapping against the pier mixes with the voices above.
“You hear about that girl too, yeah?”
“What girl?”
“You know. The girl, the one that got into Drake at, what, twelve—”
“Oh yeah, that one. She must have parents with a deep wallet. Hey, where’d you get sent to again?”
Some laughter. “Shut up. At least I got some schooling.”
The waves drown out their conversation again. Several muffled thuds sound out from the planks over my head. They must be stacking crates here. I’ve reached the spot right under the little office and the shipment of goods. I pause to readjust my footing. Then I climb up several beams, grab the edge of the pier’s walkway, pull myself up, and peek around.
The office is right over my head. The inspector stands on its far side, his back turned to me. I scramble quietly up onto the walkway and huddle in the shadows of the office’s wall. The rocks in my pocket clack against each other. I take one of them out while keeping my eyes turned toward the workers. Then I fling the rock toward the boat as h
ard as I can.
It hits the side of the boat with a loud thud, loud enough to get the attention of the boat workers. Several of them turn toward the sound—others head over to it. I take the chance and dart out from my hiding place, then make for the stack of crates. I manage to skid right behind it before anyone catches sight of me. My heart thuds frantically in my chest.
Every time I steal Republic supplies, I imagine myself getting captured and dragged off to the local police headquarters. Getting my legs snapped, like what happened to Dad. Or maybe I wouldn’t get taken to the headquarters at all. Maybe they’d just shoot me dead right on the spot. I can’t make up my mind which would be worse.
Time’s running out. I pull my pocketknife from where it’s tucked neatly against my shoe, and then jam it into the side of one of the wooden crates until it breaks through. I hack away in silence, careful to keep an eye on which direction the guards are looking. Most of them have wandered away by now, thankfully. Only two still remain, and even they stand a good distance away from the crates, lost in mindless chatter.
This shipment’s definitely stuffed with canned goodies. My mouth waters as I fantasize again about what I might find inside. Hot dogs and sardines. Meats of all kinds. Corn, pickled eggs, beans. Maybe even peaches or pear slices. I’d once managed to steal a fresh peach, and it was the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life. My stomach lets out a loud rumble.
“Hey.”
I jump. My eyes dart up to see a teenage girl leaning against the crates, chewing on a toothpick and watching me work with an amused grin on her face. All my food fantasies vanish. Instantly I yank my knife out of the crate and make a run for it. The other men on the pier see me, shout something, and give chase.