Chapter 8

Large hands grab me around the shoulders and drag me upright. I’m propelled forward by a strong force, someone’s hands on my back. I swat at the people surging toward me and let the person behind push us through. We get close to the edge of the crowd and a gap appears. I duck into it and stumble away from the melee. It’s fully dark now and I can’t see the person who lifted me, only a dark outline. The person is tall and broad shouldered and I realize it’s a man.

I’m standing in the middle of the crowd staring at him, too stunned to keep moving. He grabs my arm and tugs me further away. He pushes me into a doorway and stands pressed against me, his back to the crush of people. I can feel the heat radiating off his chest and it makes my cheeks burn. He smells like clean fabric and something musky. We’re both breathing hard and I feel a trickle of sweat run down the side of my face. I’m trembling and not a hundred percent sure I’d be standing if his body weren’t pinning me against the door.

The perimeter lights up in a narrow circle above us, creating a spotlight over the crowd. I look up and see the man’s face and revise my evaluation. He’s not much older than I am, the skin on his cheeks is smooth and olive toned. No beard. His hair is longer than I’m used to seeing, dark and wavy. His face is turned toward the riot and I can see the muscles clenched in his jaw. His lips are pressed together but I can see they’re full, almost sensual.

He glances at me and sees me watching him. I flush with embarrassment. His eyebrows are knit together with worry.

“This isn’t good,” he says and I feel it rumble through his chest. “We have to get away from this riot.”

I want to say something witty but all I can do is nod.

We hear a series of popping noises and the man, swears under his breath.

“Tear gas,” he says and I barely hear him over the shouting. “We have to go.”

“Wait,” I say. “We can go through the building.”

“How? It’s locked.” His eyes are a hazel color, with a dark chocolate ring around the pupil. I realize I’m staring again and look away.

“I can get in,” I say. I turn around so my back is pushed against him and I feel the heat rise along the back of my neck. What’s wrong with me?

I find the access panel by the door jam and flip it open. My hands are shaking but I manage to punch in the code and press my index finger to the pad. The door slides open and we fall through the gap. I slap the pad on the other side and the door seals shut, cutting off the noise of the crowd. We can still hear the shouting but now it’s muffled. I feel relief at being able to think again.

“Come on,” the man says and grabs my hand. He pulls me into what appears to be an empty office building. We skirt a reception desk and enter a floor lined with cubicles and mod units. It’s dark inside but the emergency strips give off enough light to navigate our way across the room.

I’m distracted by the feel of his hand in mine, I’ve never held hands with a man before, and I trip on the leg of a chair. I stumble and crash into his back, knocking my teeth together. He turns around and steadies me. I think I might die of embarrassment. Luckily, it’s too dark for him to see the color rise in my face.

“I’m fine,” I whisper and motion him forward.

I want to ask him who he is, why he pulled me off the ground, why he saved me, but he’s moving too fast and I’m trying not to trip again like a silly girl.

We weave our way through the cubicle farm and come out into a narrow hallway. He tugs me left and we hurry through the dark. The sounds of the riot are faint now, but I can still feel the anxiety lingering in my body. My side aches and pain flares in my leg every time I step down on it.

We come to the end of the hallway and I find we’re standing in front of a service entrance. A dim light flickers above the door and casts an eerie glow around us.

“Who are you?” I whisper. He looks back at me for a moment but doesn’t answer. He’s still gripping my hand. His fingers are long, his palm wide, and my hand feels tiny in comparison.

“No one you should know,” he finally says. He turns back to the door.

“Then why did you save me?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets go of my hand and I feel the rush of cool air, a deep absence of something. He slides the door open a few inches and peers out through the crack. The sound of an announcement drifts toward us, but I can’t tell from which direction. He slides the door all the way and steps out. He motions me to follow.

I step out beside him and suddenly feel exposed. A panicky sensation roils my stomach and I can’t tell if I’m afraid of the riot, or this strange and silent person standing next to me. My heart is pounding in my chest and my mouth is dry.

“You need to go home,” he says and I see his eyes glitter, picking up the light from an overhead lamp. “Stay out of trouble.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He pauses for a second and then starts walking away. “Go home,” he says again and melts into the darkness. I strain to see him, but there’s so little light it’s impossible to pick him out of the shadows. He could be anywhere. The panic flares into my throat, but I shove the feeling away. I’ve been alone in the city before, even if it hasn’t been after curfew. There’s no reason to freak out now. The riot is on the other side of the building.

I realize how late I am for line up and I shake my head to clear it. I need to get back now.

I orient myself and start jogging toward TWOC. I’m only seven blocks away and I enter the building five minutes later, panting.

Line up is over but Rosalin is standing by the door waiting for me.

“Arela!” she gasps when she sees me. “Where have you been? I was so worried. What happened to your face? You’re bleeding.”

“There was a riot on six hundred block, near the monorail. I’m okay, I’m okay.”

She’s trying to touch my face but I push her away. “Where’s Head?” I ask. “Does he know I’m missing?”

“No, they cancelled it,” Rosalin says. “The proctors have been missing all afternoon and Head is in his office on the vidcon. It’s not good.”

“Where’s everyone else?” I ask. “Where are the twins?”

“Everyone is in the rec room. We don’t know what else to do. I don’t think anyone wants to be alone. Arela, you’re bleeding all over your shirt. We need to take you to the med room.”

I shake my head. I can lie when I need to, but I’d never come up with a convincing story for the state I’m in. “I’ll clean up in the bathroom.”

Rosalin studies my face. “Are you sure you’re ok?” Her lips quiver slightly and I realize she’s trying not to cry.

I grasp her by the shoulders and touch my forehead to hers for a moment, then pull away.

“I’m sure I’m ok,” I say, looking directly at her. “Just a few scrapes and bruises. Come on. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

We walk to our room. I collect a fresh smock, my towel and my toothbrush and we make our way to the bathrooms without seeing anyone. I’m grateful. I’ve seen enough people for one night.

When we enter, I stand in front of the mirror. My face is puffy on the left side and a cut on my temple is leaking blood. A great deal of it is smeared across my cheek and nose. I look like I’m wearing tele-drama makeup.

“I look awful,” I say.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

“It didn’t before, but it does now.” I touch the tips of my finger to the bruise that’s developing under my eye. I look like someone punched me.

Rosalin runs the tap and holds a handful of paper towel underneath.

“Here,” she says and uses the wet paper to wipe the blood from my face. I try not to pull away from her. She’s trying to be gentle, but the scrape stings every time she touches it and sends shooting pains through my skull.

“That’s going to look nasty unless we get heal-gel on it,” she says. “Wait here and I’ll get some.”

“You’re going to break into the med supplies?” I ask her. Normally that’s my job.

“It’s not like they keep it locked up. No one will notice if I’m quick.”

I look at her dubiously. I’ve never seen Rosalin being sneaky.

“All right, I’ll wait here.”

She leaves me alone in the bathroom and I strip out of my dirty and torn clothes. I examine the scrapes on the undersides of my arm. The skin is rubbed raw but the cuts are shallow. I probe the lump at the back of my skull and wince. It’s the size of an egg and spongy when I press on it.

I think of the man lifting me out of the melee and a rush of gratitude fills my stomach. I might have been killed without him. I’m still worrying over the details of our escape when Rosalin returns with the gel in her hand. She uncaps the tube and smears the clear substance across my face.

“So, what happened?” she asks.

I tell her, starting from my arrival at the mono station. I describe the crowd and her eyes go wide. She interrupts me.

“How many people were out there?”

“More than I could count,” I say. “Fourth Avenue was packed as far as I could see. It must have been more than two thousand.”

Neither one of us has seen such large crowds. The only time gathering is allowed is for formal ceremonies and most of those we’re required to watch from the common room.

“How did you get away?”

“Someone helped me,” I say and I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks again.

Rosalin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Who?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me his name. He didn’t look like he was from here. He was tall, long haired, his uniform wasn’t the right color of green.”

“Why did he help you?” she asks.

“He wouldn’t tell me that either,” I say. “He was very mysterious. I remember the glitter of his eyes in the light and a shiver runs down my back. An unfamiliar feeling of intimidation settles across my shoulders like a cloak. I don’t like it. Remembering his height and the way his hands clasped me under the shoulders makes me feel like a little girl.

“How did you get away from the riot?” She asks and lifts up my forearms to inspect the lacerations. She smears them both with the gel and I feel a cool relief as the pain starts to fade.

I describe our escape through the office building and his abrupt departure.

“And then I ran here,” I say and shrug.

We’re silent for a moment.

“Any ideas why there was no line up?”

Rosalin shakes her head. “We stood there for thirty minutes, waiting. Finally, Yakov left and the rest just followed. I was worried about you, so I stayed by the entrance. I had no idea if you were coming back. I wish you wouldn’t get yourself into trouble like that.”

“It was no trouble at all,” I say and wink at her.

She punches me lightly in the shoulder and I grimace.

“Oh sorry!”

“It’s ok, I’ll recover,” I say. “Let’s go watch some tele-drama. I’ve had enough of the real world for tonight.”

I’m sitting across from the psych proctor, Ms. Hiller, watching her type notes into a tablet device.

“I really would rather use good old fashioned paper and pen,” she says and smiles at me. “Technology and I just can’t seem to get along.”

I smile faintly and tap my toe against the floor.

“Are you in a hurry?” the woman asks, looking at my foot.

“No.” I stop.

“Because we can always do this another time. When it suits you.”

“No, I’m fine.” I’d rather get this over with.

“Ok, then. Let’s get started.” She looks up from her tablet. Her eyes are a watery blue, as if she’ll tip into crying at any moment. I’m afraid I’ll be the one to send her there.

“You’ve got a bit of a bruise on your cheek there,” she says. “What happened?”

The swelling has faded but the side of my face is mottled with a yellowish tint. Heal-gel is fast acting, but there’s not a lot it can do overnight.

“I fell playing handball. I went face first into my opponent’s knee. It hurt like-“

“Did you see medic for it?” she asks.

“No, it was no big deal,” I say. I could lie and say I did, but if she checks the records she’ll know it’s not true.

“Arela, you know all injuries should be documented.”

She says this because if proctors are accused of abuse, they’ll have records to validate the claim. Some how that rule doesn’t apply to Head.

“It’s nothing. I barely felt it.”

She looks at me for a moment and then moves on. “How do you feel otherwise? Emotionally?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Just fine.” She pauses, waiting for me to speak. I don’t. I’ve played this game with adults before. They leave these uncomfortable silences hanging, hoping you’ll want to fill them. I’m not falling for it.

“Ok, then. Why are you just fine? How do you feel about the Leaders death? Are you having any trouble adjusting to the news?”

“I’m fine,” I say again. “Why would the Leaders death bother me? We all die at some point and he was really old.”

The woman winces and taps a few notes into her tablet. I wonder why that was noteworthy enough for posterity.

“Are you having any nightmares?” she asks.

“No,” I lie. If I tell her I am, she’ll make me describe it, and that I don’t want to do.

“How’s your appetite? Are you eating enough?”

I laugh. “The food isn’t exactly gourmet but I eat it.”

She smiles weakly.

“Are you getting enough exercise?”

I think about my sprint through the city last night. I nod without saying anything.

There’s another long silence and I think she’s about to dismiss me.

“How are your friends?” she asks and I’m surprised by the change in direction. We all go through these interviews, so she would know just as well as I do.

“I guess they’re fine. Some more than others.”

“Tell me about Jacobo. How is his mood? Would you say he’s depressed or in danger of hurting himself?”

“Jacobo… what are you trying to ask me? If he’s suicidal?” I stare frankly at her and I can tell it’s making her nervous.

“Well, we have to make sure our wards aren’t experiencing serious depression. I’ve seen Jacobo’s behavior and it worries me. He has a temper and he’s sensitive. He’s a prime candidate for suicide.”

I scoff at her prognosis. “He’s not suicidal. You should talk to Yakov about that,” I say. She writes another note. Revenge is sweet.

“How are the rest of your friends, Rosalin, Jaela?”

“They’re fine. Honestly. We’re all fine. It’s not like anything is going to change, is it? You’ll still be proctor, Mr. Smit will be Head Proctor, and we’ll take classes every day. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“You’re right, that’s very sensible of you.” The woman let’s out a shaky breath and puts the tablet down.

“Arela, look. Have you been in contact with any of the Originals? Anybody linked to the Resolutionists?”

“No.”

“What about any encounters with strangers?”

I start a little at that question and hope she doesn’t notice. I think of the man from last night and his stern face.

“Why,” I ask. “Are they looking for recruits?”

“Arela,” The woman frowns at me. “This isn’t a joke. The riots are a serious violation of the code and a lot of people are getting hurt. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

“No, I haven’t been in contact with anyone,” I say. “I’m stuck in here all day.”

The woman sighs. “Ok, I guess you’re going to be all right. As long as you stay in during curfew.”

I think I hear a little disappointment in her voice and wonder if she’s looking for something to be wrong with me. Maybe it would give her something to fix. I’m afraid I’m not the type for fixing.

Next Chapter: Chapter 9