Flawed (20 page)

Angelina Tinder was right. They want to be in our heads. I will never let them in my head again.

 

THIRTY-FOUR

JUNIPER AND I
barely speak.

She feels guilty and left out. I feel angry and bitter, and I must admit I have found an odd sort of joy at taking my pain out on her. With too much time on my hands to think, analyze, and dissect, my mind always drifts back to the moment on the bus. I try to live it out differently in my head, as if doing so would change the outcome. But every time I relive the moment on the bus, I can't help but relive Juniper's silence. Juniper, who could never usually keep her trap shut, couldn't find one single word to leap to my side on the bus or to defend me in court, but most of all, watching her live her life as I want to live mine is hurting me the most.

I can tell she is maddened by my silence with her. I can sense her shouting at me that this wasn't her fault. She's telling me that she feels guilty enough without my having to make her feel any worse. And I respond to all that with silence.
I
was the one who would have done exactly what I was told, not her. For her to suddenly become me and for me to become her is the most bizarre twist of all. I am wearing her clothes, I am feeling her insecurities, and she is suddenly silent, biting her tongue that she could never silence before, sneaking out at night to meet who knows at a time I am no longer permitted to step foot outside my house. It is my fault that we are behaving like this with each other, but I can't stop feeling as I do.

Most of all, I miss Art. My heart is broken and I need him. I can't understand why he hasn't written to me, why he hasn't called me, why he hasn't reached out to me. If it's true that he has run away from home, then not being under the thumb of his dad gives him even more freedom to contact me. This is beginning to feel more like Art's decision to stay away from me and less his dad's. That hurts more than any branding.

After what happened with Colleen, I give up on the school cafeteria. Instead, I read books in the library, huddling on a beanbag in a corner and getting lost in somebody else's victories and troubles. I never had much time for fiction before. I preferred real life. Mathematics. Solutions. Things that actually have a bearing on my life. But I can understand now why people read, why they like to get lost in somebody else's life. Sometimes I'll read a sentence and it will make me sit up, jolt me, because it is something that I have recently felt but never said out loud. I want to reach into the page and tell the characters that I understand them, that they're not alone, that I'm not alone, that it's okay to feel like this. And then the lunch bell rings, the book closes, and I'm plunged back into reality.

Today I'm too tired to read. I haven't been sleeping well. I've been forcing myself to stay awake because my dreams keep turning into nightmares of the Branding Chamber. Lately they've focused on Carrick, and instead of it being me in the Branding Chamber, it's him and I'm watching him being seared. Where is he? He told me he'd find me. When? Has he decided not to, or does he need my help? I have thought of him often, so often that he has started to appear in my nightmares. Internet searches of
Carrick Flawed
do nothing to help me learn anything about him. I don't know his surname. I don't know anything about him. Where he's from, what he even did. I don't know if he was found to be Flawed, but a wild guess tells me that he was. I wonder about his punishment for being there for me in the Branding Chamber, and I hope someone was there for him, that someone offered him peace as he did for me. I have written his name on my notepad, gone back over the letters in red ink over and over. It starts to break through the page. It helps me think.

Suddenly I hear a noise in the library, and I jump as Logan appears.

“Hey,” he calls cheerfully. “I've been looking for you.”

“Me?” I say in surprise.

He jogs forward and hands me an envelope. He's always so confident, but right now, he seems shy. “Invitation to my eighteenth. This Friday.”

“Thank you.” I smile, my heart surging.

“The directions are inside. You'll come?” He holds my eye.

I hold the invitation in my hands, feeling stunned and unsure. “Um, why?”

He laughs. “Why what?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“The whole class is invited. Couldn't leave you out.”

“I don't think they'd want me there, Logan.”

“Well, I do,” he says firmly. “Are you coming or not?”

“Okay. I mean, yes. Thanks.” I feel my grin take over my whole face, and I just can't stop. As soon as he leaves, I squeal and stamp my feet excitedly. Maybe things won't be so bad after all. Maybe things can change.

I hear another sound in the library, and I call out. “Logan? Is that you?”

I walk to the end of the row of books and look left. I'm grabbed from the right and pulled around the corner to the next aisle. I'm about to shout when I'm faced with Art.

“Shhh,” he says, holding his finger up to my lips, and leads me down to the far corner of the library, behind the shelves, in the darkest corner.

 

THIRTY-FIVE

MY HEART IS
pounding. I can't believe it. I can't wipe the grin off my face.

We're so close I'm pressed up against the bookshelf. I feel a few books slide behind me as I push against them. Art looks tired, his hair not as bright, a bit grubby, his curls looking more like knots. There are dark circles around his eyes, like he hasn't slept for weeks, and the mischievous glint is gone from his eyes; they're flat. While I take him in, he does the same with me. He studies my temple, the one with the brand, and winces as if feeling my pain. His fingers come close to touching it, but they don't make contact, just hover above my skin. His finger runs down my cheek to my lip, and he looks at my mouth with intensity. I know he's thinking about my tongue brand.

“It's still me,” I whisper.

“I know, I just…”

“It's okay.”

There's a silence, and I suddenly don't know what to say. I've wanted to kiss him for so long, but now it doesn't feel right, it feels different, he seems different, and I have so many questions, like
where on earth has he been
?

“Who's Logan?” he asks before I get a chance to speak. “You called out his name.”

“Oh, that's just nobody. It doesn't matter. Art, where have you
been
?”

“What's that?” He looks down at the invitation in my hands, reads it.

“Logan Trilby?” His face looks hard, angry.

“He was just being kind, Art,” I say quietly. “How did you get in here?”

He lightens up a little, but he seems flat. “The number of times I had to sit in here for study, I eventually found a way out.”

“I've been so worried about you. I didn't know what was going on. I don't know what
is
going on. Where have you been all this time? It's been a week and a half.”

“I can't tell you where I've been.”

“Why not?”

He looks around, paranoid. “Because they'll ask you where I am, and I don't want you to have to lie, to get into trouble again.”

“I couldn't possibly be in any more trouble.”

Neither of us laughs.

“Please tell me.”

“I can't. They'll follow you to me. They're watching you all the time.”

He leans in, and I think he's going to kiss me. I watch his lips and wait for them to kiss my lips, but he moves away again.

“I've needed you,” he says.

“Me too.” I feel tears prick, feeling sorry for myself. “I feel like you just left me alone.…”

“I'm sorry. I just had to get away from him,” he says, stepping away, agitated. “I've been so confused, trying to figure it all out. I was so angry with you, Celestine.” He shakes his head. “Everything was perfect.”

I'm in so much shock I can't speak. After what his dad did to me, he's angry with
me
?

“And I can't even look at him knowing what he did to you. Five brands?
Five?!
That wasn't just to hurt you, it was to hurt me, too.”

He doesn't know about the sixth. I can't tell him, his rage is so intense. I want to reach out to touch him, but for some reason I can't.

“And I can't live with you, either, knowing that my dad did this to you,” he says, taking a step back. “I'm in the middle of the both of you, and whatever I do, it will be wrong.”

“Art, listen to me,” I say, feeling the panic rising. I can't lose him. If I lose him, then I'll have nothing.

“No, you listen to me. What you did on the bus was right, but it was wrong for us. If you were selfish like me, you wouldn't have done it. If I was as strong as you, I would have defended you. I would have stood beside you on that bus. Instead, I watched you do it all, in silence. I let the person I loved get dragged away.”

Loved?
He loved me! Does he still? The celebration of that idea is killed by the uncertainty of whether it exists anymore.

“It's not your fault, Art. None of it is your fault. I can't lose you. What about school? What about university?” I plead with him. “We can do all the things we planned, and then you and I can go somewhere together, away from everyone else. We'll take our time, build a plan.”

“Where, Celestine? Where exactly can you go?” he asks, and I detect anger at me again. “You can't leave the country. And you can't go anywhere without alerting the Whistleblowers. Every single Flawed person is accounted for at all times. You have to report your every move to them. If you move, you get a new Whistleblower. And if you do that, then
he'll
know, too. He'll always know where we are. We'll never be free of him. He'll make our lives hell.”

“We could make it work,” I say, holding on to him, trying to stop his pacing.

Just being with Art would be enough for me, even if I have to live under Flawed rules and Art doesn't. Crevan couldn't possibly make things any worse for us.

But there's something else he has said that has my mind in overdrive, about every Flawed person having a Whistleblower, every Flawed being documented, their whereabouts known. I'm trying to find Carrick. Carrick will have a Whistleblower, his whereabouts will be documented. My heart pounds with excitement. “Art, can you help me find someone?”

“Who?”

“A Flawed guy. His name is Carrick.”

“Who?” His eyes narrow.

“Carrick. I don't know his surname. He was beside me in the cells. I really need to find him.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah? Become close, did you? Just like Logan?”

“Art!” I say, surprised.

“Forgive me, Celestine, if I don't know exactly who you are anymore, if I have to question you.”

“You know
exactly
who I am.” I swallow hard.

He examines me again. He sighs and closes his eyes, the stress clinging to him, weighing him down. I don't know where he's been staying, but there's an earthy smell to his clothes.

“Carrick was kind to me, Art. I was alone in there and so was he, and he looked out for me. I just want to say thank you to him. I just want to know … what it's like for him. If it's the same for him as it is for me. It would be nice to talk to someone who understands—”

“You think that I don't understand you? Forget it.” He walks away. “Do you know how hard it was for me to come here today? Dad has people out looking for me everywhere. Do you know what I risked? What I've risked for you period? And in the middle of my trying to explain, you ask me to help you find some Flawed guy you met in a cell? You're going to parties like nothing's happened? Well, I'm delighted everything is fine for you,” he says sarcastically, storming down the aisle.

I'm stunned at first but then chase him, realizing I'll lose him. By the time I reach the end, he is out of sight, completely gone. I check every aisle. He's gone. I've lost him. I run up and down each aisle, feeling dizzy, wondering how he disappeared, when I finally come upon a narrow metal door, like a service door. I pull at the handle, expecting it not to budge, but it opens and brings me to the service area where Mr. Murray, the groundskeeper, does his recycling and stores his tools and equipment. He is ripping up enormous cardboard boxes, flattening them and piling them on the ground.

He doesn't even look up. “Get back inside, girl.”

“What? I'm looking for someone.”

“I know who you're looking for. Get back inside.” He looks up then, and I see warning in his eyes, so I slowly back away.

Then from behind one of the enormous recycling bins, a photographer jumps out and starts clicking, the flashes disorienting me.

Mr. Murray tells him to stop, starts citing laws and acts and rights, but the photographer doesn't listen, he continues snapping away. He lowers the camera at one point, and I see a wide grin on his face. I suppose he can't believe his luck that I'm so startled I can't move. But his grin urges me back into action, and I disappear back inside the library and slam the metal door shut. I'm back in the silent library, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure the books can hear me.

It's then that I wonder why the photographer was there. What did he see? Did he see Art go in and out that door? And then me appear at the door? I haven't broken any rules, but it makes me feel panicky because there is one person who wants to see Art almost as much as me, maybe more, and will do anything to find out where he is.

Crevan will come for me.

 

THIRTY-SIX

“TELL ME ABOUT
the last time you saw Art Crevan,” Pia says in the library of my house at the end of the horrible day that I lost Art. I'm drained and not in the mood to talk to her, but I have to be on guard, because of her questions and because I'm waiting for Crevan and his army to bang on the door and take me away to interrogate me about Art's whereabouts.