Chapter 19

I spend the next two afternoons at TWOC, watching the twins and Rosalin play handball. The teams are still evenly placed on the leaderboard and Jacobo’s temper hasn’t improved. He’s shouting at his teammates about a poorly executed play. Yakov is studiously ignoring Rosalin and I feel bad about our encounter in the hallway. I consider apologizing and immediately dismiss the idea. He’d just find a way to use it against me.

When the players straggle off the court, I get up from the bench and meet my friends by the water dispenser. I hand each of them a towel and they take the proffered item dejectedly.

“Buck up,” I say. “No one died.”

They just look at me morosely and Jacobo walks away without saying anything.

“He’ll be lucky if I don’t stab him in his sleep,” Jaela says as we walk along the corridor to the bathrooms.

I sit on the washbasin counter as Rosalin and Jaela shower and change in the private stalls. We don’t say much, not wanting the other girls to overhear our conversation. It’s a small community at TWOC and there’s no reason to give anyone an excuse to gossip.

“Did you hear they’re setting up a lottery for the crowning ceremony?” Rosalin says. She pulls the towel off her head and lets her hair tumble down her back in a dark, wild wave. Jaela is examining her skin in the mirror, frowning at herself.

“Is this a zit?” she asks pointing to her forehead? Her skin looks the same even chocolate it always does. “It’s a zit isn’t it?”

I look at her and scoff. “Jaela, it’s the size of a pin head. No one will notice.”

“But it is a zit.”

I roll my eyes at her.

“Do you think we’ll get picked?” Rosalin asks, ignoring our exchange.

“For seats at the ceremony?” I ask. “I doubt it. Those things are rigged. Why would they pick a group of orphans?”

“You’re right.” Rosalin sighs. “We’ll probably have to watch it here like everyone else.”

“We could always sneak in,” I say.

“Who wants to see a boring ceremony, anyway,” Jaela says. “It’s just a bunch of stuffy bureaucrats standing around, patting themselves on the back.”

“It’s the crowning ceremony!” Rosalin protests. “This might be the only one we see. It’s history. The future of Osiris.”

“The future,” Jaela scoffs. “What’s interesting about the future? The Conservationists have been running Osiris from the beginning and they’ll rule it for the future. It’s the same every day.”

“You’re such a cynic,” Rosalin says. “How about a little hope? Some excitement? We graduate soon and we’ll have a place of our own. Aren’t you interested in that?”

Jaela shrugs. “It’s just one set of rules for another.”

“Now you sound like Jacobo,” I say. “What are you two plotting to join the Resolutionists?”

“I don’t have to join a rebel group to feel that way,” she says.

“You know why things are like this,” Rosalin says. “Osiris would collapse if we didn’t have rules. Too many people and we’d run out of resources. Too much violence and we’d blow a hole through the perimeter. This is the only way we survive.”

“What, are you going to join Government now?” Jaela asks. “You sound like one of them.”

“Jaela!” I say. “What’s gotten into you?”

Jaela throws her hands up. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m starting to see it from Jacobo’s point of view. We’re stuck here for fifteen years and then we’re stuck out there for the rest of our lives. It’s one prison for another. What happened to personal freedom?”

Rosalin and I look at her silently. We’ve never heard her talk this way.

“We shouldn’t be talking about this here,” I say and look around the bathroom. “If a proctor hears us, they’ll put it in our files.”

“Fine,” Jaela says. “I didn’t want to talk about it anyway.”

The three of us leave the bathroom in silence.

The next afternoon I visit building 972. There’s no reason for me to be here anymore but I miss the studio, it’s acrid smell, the riot of color and disorder. After being stuck inside TWOC’s beige colored monotony for two entire days, I need a change. And I’m curious to know what Cenric’s been doing.

The building is silent when I arrive and I wait fourteen minutes before Cenric arrives.

He seems surprised to see me.

“Don’t you have other illegal activities to pursue?” he asks, letting us inside.

“I’m taking a break.”

He laughs. “Visiting buildings on the abandoned list isn’t exactly appropriate behavior, you know.”

I shrug. “I wanted to see what you were painting.”

He pauses on the stairway to look at me. “Why do you care about my paintings?”

I look up at him. His blue eyes glow with the light falling from the glass ceiling. I’m reminded of the vibrant sweep of his azure-skied paintings.

I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t know why I care about his paintings so much.

“It’s like looking at freedom,” I say and surprise myself. “Your paintings are like a window into some other world, some other time. When we had more than this.” I sweep my hand to encompass the stairwell, the building. “You see something, other people don’t see.”

Cenric’s eyes darken as he listens to me and I worry that I’ve said something wrong. He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it. He turns away and keeps walking up the stairs.

“What?” I say jogging after him. “What did I say wrong?”

We come out on the landing and he turns back toward me.

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he says and looks away. “The exact opposite actually. I’ve been hiding my work for years. My parents would burn this building to the ground if they knew what I was doing. They caught me sketching when I was a kid and they whipped me for it.”

I gasp. “They beat you?”

Cenric smiles weakly. “I wouldn’t say they beat me. It was nothing like that. But they made it pretty clear I wasn’t allowed to draw, or paint, or do anything like this.” He motions to the easel, the clutter of canvas and plasterboard.

“Where do they think you are when you’re here?” I ask.

“I have a tutor I’ve been seeing for years. He’s a cranky old man and as long as I keep him supplied with moonshine, he lets me come and go as I please. He’s my alibi.”

“What’s moonshine?”

Cenric scoffs at me. “Really? You’ve never heard of moonshine?”

“Just tell me already.”

“It’s home brewed alcohol. The illegal kind.”

“Have you tried it?” I ask.

“Yes, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It tastes like sewage water.”

“How do you have access to it if it’s illegal?”

“There are certain perks to being highborn,” he says.

“Right, the world falls at your feet and delivers contraband on request.”

“Arela,” he says in protest. “It’s not like that.”

“Well what’s it like?”

“I have a cousin who works in the underbelly. He runs a speakeasy for the ministry.”

“Underbelly? Speakeasy?”

Cenric sighs. “They really do keep you cooped up at welfare don’t they?” He turns to the bench and starts scraping dried oil paint from a palette with a piece of scrap metal.

“So?”

“It’s a place you can go for… entertainment,” he says. “It’s a badly kept secret between the highborns and Government. As long as there’s no trouble the Conservationist party turns a blind eye and everyone is happy. The ministry members have their bit of fun and no one gets in trouble.”

“Have you been there?” I ask. Part of me is affronted that he knows something about Osiris I don’t, and the other half is desperate to see it.

“I have,” Cenric says obtusely.

“Well, what’s it like?”

Cenric finishes scraping paint from the palette dish before he answers me.

“It’s hard to describe,” he says. “It’s dark and colorful at the same time. It’s grand and gritty.”
“How do you get in?”

He laughs. “You don’t just get in. You need to know people. You need to be highborn.” He looks at me sideways. “I don’t think you’d get in there, even with your special talent.”

“But you’ve been there,” I insist. “You can take me.”

He puts the palette down and waves me off. “I’m not taking you to the underbelly. You’ve gotten me in enough trouble already.”

“How much trouble can we get into, if it’s ignored by Government? Don’t you have just as much right to be there as any other highborn?”

“I’m still a minor, so technically I’m not allowed. Plus if my parents caught me, they’d exile me themselves.”

“Well you’re just a bundle of fun, aren’t you?”

“Why do you want to see it so badly?” he asks.

“It’s called the underbelly for one,” I say. “And there isn’t an inch of Osiris I don’t know. I’ve explored all of it.”

I consider telling him about my parents. About my compulsion to keep looking for them anywhere I can. I know it’s unlikely I’d find them in this illicit venue, but it’s one more place to check off my list.

“I can take you to the public gardens, if you like.”

“What’s in the public gardens?”

“You know, trees, flowers, that sort of thing. It’s a garden.”

“Mmm, sounds thrilling.”

“Do you want to see it or not?” he says raising an eyebrow at me.

“Yes, yes alright. When?”

“Meet me tomorrow at Square One. Same time we usually meet here.” He looks at me critically for a second. “And wear something nicer than that.”

“This is the only thing I have,” I say and feel myself flush. I suddenly feel every bit as disheveled as I am.

He frowns. “Then I’ll think of something.”

It’s early afternoon and I’m standing at the corner of Square One, gazing at the large paved expanse as people in green uniforms stride back and forth. They look important and busy as they hurry about, their heads down and their attaché cases swinging.

I spot Cenric on the other side of the square and I watch as he walks towards me. I’m struck by how tall he is, how he stands out from a crowd. I feel a tingle of anticipation at his arrival and I grin at my own silliness.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks when we’re face to face.

“Oh, nothing,” I say.

“Here,” he says and hands me a wide brimmed hat, made from a stiff material. It has a dark green bow tied around the top section.

“You want me to wear this?” I ask.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asks, his eyebrow cocked.

I pull the hat onto my head and instantly feel foolish. He tugs the brim a little lower so that I need to tilt my head back to see him.

“Why am I wearing a hat?” I ask.

“It’s part of the disguise. Here.” He’s holding a dark green bundle in his other hand.

I take the item and run my hands over the olive green brocade. A distant memory stirs but Cenric interrupts my thoughts before I can chase it.

“I hope it fits,” he says. “I had to guess your size.”

I shake the material out and see the piece is a small jacket. The shoulders are puffed slightly and the body is tapered to a narrow fit. I slide my arms in and button it up the front. It fits perfectly. I’ve never worn anything so luxurious and I instantly feel like an imposter.

“Now you look the part,” Cenric says appraisingly.

“A part of what?”

“You’ll see. Come on.”

We cross the square and pass through a set of large wrought iron gates. Two city guards stand at attention on either side. I glance at them nervously but Cenric ignores the pair and we walk through unchallenged. Once we’re through the gates, we enter a wide boulevard lined with statues. The stone figures are mostly men dressed in strange suits. One is a woman.

“They’re presidents from before the collision,” Cenric says. “ Old world rulers. This is called leaders lane.”

I remember this vaguely from a history lesson I barely paid attention to.

I stay close to Cenric as we walk along the boulevard and out the other side. We enter a small courtyard. The area is empty of people and I suddenly feel conspicuous. I’m grateful I have the hat to hide behind.

“Follow me and don’t say anything,” Cenric says and takes my arm. He loops his elbow with mine and approaches a small gate on the opposite side of the courtyard. A guard is standing by the gate watching us.

“Afternoon Hilligen,” Cenric says and nods. I duck my head to shield my face and walk beside Cenric as he guides us through the gate. When I look up, we’ve entered the garden and we’re standing on the edge of a green expanse. My mouth drops open as I drink in the lush surroundings. I’ve never seen real grass or billowing trees or the bright burst of summer flowers. A few solitary figures are strolling along the paths, their green outfits lending them a flora-like presence. I realize after a moment that Cenric is watching me and I snap my mouth shut. A hot flush rushes to my cheeks.

He’s smiling at me indulgently and I want to smack him.

“Pretty neat, right?”

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen this before,” I say. “For a public garden they sure keep it well hidden.”

“That’s a bit of a misnomer,” he says. “It’s only public for certain people.”

“You mean highborns.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I want to show you something,” he says and leads me along a narrow stone path. I’m so absorbed by the sweep of greenery I almost forget my arm is entwined with his. I let him guide us through trestle arches and hedge-lined enclosures. I gape at sweeping willows and miniature rose bushes, at the feathery texture of leaf and petal. I’ve seen gardens in picture books and mod screens but standing inside one has an explosive effect on my senses. I feel dizzy with excess.

I lose track of time while we wander the garden and I’m surprised when we stop at the edge of a narrow plaza. We’re standing in front of an empty wooden bench. It takes me a moment but then I realize we’re looking at the bench from his painting. The painting of the young couple holding hands.

“They were your grandparents,” I say.

Cenric smiles. “My great-great grandparents. And this bench is a replica of the original. The original from Central Park.”

“From before?”

Cenric nods. “This entire garden is an imitation, a mirage.”

I tilt my head to look at him. His eyes are dark, sad.

“What do you mean, a mirage?”

He releases my arm and steps towards a small shrub growing beside the path. He sweeps his hand through the bush and it wavers as his hand moves through unimpeded.

“A garden like this is impossible,” he says. “The ecology won’t support it, and so they made the next best thing. A holographic replica.”

I look around the garden with fresh understanding. The surroundings are just as stunning as before, but knowing it’s an illusion dulls the edges of my awe. I feel cheated.

“They had the real thing,” I say. “Do you think they were happy?”

Cenric doesn’t ask whom I’m referring to. He knows I’m thinking of the couple in the painting.

“I like to think they were,” he says after a moment. “They didn’t know the collision was coming. They were living a life of freedom and open spaces. They had a world of options.”

I nod and turn back to the bench. It looks lonely.

Impulsively I take his hand and pull him towards it. I sit on the wooden slats and tug him down beside me. He’s smiling again and my chest tightens a little. He looks so beautiful with the soft light of the perimeter falling through the leaves of the willow trees. It’s not the golden light of the painting but it still frames his face and highlights the tilt of his eyes. I want to touch the skin of his cheek just to see how it feels, but I stop myself from reaching out. I suddenly feel self-conscious.

I realize he’s looking at me with an intensity that sends a flutter of panic through my stomach. Or maybe it’s excitement. I can’t tell and the uncertainty makes me defensive. “What?” I ask dropping his hand.

“Nothing,” he says and leans back. I see a flicker of something cross his face but it disappears so quickly I don’t catch it’s meaning. “We should go.”

He gets up from the bench. He starts walking in the direction we came and I hurry to follow. He’s silent on the way back and I feel something change between us. The friendly camaraderie from before is replaced by a serious formality.

I’m still wondering what I said to change his mood when we exit leaders lane. At the wrought iron gate he says a curt goodbye and disappears among the people crossing the square.

I stand still for a moment and then realize I’m still wearing the hat and the jacket he brought for me. He’s forgotten to take them with him. I think about chasing him across the plaza, but he’s already out of sight and I don’t know where he’s headed.

I sigh. I can’t take the items back to TWOC. My only choice is to drop them at Cenric’s studio. I keep them on as I ride the mono and walk the few blocks to 972. I think about the garden and the artificial ecosystem, the lack of plant and animal life. Our entire world is synthetic, a mere shadow of a former time. I feel the precariousness of my life, balanced among so many others in this biosphere. So many things could disrupt the equilibrium of Osiris. Every rule is a counter to the chaos and disaster of a dying world. We are clinging to the last piece of survival like lichen to a rock. The highborns can distract themselves with pretty chimeras but the truth is ugly. Osiris is a long hard struggle against oblivion.

I let myself into the building and pull the hat from my head. My hair feels damp against my forehead and the jacket collar irritates the skin at my neck. I shrug out of it and carry the items up the stairs to Cenric’s loft.

I fold the jacket, place it on the bench and lay the hat on top. I’m about to leave when I catch sight of an open notebook next to me. I pick it up and stare at the sketch on the last page. It’s a picture of me. My hand is clutching the step of a ladder, my other hand is reaching towards something. My head is tilted up and my eyes are wide with fear, my mouth is parted slightly as if I’m about to cry out and a tangle of hair streams across my forehead. The picture is so life like I feel my breath catch in my throat as I remember the moment on the fire escape, that second of uncertainty before he grasped my forearm and pulled me onto the step.

I flip to the next page. This picture is a profile of me crouching beside a large metal shape and I remember the few minutes we spent surveying the entrance to the Technology facility. In the sketch beside that, I’m leaning against the banister in his studio, looking directly at the viewer. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth and I look amused. A strand of hair has fallen over one eye and my hand is arrested right before I push it back.

I flip through all the pages of the notebook and find it’s filled with images of me, standing, sitting, turning away, laughing, frowning, hands clasped, hands open in supplication. In every picture, he’s captured something more than just the physical image. The lines of charcoal suggest a depth of emotion I’ve only seen in his oil paintings. I can feel the happiness and sadness and worry in each scene. The images are arresting and beautiful. He’s made me beautiful.

I close the book and rest it on the bench. I press a hand to my chest, trying to alleviate the flood of anxiety and elation. I know about my portrait, but an entire notebook? It seems excessive, almost obsessive, but I can’t help feeling flattered. The way he’s captured the shape of my face, the curve of my lips. Every moment we’ve spent together, he’s recorded in this book. It feels like a tribute to my very existence.

I shake my head and admonish myself for getting carried away. Cenric paints everything obsessively. I just happen to be the newest subject in his environment, the person he’s closest to. Tomorrow he’ll be drawing someone else, someone taller and prettier. I feel a little deflated at the thought, but I know it’s the likely progression of his work. I’ve seen Cenric’s art. He moves across subjects like a speeding rail. He’s compelled to cover as many as he can.

I touch the notebook briefly as if I can imprint the images into my memory. I know I wasn’t supposed to see these sketches and the next time I come back, the book will be hidden away.

I take one last look at the studio, and then I descend the stairs and start my journey back to TWOC.

Next Chapter: Chapter 20