by JM Butcher
Unfavorables
Written by JM Butcher
Cover art by Matthew Boardman
Copyright © 2021 JM Butcher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedicated to Palar,
My Rock and World and Favorite
Chapter 1
The thoughts that fill our minds when we close our eyes. The thoughts that keep us up at night. The thoughts that are too random to understand. The thoughts you don’t want others to see.
Night thoughts are the essence of our desires and behaviors, our spite and worries, our fear and love.
Night thoughts define us.
Night thoughts let us know who might be unfavorable to our Republic.
-White Coat Intelligence Officer Preston Smith
Every time a student misses school, my eye twitches a little worse. I used to care. I used to cover the left side of my face with my bangs to hide the twitching, as if the daughter of Tara Gordon could hide from being an Unfavorable.
I stopped this ritual sometime freshman year, after Melli told me I’m perfect the way I am. Today, though, my wavy bangs provide some familiar comfort.
It’s not completely out of the ordinary for a student to be absent. When it happens, everyone acts a little weird. Whispers fill the school. It’s usually nothing. The student returns the next day, disappointing those who relish the misfortune of others.
But Billy Conroy just had his Blood Birthday. His absence is not nothing, and everyone knows this.
Instead of crowds in the hallway, each student is alone, carefully placing their books in a backpack. The stragglers take their time walking to class. No lockers slam. No papers fall to the ground. There’s a flyer on the floor near where Billy performed his confessions every day the previous two weeks. My gut wrenches as I realize the flyer seems to be in the exact place where I stood yesterday, in the front row of the crowd, to hear his night thoughts.
Spotting a cleared kid in the vicinity, I turn my head. Through my brown strands of hair, I see Melli turn down the west hallway. Her thick, glowing hair is put up into a bun kept together by a yellow Bic stylus.
I’ve only seen the Bic-bun on her three times.
The first time was in fifth grade when a girl pushed her in the mud during recess. Trying to hold back tears, she fiddled with her hair until she made the stylus stick. After class, I held her hand and we rushed to the faculty bathroom and locked ourselves in to clean her up. Melli has never let herself be pushed around since.
The second was two years ago, almost to the day. Her parents were splitting up. Melli is always so confident and strong. Not that day. Her mascara was smeared from crying when she came to my house. We didn’t talk much; I just held her in my arms for what seemed like hours. It probably was hours. That day, she said I was the strong one for her.
This is the third time.
I follow her. “Melli,” I call in a loud whisper. She continues walking, so I raise my voice. “Melli, what’s wrong?” No answer.
It’s been like this all year—me always chasing Melli. Always trying to get my best friend back. Ever since she passed the Exam, she migrated toward the cleared kids. No longer did she join me in the morning, pretending to shuffle items in our lockers while listening to any bit of gossip that filtered down the hallway. Rather than riding home with me in Dad’s auto-drive, she caught rides with girls from Dance Club who had self-drive licenses.
I finally catch up to her and tap her shoulder. “Melli…”
Startling me, she quickly spins ninety degrees. “What?” She removes a few strands of loose hair from her forehead, sliding them behind her ear. She peeks around the hallway and then marches on.
My pulse speeds up as the pursuit continues. She easily could outwalk me with her long legs if she wanted to, yet she walks at a pace that keeps me from completely losing her. My backpack slides down to my elbow as I jog to her.
“Come on, Melli,” I say. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Without looking at me, she says. “I’m going to class. It’s rat dissection day. Go to yours.”
“Why’s everyone acting weird? Why is Mr. Morrison not doing his Hulk-Dad thing?” Melli coined the “Hulk-Dad thing” title, so I hope she’ll crack a smile. Instead, she grabs my arm and pulls me into the corner where the last locker meets the wall.
“Listen, Margaret…” Her words turn my face red. Only Dad can call me that.
“It’s Maggie, Miss Melli with an ‘i.’”
She glares at me. “You’re so damn immature.”
“Just tell me what’s wrong.” Melli’s grip stays tight. It’s rare for us to make physical contact anymore, so I don’t try to free myself.
Melli sticks her head around the locker, as if she’s afraid to be seen with me. Then, she says, “Billy Conroy is gone.”
“Okay,” I say, having no idea why she cares. She stayed away from Billy’s morning congregations. “You’re allowed to miss a day of…”
“Not absent. Gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know he turned fourteen.” Beads of perspiration plaster her forehead. “Gray Coats are here.”
My arm begins to tingle from the lack of blood flow. “So what? They always walk around here like they own the place.”
“Shh!” Melli puts her free hand over my mouth. “They were going through his locker. You better hope they don’t go through yours.” She pulls her hand back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can taste the saltiness left behind from her sweaty palm.
“The picture of Tara.” For years, Melli has told me to forget about Mother. “Don’t think others don’t know you have it.”
My eye twitches. She must be able to see through my bangs because she doesn’t go on with her lecture.
“His morning gatherings,” Melli says. “That night thought crap...”
“Who cares if he loses sleep over algebra and has a crush on Jessica and…”
“…wonders if he has what it takes to shoot a Coat.” To my knowledge, Melli’s never listened to Billy, so if she knows that part, I’m sure everyone must.
They’re just random thoughts, right? Not reality. Why are thoughts so scary?
“But how?” I ask. “Does he have a chip?”
“If he does,” Melly says, “we’re not the only ones who know his night thoughts.”
I extend my fingers to see if they’re numb yet. They still work, for the moment. “I’ve never seen his eye twitch. He probably just took the Exam. We would kn—”
“How would we know if he was chipped? Do you know when he took the test? And nobody admits to failing.” Her grip tightens as she tenses up. “Until two weeks ago, no one paid attention to him. Not even you.”
She’s right. I know Billy’s name. I know that before he started his pre-school confessions, he was a complete loner. I know I felt a weird kind of intimate connection to him, being let into his brain, even though I’ve never actually spoken a word to him in my life.
“Listen,” Melli says, “someone saw two Coats take him from his home last night.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out. My fears are confirmed.
She continues, “If he didn’t fail, then someone probably ratted him out for talking about shooting GC’s. He’s probably in jail, dead, or worse—in deletion. Like you will be if you don’t get rid of that picture.”
“Is deletion even a real thing?” I ask, ignoring her warning. “White Coats could erase the chip, but someone’s whole brain? It’s a myth, right?”
Melli releases my arm and asks,
“Do you really want to know how bad this is?”
As the blood rushes down my arm, I keep my eyes on hers and nod.
“Billy’s just the first,” she says. “There will be more.”
I sense she’s referring to me. My eye twitches and knees shake. The wall helps me stay on my feet.
“Ugh,” Melli says. “If you want to know, come to the Garbage Spot. Tonight. Seven o’clock. Walk, don’t ride. Be on time and come alone.”
“Okay…”
“Someone’s coming. Be careful, Maggie.” Melli’s gone.
I step out from the corner, my legs still trembling. Slightly losing my balance, I bump into a large figure with a red jacket and black pants. A Gray Coat.
“I’m s-sorry, sir,” I say.
I continue stumbling toward Ms. Tatum, who stands in her doorway as I approach my first-period History class.
Ms. Tatum greets me with a half-grin. “I was about to lock you out here with this kind Defense Officer.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. I just…”
“I merely am joking, Miss Gordon. I would not want you to miss URA Appreciation Day. Please take your seat.”
Before I walk in, I turn my head to get another look at the Gray Coat. His eyes have not left me. Well, his right eye hasn’t. He has a black patch covering his left, just like the two men who dragged Mother out of my house six years ago on my ninth birthday.
Chapter 2
We brought you the eye chip. Now, we bring to you T-Blox. For Unfavorables, it’s only a matter of time before those night thoughts are flag-worthy. Our thought-blocking drug can stop these from ever happening. Parents can rest easy. If your children don’t have night thoughts, their minds are safe.
Positive side effects: no night thoughts, no sleeping problems, emotional detachment, ability to clear mind, daydreaming, loss of bad memories.
This is a win-win-win miracle drug.
-Patrick Mills, Founder, CEO, COO of Mills Pharm and Tech
Walking to the seat in the back left corner of the classroom, I try to recover from the run-in with the Gray Coat. He’s young, not like the ones who took Mother. But the eyepatch.
I close my eyes. The T-Blox does the rest to clear my mind.
The chatter in the classroom is like any other day. Everyone seems more at ease than they did in the hallways. It’s like these four dull white walls provide a safe haven from the outside world.
Ms. Tatum approaches the front of the room. Today, she wears a long black dress. The sleeves cover three-quarters of her arms, and the bottom of the dress ends about three inches above her ankles. Her black-framed glasses match her dress and heels, giving her that boarding school teacher look.
As Ms. Tatum takes attendance, I think about Melli and the Garbage Spot. Only cleared kids hang out there at night. It’s risky for an Unfavorable to be in a public place like that when it’s dark out. It makes people uncomfortable.
What is so important that she would actually invite me there?
Won’t it hurt your reputation to be seen with an Unfavorable, Miss Melli with an “i”? I think to myself. Repeating the word Unfavorable in my mind, I glance at Melli’s handprint on my upper arm. My eye twitches.
The twitching happens far less often than when the chip was installed. It was constant for those first couple of months. I felt like a fly was stuck in my eye socket, buzzing desperately for air. It must never have found air because it just kept buzzing. It still does, just not as much. Or I got used to my fly.
“Miss Gordon.”
“Present,” I reply.
I guess Melli was destined to grow up faster than me and to become one of the cool kids. I knew this in sixth grade before she shortened her name and added the sophisticated “i.” I knew this when we were little kids, the times when she was Melody, and when we played in the backyard of my parents’ home, eagerly shoveling dirt aside so that we could listen for the devil. Nine inches deep is as far as we could dig. That is not deep enough to hear anything coming from the ground, but our six-year-old imaginations kept us searching; Melli had me convinced that something below us spoke.
Melli could convince me of anything. She still can.
The screeching of chalk against the blackboard reclaims my attention. Ms. Tatum is the only teacher in the school who doesn’t use a hologram touch-screen or voice-activation screen.
I look at the letters written on the board: THE UNITED REPUBLICS OF AMERICA.
Ms. Tatum begins her URA Appreciation lecture the same way every month. “Fourteen years and four months ago, on June 10th, 2026, one day following the victory of the War of Saudi Aggression, President Phillip Stanton issued an invitation to the government officials of all fifty states to join him in redefining our country. When our nation’s capital was destroyed by insensible acts of transgression, we no longer could remain the United States of America. It would only remind us of the destruction on “6-6-26.” One day after our victory, our government officials came to an agreement and offered a proposal to become the United Republics of America.”
Did I hold Melli back? She always looked older than me. If a boy asked her out, she asked if he had a friend for me. When the answer was a resounding “no,” she turned the boy down. I looked like her little sister more than I looked like her best friend. Melli refused to join the cheerleading team and the Dance Club because I was uncoordinated. She said cheerleading and dance were dumb. I know she just didn’t want me to be left out.
“…On that same day, President Stanton signed this proposal, and we established ourselves as a new and stronger united front…”
Melli even turned down an opportunity to travel to Oregon with the eighth-grade choir because I’m not allowed to leave the state. She didn’t want me to feel left out.
Yes, I’ve held her back. Maybe I need to be happy that Melli is conscious of it now and chooses to live her life without me burdening her. She deserves to be cleared and to have friends and to have the Dance Club and to have any boy she wants.
“…On June 16th, 2026, the Russian-led Protected States of Europa signed an agreement for us to work together to keep the world safe. What is the pact called?”
“The Pact of the New United Fronts,” someone near the front answers.
Isn’t it okay for me to be hurt and jealous? I didn’t ask for Mother to be taken away. But when Mother was gone, Melli checked in on me every day for a month, every day saying, Maggie, thanks for being my best friend. I stopped crying every time. Did I ever thank her for being my best friend?
I close my eyes to clear Melli from my mind.
“Miss Gordon.”
“Present,” I say.
“Miss Gordon, we have already taken attendance.” The tremor in Ms. Tatum’s voice warns me to stop daydreaming again. She doesn’t care that I can’t always help it. She loves to single out me and other Unfavorables. It’s part of her mission to keep us on the right path. “Miss Gordon, why don’t you enlighten the class about the divisions of our Republics?”
If I wanted to answer, I could. Anyone should be able to, considering how many times we’re reminded about the War of Wars and former President Stanton’s order to transform America into three Republics.
“Uhh…” I mutter, turning to the window.
“Now, Miss Gordon!”
“Well…” Olivia speaks up. I sense that she’s going to start one of her rants about why the chip system is a sham. About why she doesn’t buy that President Washburn signed the Behavioral Thought Bill as a measure of national protection.
She’s going to say that the history books lie about how dangerous America was during this “so-called” War of Saudi Aggression. That President Stanton conspired to fake a Saudi attack as an excuse to drop a bomb on the Middle East. That he did it to rename the country and to cement his name in history.
She’s going to say it’s wrong for the government to invade people’s minds and that Washburn is even worse than Stanton.
I often wonder how Olivia
passed the Exam. I’m glad she did. I’m glad for anyone who passes. Poor Billy.
“The other Miss Gordon.” Ms. Tatum crosses her arms, attempting to reestablish authority.
I sometimes wonder if Olivia and I are somehow related. Probably not. We’re very different. I’m reserved and keep a low profile, as much as an Unfavorable can. She has dyed black hair and a spiked choker necklace, and she wears a shirt bearing the letters AFI at least twice a week. I guess AFI is a classic rock band.
“You called on Miss Gordon,” Olivia says. “That’s me, and I’m ready to answer.”
“Fine, fine, go ahead, Miss Gordon.” Ms. Tatum glares at Olivia, who turns to wink at me. This may be the first time I’m relieved to hear Olivia speak.
“Here she goes,” Grant mutters. I cringe, wondering what Melli sees in him.
Shrugging Grant off, Olivia says, “The Western Republic is full of hypo-pricks. California raised the Exam age to 16, but doesn’t help other states. The South maintains its confederate intolerance, and we in the Union are, well, the freakin’ White Hats of the freakin’ world.”
“Damn, Ms. Tatum,” Grant interrupts, “are you going to let an Unfav…let Olivia talk crap about the Union?” Ms. Tatum remains silent.
“First off, ya freakin’ yahoo.” The way Olivia pronounces it as yay-hoo makes me crack a smile. “I was cleared just as much as you. I just choose not to identify myself with an entitled superiority complex like you impotent jocks.”
“Okay, okay, Miss Gordon,” Ms. Tatum breaks in. “I appreciate your enthus—”
“You probably don’t know what those words mean, do ya Grant?” Olivia says. “Ya freakin’ yahoo.”
“Miss Gordon!” Ms. Tatum’s voice quivers and her face reddens. “That’s enough!” After a few breaths, Ms. Tatum looks back at me. “Now, Miss Margaret Gordon, please speak to the ways the Republics work together to unite and protect our country.”