Life Before Legend: Stories of the Criminal and the Prodigy (2 page)

“How old are you?”

“Almost thirteen.”

“Aw, you’re just a baby.” She grins at me, and then hesitates for a good minute. “Look.
I know how you feel,” she finally says, “and believe me, there’s nothing worse than
the pain of an empty stomach.”

“You still thinking about turning me in, then?” I let my hopes rise. “Anything I can
do for you to keep myself out of a Republic jail?” I ask.

“What are you
willing
to do?” she replies.

I give her a practiced smile. “Whatever you want me to do, sweetheart.”

The girl’s eyebrows lift in surprise—then she throws her head back and laughs. I can’t
decide if I’m flattered or insulted.
I
thought I sounded pretty cool.

Another moment passes before the girl finally calms down, stands up, and hauls me
to my feet. Now that we’re both up, I can tell that she’s only a few inches taller
and just as lean. She nods in the direction of the pier. “Tell you what. You’re going
to work for my dad for three days, and in exchange, I’ll give you three cans of food.
You can pick any three cans—no fruits, though.” She shakes her head when she sees
my disappointment. “Sorry. Three days of work won’t earn anyone a can of fruit.”

Working in one spot for three days. The thought makes me a little anxious—I don’t
like staying anywhere for that long. There are Republic eyes all over the place. But
I don’t really have a choice, and it’s about as good of an offer as I’ll get.

I give the girl a hesitant nod. “All right. Fine. You got yourself a deal.” I reach
my free hand out to shake hers.

She doesn’t take it. Instead, she tilts her head a little, spits out her toothpick,
and grins at me. “I’m not finished,” she says.

My hand wavers. “What else do you want?”

“You’re a bold one in front of ladies, aren’t you? Ever kiss a girl before?”

Kiss a girl?
What does that have to do with anything? For all my flirting, I’ve never gotten that
close. Well, I’ve kissed a couple of girls on the cheek, and vice versa—but right
on the lips? I was trying to work my way up to that. My eyes wander to her mouth,
now dark and smiling, and I feel my face growing even hotter than it already was.

“I’ll take that as a no.” She laughs. “Well, give it a shot, kid. Let’s see if you
can back up your smooth talk.”

When I still don’t make a move, the girl leans toward me, closes her eyes, and presses
her lips against mine. I stiffen. They’re much softer than I expected—I don’t know
what
I expected, actually. Of course they would be soft. A tingly feeling shoots down
my spine.
What should I do? Should I move? Eyes open or closed?
For a while, I just stay completely still and keep my lips frozen.
Maybe I’m supposed to follow her lead.
So I try that instead. Gradually, I start kissing her back. It doesn’t seem so hard
after a while . . . I even relax into it, letting my mind wrap around the fact that
I’m lip-locked with an older girl. My hands are numb. I can’t feel my legs.

She pulls away. Although she doesn’t take her hand off my arm, her grip is less ironclad.
I’m still trying to catch my breath. “Not
too
bad for your first try,” she says cheerfully. Her nose brushes against mine. “Are
you trembling?”

I cringe. I’d hoped she wouldn’t notice.

To my relief, she laughs before I can say anything embarrassing. “Boy, you are just
cute as a goddy button.” She taps my nose and leans away from me. “All right, we got
a deal. Back to the pier. If you behave yourself the whole time, I might even give
you another kiss.”

For the next three days, I work alongside her on her father’s Republic-assigned boat.
Her name is Charlie, I learn, and she just turned sixteen. She tells me about her
life working the piers as we load and unload shipments from dawn until dusk. Her mother
had died a few years ago in a factory accident. She has a sister who actually got
a Trial score high enough to get her assigned to a college. She loves the lake area,
even if it means she smells like the ocean all the time. She’s happy that the Republic
at least assigned her to work the piers with her father, instead of sending her off
to the warfront to clean up after the troops. I don’t bother telling her that that’s
what
my
father does—
did,
I mean—before he stopped coming home. My hands get splinters from dragging crates
back and forth, and by the second day, my back feels like it’s going to break into
pieces. Charlie’s dad—an enormous, bearded, pale-skinned man—ignores me completely,
although sometimes he’ll nod in approval if I’m working really hard.

I like the job. The girl gives me two cans a day instead of just one, which means
every day I get to eat a can as well as save one for future meals. I also get a chance
to stash trinkets that might be useful later on—sharp splinters of wood I could use
as weapons, a couple of abandoned burlap sacks, a round tin good for carrying water.

Charlie catches me as I walk along the pier, snatching up stray nails and stuffing
them in my pockets.

“What are you doing, preparing for battle?” she asks with a grin.

I shrug. “I haven’t survived this long without some self-defense.”

Charlie laughs, but she lets me carry on.

In the evenings she sits with me while her father’s crew gathers farther down the
pier. I watch, with a little jealousy, the way she flirts with the workers whenever
her dad’s not around. She was right about one thing—she’s their darling, and if she
ever told them to throw me overboard, they’d probably do it without hesitating. Slowly
I grow used to the sound of the lake lapping against cement pillars and the unusual
comfort of sleeping out in the open, knowing that in the morning I’d have a can of
food waiting for me. What a luxury. Sometimes I’ll glance over at Charlie when she’s
not looking, and I’ll try to replay our kiss in my head. I wonder if it meant anything
to her. And whether or not she was serious about giving me another.

On our last night together, Charlie leans back and regards me over the glow of our
dim lamp. We’re sitting together at the far end of the pier, watching the skyscrapers
of downtown light up one by one. Pretty nice evening. Even the humidity doesn’t seem
as bad as usual, and now and then I can feel a cool breeze.

“So, you paid off your debt. What are you going to do tomorrow?” she asks me.

I shrug. “Don’t know yet. I usually take things one day at a time.”

We eat in silence for a few more minutes before she speaks up again. “You haven’t
told me much about yourself,” she says. “I don’t even know your name.”

I put down my half-eaten can of sausage and beans, then lean back on my elbows. “Ed,”
I reply, blurting out the first name I can think of. “What else do you want to know?”

She studies me. In the flickering lamplight, her eyes take on a honey-colored tint.
“How long have you lived in Lake?” She takes another bite of food and then tosses
her can aside. “What happened to your family? And how’d your knee get that way? You
always lived on the streets, or what?”

I’m quiet throughout her questions. It’s only fair that she’s asking, of course, since
she’s told me so much about herself. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from living
on the streets, it’s to keep details about myself secret. Where would I even start?
My name’s Day. My family lives about thirty blocks northeast of here. I have a mother,
an older brother, and a younger brother. All of them think I’m dead. Republic doctors
sliced open my knee while experimenting on my body. I was shipped to them after failing
my Trial, and they’d left me for dead in a hospital basement. I stumbled around, bleeding,
for weeks afterward. I always travel alone, because if the Republic ever finds me,
they’ll snuff me out like a candle. I keep my head turned away as the memories fill
me up and threaten to burst out of my chest. So many stories to tell.

But I fold them away one by one.

Charlie sobers at my silence. “Well,” she starts, looking a little awkward for the
first time since she’s known me. She fiddles with one of her braids. “All in good
time, whenever you’re ready.”

I smile at her over the lamplight.

“If you want, you know, you can stay for a few more days,” she says. “My dad says
you’re a good worker and proved your worth . . . he’d be happy to keep you around
a little longer. He might even give you some wages under the table. And, well, you’re
a nice kid. The streets are a harsh place to live—I dunno how long you’ll make it
out there on your own.”

Her offer’s tempting. My heart warms, and there are unspoken words of gratitude on
the tip of my tongue. I soak in her freckled face and rumpled braids, and in this
moment I’m completely ready to say yes. I can see myself working here beside her and
making some sort of life for myself. I ache to belong to a family again, to become
friends with this girl. Wouldn’t that be something, yeah? I close my eyes and lose
myself to the fantasy.

“I’ll think about it,” I finally reply. It’s a good enough answer for now.

Charlie shrugs, and we both go back to finishing our dinners. We sleep side by side
out on her boat’s deck that night, close enough that our shoulders touch and I can
feel the warmth coming from her body. I spend most of the night looking up at the
sky. It’s clear enough for me to make out about a dozen stars. I count them over and
over again until they lull me into a light sleep.

A shriek jolts me awake.

I instinctively hop to my feet, then wince as my bad knee twists and forces me to
sit back down. My pouch of random trinkets pokes me uncomfortably in my side. What’s
going on? What happened? Is it morning? All I notice in my confusion is the dim light
of dawn that paints everything bluish gray.

“No! You can’t!”

Another shriek. This time I hear it come from farther down the pier, where the crew’s
crowded around something. Curious passersby have started accumulating along the street.
Don’t get close. Stay away.
My instincts flare up, and instead of joining them, I hurry over to a nearby stack
of crates and crouch in the shadows.

At first I can’t tell what’s going on. Then, as I squint closer at the scene, I realize
what’s happening. A few Republic soldiers dressed in the attire of a city patrol—not
street police, an actual
city patrol
—are shouting questions at a large man.
Charlie’s dad.
The shrieks come from Charlie, whom several of the crew members are holding back.

One city patrol soldier punches her father squarely in the jaw. He falls to his knees.

“You damn dogs!” Charlie shouts at the patrol. “You
liars
! We’re not behind on shipments—we’re not even in
charge
of that! You can’t—”

“Calm down,” one of the soldiers snaps at her. “Or you’ll feel the bite of a bullet.
Got that?” Then he nods to his companions. “Confiscate their shipment.”

Charlie screams something I can’t make out, but her father shakes his head at her,
giving her a firm warning. A trail of blood leaks from the edge of his mouth. “It’ll
be okay,” he calls out to her even as the soldiers hurry along the end of the pier
and load crates onto their truck.

I wait quietly in the dark as they fill their truck. If they take Charlie’s whole
shipment, then that means they won’t get paid for at least two weeks. Some of them
would go hungry for sure. A memory rushes back to me of when the city patrols had
once taken my dad away for questioning, how they’d brought him back bloodied and broken.
Anger and recklessness rush through my mind. I narrow my eyes at the soldiers, then
dart quietly from the shadows to the edge of the water. As the chaos continues to
unfold at the end of the pier, no one notices as I slip soundlessly into the water
and make my way off along the shore. My bad knee protests as I paddle, but I grit
my teeth and ignore it.

When I’ve swum far enough to reach the next set of piers, I make my way up to the
banks, crawl up to street level, and melt into the early-morning crowds. Water drips
down my chin; my soggy boots squish with each step I take. The soldiers will probably
take another few minutes to finish loading everything up and checking off the crates—by
the time they head back out this way to Lake’s police station, I’ll be ready for them.
As I limp through the crowds, I reach down to my belt and tug open the pouch of trinkets.
I’ve got a good stash of nails. I scatter them all across the street until I’m confident
that I’ve covered a large swath of the road. Then I turn a corner, dart into a narrow
alley, and crouch behind a large trash bin. My knee throbs in protest. I rub wet strands
of hair impatiently away from my face.

I gingerly stretch out my leg, wince, and rub at the old scar that runs across my
knee. Gotta move fast if I want this to work. I check to make sure my pocketknife’s
tucked securely against my boot, then settle in to wait.

A few minutes later, I hear what I’ve been hoping for—the sound of a city patrol truck
approaching from farther ahead, its recognizable beeping alarm ringing out down the
street. My body tenses.