Flawed (10 page)

I can't be bothered to give him an explanation. I don't have one. I feel completely numb. I sit on my bed, staring into space, still feeling his eyes on me. He stands at the glass, two hands pressed up against it, almost ordering me to look at him. I want Art. I need Art. Only he could make everything all right, right now. I lie down and turn my back to Carrick, and I don't move all night, because I don't want him or anyone else to see me cry.

 

NINETEEN

AFTER A NIGHT
of nightmares, of hearing that man in the Branding Chamber screaming in anguish, of dreaming of bleeding tongues and of ghoulish Flawed reaching for me and grabbing at me from the barricades as I walk through the courtyard, I wake up feeling exhausted and scared, confused as to where I am. It is the day that I will testify on my own behalf. The day I tell Bosco's lie. It is Naming Day.

I'm awake at 5:00
AM,
lie still until 5:30, and then get up, pacing like a caged animal waiting for everything to commence. Carrick wakes at six and lies in his bed, sleepily watching me from under his blankets. After a while, he sits up, back against the wall, knees raised, elbows resting on his knees, already familiar with this routine. This frustrates me even more. There is nowhere I can escape him, apart from the small toilet, but I can't spend any amount of time in there longer than necessary. I'm sure they've made it the size of a hole for a reason.

At 8:00
AM
Tina and Funar come to our cells, and we are guided to the showers. I expect Carrick to ignore me as he did most of the day yesterday, but he gives me a light nod, and there's something softer behind his eyes. Perhaps I've gone up in his estimation in not being sent home yesterday, and I understand. I have always felt that he and I are in this together, ever since I saw him walk into the holding cells. For him, it took about eighteen hours later to agree. Even in all the times I woke up during the night, afraid and disoriented, I looked across at Carrick and immediately was oriented and calmer. He was the trigger to calm me, nothing else in the room. I don't know if having someone of his build on my side is simply wishful thinking. I know this connection seems so intense over such a short period, but I feel as though I'm in a pressure cooker, and he is the only person in it with me who could possibly understand. Experiencing it at the same age only adds to that connection.

I smile a good morning, and he holds out his hand to let me walk ahead of him. Funar whistles lightly, childishly, a
whit-whoo
, and Tina tells him to shut up. I smile and look behind me quickly to catch Carrick's reaction. Not so much a smile as a light behind his eyes. Maybe they're green. Our eyes meet to share the joy of Funar's embarrassment at being silenced, and then I quickly turn back to follow Tina. I feel self-conscious that Carrick's behind me, and I'm also hoping we're not being taken on another “lesson.” I guess that we're not, seeing as Tina is here, and I wonder if I should tell her what happened yesterday when she was upstairs, or if I should suck it up as Carrick has done. Perhaps there are rules in bravery. If so, I will follow Carrick's lead.

He's taken left, I go right. After the shower, I dress in fresh clothes and I'm taken back to my cell. Carrick is already in his cell, sitting at a table with a dumpy man in a tattered suit. Carrick's hair has a shine to it, still wet, and he looks freshly shaven and is in a new sludgy-green T-shirt. I'm sure Mom would have chosen something else, something warmer, to bring out his eyes, whatever color they are, but I like it. It's like he's a soldier, because it strikes me that he's not looking for clemency, he's looking for a fight. I study him when he's not looking, to see what color his eyes are. I don't know why I'm obsessing over this. I suppose it's because Art's are so clearly blue. You see them before you see him. They're one of the things I love most about him, whereas with Carrick, his eyes seem black, but they can't possibly be. Perhaps his pupils are just constantly dilated from anger.

The dumpy man in Carrick's cell has a red, flustered face, and it looks like breathing is a difficult act for him. He rifles through papers. They're talking and it's intense, but I can't hear what they're saying. The man is explaining something. He is hot and bothered, and Carrick's face is angry already.

My door opens. It's Tina.

“Who's he?” I ask.

“His adviser.”

I notice she never uses Carrick's name.

“But I thought he was representing himself.”

“He is, but he still needs assistance. Paperwork to be filed, et cetera. Paddy is his mentor. You would be sent one, too, but you have Mr. Berry.”

I look at Paddy, who looks like he's about to die of a coronary, and I'm once again grateful for Mr. Berry despite the fact that in any other situation, I wouldn't trust him. Just enough to trust him with my life.

“There's someone here to see you. In the cafeteria.”

My heart flips. Art. I need him. I want to be back on the summit with my legs wrapped around him, feeling his heartbeat through his chest. I know that as soon as I see him, I will feel calm and human again, and not like this caged animal.

As we're walking by Carrick's cell, something, a flash of color, attracts my notice. I don't hear anything because the glass is soundproof, but I see it in the corner of my eye. I stop walking and look to see a tray of food fall from the window to the ground, cups and saucers and food lying in tatters on the floor of his cell. Behind it is an angry Carrick, the one responsible for firing it directly at my head, his face twisted in anger and aggression.

I'm stunned. It was clearly aimed at me, but I can't figure out what I've done.

Tina surprises me by laughing. “So I guess he just found out.”

“Found out what?”

“Bark! Funar!” she calls. “Bad egg.”

Funar appears at the guards' office door and grunts.

She turns back to me, and we continue walking. “He's learned that his case is on hold until yours is finished,” she replies. “That's the fourth time that happened. First, Dr. Blake, then Jimmy Child, and then Angelina Tinder.”

“How long has he been here?”

“A few weeks.”

“Weeks?” I ask, shocked. “And how much longer will he be here?”

“Whenever you're finished. He's a flight risk and has anger issues, obviously. Can't risk letting him go. Been trouble ever since he got here. Serves him right, to be honest. If he didn't act like such an animal, his case could have been pushed through by now. Now come along this way. You can get breakfast here, too.” She takes me by the elbow and pulls me along.

I look back at Carrick. He stares at me with his cold, hard eyes, chin raised, chest heaving up and down at the exertion of his fit of rage. Tina called him an animal, but I don't blame him at all. A few weeks in this place and I'd start to behave like one, too. I try to give him a look of apology, but I'm not quite sure how to pull that off. I need words, and he and I have never shared any. I half-walk, half-run along as Tina pulls me. He stands still, hands on his hips, and watches me all the way out the door, probably wishing I'd never come back. Maybe his eyes really are black.

 

TWENTY

MY HEART IS
pounding when I arrive at the cafeteria, and it is a remarkably different atmosphere from the one I just left. It feels like civilization, and I can hardly believe it was only yesterday morning that I, too, was walking around freely. People having breakfast meetings before work, lots of dark suits with heads close together, tablets out on every table. Free people who come and go when they want. And Art. Somewhere in this room is Art. My stomach flutters.

“He's over there.” Tina points and backs away. “I'll come back in half an hour so you can get ready for your big moment.”

I swallow hard at the thought of it.

I go in the direction Tina pointed me to, searching for Art, for his white-blond hair, for his turquoise-blue eyes, but I can't find him anywhere. I'm aware of all the eyes on me as I weave my way between the tables. When I get to the end of the room, I look around, confused, then I start walking back again.

I feel a hand, a rough grip, around my wrist.

“Ow,” I say, pulling away. An old, wrinkled hand with protruding veins grips my arm. “Granddad!”

“Sit down,” he says harshly, but his face is soft.

I embrace him quickly and then slide into the seat before him, happy to see him but trying to hide my devastation that Art hasn't come to see me. I wonder if it's because he's not allowed or because he doesn't want to.

I don't get to see Granddad as often as I used to after he and Mom had their falling-out last Earth Day. He's welcome in our home, but only when invited, and he isn't invited as much as he used to be. It is all on Mom's terms now. Grandma passed away eight years ago, and he lives alone, tending to his dairy farm.

He looks around conspiratorially, and for once he's not just being paranoid. Most of the people here are staring at us.

“We have to keep our voices down,” he says, moving his head close to mine. “Did you see this?”

He reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a newspaper. It's folded lengthways, and he slides it across the table to me. “They won't want you to see this one, that's for sure.”

I open the paper and am shocked by what I see. My photograph takes up practically the entire front page, with only a small space for a dramatic headline and the rest of the story inside. My mouth falls open. The headline shouts,
THE FACE OF CHANGE?

He slides another across to me. It's a variation of the same photo, with the headline
NORTH. NEW DIRECTION FOR FLAWED CAUSE
.

“What? Which papers are these?” I ask, not recognizing them.

“You won't see these papers around here,” he whispers. “They're not Crevan's. He doesn't own them all, you know.”

“He doesn't own any of them, Granddad. They're his sister's, Candy's,” I correct him, scanning the articles.

“In name only. You're about to learn Crevan's more involved with those papers than anybody else is. You're all over Crevan's papers, too. However, their slant is slightly different. All about the girl who protects society from the Flawed. You're a hero on both sides. Or a villain, depending on your opinion.”

Which explains the reason for the level of anger outside in the courtyard. I've annoyed just about every side you can imagine. Nobody comes to watch a Flawed cross the courtyard to support them.

Granddad's conspiracy theories are what Mom fought with him about. It was fine and harmless for him to believe them on his own, on his farm, in the middle of nowhere, but when he kept bringing them to her doorstep, he was, as she said, bringing danger into our home. Particularly when he was sitting at the same table as Bosco. I thought it was funny at the time, the comments he used to make, but now I see why Mom was afraid.

The sight of me on the front pages is overwhelming, the things they are saying about me, how they are analyzing and dissecting my actions when I, who did what they're talking about, gave it much less thought. If I am who they say I am, which side am I to believe? I don't think either of them know me at all.

“Granddad, have you spoken to Juniper? Do you know anything? Is she okay? She won't be a character witness for me. Does she hate me?”

“I haven't seen her and I'm sure she doesn't hate you. Your mother won't let me into the house. I've tried, but she thinks I've lost my mind. It's just that I've got all this. This proof.” He starts taking out scraps of paper from every pocket of his jacket, some cutouts, some with scribbles on them. “I've been collecting information. A lot of which I think will help you. Your mother won't listen, but you need to. There are two very important names to remember, Celestine: Dr. Blake and Raphael Angelo. Forget Mr. Berry. They can help you with your case. We need to find them—”

“Granddad, stop please,” I say gently, closing my hands over his. “It's going to be okay,” I say, sounding calmer than I feel. The Branding Chamber really shook me up yesterday, and I know it was a warning from someone. I'm not about to ignore that warning. “Bosco is helping me.” I keep my voice down incredibly low. “We've talked already. I just need to do what he and Mr. Berry say, and it will be okay.”

But the old man won't be okay, my conscience tells me. The old man whom I'm about to accuse of breaking the Flawed rules. The man who reminded me of my own granddad. How could I do it to him? I push it to the back of my mind, knowing I must stay in survival mode.

Granddad snorts. “Celestine, whatever that man has promised you, I would not rely on it. He was double-crossed yesterday by his own two judges. Sanchez and Jackson have had enough of him and his double standards, and it will happen again. They're not happy about his decisions lately. They feel he's using his ties to the people to push through whatever decisions he wants, trying to convince the media of his beliefs, not to mention what he did to that poor newspaper editor's wife. There's a war brewing, Celestine. Don't let them use you.”

“Bosco wouldn't
use
me, Granddad.”

He studies me. “Do you believe in what you did, love?”

I look down. Then back at him and nod.

“What are you afraid of then?”

“Being
Flawed
! The
pain
, the scars, the rules, the curfew, the life, the Whistleblowers, losing my friends, people laughing at me, staring at me. Being thought of as one of
them
. Yesterday they made me listen to a man in the chamber, Granddad. He screamed so loud I'll never forget it,” I say, my eyes filling.

“Ah, love,” he says, taking my hand. “They're playing tricks on you, you know that. It's all mind games. It's about power. Control. This society we live in.”