Flawed (17 page)

DAY SEVEN

I meet Mary May for the first time. I am expecting a tank of a woman, instead I see Mary Poppins. I have seen women dressed as her before but never understood who they were or what they did. She's wearing what looks like an ancient nanny uniform: a conservative black dress with a white shirt and black tie. The tie has an embroidered red
F
. She wears black tights and black brogues. Over her dress she wears a heavy black button-up coat with a wraparound collar and red velvet cuffs. She wears a black bowler hat with a red band and another
F
on the front. Her hair is pinned up neatly and sits in a bun below the back of her hat. Her face is makeup-free and stern. I'm not good at guessing ages, but she's in her forties or fifties and is a tiny, birdlike woman. She looks like she's dressed for the middle of winter. She stares at me as I walk in. She looks me up and down, as I have done with her.

“Hi,” I say. I'm not sure whether to shake her hand. The heavy black leather gloves tell me not to attempt it.

“I'm Mary May, your Whistleblower for the foreseeable future. You are aware of the rules, or shall I go through them again?”

I shake my head.

“Verbal communication,” she snaps.

“No, I mean, yes,” I stammer. “I understand the rules.” I'm nervous because I don't want to make a mistake, I don't want to be punished again. I don't know what's right and wrong, what's expected of me in this new world. I've read the rules, I've been told about them, but the reality is quite different. My family is all sitting at the table watching me with her. I can feel the tension in the room. I can't make a mistake. Not again.

She likes how she has unnerved me. I see the smile in her eyes.

I sit for dinner for the first time since I've returned. A regular family dinner. Mary May remains in the corner, hat, coat, and gloves still on, her presence as calming as the Grim Reaper's. Mom has turned music on to fill the uncomfortable silence. Juniper is at the table, eyes down that nervously flit to me when she thinks I'm not looking. The more scared of me she acts, the angrier she makes me feel. Ewan won't stop staring at me, as though I'm not here to see him.

“What's she eating?” he asks, looking at my plate of food with disgust.

“They're grains,” Mom says. “They're pumpkin seeds. And that's salmon.”

“It looks like dog food.”

It smells like dog food.

The others are eating chicken and rice. The chicken looks dry and the rice pasty, and I wonder if it is deliberately so. Mom has also cooked cabbage, which she knows that I hate. I can see she is trying to help me, to make this easier for me. I know Mom has tried to keep it basic, but I still want to eat what they're eating. I don't want their food because it looks better than mine, or because I'm remotely hungry, because I'm not. I want it because it's what I should be having. I want it because I've been told I can't. I wonder, again, where this part of me has sprung from. I was the girl who followed rules, I was on their side. I never questioned anything; now I find myself on the wrong side of everything, questioning everything. This must be how Juniper felt every day. I look at her. She has her head down and is playing with her food. Once again it irritates me that she isn't eating it. She
can
eat it. She has the right and she's barely touching it. She looks up just then, sees the look on my face, swallows, and looks away again.

Ewan is staring at me. At the dressings on my hand, covering my temple. He eyes my chest curiously.

“Mom, Dad,” he whines. “She keeps looking at me.”

“Shut up, Ewan,” Juniper spits.

“She's allowed to look at you,” Dad snaps. “She's your sister.”

Ewan continues eating, in a huff.

“You know you're allowed to speak directly to me, Ewan,” I say softly, finding strength within me to be gentle. He's my little brother. I don't want him to be afraid of me.

He looks startled that I've addressed him.

“Could you pass me the salt, please?” I ask.

It's closest to Ewan. He freezes. “I'm not allowed to help you. Mom, Dad,” he whines again, absolutely terrified. He looks to Mary May, who is sitting in the corner of the kitchen, observing with her notepad and pen.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like I've been punched, as if the air has gone out of me. I have caused such terror on my own baby brother's face.

“Oh for christsake,” Juniper yells at him, picks up the salt, and bangs it down in front of me. “You're allowed to pass her the salt.”

They all continue eating in silence.

I watch them, like robots, heads down, shoveling food into their mouths. All except Juniper. I know none of them wants to eat. None apart from Ewan, anyway, but they are, and I know they're doing it for me. I wish Juniper would. I have a bizarre feeling of wanting to force-feed her that chicken. And then I can't take it anymore, the anger, the hatred that I'm feeling toward my own sister. It's not her fault, and yet I'm blaming her.

I stand up. I take my plate and carry it over to the bin, beside where Mary May sits. I press the pedal to open the bin, and I throw the entire plate inside. I hear it smash as it hits the bottom. She doesn't even flinch. I stick out my finger, ready for her test. I just want to get this over and done with and go back to bed. She pricks my finger, puts a drop of blood on a test strip, and places the strip into a meter that is strapped around her wrist like a watch, which displays my blood results. Instantly, the machine says, “Clear.”

She then puts a contraption on my finger, similar to a pulse oximeter, which is attached by a wire to her wrist sensor, and she asks the question.

“Celestine North, have you followed all Flawed rules today?”

“Yes.” My heart is beating wildly. I know that I have, but what if it says that I haven't? What if they try to trick me? How truthful are these tests? How can I trust them if they're controlled by the Guild—they can say I'm lying even if I'm not, and it's their word against mine.

The watch once again gives a brisk, “Clear,” and she removes the device from my fingertip.

I don't even look back at my family. I feel too humiliated. I go upstairs. I want to sleep.

Sleep, however, doesn't come. My painkillers have lessened. I don't feel as distant anymore, not as groggy, and I long for that feeling to return. I hear Mary May leave, satisfied that I have obeyed the curfew. I sit at the window and look across the road at Art's house. It's large and imposing, the largest house on our cul-de-sac. I suppose you could call it a mansion. It is at the head of the street, looking down on everybody. Crevan's brother developed it, the one who has shares in the soccer club, and they wanted to keep those working in Crevan media on the same street. To control us. Why didn't I see it before? Bob, Dad, Judge Crevan all together on Earth Day. I thought it was so cozy and fun. Now I know it was all about control. The many windows in Art's house are all dark. There must not be anybody home. The only life I've seen come and go over the past few days is Hilary, their housekeeper. I understand that he can't visit, that there are too many journalists and photographers outside for him to be able to do that, especially if he is in hiding from his dad, but no real harm could come from visiting me. It's not illegal. It would be a show of disrespect to his father, but isn't he doing that anyway? Or failing that, a phone call, a text, or a letter like the one he sent me when I was in the castle would show that he cares, that he's thinking of me. Just something. Anything.

I wouldn't think that a visit to the Flawed could be seen as aiding, though I know that one minute in his arms would save me completely. Even though I'd tell anyone who'd listen that I know there's no hope for me and Art now, deep down, it still makes sense to me. It could still happen. It would just mean his taking a stand against his father once and for all, and it could be me and him against most of the world.

I scroll to his name in my mobile phone and press call. I know what will happen, the same thing that has happened for the last couple of days. It goes straight to voice mail. But I listen to the sound of his voice, jovial and always close to laughter, a cheeky look on his face, and then I hang up.

Downstairs I hear Ewan get a firm talking-to, a going-over of the rules.

I pretend to sleep and feel both Mom and Dad kiss me good night. I hear them go to bed. Talking in low voices and then nothing.

And exactly what I was anticipating happens next. I hear Juniper sneaking out.

 

THIRTY

I STAND NAKED
in front of the mirror, my dressings removed. I hate what I see. My tears fall as my eyes run over the scars on my skin. They have taken away ownership over myself, and they have made me theirs. I want to rip the brandings from my skin. I look away from the mirror. I will never look at myself again. I will never let anyone else see my naked body. Not friends. Not a man. No one.

*   *   *

School is many different things to different people. It makes Juniper nervous, I know that. School is something she worries about constantly from the minute she goes to bed at night to the moment she returns home. She feels uncomfortable, restricted, maybe out of her depth. She can't wait for it all to be over so she can get on with what she considers the more important parts of her life. She worries about homework, about getting answers wrong in class, about her exams, and about what to wear. Her worrying isn't because she's lazy and doesn't try or that she's not clever. She's smart. She is constantly working. She constantly talks about studying, trying on outfits, laying out clothes, starting again. She has one close friend, and they are glued to each other as they walk around the halls, heads together, sticking to themselves. They don't want anybody else, they don't need anybody else. They just want to get through it and be done with it.

For me, school is solid. I like going. I feel comfortable there. I look forward to each day. I don't have any fears about it. I work hard but not so hard that I get bogged down or overly stressed. My teachers like me, and I like them. I don't give them any trouble. I have a great group of friends. Six of us, three girls and three guys including me and Art, and one of which is Marlena, who spoke for me at the Guild. We have fun. We are neither nerdy nor jocks. We might be remembered, we might not. We just are.

But for the first time in my life, I am experiencing what Juniper must feel every morning. I debate long and hard over what to wear. Everything in my wardrobe represents carefree to me, bought and worn by someone who blended in and had nothing to hide. I am not that person anymore.

I stare at the three outfits Mom has helped me to assemble. None of them feels like a place for me to hide in.

According to the rules, outside my home, my temple and hand must not be concealed. I must not hide my Flaws. Nothing can obviously be done about the sole of my foot. But when I am home, I have a list of clothing preferences now. My braids must stay down to hide my branded right temple. My sleeves must be long enough for me to hide the brand on my right hand. The neckline must be high to hide my seared chest. The sole of my foot and my spine will be okay unless I'm on the beach or in swim class, and I cannot wear flip-flops. I have a checklist of places on my body that I want to hide. I hate my body.

I look across the hall at Juniper's room.

I knock on her door.

“Hi,” she answers, surprised. She looks tired, and I wonder where she's been going at night. There has been a funny mood between us lately, and I don't feel close enough to ask her this. Mostly because I think she'd lie.

“I need something to wear,” I say, conscious that when I talk, my tongue feels oversized in my mouth and I sound like my friend Lisa after she got her tongue pierced. Though my speech is a lot clearer than it was days ago, when I felt like it would barely move.

“You want
my
clothes?” she asks, confused.

“None of my stuff is right.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. Um. Come in.” She opens her door wider, and I see the bomb site, her clothes are scattered everywhere. “I couldn't decide, either.”

I feel like snapping at her that, clearly, this is for very different reasons, but I don't. I swallow it. I swallow it all. My eyes survey the mess. I know what I'm looking for and see it immediately.

“Thanks,” I say, backing out.

“Are you sure?” She eyes the items in my hands. “I've other stuff you might like.”

“No, this is fine, thanks.”

I go back to my room and try it on. When it's on, I look in the mirror and start to cry. Black long-sleeved cotton top, high neck. Black skinny jeans. Black boots. I look like Juniper.

But the outfit isn't complete.

I slide the red
F
armband up my arm, removing the sticky tape from one side to secure it tightly to the fabric. It's supposed to be tight.

Like a second skin.

 

THIRTY-ONE

PRINCIPAL HAMILTON'S ROMAN
blinds are closed because not far from his office the media are camped at the entrance to Grace O'Malley secondary school. A staff member had tipped them off that today would be my first day back. They had pushed cameras up against the darkened glass of Dad's Jeep so hard that I thought they'd crack the panes. Dad had to crawl through them; he could barely see where he was driving. Inside, I felt terrified, claustrophobic, suffocated by so many eyes on me, wondering how my merely sitting there would be twisted and analyzed. Juniper had stared straight ahead, not flinching, not moving, as though she hadn't even noticed. And by the looks of it, they've also been making Principal Hamilton's life a living hell. His face has broken into a rash, running down his wobbly neck into his shirt. Broken capillaries are even more exaggerated on his bulbous nose.