Chapter 22

I’ve been sitting in Mr. Smits office for seven minutes and four seconds, waiting for my interview to begin. I was completing my intermediate ethics course when the meeting request came through on my mod screen. The message had indicated urgency but the office is empty. Head has been delayed, or he’s making a point leaving me in here to wait.

His tablet device is sitting on the desk in front of me. I check to make sure the door is shut and I scoot to the edge of my chair so I can lean over and retrieve the tablet. I leave it lying on the table and swivel it around to face me. When I depress the on button, the screen lights up. There’s a message flag blinking in the corner.

I hear the slam of a door and I pause, listening. After a moment, I turn back to the tablet. I unlock the device after a few tries, of course Head uses an obvious passcode, and click on the message icon. A speech bubble pops open and I read the text.

Be careful, they’re watching.

I hear footsteps approaching the room and I depress the off button and spin the device away from me so it’s in its original position on Head’s side of the desk. I scoot back in my chair as the door opens and Head steps inside. I try to look bored.

Head’s heels click as he walks around the desk and takes a seat opposite me. He looks sweatier than usual and a shiver of revulsion runs down my back. I can smell something like old milk coming off him.

He leans back in his chair and considers me for a long moment before he says anything. I’m itching to break the silence but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I stare back at him defiantly, my vow to be an obedient student momentarily forgotten.

“You don’t fool me Arela,” he says and narrows his eyes at me.

I raise my eyebrows.

“You can act like the model citizen, complete your coursework on time, but I know what you’re up to. I know you’re missing from TWOC for long periods of time. I don’t know where you go, or why you’re not showing up on the city sensor but I know you’re not here.”

I depress my lips to keep myself from saying something incriminating.

“What are you up to?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Head pushes himself out of his chair and paces behind the desk. His hands flutter at his sides and I see an image of him wrapping them around my neck and squeezing. I blink to clear it.

“You can’t defy me forever Arela. And if you do, I’ll make sure you’re a permanent resident of the state, if not here, then in Medical where you’ll be much less happy. I hear they have a cellblock with little padded rooms for people like you. People who are a danger to themselves and others.”

Head stops pacing and leans against the desk. He pulls the tablet towards him and taps in the passcode. My heart leaps as he looks down at the screen. I hope he doesn’t notice the missing message flag.

“Your grade average suggests you’re a bit of a genius,” he says looking up. “It would be a shame to waste that in a government facility, wouldn’t it?”

I don’t respond.
“What are you doing outside? Are you meeting with Resolutionists? Have you joined an Original cult? What are you up to?”

“I’m not doing anything,” I say. I’m gripping the armrests so tight my fingers are white. I try to relax them. “I’m just trying to complete my coursework and be a good student.”

Head barks out a short laugh. “And I’m the king of Osiris.”

I look down at my lap.

Head makes a disgusted sound. “Fine, stone wall. But I’m not going to make this easy on you.”

I look back up. He’s staring at me with his black eyes and I feel a cold sensation blossom in my chest. I realize this man is dangerous. He’s capable of more than just idle treats, of petty bureaucratic revenge. He could really hurt me.

“Dismissed,” he says and waves a hand.

I slip from the chair and try not to run out of the office. I feel sweat at my hairline and I chide myself for letting him intimidate me.

I know Head is watching me but I can’t spend another minute at TWOC. I take the mono to its furthest point and walk to 972. I’m earlier than usual and Cenric hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is following me so I let myself inside and sit on the bottom step of the spiral staircase so I’m off the street. I stare at the chandelier, the play of light and color on the foyer walls.

I think about Harlow’s warning to keep my friends close, to stay inside. Does he know about Head? Does he know there’s nothing safe about TWOC? The only place I feel safe now is here, inside a condemned studio with a boy I hardly know. I’m on shaky ground, literally and figuratively. The worst part is I don’t understand what’s going on. I know there are answers out there, but I can’t find them. Either I’m not looking in the right place or they’re too well hidden.

Be careful, they’re watching.

Why do I keep hearing that? Who’s watching me? Who’s watching Head? And why?

I’m still working the problem over in my mind when the front door slides open and Cenric steps inside.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when he sees my face.

I explain my meeting with Head.

“Should you be here?” he asks. He looks worried.

“No one followed me,” I say. I drop my gaze to the floor.

He reaches out and grasps my chin and tilts my head up so I’m forced to meet his gaze.

“That’s not what I’m mean,” he says. “I’m worried about you. If he catches you outside it’s just another reason for him to punish you.”

“It wouldn’t matter what I do. He hates me.” I’m surprised at the quaver in my voice. I feel close to tears. “He’s always hated me.”

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and a sob escapes me. I want to take it back, hide it. I can’t stand that Cenric is watching me cry, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I’m crying at the unfairness of life, at the frustration of every restriction, at being abandoned by my parents, at the fear of Head’s threat.

Cenric pulls me to him and tucks my head under his chin. He strokes my hair as I cry. I stop trying to keep it in and let the sobs run through me. They’re violent at first and then they taper off, I feel calmer and a little sleepy. Crying so hard has exhausted me. I pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I say and wipe my nose with the back of my sleeve. I want to hide my face. I know my eyes are red and puffy, my cheeks damp.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says and cradles my face with his hands. He looks directly at me and I resist the urge to duck my head. He kisses each of my eyelids and then presses his lips to mine. He holds me like that for a long moment without moving. My heart rate increases and I forget that I’m crying. All I can think about is how his mouth feels, the softness of his lips, how firmly his hands hold me to him.

Finally, he breaks away and I have to take a moment to catch my breath. He looks down and smiles.

“You are so beautiful,” he says. “Even crying, you’re beautiful.”

“Stop it,” I say but I’m grinning foolishly and a glow of warmth spreads in my stomach. I’ve never considered myself a great beauty and a part of me wants to correct his judgment, to pull out my measuring stick and show him where I fit on the scale between plain and pretty. I push the thought away and try to accept his compliment for what it is. If he thinks I’m beautiful, then I am.

“Come on,” he says. He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. “You need to take your mind off it for a while.”

When we reach the studio floor, he releases my hand and starts collecting items from the bench. He lays them out in a pile and then retrieves a fresh piece of plasterboard from his diminishing collection on the floor. He props it on the empty easel.

“I’m going to teach you how to paint.”

“Me? I have no talent for painting.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Well… no.”

“Then you don’t know if you have talent. Here,” he hands me a paintbrush and then squeezes a series of blues and greens onto the palette. When he turns around, he’s grinning. I stand awkwardly with the brush in my hand.

“Now what?” I ask.

He plucks the brush from my hand, dips it in the blue and sweeps the color on the board in long straight lines.

“Like the ocean,” he says as if we see that great expanse of water every day. He hands the brush back to me. “You try.”

I dab the brush into the color and marvel at the way it sticks to the bristles. I smear it across the board in a slow wavering line. It looks terrible. I turn to Cenric and make a face. “See, no talent.”

He laughs. “You barely even tried. Here,” he says and moves around behind me.

“Hold this.” He hands me the palette. He cups my other hand inside his, so we’re both holding the paintbrush. I’m conscious of the length of his body pressed against my back, of the warmth and movement of his muscles as he shifts his weight. He guides my hand to the board and sweeps our arms in a graceful arc. The paint leaves a steady curve of color, a line that could be the horizon of sky and ocean.

“See,” he says. “Now you’re painting.”

I laugh a little. “I think you’re doing all the work,” I say but I can feel the way the brush moves, the way the color transfers onto the board. I feel like I’m creating something, something alive and powerful.

Cenric guides my hand to the green and we paint over the blue in light curved strokes. Then we move back to the blue.

“Now you try,” he says and releases my hand. He moves back a little and I want to lean into his warmth, reconnect to the curve of his body.

I feel uncertain without his guidance but I try to copy the same brush strokes, to blend the color into some thing resembling water. I work at it until I’ve scraped the last of the oil from the palette. The blue swathe in front of me doesn’t exactly look like an ocean, but I’m impressed there’s a likeness. Then I remind myself there’s nothing technical about painting a solid swatch of blue onto a piece of plasterboard.

“It’s terrible,” I say, looking at him over my shoulder.

Cenric furrows his brow. “How can you say it’s terrible? It looks exactly the way it should. It looks like the ocean.”

“You don’t have to lie,” I say. “It’s just blue paint.”

Cenric laughs. “So you want to paint the Mona Lisa instead?”

“The what?”

“Never mind. We’ll consider your painting an abstract. You’ll be the next Rothko.”

“Who?”

“He was known for color field paintings like this one.” He motions at the easel. “I’ll show you his work next time. I have a book of his prints in here some where.” Cenric glances up at the ceiling. “But curfew is about to sound and you shouldn’t be drawing attention to yourself. You need to get back before you’re missed.”

I know he’s right, but I don’t want to leave.

“What if we stayed here for the night? What if we stayed here forever?”

Cenric takes the paintbrush and the palette from me. He dips the brush into a jar of turpentine and swirls it around. He’s quiet for a moment.

“You know we can’t do that.” He looks up at me and I see very real pain on his face. I take a step towards him, but his expression changes and I wonder if I really saw it.

He pulls the brush from the jar, dries it on a rag and drops it onto the bench among the rest of the items. He smiles and reaches for my hand.

“I don’t want to leave either but we have to.”

“You’re such a stickler for rules,” I say.

He laughs a little. “Just the ones that keep us from getting exiled.”

I decline Cenric’s offer to improve upon my ocean the following day, preferring to watch him embellish the scene instead. Within moments, the piece goes from an uneven splotch of paint to a living thing. I can almost see the flicker of fish in the water, the great curve of a whale.

I sit on the trunk and page through a book of Mark Rothko prints and wonder why Cenric considers it art. The pages are filled with solid rectangles of pink and blue and orange. They’re pretty but I don’t see the artistic talent in painting geometric shapes in a thousand different shades. I guess this is why I’m not an artist.

“Cenric, what’s your last name?” I ask, closing the book.

He stops mid stroke and turns around to face me. “Why?”

“I don’t know, you know mine.” I laugh. “Are you trying to hide it from me?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No. It’s Vendel.”

“Cenric Vendel,” I say, rolling the words around my mouth. Arela Vendel.

I blush a little at my unspoken audacity.

He looks uncomfortable for a second and then he turns back to the painting. I have a guilty flash that he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

Easy Arela, I think.

When he’s finished the piece and he’s cleaning his tools, he says casually. “We can go to the underbelly tonight.”

I leap off the trunk. “Really?”

He holds his hands out placating. “Yes, but we have to be as inconspicuous as possible. There are… people we don’t want to bump into.”

“You mean people who’ll recognize you.”

Cenric shrugs. “There are powerful people in the underbelly and more who exist just to pass on information. Two minors in the underbelly will cause a stir, especially if we’re not careful.”

“Don’t worry Cenric, I’m practically invisible, remember?”

Cenric scoffs. “I really regret telling you about that. You’re going to use it against me every where we go.”

“It’s a useful skill to have.” I wink at him.

“Well, you’re not invisible now.”

He lunges at me and I dance away with a grin. “I might not be invisible, but I’m too quick for you to catch!” I dash to the other side of the studio, around a chest of draws and over the pile of plaster and wood. Cenric chases me and finally pins me down in the middle of the room. He grabs the back of my shirt and I slip to my knees. I try to crawl away but I’m laughing so hard I collapse on the floor. I roll over just as Cenric dives on top of me and pins my hands above my head.

“Okay, you have me,” I say. Tears leak from the corner of my eyes and I’m out of breath.

“I do,” he says and leans down to kiss me softly on the lips. He kisses the spot behind my ear, the hollow of my collarbone. I’m hopeful and terrified that he’ll keep moving downward. I’m breathless now for an entirely different reason.

I’m praying the curfew alarm doesn’t go off and shorten this moment, but Cenric rolls off me, rises to his feet and pulls me up after him. I’m relieved and frustrated in equal measure.

“It’s time to get you home before anyone suspects this illicit behavior you’re indulging in.” He grins at me mischievously.

I stand on my tiptoes, but the best I can do is to plant a kiss on the end of his chin. He laughs.

“You really are incredibly short,” he says.

I slap his arm and make a face. “Not all of us were blessed with your gifts.”

“Oh, you have gifts aplenty,” he says and leans down to kiss me. I lean into him and we stand there for long, slow minutes.

Finally, he breaks away, his face still inches from mine. His eyes are so blue I expect to see a school of fish swim through them. He pushes a strand of hair out of my face and smiles at me indulgently. I would usually feel indignant at such a look, but now all I feel is a steady warmth in my chest, a sweet simple happiness that I’m standing here with Cenric in an abandoned building in a collapsing world.

Next Chapter: Chapter 23-24