Memory Girl (15 page)

I fold my arms stubbornly over my chest. “I refuse to change.”

“And I wish I could change quicker.” Lorelei glances at her daughter, who skillfully slices scissors through fabric. “I'm not useful without my memdenity.”

“You're perfect as you are—that's more than enough.”

She shakes her head, frowning. I wish she could see herself through my eyes. She doesn't need someone else's memories; she's already smart, funny, and talented. If she could stay herself, she would achieve amazing things. I think I could too. And I'm more determined than ever to hold tight to my memories. I'll remind myself of them so often that they never fade. Like when I fell down while learning to walk. When I touch my knee, the scar is still in my mind.

Lorelei leads me to a heaping pile of fabric rolls, and I lean over for a close look at a green checkered cloth. Claws dig into my neck. Ouch.
Okay, Petal, I get the message.

“Lor, have you seen Marcus?” I ask.

She nods. “Two aisles over. Selling jars of honey.”

Relief flows through me. “I need to talk with him.”

“Don't even try, Jennza. When I waved at him, he ignored me. I know youths are supposed to bond with their Families during our first month, but that doesn't mean we can't talk to each other. His rudeness really ripped me.”

“He can be as rigid as a steel rod. I'm glad you're talking to me,” I add.

“You're too much fun to resist.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “So how are you adjusting?”

“I'm learning to be useful in the kitchen.”

“You? In a kitchen?” Lorelei almost chokes. “Remember the fire you started when you tried to toast crumb-crackers over the stove?”

“I didn't know the rag I grabbed to wipe the mess would
catch on fire.”

“It was a grease rag.”

I shrug. “One mistake doesn't mean I'm a disaster with cookery.”

“What about when you used bleach instead of soap to wash dishes? Your Family will be lucky if they don't get food poisoning.”

“Actually ….” I feel my cheeks burning.

“No! You didn't!”

“Anyone can choose the wrong herb.”

“Not anyone. It's an art form, and you're the master artist.” She sets down a bolt of red flowered fabric. “I haven't laughed like this since … well, since we were together. I wish I could feel as natural with my Family. Instead I feel … like I'm lacking. I want to impress them, but there's so much I don't know.”

“You'll learn.”

“Not fast enough.” She sighs. “I want my memdenity now.”

“I'd rather wait
.” Like forever
, I think with a shudder.

“Oh! My daughter is looking this way,” Lorelei warns. “I need to seem busy. Hold this bolt of fabric.”

I look down at the fabric, swirls of red in black night. “This would make a nice tunic,” I say. “So how do I talk to Marcus alone?”

“It would look fine on you,” she agrees, then whispers, “Don't even try.”

“I'm going to talk to him with or without your help.”

She sighs. “Your best chance is during the playformance. Booths shut down for two hours. He'll come to the show. Sneak in a quick convo with Marcus before the playformance
begins—if he'll talk to you.”

“I won't give him a choice.” I add in a loud voice, “I'll take this one.”

Lorelei lifts the heavy bolt, ignoring my offer of help, and carries it up to the front of the booth. Twenty minutes of bartering later, the fabric is ours.

Afterward, Rosemarie and I walk up the aisles, browsing the booths. I obediently stand aside while Rosemarie barters. She's quite good, pretending disinterest even if she admires something. I pay attention and learn to help her. I pick up a delicious-looking melon, smell it, then pucker like I just ate something sour. I shake my head at Rosemarie. “Not ripe enough.” This causes the trader to drop his barter demand, and we walk away with not one but three melons. Rosemarie pats me on the shoulder, grinning.

Noises crash around me, and smells of savory, sweet, and spicy foods make my mouth water. When we come to a booth decorated with green vines and dried corn stalks, I peer inside, searching for Marcus.

He's turned away from me, long and lean, wearing a forest green shirt tucked into black pantons. I stare in surprise at his hair—his wavy wheat-brown hair has been sheared short.

“What would you like, Milly?” Rosemarie asks.

I'd like Marcus to be like he used to, serious but fun, with untidy hair and dirt under his fingernails. But that's not the answer Rosemarie expects. I tell her I'd like a sugar sticklet.

Rosemarie approaches a heavy man with black hair sheared like Marcus's. The man sets down the knife he used for carving a corncob into a sculpture and asks what
she wants. She shrugs with disinterest—and the bartering begins.

Marcus won't look at me. He knows I'm here. I know he knows I'm here. I stare hard at the back of his head, willing him to look. But even after the bartering ends, he still hasn't turned around.

When I bite into the sugary sticklet, whiskers tickle my ear.
I know what you want,
I think to Petal. I break off a sugary piece and sneak it up into my hair.

Licking sugar from my fingers, I look at Marcus, then turn away reluctantly for the next booth. I only get a few steps before something makes me turn back. Marcus is staring at me. He quickly looks away.

We stop at so many booths that our burlap sacks swell with food, fabric, hair brushes made from hoxen hair, and a teeth-scrub cream. Music trumpets throughout the fair, and an excited rumble of voices rise around me.

“Playformance!” Rosemarie exclaims, sacks heavy in her arms as we stop by our cart to stow our goods. “If we hurry, we'll get seats up close.”

Tiered rows of wooden chairs face an elevated stage with a pleated royal blue curtain. Will the playformance be as thrilling as I imagine? Instructor Theo often acted out lessons and boasted that he always received standing applause after his performances. But when he read to us, his voice shrilled like a squealing pig, and Lorelei and I had to bite our lips to stifle giggles.

While I'm eager to see my first playformance, I'd rather see the blue-eyed performer to prove to myself he's not Nate. Can
not
be him. My born-mates and I are the only youths in ShareHaven.

A claw jab in my neck jerks me back to the most urgent task: saving Petal.

“Where's the privacy room?” I ask Rosemarie after we're seated near the front by the stage.

“Near the vehicle park.” She gestures past booths. “Hurry back.”

I rush off before she offers to go with me.

Instead of heading for the privacy room—a wooden rectangular building with a compartment on one side for ladies and the other for gentlemen—I search for Marcus. If he refuses to even look at me this time, I'll kick him in the backside. I won't leave until he talks to me. But when I pass his booth, it's empty.

Sighing, I turn away, heavy with disappointment. But I've only gone a few steps when there's a tap on my shoulder

Spinning around, I discover I don't need to find Marcus.

He's found
me
.

All the conversations and companionable silences I'd shared with Marcus seem long ago. The boy I grew up with is ruggedly tanned, with taut arm muscles, and he seems taller, more confident. Shorter hair lengthens his face into sharp angles. I miss the unruly sweep of hair above his eyes.

“Heya, Jennz,” he says in that familiar half-teasing, half-serious way.

“So you're speaking to me now?” I fold my arms across my chest.

“I couldn't before. Sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I was told not to speak to my born-mates.”

“And you always do as you're told?”

“Clearly not, since I'm talking to you.”

“Why now?”

“Because when I saw your face, I knew you were troubled. What is it, Jennz?” he asks with such gentleness that I can't hold onto anger.

Tiny claws tickle my neck. “I need your help.”

“You've got it,” he says with no hesitation.

“What I'm going to tell you can't be shared with anyone.”

“I'm loyal to my Family.” Conflicting emotions cross his face. “But you're like family too.”

“You wouldn't look at me at your booth,” I remind him
with a flare of anger.

“I was looking.”

I arch my brows. “You didn't act like we were even friends.”

“I'm learning to disguise my true thoughts.” He lowers his voice. “My Family is welcoming, but they don't trust me. They watch suspiciously as if I'm a fanged snake that might bite them.”

“How could anyone mistrust you?”

“It's not only me. Other youths are being watched closely, and I'm sure it's because of that crazed youth who attacked a Family member. I haven't learned which Family he was from, but I know it wasn't mine since Hector—the last youth—has been confiding in me. He tells me things I'm not supposed to know.” He stops when two women in yellow tunics walk by. After they've passed, he lowers his voice. “We can talk privately in my cart.”

I follow him beyond the privacy room to a wooden vehicle with a curved roof and boxes stacked in the back seat. He clasps my hand warmly. “It's good to see you, Jennza—oh, sorry. I should call you Milly.”

“Please don't.”

“Still resisting change?” His words would be critical except for his teasing smile. “When we're with others, call me Neil.”

“But you're so not like a Neil.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Why not?”

“Neil sounds hard like nails. You can make me laugh even though you're serious too, thinking all the time.”

“Thinking isn't a bad thing.”

“No, of course not—it's a trait I admire about you.”

“You admire me?” he asks, surprised.

“Always have,” I admit. “I should be sensical like you and respect rules.”

“This is a non-rule cart. Inside here, we're just Marcus and Jennza.”

“I like that.” I smile.

“And I like … well … if only you'd gone to one of the Families on my list. Now there's no chance for us to be ….”

“To be what?” My throat catches.

“Anything,” he says, taking my hand.

His fingers. Touching my skin. A casual gesture we've shared many times, yet it's not the same now. He's looking into my face—sweetly, gently, longingly. My heart races like when I'm running with the wind. I'm breathless and shy with someone I've known since infancy.

I pull away, words failing me. I can't think now, and I must. There's so much I need to explain to him, but I'm incapable of clear thoughts. So in a sudden, swift move, I reach underneath my hair.

I show him Petal.

“What—what is that?” he cries, eyes wide as sand-shells.

“I don't know what she is—only that she's sweet and wonderful. I call her Petal.” I cuddle her to my chest, aware of her fast-pounding heart matching mine.

Marcus holds out his hand, and after Petal sniffs his fingers, he gently strokes her scales. “She's amazing—like nothing I've ever seen.”

“You would have seen her a long time ago if you'd climbed the Fence with me. Remember all those times I snuck out? I went to a cave—and that's where I met Petal. She didn't understand about my leaving and found me.” I
touch Petal's scaly skin, and flakes flutter down like papery rain. “She's drying up. I'm afraid she'll die if she doesn't return to the sea.”

Marcus's gaze sharpens with interest. “Webbed legs, gills, claws, and horizontal markings. Leathery skin, but with bristles that are almost like fur, and webbed legs similar to wings. A fish-reptile hybrid. You say she lives in the sea?”

I nod, worry squeezing my heart. “But she won't live long without salt water.”

He strokes her curled tail. “You're a beauty, little one.”

Petal relaxes at his soft words, and I know she's accepting him, as all wild creatures do.

“Want to hold her?” I offer.

“Can I?”

“Here.” I hold her out to him, and he takes her gently.

“Poor creature. Her skin is so dry.”

“That's why I came to you.”

He frowns. “I don't know how to heal her.”

“I do.” I fix him a challenging look. “She must go back to the sea. I can't take her there myself because it's too far. But your compound borders the sea.”

He touches Petal lightly, but his gaze stays on me. “What are you asking?”

“You only need to take her to the Fence, and she'll slip through the wire.”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully but says nothing for a while. Finally he blows out a long sigh and nods.

Marcus finds a bucket and fills it with water from a pitcher. Petal hisses at the clear water, and I tell her this is the best we can do. I explain through words and gestures,
begging Petal to return to the cave and not to look for me again. I sense she understands—at least I hope so.