by JM Butcher
“What are you doing?” Jack asks. The entire crowd of heads shifts to him. Then back to me.
I don’t answer. “You all can just sit there in shock of the crazy girl, but I’m not leaving until you answer. How about this? Raise your hand if you’re an Unfavorable?” Nothing.
I put my hand in the air, hoping it will start a trend. The crowd appears to get a little restless, shuffling themselves around and waiting for someone else to join me.
Dade raises his hand. He looks around the room.
I pierce Billy with a glare that demands that he doesn’t leave me hanging.
Billy raises his hand. Several others follow. Then more. By the time the hands stop going up, more than half of the people have identified themselves as Unfavorables.
I sigh. “Thank you. Now, stand if you were ever sent to a Home.”
Jack stands up. “Maggie, what are you…”
“Sit down, Jack,” I snap. Some snickers pass through the room as the crowd sees the sweaty freak disrespect their fearless Johnny.
Much to the disappointment of the crowd, Jack lets it go and sits back down. He puts his hand on Hayden’s shoulder to keep him from trying to put an end to all of this. “We should see what she has to say,” Jack tells Hayden.
I say, “Let’s try this again. Stand up if you’ve been to a Juvenile Unfavorable Home.”
Jack searches the room to see if anyone stands. Nobody does, so Jack gives me that smug smirk of his. He doesn’t care how foolish I look. He’s enjoying this. His Think Tank did this to me.
I lose my temper. My eye twitches erratically. My body burns. “Heyyyyyy!” I startle myself with the volume of my shriek. “If you’ve been to a Home, stand up!” If no one stands to stop my hysterical screaming, then it’s hopeless.
A few people laugh again. Thinking that Gia is one of them, I look at her. She’s not laughing. Her face shows pity more than anything. Suddenly, I remember my trip to the Suits. I turn toward Bubba as an idea pops into my head.
“Hey, Bubba,” I say. “Have you been to a Home, Bubba? Is that how you got so big and bad?”
Bubba’s caught off guard and responds with nothing more than his usual snarl. He’s not taking the bait. Failed plan.
Ugh. I lower my head in defeat. “Sorry, Jack,” I quietly say. “Sorry for making a scene.”
As I begin to exit the room, a chair moves. “I have,” someone says. “I was in a Home. A few of them.” I stop in my tracks.
The gasps that pass through the room are less of a response to someone standing and more of a response to the person who stands. He has an eyepatch covering one of his eyes, and his other eye appears to be squinting. The bruising and swelling has lessened from the day before, but it’s still noticeable.
I’m frozen. My eye twitches harder. The new sweat from my body soaks my shirt a little bit more. Whoever was interested in my earlier reactions is even more attentive now.
The Suit who shot Dad speaks again. “I was put in a Home when I was thirteen, ma’am.” The Suit ignores the stares and stands straight.
Hayden steps in my way as I slowly begin to approach the Suit. “Not here,” Hayden says. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s leave.”
“It’s fine,” I tell Hayden. “Sit down. I’m fine.”
Hayden reluctantly listens. He shakes his head as Jack pulls him back down.
“What’s your name?” I ask the Suit as I continue walking toward him.
“Leon.”
“Why were you in a Home? When?”
He responds, “Once I was chipped, my parents got rid of me. They’re so-called patriots, ma’am. They weren’t all too pleased about having an Unfavorable for a son. Told the Coats to do whatever they wanted with me. They put me in a Home, ma’am.”
“How long were you there?” I stop walking, leaving a couple tables between us. Enough room so that our conversation will be heard by everyone in the room.
“Forty-seven days in the first one, ma’am. Three hundred and twenty-one in the second one. Five hundred and two in the third. Ninety-three days in the last.” I do the math in my head. Nine hundred and sixty-three days. That has to be more than two and a half years. I can’t imagine the horrors one would have to go through to count each day.
“Stop calling me ‘ma’am,’” I say.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies and catches himself. “Sorry. That’s the last time.”
Satisfied with his response, I ask, “Why were you moved? Did you act out? Did you try to shoot someone’s dad?”
“No,” he answers, unaffected by my cheap shot. “I was moved because I didn’t show my pain. I didn’t let them know they hurt me. Each Home got tired of it so they passed me on. The Keepers don’t like feeling like they got no control.”
I’m the curious one now. For a few minutes, I even forget what he did to Dad. “What did they do to you?” I inch closer to him as I pass one table. A tear rolls down my cheek as I think about Sophia.
“They whipped me. They worked me. They barely fed me. One bottle of water a day. The less weakness I showed, the worse the punishment.”
“Show me,” I say. “Show me the scars.” I feel morbid for asking him to do this, but I have to know. I have to know what goes on in the Homes. I need to understand what Sophia might have gone through after she fought back.
Without hesitating, the Suit takes off his shirt. Burn marks are scattered across his chest. Some of the marks are small like he was burned by a cigarette. Others are larger, as if a welder pierced him with a scorching iron rod. He then turns around. A scar zigzags across the back of his head, leaving a bald spot that looks like a lightning bolt. Permanent whip marks cover his back. His entire back. I can’t decipher whether any unblemished skin remains.
I recoil in disgust. Not at his appearance, but at the people who did this to him. My sympathy momentarily overshadows the hate I have for this Suit. Part of me wants to hug him. Part of me wants to tell the guy who shot Dad that I’m sorry. The anger returns.
“That’s enough,” I say. “Why’d you shoot my dad?” I’m unsure why I ask this here in front of everyone. But I have a feeling that there is an underlying factor. I hope so at least. I want to believe there is good in him.
“I was reckless,” the Suit answers as he puts his shirt back on. “I will not make an excuse. I was reckless. I take responsibility. Do with me as you will.”
“That’s not good enough!” I yell. I close the gap between us and shout in his face. “Why’d you shoot my dad?! Give me a reason! Why?! Give me an answer!”
He looks in the direction of Jack and Hayden, then back at me. “I told you, ma’am. I lost my composure.”
“Not good enough!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Answer me!”
“I don’t know!” the Suit replies with a raised voice.
“Tell me!”
“I don’t know!” He violently flips a chair over, scaring his tablemates away. Then he sits down, putting his hands over his face to hide his tears.
“Why did you…”
“The yelling! I didn’t want to! But the screaming. I just…I just…pulled the trigger…to stop the screaming. I’m so sorry.” His sobbing almost drowns out his words. Almost. “Please stop yelling. Please. I’m sorry.”
I watch him cry. My anger dissipates. He’s in pain, just like anyone else who lived one day in his shoes would be. Why would Jack put this Suit in a situation like that? Why would he send a traumatized guy into a battle zone? Why would he give a gun to someone so obviously disturbed? The whole thing was a disaster waiting to happen.
Leaving the Suit to cry, I glare at Jack. Keeping my eyes fixed on him, I ask the crowd, “Anyone else? Who else has been a victim of the Keepers?” I start to pace the room. The shifting heads confirms that I have everyone’s attention.
A thin girl with red hair stands up in the front. Her freckles stand out against her pale skin. “Me,” she says.
Before I ask her what she had to endure, I notice that she�
�s missing the middle fingers from both hands. “Did they do…”
The girl cuts me off. “I just couldn’t keep my dang finger down. Those suckers did it for me.” She looks around the room with a wide smile. Others laugh and a few even applaud. She takes her seat.
“I was in a Home,” a dark-skinned boy with glasses and tidy hair says. “The Coats took me away. Didn’t give my parents an option. Because the bruises didn’t show through my skin, the Keepers beat me harder. I got the last blow, though.” The boy puts his fist in the air and more people applaud.
“Me too!” a frail, anxious boy with spiked blonde hair says. He holds himself up with crutches. “My legs may not work like they should anymore, but at least I have both feet. Can’t say the same for one of them.” Louder applause.
Several more people stand. They show their scars and tell their stories. They don’t talk about the suffering; they talk about the small victories. About almost losing a tongue but spitting directly onto a guard. About losing a tooth, but taking multiple teeth in return. About throwing hot soup on the Keepers instead of eating their one meal of the day. About freeing other kids at the risk of being sent to confinement or to a prison.
With each new reveal of a battle wound and tale, the applause increases in volume, until the entire lunchroom fills with the sound of a thunderous standing ovation.
Even Jack, Makayla, and Hayden rise to their feet and clap. Hayden smiles and gives me a nod of approval. Gia points at me as if she’s saying, Atta girl, hotshot.
I walk up to Jack. “We need to talk.” I’m still furious with him, but there are more important things to address right now.
Jack stops clapping and raises his eyebrows in confusion. He wants to say something, but I beat him to the punch.
“I’m in,” I say.
“That is great to hear,” Jack says with a pleased grin. “We will start tomorrow.”
“No, we start tonight,” I reply, “when you tell me the heroic tale of the Tara Gordon.”
I exit the cafeteria with my head high and return to my room.
***
Gia has been sent to accompany me to the Think Tank. She doesn’t mention the food hall incident. In fact, we don’t talk at all. It’s just as well.
On the way, I can’t help but to think about Sophia and the JUH kids. I begin to compare this compound to a JUH and quickly conclude that I’ve been fortunate, perhaps undeservingly.
Even if the dandelion comforter in my room here is torn, I don’t deserve it. The bed. The nightstand. The toilet. The book that I have no intention of reading. The scalding water that is unbearable. None of it.
It’s been like this for me my entire life—always having things that I don’t deserve. I’m the lowest of Unfavorables, and I’ve been graced with love and safety. What did I do to earn all of this? Nothing.
Someone wanted me and nobody wanted them. That’s the difference. Should that make me better than them?
No.
The others deserved love and safety. Sophia did. The kids in the lunchroom. Even the Suit. But no, they suffered. They experienced torture that I don’t want to imagine. That nobody should imagine.
The Homes are not Juvenile Unfavorable Homes; they’re Government Torture Projects for the Unfavorables. That’s where I should’ve been placed. Disturbed at nine with a Transgressor for a mother. Why was I given love? Why was I kept out of the Homes? All because somebody wanted me.
It’s not fair. Not fair for them.
But it wouldn’t be fair for me either. Nothing justifies bringing such pain on others—no matter how disturbed.
Jack and Makayla, even Olivia, might be right about the government. The government funds the Homes. The Homes are concentration camps for kids. Kids worked to the bone. Kids scarred for life. Kids beaten to death. Kids missing body parts and teeth. Kids deported.
Kids without family and friends, without love and safety.
If the government is responsible for this terror, then it can’t be good. Can it? Unfavorable or not, no one deserves what those kids have gone through. What kids continue to go through. What countless kids will go through once they are old enough.
Like Tyler. He’ll surely get chipped now that I’m a fugitive. Dad isn’t around to help him anymore. Tyler will be in a Home as soon as he fails the Exam.
He’s already failed the Exam by association.
I can’t let it happen. I won’t let it happen. I have the power to help. So Jack says. If I have the power to help prevent anyone from experiencing such misery, I need to use it. That’s why I’m going to cooperate with Jack. That’s why. I remind myself of this over and over as I walk down the stairs to the Think Tank.
That’s why. That’s why.
But first, I need to know who mother is. Who Tara Gordon is.
When Gia drops me off at the door, Hayden is alone in the bright white room. He’s too busy pulling up stuff on the computer to acknowledge us right away.
“Good luck,” Gia says. She seems genuine, but I’ve thought this before and been wrong.
“No hotshot this time?” I ask, hoping Gia will show a sign of either sincerity or disdain. She says nothing and climbs back up the steps. I’ll never figure her out.
“Where’s Jack?” I ask. “Shouldn’t he be here too? He’s not the kind of person to be late.”
Without looking up from the screen, Hayden nonchalantly says, “He’s not coming.”
Once the confusion wears off, frustration overcomes me. Jack is supposed to tell me about mother. That was my condition. I’ll help, but I get to know about mother.
“Screw this,” I say. “Tell Jack that when he’s ready to deal, I’ll be waiting.”
Hayden stands up from the computer and stops me from leaving. “No, sorry. I mean, he’s not coming because I’m going to tell you about your mother.”
“You?” The confusion settles back in. “You mean Jack actually puts his trust in others?” I attempt to force a smile, but I do a poor job.
“Eh, I wouldn’t say others plural,” Hayden says. “I told you we go way back. He trusts me some. I guess he trusts Kay too. So two people means plural. So yes, others.” Hayden laughs and begins to set up the chair. “He thought this would go better without him here. So he put me in charge.”
I put on my puppy dog face and sarcastically ask, “Should I be scared?”
Hayden playfully responds and waves one of the arm straps in the air. “You should be scared of anyone who is about to clamp these restraints on you. And without anyone else in here, I can fill your brain with any thought data I want. Nightmares forever.” His half-smile and squinted eyelids are a bit freaky, but I know he’s goofing around.
Jack made the right decision. I’m much more comfortable around Hayden than anyone else. Jack knows that. He probably knows Hayden is the only person I trust here. Well, as much as I could trust anyone.
No, I trust him. I do.
I think back to the baseball stadium, when Hayden divulged his deepest and darkest secret. I don’t really have a secret, but sharing this moment with him—perhaps the biggest moment in my life—seems pretty comparable. I’m glad I get to go through this with Hayden.
“So,” I say while reexamining the unwelcoming chair, “if you’re telling me about my mother, why are we here and why do we need this?”
“You asked Johnny to tell you about your mother. I’m going to do one better. I’m going to show you your mother.” Hayden has a proud look on his face, as if he believes he’s doing me a favor. “Your mother will finally become a part of you.”
My mouth drops open. “What do you mean? A part of me? How in the world can you do that? Doesn’t someone need to be chipped to retrieve their thoughts?”
“Your mother is quite extraordinary. Not only has she organized resistance groups, but she’s a martyr. She willingly installed a chip of her own. She allows all of these groups to access her thoughts. Her chip is kind of like her manifesto. It’s her legacy.”
; “So Mother is the ringleader of rebel groups?”
“She supposedly funds Jack.”
“She pays for all of this? I ask. “Do you know her?”
“I don’t,” Hayden replies. “I’ve never met her. I don’t know anyone who has. But I know what matters to her. I know her convictions. I know her thoughts. They’re all on her chip. Leaders used to pass around pamphlets or spread their messages on social media. Tara Gordon found a better way, a way that is untraceable. Her chip is password protected, so unless someone hacks her password...she’s too smart to let that happen, though.”
“Wait…so…” I mutter. “You’re not telling me anything. You’re just uploading data.”
Hayden looks distraught by my disapproval. He says, “Like we’ve said before, night thoughts are more natural than any written word. They’re more powerful. They’re more personal. More inspiring. Sharing her night thoughts has revolutionized our movement. All underground movements. I can’t bring her to you, but I can bring you her thoughts.”
I begin to understand. “And like my chip has imprints of Sophia’s life, mother’s life will forever be a part of mine. If I let you upload her thoughts, that is.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” Hayden asks. “To know about your mother? This is the best way. For her to be a part of you.”
I comprehend what Hayden is saying, and I appreciate what he’s trying to do. I just don’t know if I want a woman who chose not to be a part of my life to all of a sudden be permanently in my head. Does she deserve to be a part of my chip hard drive? To be a part of my memories?
I suppose it is what I’ve wanted. She’s haunted my night thoughts since I’ve been able to have them. Now, I have the chance to know her—to know her true thoughts. To have an intimate connection with Mother. This is it.
“If you don’t want to…” Hayden says.
“No, I do. Let’s do it. Show me Mother.”
I climb onto the chair. Hayden straps in my arms and legs. The eye collar is set around my head. The spikes aren’t cold in my ears this time, but a chill permeates my body. The spherical head apparatus lowers.