Rebels (20 page)

Pivot and turn. Now he has my attention.

“For example?”

“Well, to start with, none of this means a thing to you,” he says quickly. “You'd rather be anywhere else but here. And you think no one has anything interesting to say. A bit egotistical of you—”

“What did you—”

“But also correct. And you cannot stop thinking, I have to pick from these mindless Islanders and listen to them prattle about midday tea receptions and the importance of the status quo for the rest of my life.”

Perhaps I'm hallucinating. For the first time, I really look at his eyes and they're unlike the other Young Men's. As though they have seen the unexpected.

He stares right back. For significantly longer than is proper. “You have such interesting eyes,” he says.

Left arm up, chin to shoulder.

“If what you were saying was true,” I say, “and I am not saying it is, but if it was . . . on what do you base your shockingly forward assumptions?”

Pivot and turn. Now we are closer.
Did he make that happen?
I wonder.
Did I?

“On myself. I'm exactly the same, Livia. I'm just like you.”

Hands in the air. We're almost done. Back where we started.

Palm to palm facing each other. The slightest movement. That's all it would take. Barely an inch and we would be touching.

It is as though he has a power source hidden inside of him, his skin almost seeming to crackle. And yet, I cannot sense him at all. As though he has built a wall around his true feelings.

“We aren't like the others,” he says fiercely. “Nor would we choose to be.”

The final pose, the final note. His turn is over. He steps back and smiles politely. A rush of cold air takes up the space where his heat was.

A deep curtsy, a manly bow.

Then he is gone, quicker than I would have liked. I strain to glimpse him through the crowd of bodies, then notice the faces.

Hundreds of them, staring at me with curiosity, oozing with judgment.

He didn't even say his name
.

“May I?”

I swing around. My next partner, grinning at me. Six foot two, superior bone structure, all the signs of exemplary genetics.

Empty eyes on a face I have seen many times before.

“Is this not enchanting?” he says as we take our first pose.

◊  ◊  ◊

The Helix Grand Ballroom is said to be the grandest in all of Indra, though I've never seen any others, except for what serves as one at the Socialization Club. I've never been invited, though Marius assures me that with the right cohabitant, the social snubs will cease, though I wonder for how long. I've never really cared about the Helix Grand Ballroom until now. I'm at my own dining platform, elevated above the others. The Finest of Indrithian Society are seated below me, their tables extending to the perimeter of the room.

I can't see him anywhere.

I scan the crowd, Young Men looking up expectantly as my eyes pass over them.

Dejected, I push the leg of lamb around my plate. More historical re-creations, only slightly less repulsive than the kidney, though it smells much the same.

I've lost my appetite completely.

I lift my fork—meat fork, not salad fork—and pretend to take a bite.

Where has he gone?
Perhaps I only imagined him, the cincher completely cutting off oxygen to my brain. I put down my fork and pick up my fan to look sufficiently busy.

The guests engage in Polite Conversation Befitting a Formal Engagement. With so many guests, the volume is a polite roar. I notice a few Young Men have risen to their feet, milling about and chatting amicably, their eyes continuously flickering in my direction.

The fan
, I think. Now I have unintentionally opened the door, given them a signal that I'm open to their attentions.

I fan slowly with the left hand: please do not approach, for I am otherwise engaged. Just a quick shift to the right hand and a more rapid movement—
now I'm ready for you
—and they will come racing, ready to smother me with their affection.

Will this ever end? I sense a wave of annoyance, and am not surprised at the source. Governess, sitting near the front of the table. A quick jaunt to Rejuvenation Island and now her skin is stretched so tightly that her eyes angle upward, which doesn't prevent her from glaring at me through her slits. I feel her desperation for me take some sort of action.

Next to her, Waslo holds court, entertaining half the table with his wit. With me, he's sullen, always scrutinizing for imperfections. Among other Indrithians of Importance, he expresses charm and mirth.

I don't like him either way.

Next to him, Marius is watching me. Despite her tiny frame, her grace seems to dwarf the others around her. Next to Marius, they appear to be practiced, laughing with strained faces, leaning forward, overly eager.

She catches my eye and smiles encouragingly.
She's worried
.
I made her a promise, yet I'm putting forth little effort.

There's someone I wish to know more of
, I imagine telling her,
but he disappeared as mysteriously as he arrived. He made the others seem even less interesting, if that's even possible.

Without noticing, I've begun to fan faster. I slow myself down, but it's too late, for I have already attracted curiosity. The Young Men ease closer, seemingly poised to sprint toward me at any moment; the enormous ballroom feels smaller, the walls angling in on me. I look upward, swearing the massive chandelier is lower than before, wondering if, within moments, the ceiling will drop and crush me.

I'm suddenly dizzy. Long off the platform, yet everything is once
again spinning. I fear I might faint. If I faint, at least I've been taught how to react.

Soon I will be a cautionary tale told during Pleasant Interaction.

That is when I see Mica. Not socializing or engaging in interaction, pleasant or otherwise. Simply staring at me from the far left side of the table. Surely
that's
a sign of rudeness.

I know exactly what she's thinking: I will never be one of them. I will never be an Indrithian of Importance, no matter how hard I try.

I know she's right. And even worse, I don't care to try.

I don't remember standing, yet I'm on my feet. They're sore and pinched, but they'll do.

The room has gone silent. Everyone is looking at me. Again.

Keep your wits about you
,
Livia.

I give a girlish sigh. Smile charmingly, lower my eyes bashfully. Tap my left cheek with my fan:
Might you be so kind as to pardon me?

I don't give them time to answer.

◊  ◊  ◊

I know Helix Island, even in the dark.

I exit the main quarters with graceful strides, chin lifted high, as though seeking a quick breath of fresh air.

“Overcome with emotion,” I imagine Governess telling the table, her pained smile pulling her face to its breaking point. “She needs merely a moment to gather her thoughts. Grace and quiet composure, that is our Livia.”

In the dark, I bound forward, stumble awkwardly over my train, and go tumbling. A grunt slipping from between my clenched teeth, I hoist myself back to standing, lift the sides of my gown, and knot them in front of me.

I kick off my dainty shoes. I watch them fly, making blue arcs through the darkness. I rub my feet in the dirt until I know they're absolutely filthy.

Only then do I run.

The air is chilly on my bare legs, the grass soft beneath me. I shake out my carefully constructed hair, pins flying, and rake my fingers through the strands, eager to annihilate each perfectly arranged coil.

I realize I'm still wearing my sash. I reach around and pull as hard as I can.

“I hate this sash,” I tell the empty air, pulling as I run. The fabric unwinds from around me, the tail unfurling, growing longer and longer until it disappears into the darkness.

I hear laughter and realize it's me.

Intoxicated with my own freedom, I reach for my cincher. Hours to strap me in, and a few mere tugs to escape. Within moments, my rib cage expands, my chest rising. I breathe in the fresh air, taking in as much as I can possibly hold, the oxygen overwhelming me with giddiness.

Islanders are built for high altitudes, having adapted throughout the generations. Those who come from the Lower Levels face long adjustment periods, their lungs becoming starved for oxygen, Life Guide once explained.

What you mean to say
, I hadn't dared respond,
is they should not have come in the first place.

Everything is made a prison here. Even our own bodies. The price of beauty is hidden behind torture machines. I see my destination in the distance and move faster. A silver dome growing larger with each stride.

My father built Veda's stable and around it, a track. Veda can run, but only in circles. In that way, we have a lot in common.

Of course, I programmed Archives for her to access when I could not be with her. She could escape at any moment: to a field to romp through, hills to climb, rivers in which she could wade. Yet she knew these weren't real, just as I knew the ocean was lost to us forever.

“Veda!” I call, rushing into the stable. Her white face rises instantly, eyes warm in greeting. She whinnies and stamps her feet, turns a few quick circles. This happy dance has always been my greeting.

I run to her and rest my cheek against her silky mane. How many times have I done this? Run to Veda when there was nowhere else to go? As a child, she would rest her muzzle on top of my head, though now she must use my shoulder.

Things change, but very little. On this occasion, I'm grateful.

Now you may cry
, I tell myself. The tears don't require more urging; they fall and disappear into Veda's silky mane.

“Livia.”

His voice sends a shiver down my spine.

Veda lifts her head and peers over my shoulder. I'm safe, I know, or else she would have warned me. Instead of rearing up, she simply stares, her brown eyes warm and curious.

“How did you know where to find me?” I ask, unwilling to turn yet.
I will not be seen in this weakness
. I pull myself tall, use the backs of my hands to dry the wetness from my cheeks.

“This is where I would go,” he says.

Even without turning, I can sense his feelings are strong. He's here to do something important, though I can't imagine anything of importance here, in Veda's stable.

Other than Veda, that is.

Only once I have returned to myself, made myself mimic a Proper Young Woman once more, am I ready to face him.

He's hiding something. The other boys are so open with their desires, but this one stares at me strangely and has secrets he would never share.

“I thought you might not exist,” I say nonchalantly. “That perhaps I conjured you from my imagination simply to pass the time.”

He doesn't answer or look away.

“Staring, as I am sure you are well aware, is a blatant disregard of proper etiquette,” I say.

“Have you seen yourself lately?”

I glance down and realize he may have a point. A debutee with bare legs and dirty feet, gown knotted at her waist, hair permitted to go wild, isn't much of a debutee at all.

“I don't have to answer for my appearance,” I tell him.

“I don't want you to,” he says softly. “I like you much better like this.”

For a second, I lose my train of thought. Who's he to make me uncomfortable?

“You don't belong here,” I tell him, hearing the haughtiness in my own voice.

“True. I don't.”

“You are the intruder, not I.”

“Agreed,” he says.

I wait for an explanation. He doesn't offer one.

“Well?” I say finally. “Have you nothing more to say to me?”

Apparently not. I pick up Veda's brush, turning my back to him, and neaten her mane. Veda looks at me oddly; I'm well aware she prefers to be untamed.

There's no sound from behind me. I only hope he's done the appropriate thing and left. So why do I feel a sudden heaviness upon me?

Veda looks past me and I know he's still there, but I finish her grooming before I turn.

He's so close I could touch his face.
Not that I want to
. He smiles as though hearing my thoughts.

None of this makes any sense—being in the stable during my own ball, my missing sash probably flying through the clouds by now. The fact that Veda, who is usually abhorrent of strangers, is playfully nudging the side of my face and giving a serene whinny.

Most implausible of all? This strange boy in front of me with a
calm, self-satisfied smile. The fact that I can't sense his feelings, only guess, while my own frustration rises. Nothing is logical here, the whole situation utterly maddening.

He moved nearer when I wasn't looking.

“Don't come any closer,” I tell him.

“Why?” he says, already inching forward.

“I don't want you to,” I tell him, hearing the lie in my own voice. “And for a Proper Young Man, that should be reason enough.”

“I am not a Proper Young Man,” he says. “I'm Kane, and I certainly wouldn't mind another Courting Dance with you as my partner.”

In that instant, I feel him. It's as though the wall he's maintained suddenly explodes, and his emotions rush toward me with a surprising intensity.

He wants to kiss me. The revelation is disconcerting, to say the very least.

“That's prohibited,” I say.

“What is?” I can sense the heat coming off him.

“What you want.”

“You
are
strange, Livia Cosmo,” he whispers.

“That is a fact of which I am well aware and is rude of you to say.”

It would be so easy to reach for him.