Flawed (9 page)

“Who is representing him?”

“Him?” Mr. Berry snorts. “He has chosen to represent himself, and he is doing a very bad job. You would almost think he
wants
to be Flawed.”

“Who would want that?” Mom asks, turning away from him.

I think of the Flawed I pass every day, the people I can't look in the eye, the people I take steps around to avoid even brushing against. Their scars as identifiers, their armbands, their limited possibilities, living in society but everything they want being just out of reach. You see them all standing at the curfew bus stops in town, to be home by 10:00
PM
in winter, 11:00
PM
in summer. In the same world but not living in it the same way. Do I want to be like them?

“What's his name?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” Mr. Berry says, bored, wanting to move on.

I look at him alone in there, me here with my selection of clothes, my mom, my representation, the head judge himself. I have people. He must hate me, yet that's what I must do to get out of here with my life intact. A light goes on for me. I could be in a far worse position. I could be in
his
situation. All that separates me from him is a lie. I must become imperfect to prove that I am perfect. I have to do everything Mr. Berry tells me to do.

*   *   *

Tina brings me a tray of food before I cross the courtyard to the court, but I am too nervous to eat. In the next cell, Soldier gobbles every bite as though his life depends on it.

“What's his name?” I ask her.

“Him?” She gives him the same look as everyone else has, though she hasn't treated me like that from the moment I arrived.

“Carrick.”

“Carrick,” I say aloud. Finally, he has a name.

Tina looks at me, eyes narrow and suspicious. “You should stay away from that boy.”

We both watch him, and then I feel the weight of her stare on me as I watch him.

I clear my throat, try to act like I don't care. “What did he do?”

She looks at him again. “He didn't need to do anything. Guys like him are just bad eggs.” She looks at my tray. “You're not eating?”

I shake my head. I'd rather eat when I get home later.

“You'll be fine, Celestine,” she says gently. “I have a daughter exactly the same age as you. Reminds me of you. You shouldn't be here. You'll be at home tonight, in your own bed, where you belong.”

I smile at her in thanks.

“They've called me upstairs for a meeting.” She makes a face. “First time that's happened. Wonder what I've done wrong.” She makes another face, and then, on my reaction, she laughs. “I'll be coming back, don't worry. You're doing great, kiddo. We'll go across to the court in thirty minutes, so eat up.”

A new guard, Funar, appears, opens Carrick's door, and says something to him. Whatever it is, Carrick is eager. He hops up and goes straight to the door. Funar comes to my cell next.

“You want to get some fresh air?”

I jump up. Absolutely. He unlocks my door and I walk behind Carrick, realizing, as I see him up close for the first time and not through the glass, how solid and large he is. The muscles in his upper back are expansive, his biceps and triceps permanently flexed. I think about Art and feel guilty for even looking. Funar tries the side door that leads outside, but it's locked.

“Damn it, I'll have to go back for the key,” he says. “Sit there and don't move. I'll be back in a minute.”

He points to a bench by the wall in a corridor, and we both comply, sitting down side by side.

Our skin isn't touching, but I can feel the heat from his body from where I sit. He's like a radiator. I'm not sure whether to say anything to him. I don't even know what to say. He's not the most approachable person I've ever met. Do I ask him about his case? It's impossible to shoot the breeze in this situation. I sit, frozen, trying to think of something to say, trying to look at him when he's not looking in my direction. I finally sense he's about to say something when six people suddenly turn the corner into our corridor. The women are crying and huddling into the men, who are also red-eyed. They walk by us as though they're in a funeral procession and enter through a door beside us. When it opens, I look in and see a small room with two rows of chairs. It's facing a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass, which looks into another room. In the center of the other room sits what looks like an oversized dentist's chair, and there is a wall of metal units. I see the guard, Bark, open one unit, and there is hot fire inside. Confused, I stare in, trying to figure it out.

Then a man, flanked by two guards, is brought down the corridor. He doesn't look at us. He looks scared, terrified, in fact. He appears to be in his thirties and is wearing what I'd consider a hospital gown, but it's bloodred, the color of the Flawed. The guards lead him through a separate door from the one the men and crying women entered, which I'm guessing leads to the room with the dentist's chair. The Branding Chamber.

Carrick and I both peer in. The door slams in our face. I jump, startled. Carrick sits back, folds his arms, and stares ahead intently with a mean look on his face. His look does not invite conversation, so I don't say anything at all, but I can't stop fidgeting, wondering what is going on inside that room. After a moment, our silence is broken with the terrifying, bloodcurdling scream of the man inside as his skin is seared by the hot iron bearing the Flawed brand.

I'm stunned at first, but then my body begins to shake. I look across at Carrick, who swallows nervously, his enormous Adam's apple moving in his thick neck.

Funar strolls up the corridor with a smug look on his face. “Found them,” he sings, jingling the keys in his hand. “They were in my pocket the entire time.” He smiles and unlocks the door, revealing a narrow stairway that leads outside.

Carrick stands up and storms out the door. Once outside, he looks back at me to join him.

Everything around me starts to move. The walls come closer, the floor rises up to meet me. Black spots blot my vision. I feel like I'm going to be sick. Carrick looks at me in concern. I pass out.

We never did speak.

 

SEVENTEEN

A HALF HOUR
later, with quivering legs, I stand at the enormous wooden double doors, with their elaborately carved embellishments, that lead out to the infamous cobblestoned courtyard. I know it from the daily news, seeing people walk back and forth from the court to the Clock Tower, giving the public and the media an opportunity to see the accused and vent their feelings. Mom and Dad are on one side of me, Mom linking my arm, and Mr. Berry is on the other side. We are flanked by Tina and Bark.

Mr. Berry adjusts his tie. “Is this straight?” he asks Tina.

Tina nods and then throws Bark a look that is easily deciphered.

I take a deep breath as the doors open, and I am greeted with sights and sounds that I could never have prepared myself for. The first thing I see is a cabbage that flies directly at me and hits me square in the chest. Boos and hisses fill my ears and my head. Mr. Berry starts walking, taking me along with him. For a moment I can feel Mom's hesitancy, but then, as though she's on a catwalk, she gets into her stride and I follow her lead, lifting my chin, trying to avoid the flour, eggs, and spit that are flying from the public.

Mr. Berry is giving me orders through his big smile:
Smile, don't smile, chin up, don't look worried or guilty, don't react, ignore that man, watch out for that flying dog shit.
All this he says through a perfect smile. Dimples and all.

I link Mom even tighter, moving my body closer to hers, and take a quick look at her. She is holding Dad's hand, her head up, her face completely serene, and her hair in an elaborate chignon. I try to copy her, nothing out of place, composure, innocence, serenity, perfection.

The cameras are in my face; the flashes are blinding. I hear some questions, but others I can't.

“Are you Flawed, Celestine?”

“Who are you wearing?”

“Do you believe the Guild will give you a fair and balanced trial?”

“Are you hoping for the same outcome as Jimmy Child?”

“Who's your favorite music artist right now?”

“Is it true you got a nose job?”

“What is your opinion on the government and the Guild's current relationship?”

I think of the many people over the decades who have walked this walk, who walk over perfect and walk back Flawed through a courtyard of catcalling and convictions, over cobblestones of prejudice. I think of Carrick, who returned this morning with flour on his T-shirt. I understand why now. We are to be held up to the rest of the world as a mirror of their worst nightmares. Scapegoats for all that is wrong in their lives.

Cameras are in my face, and this feels like the longest walk ever. Microphones, jeering, catcalls, wolf whistles. I feel the muscles in my face tremble and wonder if it's noticeable. I quickly search the faces in the crowd. They are the faces of normal, everyday people, but filled with loathing. Some are merely interested to see what's going on; others throw themselves into it. One woman gives me a nod. It's respectful, and I'm thankful for that one effort.

And then we are inside.

“I see people need convincing of our story,” Mr. Berry says, a little shaken as he brushes down his suit.

Three judges in bloodred robes sit at the head of the room, at a raised level. The majority of the room is laid out with rows of chairs. It is not a typical courtroom because it is in a ballroom of the old castle. There is not a free seat. At the back, people are crushed and standing. I assume they are the press, but on closer inspection, I see that they are all wearing armbands and that they are all Flawed. They stand in twos, broken up by a member of the media or a public spectator in accordance with the Flawed gathering rules.

I sit at my table at the head of all the seating, beside Mr. Berry.

Mom and Dad sit in the front row behind me. There is no sign of Juniper. I look around desperately for Art, hoping for the energy that simply seeing him will give me. No sign of him, which breaks my heart. I see my granddad and I almost weep. He tips his hat.

Bosco asks me to stand.

“Celestine North,” he begins. “You stand before me charged with the offense of being a Flawed citizen of this country, for acting on an error of judgment, and as a result face ousting from regular society. Do you deny or accept this accusation?”

“Deny,” I say, my voice tiny in the large room, and I'm glad it's over, that it's the only thing I have to say today, because I fear that my legs, which are shaking so much, will crumple beneath me.

“Very well. We hear your plea and will over the course of your trial hear from witnesses to both the event and your character. Based on that, we will announce our findings. You may leave now, go to your home, and return to us here tomorrow morning at—”

“Just a moment, Judge Crevan,” Judge Sanchez interrupts. “I, and Judge Jackson, would like to put forward the motion that Ms. North remain in our holding cells until the trial is over.”

Bosco looks surprised to hear this.

“We feel that due to the status of Ms. North, and the attention garnered, that her going back to her home, to her life, could give her opportunity or give others opportunity to use her and her situation to their advantage.”

“This is the first I've heard of this,” Bosco says angrily. “And I am opposed to the idea. We only detain the accused if they pose a risk of running, and Ms. North is not a threat. It would be impossible for her to disappear given the attention on her.”

“Indeed, Judge Crevan, but given the attention on her, we would like to prevent a circus, a spectacle being made of such a serious case.”

“But if she stays in her home, speaks to no one?”

“This was the same for Jimmy Child, and we know that the parameters put in place were breached.”

Bosco bristles at this, as though it has been directed at him personally. “Ms. North is not Mr. Child.”

“No, but we have learned from his trial. We feel that it is in the best interest of the Guild and the accused to confine this case within the walls of Highland Castle.”

“We need to discuss this in my chamber. This is not something that can just be—”

“I propose it now,” Judge Sanchez says coolly.

“And I favor it,” Judge Jackson agrees.

“And I oppose it,” Bosco says, bewildered. “She is just a child.”

“She will be eighteen in six months, and she is being held away from the other detainees. Only one other accused is in the same chamber as her, an eighteen-year-old detainee, which is the best we can do given the circumstances.”

Bosco is speechless.

“And so it is passed. Celestine North will return to her holding cell for the duration of her trial.” Judge Sanchez bangs the gavel against the block and looks smug.

The room erupts.

Mr. Berry stares at Bosco in a stunned silence, while the rest of the room is in constant movement, spinning.

“How can this happen?” Mom is asking Mr. Berry, who is so still it is as though he can't hear her. She grabs the arm of his suit, which is pin-striped with pink fine lines. “How could you let this happen?”

“There's something going on,” he says, more to himself, but I hear him.

He looks at me, and there is a crack in the smooth exterior. I see pity in his eyes, and that, from him, terrifies me. “I'm sorry, Ms. North. It appears even Judge Crevan's enemies have decided to use you as a pawn in their game, too.”

 

EIGHTEEN

WHEN I RETURN
to the holding cell, covered in I-don't-know-what thrown at me on the return journey, Carrick immediately jumps up. He is as surprised to see me as I am to be back here. I am dazed and confused. Tina guides me into the cell. I have already said good-bye to my parents. Carrick follows me all the way from the door to my bed, the entire length of the cell. For the first time since I got here, he demands my attention. Even though this is what I've wanted since I saw him, I can't look at him. He wants an explanation. Everybody thought I'd go home; everybody thought I'd get away with this. Carrick thought he knew the rules, but the rules changed. He needs to know what is going on more than anyone else. If I am doomed, then so is he.