Flawed (2 page)

“No, I don't think so,” he says simply, firmly, not adding any more.

“Okay,” Mom says, standing and making her way to the kitchen, all calm and placid as if nothing happened at all, which tells me that, underneath, her legs are paddling wildly.

I look at Art in confusion and know that he feels the tension, too, because I can sense a new joke forming in his mouth, the thing that he does when he feels awkward or scared or uncomfortable. I see how his lip has started to curl at the thought of his punch line, but I never get to hear what he has to say because then we hear the sirens.

 

THREE

THE SIRENS RING
out, long, low, warning. The sound makes me jump in my seat, startled, and it sends my heart beating wildly, every inch of me sensing danger. It is a sound I have known my entire life, a sound you never want directed at you. The Guild calls it the alert signal, three- to five-minute continuous sirens that ring out from the Guild vans, and though I never lived through any war, it gives me a sense of how people must have felt then before being attacked. In the middle of any normal moment, it can invade your happy thoughts. The sirens sound close to home and they feel sinister. We all momentarily freeze at the table, then Juniper, being Juniper, who speaks before thinking and is clumsy in her actions, jumps up first, bumps the table, and sends the glasses wobbling. Red wine splashes onto the white linen like blobs of blood. She doesn't bother to apologize or clean it, she just runs straight out of the room. Dad is close behind her.

Mom looks completely startled, frozen in time. Drained of all color, she looks at Bosco, and I think she's going to faint. She doesn't even try to stop Ewan from running out the door.

The sirens get louder; they're coming closer. Art jumps up, then so do I; and I follow him down the hall and outside to where they've all gathered in a tight huddle in the front yard. The same is happening in each yard around us. Old Mr. and Mrs. Miller in the yard to our right hold each other tightly, looking terrified, waiting to see whose house the sirens will stop outside of. Directly across the road, Bob Tinder opens his door and steps outside. He sees Dad, and they look at each other. There's something there, but I don't quite understand it. At first, I think Dad is angry with Bob, but then Bob's face holds the same stare. I can't read them. I don't know what's going on. It's a waiting game. Who will it be?

Art grips my hand tightly, squeezes it for reassurance, and tries to give me one of his winning smiles, but it's wobbly, and too quick, and only carries the opposite effect. The sirens are almost on top of us now, the sound in our ears, in our heads. The vans turn onto our road. Two black vans with bright red
F
symbols branding their sides, letting everybody know who they are. The Whistleblowers are the army of the Guild, sent out to protect society from the Flawed. They are not our official police; they are responsible for taking into custody those who are morally and ethically Flawed. Criminals go to prison; they have nothing to do with the Flawed court system.

The emergency lights on the roofs of the vans spin around, rotating their red lights, so bright they almost light up the dusk sky, sending out a warning beacon to all. Clusters of families celebrating Earth Day cling to one another, hoping it's not them, hoping one of theirs won't be plucked from them. Not their family, not their home, not tonight. The two vans stop in the middle of the road, directly outside our house, and I feel my body start to shake. The sirens stop.

“No,” I whisper.

“They can't take us,” Art whispers to me, and his face is so sure, so certain, that I believe him. Of course they can't take us, we have Judge Crevan sitting in our home for dinner. We are practically untouchable. This helps my fear somewhat, but then anxiety turns to the poor, unfortunate person they are targeting. This surprises me, because I've always believed that the Flawed are wrong, that the Whistleblowers are on my side, protecting me. But because it is happening on my street, at my front door, that changes. It makes me feel it's us against them. This illogical, dangerous thinking makes me shudder.

The van doors slide open, and the whistles sound as four uniformed Whistleblowers leap out, wearing their signature red vests over black combat boots and shirts. They blow their whistles as they move, which has the effect of numbing my mind and stopping me from being able to form a single thought. In my head is just panic. Perhaps that's the intention. The Whistleblowers run, and I stand frozen.

 

FOUR

BUT THEY DON'T
run to us; they go in the opposite direction, to the Tinders' house.

“No, no, no,” Dad says, and I can hear the surge of anger in his voice.

“Oh my God,” Juniper whispers.

I look at Art in shock, waiting for his reaction, and he stares ahead intently, his jaw working overtime. And then I notice Mom and Bosco still haven't joined us outside.

I let go of Art's hand and rush back to the door. “Mom, Bosco, quick! It's the Tinders!”

As Mom races down the corridor, hair from her chignon comes loose and falls across her face. Dad acknowledges her and shares a look that means something to the two of them, his fists opening and closing by his side. There is no sign of Bosco joining us.

“I don't understand,” I say, watching as they approach Bob Tinder. “What's going on?”

“Shh and watch,” Juniper silences me.

Colleen Tinder is now in the front yard with her dad, Bob, and her two little brothers, Timothy and Jacob. Bob stands in front of his children, blocking them, protecting them, puffing his chest up and out against the Whistleblowers. Not his family, not his home, not tonight.

“They can't take the babies,” Mom says, her voice sounding slow and faraway, so that I know she is right here and panicking.

“They won't,” Dad says. “It's him. It must be him.”

But the officers walk straight by Bob, ignoring him, ignoring the terrified children, who have started to cry, and waving a sheet of paper in his face, which he stalls to read. They enter the house. Suddenly realizing what is happening, he tosses the piece of paper in the air and chases after them. He shouts at Colleen to look after the boys, which is a hard task because they're starting to panic now, too.

“I'll help her,” Juniper says, making a move, but Dad grips her arm tight. “Ow!” she yelps.

“Stay here,” Dad says in a voice I've never heard him use before.

Suddenly there's screaming from inside the house. It's Angelina Tinder. Mom's hands fly to her face. A slip in her mask.

“No! No!” Angelina wails over and over again until, finally, we see her at the door, held at both sides by a Whistleblower. She is almost ready for our dinner, wearing a black satin dress, pearls around her neck. Her hair is in curlers. She is wearing jeweled sandals. She is dragged from her home. The boys start to scream as they watch their mother being taken away. They run to her and try to reach her, but the Whistleblowers hold them back.

“Get your hands off my sons!” Bob yells, attacking them, but he's pushed to the ground, pinned down by two large Whistleblowers as Angelina screams wildly with desperation not to be taken away from her babies. I have never heard a human cry out like that before, have never heard a sound like it before. She stumbles and the Whistleblowers catch her and she limps along, the heel of her shoe broken.

Bob shouts at them from the ground. “Let her have some
dignity
, goddammit.”

She's taken inside the van. The door slides shut. The whistles stop.

I've never heard a man cry like Bob. The Whistleblowers holding him down speak to him in low, calm voices. He stops yelling, but his crying continues. They finally let him go and disappear into the second van. They drive away.

My heart is pounding, and I can barely breathe. I cannot believe what I'm seeing.

I wait for the outpouring of love from my neighbors. We are a tight, close-knit community; we have many community days; we support one another. I look around and wait. People watch Bob sit up in the grass, pulling his children close and crying. Nobody moves. I want to ask why no one is doing anything, but it seems stupid, because I'm not, either. I can't bring myself to. Even though being Flawed isn't a crime, aiding or assisting a Flawed carries the punishment of imprisonment. Bob isn't Flawed—his wife is accused—but still, everyone is afraid to get involved. Our neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Miller turn around and head back into their house, and most of the others follow suit. My mouth falls open, shocked.

“Damn you!” Bob shouts across the road. It is quiet at first, and I think he's saying it to himself, and then I think as he says it louder he's saying it to the vans that have disappeared, but as he gets even louder and the anger increases, I see he's directing it at us. What did we do?

“Stay here,” Dad says to us, then he gives Mom a long look. “Everybody, back inside. Keep it calm, yes?”

Mom nods, and her face is serene as if nothing has happened; the mask is back on, the loose strands of hair already back in place, though I don't recall her fixing them.

As I turn around to look back into my house, I see Bosco standing inside at the window, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. And I realize it's him that Bob is shouting at. Bosco, the head of the Guild, is the head of the organization that took Angelina away.

He can help; I know it. He's the head of the Flawed court. He will be able to help. It will be all okay. Normality can resume. The world will be turned the right way around again. Things will make sense. Knowing this, my breathing starts to return to normal again.

As Dad nears Bob, the shouting dies down, but the crying continues, a heartbreaking sound.

When you see something, it can't be unseen. When you hear a sound, it can never be unheard. I know, deep down, that this evening I have learned something that can never be unlearned. And the part of my world that is altered will never be the same.

 

FIVE

“LET'S ADDRESS THE
elephant in the room,” Bosco says suddenly, reaching for the red wine and filling his glass generously. He had insisted we all sit back down at the table, though there isn't anyone who feels hungry after what we've just witnessed. Dad is still with Bob. Mom is in the kitchen preparing the main course.

“I don't understand,” I say to Bosco. “Angelina Tinder is accused of being Flawed?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says good-naturedly, his blue eyes dancing as he looks at me. It's almost as if he is enjoying my reaction.

“But Angelina is—”

Mom drops a plate in the kitchen, and it smashes and it stops me in my tracks. Was that a warning from her? To tell me to stop talking?

“I'm okay!” she calls, too chirpily.

“What were you going to say about Angelina, Celestine?” Bosco eyes me carefully.

I swallow. I was going to say that she is nice, that she is kind, that she has young children and she's a great mom and that they need her, that she has never said or done anything wrong in all the moments I've spent time with her. That she's the most talented piano player I've ever heard, that I hoped I could play just like her when I'm older. But I don't because of the way Bosco is looking at me and because Mom never usually breaks anything. Instead I say, “But she teaches me piano.”

Juniper tuts beside me in disgust. I can't even look at Art, I'm so disappointed in myself.

Bosco laughs. “We can find you a new teacher, dear Celestine. Though you raise a good point. Perhaps we should think about stopping her from playing piano. Instruments are a luxury the Flawed don't deserve.” He tucks into his starter and takes a huge bite of carpaccio, the only person at the table even holding his cutlery. “Come to think of it, I hope that's all she was teaching you,” Bosco says, his smiling eyes gone.

“Yes, of course,” I say, frowning, confused that he would even question that of me. “What did she do wrong?”

“Taught you the piano,” Art teases. “Her downfall, if anyone's heard you.”

Ewan giggles. I smile at Art, thankful for the break in nervous tension in the room.

“It's not funny,” Juniper says beside me, quietly but firmly.

Bosco's eyes move to her immediately. “You're correct, Juniper. It's not funny.”

Juniper averts her eyes.

And the tension is back.

“No, it's not funny,
comical
, but it's funny,
peculiar
,” I say, feeling slapped.

“Thank you, Thesaurus,” Juniper says under her breath. It's what she and Ewan always call me when I get bogged down by definitions.

Bosco ignores me and continues to direct his gaze at my sister. “Did Angelina teach you, too, Juniper?”

Juniper looks him square in the eye. “Yes, she did. Best teacher I ever had.”

There's a silence.

Mom enters the room. Perfect timing. “I must say, I was very fond of Angelina. I considered her a friend. I'm … shocked by this … event.”

“I did, too, Summer, and believe me no one feels more pain than I do in this moment, seeing as I am the one who will have to tell her the verdict.”

“You won't just
tell
her, though, will you?” Juniper says quietly. “It will be
your
verdict.
Your
decision.”

I'm afraid of Juniper's tone. This is not the correct moment for one of her soapbox airings. I don't want her to annoy Bosco. He's someone who should be treated with respect. Juniper's language feels dangerous. I've never seen anyone speak to Bosco in this way.

“You just never know what those among us, whom we consider friends, are really like,” Bosco says, eyes on Juniper. “What lurks beneath those you consider your equals. I see it every day.”

“What did Angelina do?” I ask again.