Larkstorm (4 page)

5

Unlike a few minutes ago, when he couldn’t stop hugging me, Beck leaves me behind as he hurries to class.

I sprint to catch up to him. I don’t know what exactly just happened, but I think he does. And he’s going to give me some answers, even if I have to force it out of him.

I beat him to our classroom door and block him from entering.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

For the first time, I notice how he shakes. I lace my fingers through his and, out of habit, kiss our enjoined hands. Maybe that’s why he held on to me so tightly? Because his hands give away how frightened he is?

“Beck, you don’t really think Annalise was accusing you of leading the Sensitives to us, do you?”

He shrugs. “Maybe?”

If it weren’t Beck saying it, I’d find this line of conversation ridiculous. Our families are above reproach.
We
are above reproach. Even though his parents don’t work for the State at a high level, everyone knows the Channings are a fine family with a strong sense of duty.

Mr. Proctor, our Societies teacher, yanks the door open, exposing us to the classroom full of students.

“Do you two plan on joining us?” he asks. A few students giggle.

Embarrassed, I drop Beck’s hand and I hurry to my desk. Beck takes his seat next to mine.

“We’ve moved past the assessment,” Mr. Proctor says. “The two of you will have to make arrangements to test privately. Have Bethina call me.”

I hang my head and fight tears. Maybe it’s the stress of the day, but the one thing I wanted, really wanted, isn’t going to happen.

Aware that everyone’s watching me, I swallow the lump in my throat and dig through my bag until I find old-fashioned paper and a pen. One of the insufferable joys of this class: we have to write on paper, like they did hundreds of years ago. Even though I’m better at it now, taking notes by hand still makes mine cramp and ache. Beck, however, prefers writing
—
he even does it at home.

Kyra leans across the aisle toward me. “Are you okay?”

I sniff. “Yes. I’m sure they won’t hold us missing the assessment against us. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Lark, I’m talking about you. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Her eyes are full of concern.

Am I? I’m not panicked or scared anymore. And when Beck and I stood on the hill together, I felt focused and strong
—
just like the State’s training teaches us. Still, I’m upset. But at what? Annalise’s veiled accusations? My own lack of understanding of the situation? Or am I deso about missing the assessment?

“Everything is fine. The State is investigating.”

“Ping if you need anything?”

I nod and she goes back to scribbling on her paper. Like me, she hates writing. Unlike me, she’s never really learned to do it, so she always has to borrow my notes. Which means, she doesn’t pay attention.

At the front of the room, Mr. Proctor rambles about the Long Winter. Not even a security breach can save me from that. He seems to think that the easiest way to recover from a nerve-wracking attack is to bore us with history. I don’t see why we even continue to cover this subject. Everyone understands the “Order and History of Society.” Every year, it’s the same class with the same information. If you don’t know it by now, there’s really no hope.

Mr. Proctor’s voice fills my ears. “Ice and snow covered whole continents, destroying livable surface and resulting in a fifty-year war as people migrated. Over half of the world’s population vanished.”

I don’t need to pay attention, I have it memorized. How the Center, once known as Africa, is only a tenth of its former size; and there were more countries than I can even fathom, instead of our five great societies. How these societies would have destroyed one another if my ancestor, Caitlyn, hadn’t succeeded in aligning them under a common cause: to preserve humanity.

I follow along as Mr. Proctor taps the wall screen behind his desk, illuminating each society on a map.

Tap, flash. The West, where we live, shaded green and stretching from our northern cities of Ottawa and Calgary to the southern city of Austin, appears on the wall screen.

Another tap. The East, covering an area that used to be called Asia glows a soft blue.

Tap, Tap, Tap – the South, the Center and the Islands appear.

One more tap. The North – not a really a society anymore other than in name, just an ice covered land mass once known as Europe. Only a few hold-outs still live there.

Mr. Proctor superimposes an image of the world over the ancient map. “The world was vastly overpopulated and spread out before the Long Winter.”

I write the word “Sensitive” on one of the thin blue lines on my paper. Such an oxymoron. It implies a delicate state. But that’s exactly what they’re not. Determined to bring humanity under their control, they unleashed the Long Winter on us
—
their final act after a millennia of plagues, earthquakes and famine
—
and nearly decimated the world’s human population.

Luckily, the Founders discovered how to identify the chromosomal abnormality in Sensitives. Most are found during childhood and fitted with irremovable red wristlets that track their every move. Sensitive Enforcers find the rest
—
those who roam free and hide in the shadows, not in the guarded settlements on the outskirts of major towns. Because no one knows how to fight magic, our Enforcers must catch them off-guard or overpower them.

But one thing remains the same for both groups: they absolutely cannot be allowed to breed.

I scan through my book until I locate the images of historical Sensitives. Sometimes, in old books, they’re called witches. But that was before we discovered what they had
—
extra
senses. Then their name was changed.

 
I tap a page to zoom in on one. They don’t look anything like the group who attacked Beck and me. The ones today, other than not wearing a mandatory wristlet, looked exactly like us
—
normal people. Well, if you ignore the woman’s crazy eyes.

The image in my book fades in and out beneath my fingers. I flip the page and find Caitlyn Greene
,
my ancestor
,
surrounded by the rest of the Founders, smiling at me from the depths of time. Other than our chestnut-colored hair and small stature, we don’t look anything alike. In fact, with her wide eyes and full
mouth, she looks more like Mother—or even Kyra—than me.

How did this woman muster the courage to confront such a dangerous group? She wasn’t much older than me
—
only twenty-two
—
when elected Head of State.

A twinge of shame eats at me. How can I be her descendant? My first reaction wasn’t to face them, but to hide. Unlike Beck.

The image zooms out again. Much older and stronger men surround her, but their body language indicates deference. Caitlyn was clearly in charge.

My gaze falls on the man to her left, who
—
unlike the other men
—
appears to be the same age as Caitlyn: Charles Channing, Beck’s great-great-grandfather and Caitlyn’s right-hand man. I’ve never seen a picture of one without the other.

The warrior and the diplomat
—
that’s how most texts refer to them.

Charles’s arm drapes over Caitlyn’s shoulder in a familiar way, his head turned slightly toward her like he’s going to whisper something in her ear. He’s as fair as Beck and has the same mischievous eyes.

Annalise can’t suspect Beck, can she? Not when his ancestor was Charles Channing. It would be blasphemy. After all, Charles is the one who developed policies and brokered a peace with the four other Societies.

A small smile forms on my lips. Beck is just like Charles. Always searching for the middle ground. I, however, am no warrior. No one would ever accuse me of being like Caitlyn
—
I’m too content to be in the background and out of the spotlight.

I scan through a few more pages and land on a picture of a smoky, gritty, ancient city. It’s amazing those old-time people didn’t kill themselves off with all that pollution and disease, and with limited access to medical care, education, and food. Their world looked so different from ours: crowded, dirty, downright crumbling. They tried to cram everything into everywhere and had no sense for order or beauty.

Not at all like the State, whose sole purpose is the protection and well-being of all citizens. We want for nothing.

With all the horrible things those people did, maybe wiping out most of them with the Long Winter wasn’t such a bad idea.

A low chuckle interrupts my thoughts. Beck pushes his desk across the aisle and next to mine, while Mr. Proctor continues lecturing. Only Beck could do something like this and not immediately get in trouble.

He leans close to my ear, and his warm breath tickles my neck. “Guess what?”

“I’m trying to pay attention.” Mr. Proctor has moved on to the importance of our roles in the State. How once we’re mated and placed in jobs, we will be challenged and blessed with security and oversight of the State. How unlike Singleton and Non-States people
;
each and every one of us is expected to contribute to the good of the Western Society.

“No, you’re not. You hate this class,” Beck challenges.

I squint at him, and purse my lips, trying my hardest to look upset.
Try
being the key word here because my stomach flip-flops from Beck’s close proximity and I suddenly feel breathless. “Fine. What?”

“Kyra kissed Maz last night. On the lips.”

“Kissed?” So that’s the big secret. I sneak a glance at Kyra. I’m not surprised, but she knows better. What if Maz isn’t her mate? Then what? “You want to talk about
kissing
?”

“Would you rather practice?” Beck leans back in his chair. His eyes glint with mischief.

He’s teasing me, I know, but I can’t stop the warmth spreading across my cheeks.

I hit his bicep with my fist. “Stop it.”

“What do
you
want to talk about?” Beck rubs the spot where I hit him.

I take a deep breath. “You know what I want to talk about.”

He stares at me blankly as if he really has no idea.

“How about we start with this morning? With the Sensitives?”

A shadow crosses his face and the playfulness disappears. “What about it?”

“Why did you think they were looking for you? Is it because you’re a descendant?” Leave it to Beck to act brave when I couldn’t.

“Yes.” He turns his head toward the clock so I can’t see his face.

“Beck, please look at me. I know you’re not telling me everything “

 
He twists around in his seat to face me directly. His lips are pressed tight. When our eyes meet, I pause.

All the mischievousness is gone. Erased from his lovely face.

 
“Can we talk about this at home? Away from all these ears?” He motions to the rest of the class with his free hand.

I want to agree, but a stronger urge takes over. “No. I want you to tell me now. You’re not getting out of it.”

“Lark,” he pleads. “Just wait till we get home. I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

 
“Beck, Lark.” Mr. Proctor raises his shaggy gray eyebrows. “I know you’ve had an exciting morning, but wait until after class to discuss it.”

Beck straightens up and pretends to write. “We were comparing notes.”

Mr. Proctor nods his head permissively. “I’m sure you were.”

When he turns his back to us, I knock the pen from Beck’s hand. “No,” I whisper angrily. “You’re going to tell me now.” I never get upset with him. He’s supposed to cheer me up when I’m down. Not piss me off.

He grabs my hand. “Birdie, calm down.” He traces small circles across the back of my hand and a curious calming sensation creeps along my arm and into my overactive brain.

But I’m still annoyed. “I don’t know why you can’t just tell me.”

A small frown forms on Beck’s full lips. Right then, the bell rings and he jumps from his seat, leaving me and my mood swings behind.

Frustrated with him and angry with myself for not getting the answers I want, I shove my notebook and pen into my satchel and run after him.

“Beck, wait!” I catch up to him and place my hand on his muscular arm.

 
He shakes me off, clearly upset, and starts to walk away but then changes his mind and wraps his arms around me tight. A surprised sigh escapes my lips when his lips touch my forehead. If we were alone, I’d nuzzle into his chest, but we’re standing in the middle of the crowded hallway. Students swarm around us. We can’t do this. Not now.