A Long, Long Sleep (22 page)

It was sixty- two years, eight months, and twelve days earlier that my life had started on the path that led to this horror. It began as good news. I was leaving my art class when Mr. Sommers stopped me. “Could I speak to you for a moment, Rose?” he asked.

I swallowed, afraid I’d done something wrong again. You’d have thought that art would be the one subject in which I would have no troubles. No such luck.

In my academic classes, my teachers regarded me with a quiet despair. In my art classes, I frequently had teachers who regarded me with either rank envy or open hostility. The hostility usually resulted from my constant presence in their classroom —early morning to late evening, and sometimes my lunch period —and the fact that I used ten times as many art supplies as any other student they’d ever had. I was pretty sure I was about to get another lecture about wasting the school’s resources.

“Rose, I need to talk with you about something,” Mr.

Sommers began.

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

Mr. Sommers raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

“For whatever I did,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Sommers smiled then. “This isn’t anything bad.” I looked up at him in surprise. “You remember those extra- credit paintings you brought in for me?”

“Yes,” I said. This school had a small art gallery, and they tried to hang some of the students’ artwork, along with local professional artists’ work. Three months ago, Mr. Sommers had offered extra credit to anyone who wanted to bring in a piece they had done outside of class, for possible display in the gallery. I’d brought in half a dozen oil paintings. None of them had been hung in the gallery, but I didn’t mind. I got the extra credit whether they were chosen for display or not.

“I was very impressed by your skill,” Mr. Sommers said. “So impressed that I collected some of the assignments you’ve done for me, along with those paintings, and shipped them to a friend of mine who is on the awards committee for the Young Masters Program for Artistic Excellence. Have you heard of them?”

I had. For the last ten years, they had been the premiere world venue for serious art students. I’d known about them since I entered middle school . . .

which, admittedly, was several years ago. “Did he like them?” I asked, more curious than hopeful. If his friend thought that I had the potential to enter the Young Masters Program in two or three years’ time, I was well pleased.

“He liked them well enough that he sent me a message today, informing me that one of your paintings has been selected as one of the two winners of the painting category.”

I gasped. “What?” That was impossible! Senior apprentices to famous artists entered the Young Masters Program. College art majors. Already established artists under twenty- one. For a high- school student to have won one of the categories was virtually unheard of. “ W-which painting?”

“The one you labeled Undersky.”

I nearly sobbed with happiness. It was the painting I’d felt sure I’d never get a chance to finish, the one with the tortured mountains and the undersky plant life.

“The awards ceremony is held in New York every year, and you’ve already won transportation to and from it for you and a family member. Winning one of the categories is an immense honor.” I didn’t need him to tell me that, but he went on. “This makes you one of ten individuals who might win the Young Masters Award. The portfolio I collected for you will be compared with the winners of the other four categories, and we’ll find out at the awards ceremony whether you’ve earned the title of this year’s Young Master. If you have, you’ll be awarded a free place in the Young Masters Summer Art Tour through Europe, plus a full scholarship to the Hiroko Academy of Art once you’ve finished high school.”

I had never thought about needing money before in my life. My parents were disgustingly wealthy. But I realized as he said it that my parents’ money belonged to them. If I were to go to a college, it would be one they selected for me. If I were to go on a tour of Europe, they were the ones who would have to send me. Since they had never allowed me to leave Com-Unity without them, except to go to school, I was pretty sure they never would.

If I were to win the Young Masters Award, I’d be . . .

Free of them?

That was an odd thought. But that was what passed through my head. I’d be free.

And it all came crashing down the next second. “Since you are underage, I’ll have to have your parents’ consent for you to go to the awards ceremony. Can you arrange that?”

I faltered for a moment. “I . . . I wouldn’t know what to say to them.”

Mr. Sommers nodded. “Understandable. I’ll call them this evening and discuss this opportunity with them.” He smiled. “You should be very proud of yourself, young lady. This is an honor not many can achieve.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” I said. I’d never noticed Mr. Sommers taking any particular interest in me. But now that I thought about it, this was the first time I’d had the same art teacher for more than six months. I’d always switched schools and missed months so often that I was never able to establish a rapport with any of them.

“You just keep up the good work, Rose. I’ll see you tomorrow, and we’ll make the arrangements for the trip.”

I went home with a copy of the award announcement gripped in my hand.

When I got through the door, I ran to Åsa and told her all about it.

“Ah, flicka,” she said. “I knew you would do well.” She wasn’t one for words or kisses, but she started making cookies. Since we usually ordered our food delivered from the Unicorn servants in the central kitchens, this was a serious gesture.

When I told Xavier, he scooped me up in his arms with a whoop. He read the announcement aloud to the trees and flowers, and he made me pretend to go up and accept my award. He played master of ceremonies, and when I accepted, he surprised me with an early rose from the garden. “A rose for my Rose,” he said, and kissed me sweetly. “I’m so happy for you.”

When I got back inside, I was surprised that my parents were already home.

Mom poured me a glass of champagne. “Mr. Sommers told me all about it,”

Mom said the moment I came in the door. “Well done, Rosalinda!”

“Good girl,” Daddy said, but he barely looked up from his files. I was used to that, though.

“You’re happy?” I asked, surprised. I didn’t know why I’d half thought my parents wouldn’t be happy. They always approved of me spending my time with, as Daddy put it, my little paint set. They loved me and wanted what was best for me. Of course they were pleased! I grinned broadly.

“It’s a wonderful achievement,” Mom told me. “I’m very proud of you. Don’t you worry about anything, either. I’ve already taken care of it with your art teacher.

I told him you couldn’t accept.”

My smile died on my face. “What?”

“I took care of it for you. Don’t worry.”

“What . . . are you talking about? Why couldn’t I accept?”

“Well, honey, your art teacher told me you had to accept this award thing in person,” Mom said. “You know full well we’ll be Australia that month.”

I was flabbergasted. “But . . . but I have to accept. This is the Young Masters Program!” The vacant, inattentive look on Mom’s face worried me. She wasn’t hearing me. My voice got louder, screechingly strident. “They have art students from all over the planet! I was competing against college students! Mom!”

“Don’t you raise your voice to your mother,” Daddy said, turning away from his files. This was dangerous ground. To dare distract Daddy from his work. . . .

But for once, I didn’t even care about Daddy’s disapproval. “You don’t understand! This is the most prestigious award there is for youth artwork! This is worldwide recognition! I could start selling pieces this year even.”

“You’re not even sixteen yet, Rose,” Mom said. This wasn’t true, but she didn’t know that. “I don’t think that kind of publicity would be good for you at this stage of your life.”

“I wouldn’t be fifteen if you didn’t keep locking me up in stasis!” I yelled. I had no idea where that came from.

Mom actually stood up from her chair. She never stood up when she spoke to me. “Don’t you dare ever raise your voice to me, young lady!” she said in a low, threatening tone.

“Please!” I said, really crying. I was desperate now. “Please, don’t take this away from me!”

Mom’s face was pinched and she looked over at Daddy. “Do you think she’s overstressing?” Mom asked.

No. She wasn’t. . . . She was. I could see it in her face. For a moment I just closed my eyes, bowing to the inevitable.

Mr. Sommer’s voice echoed in my head. A full scholarship to the Hiroko Academy of Art.

“No,” I said, banishing my tears, trying to keep my voice calm. I straightened my shoulders, pretended to be adult. “I’m not overstimulated. It is only that this is very important to me.”

Daddy frowned. “So important that you have to be rude to your mother, defy your father?” he asked. “We love you. We only want what’s best for you. Tell me that you know that, Rose.”

I didn’t know where the hesitation came from. I knew the answer. It was rote. “I know that, sir,” I said, finally finding the words in the torrent of my thoughts.

“You know what?” he persisted.

“I know you only want what’s best for me, sir,” I whispered.

“Good,” Daddy said. He sighed. “I think you are over-stressing on this, though.

Jackie, why don’t you tuck her in, calm her down, and you and I will discuss it.”

“Good idea. Come along, Rose.”

I sighed. I hated it when they did this. They weren’t even gone and I was still losing precious hours with Xavier. There would be no gourmet dinner tonight.

“How long?” I asked as Mom tucked me into my stass tube.

“Only a day or two, honey,” Mom said. “We just need to discuss this. You should keep calm.”

“Okay,” I said. I lay down quietly and let stass take away all the disappointment. I was fairly sure what they’d decide.

I was not surprised when I opened my eyes and found Åsa standing over me.

Mom and Daddy had left without saying good- bye. It was easier than futilely arguing with them, I supposed. And they couldn’t know that Åsa kept letting me out. “Thanks,” I said. “How long was I out?”

Åsa’s mouth was pursed as she said, “Two weeks. They left last night for Australia.”

I nodded. I wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t the first time they’d simply kept me in stasis until a controversial event was over. A birthday party they didn’t want me going to or a school field trip they didn’t think I should attend. I was sure they’d planned on simply leaving me in stasis until the Young Masters awards ceremony was over and done with. It was usually something I just accepted.

Not this time.

“Where’s Xavier?” I asked.

“At school,” Åsa said. “I always wait a few hours after they go, in case they forget something and pop back. It’s a good thing I do; they’d have caught us a couple of times.”

I smiled, but it was without humor. “That’s okay. I should eat something before I talk with him, anyway.”

Åsa seemed to catch that there was something more in my tone than wanting to see my boyfriend. “What do you need from Master Xavier?” she asked.

I put my hand on the smooth metal and NeoGlass of my stass tube. “I need the boy who knows how to hack my stass chamber,” I said. “I need a boy who can hack my parents’ consent for the Young Masters Program.”

...

I’d wanted to bring Xavier as my companion to New York, but I couldn’t.

Through various hacked documents sent over the net, Xavier managed to convince Mr. Sommers that my parents wanted him to travel with me to the awards ceremony. Mr. Sommers was thrilled, since he had been planning on trying to go, anyway, and such a trip was no mean feat on a teacher’s salary.

It was the cherry on top of the perfect year. I shared a hotel suite with three of the other Masters winners: a college student from the Oriana School of Art; a conceptual computer artist, who had grown up on Luna; and Céline, whose presence astounded me. Céline was apprentice to André Lefèvre, a sculptor whose work I had admired since I was six. We discussed art until the wee hours of the morning, and the next day we all took a tour of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. I could have stayed there for a year, but when the doors closed, we went back to the hotel and were taken by limousine to the awards banquet. After we ate, all ten of us winners trooped up on stage, and we each received a golden plaque with our name and category and the title of the winning piece below it. rosalinda fitzroy, mine read. undersky, oil on canvas. Then they sat us down as the master of ceremonies patted various employees and volunteers on the back. We were all waiting to see who would win the Masters.

I was hoping Céline would win. Despite her native lan-guage being French and our mediums being vastly different, she and I had similar tastes and the same happily sinister feel to our artwork. Besides, she was apprentice to a truly brilliant artist.

So when the name was announced, I was disappointed. I turned to tell Céline I was so sorry for her, when I realized that the name I’d heard that wasn’t Céline’s had in fact been my own.