The Chosen One (6 page)

The engine of the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels started behind me.

I moved off the road and, as the van got right next to me, flapped my arms at Patrick.

He slowed the van. Rolled down his window. “Want another book?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m Kyra,” I said.

“Well, nice to meet you, Kyra,” Patrick said and he grinned so big I noticed his front teeth were a little crooked.

I nodded. Stood there.

“Can I give you a lift?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Then I’ll see you next week.”

And off he went, with all those books.

__________

LAURA COMES OUT
onto the back step with me. She stands beside me, quiet. Neither one of us says a thing for a moment.

Then she reaches for my hand, links her fingers into mine.

Tears spring to my eyes.

“I love you, Kyra,” Laura says. Then she leans right into me. I can smell the shampoo we use in her hair. “I love you.”

I don’t say anything. Just put my face close to hers. Try not to cry. Hold her hand and hope.

I
’
M MY MOTHER
’
S FIRST CHILD
, born when she was almost fourteen years old.

“Think of it,” I said to Laura when I turned twelve. “I’m almost Mother Sarah’s age when she was
married
.”

Laura looked at me, her squinty eyes even more narrowed. “You could have your own old man as a husband,” she said.

“Shut up,” I had said.

And she had laughed.

Being the first child is more than just being married early (or first). It means responsibility.

If I were a boy, I’d get to do more stuff, like the boys do here. I could drive any time I was needed (with permission; Mother has taken me out in the family van several times. I’m not too bad considering, though she’s said I’ve given her whiplash.). I could work with the Prophet by carrying messages to families or running errands among him and the Apostles. I could go into town with the others more often. Be a part of the God Squad. Receive revelation for my family.

Choose who I wanted to marry.

MOST DAYS ARE SLOW
. With work to fill them up and no time for me to get to the piano or sneak off and read.

But today zooms past. And all I want it to do is slow down.
Give me time here with my family, safe
, I think.
Let my father talk to the Prophet. Let things change for me
.

“Kyra,” Mother Sarah says. This afternoon she’s not as sick and this gives me more time to worry about what is to come. She sits propped in her bed, spooning chicken broth into her own mouth, and sharing bites with me and Laura and Margaret and Carolina. “Kyra, you’re such a good help,” she says. “This soup tastes like Mother Claire’s homemade.”

“I used her recipe,” I say. This is almost the truth.

It
is
Mother Claire’s recipe, but I stole the soup from her pot yesterday, before all this happened, and replaced it with water. Something like guilt catches in the back of the throat. Is this why I am marrying my uncle? Does the Prophet know that this whole pregnancy I’ve stolen food from the other mothers so I wouldn’t have to make it myself? Does he want to teach me a lesson?

I look away from Mother because I know she never,
never
stole soup from another woman’s cooking pot. Especially not as many times as I have.

“Mother,” I say, getting ready to tell her everything, like how hard it is to cook dinner for so many. Like how I want to play the piano. Or read. Or see Joshua. But not cook another meal.

She looks at me, her face almost relaxed.

I close my mouth to the confession. She doesn’t need this information now. I’ll tell her later, when her baby’s here, maybe after the blessing. Maybe when I am sick with my own pregnancy. The thought makes my stomach turn over. I don’t want anything else to eat.

Carolina bounces on the bed. Her blond hair swings in its braid. Beads of sweat dot her forehead.

“Don’t bounce, baby,” I say, trying to make my guilt go away by being especially nice to Mother. “You make Mother’s tummy ache.”

Our mother nods in thanks. She eats a bit. Shares some more.

Carolina stops her bouncing and says, “Fan Mother harder, Laura. It’s hot.”

“I’m fanning fast as I can,” Laura says. She smiles. I can see she’s worried.

All around us, the hot desert air moves from Laura’s fanning and the big fan propped in the corner. If we only had air-conditioning like the Prophet and Apostles do, Mother would be able to be pregnant in comfort.

The Prophet.

Is Father still with him?

Thank goodness there’s a swamp cooler plugged into the kitchen window or I swear we’d all go up in a ball of smoke.

“It’s hot as hell in here,” says Margaret. Then she smiles.

“Margaret,” Mother says, her tone disapproving. “Your language is not fitting to that of The Chosen Ones.”

Margaret, her face crinkled, keeps smiling. I bet she likes it that she can say a naughty word. “It’s straight from the Bible,” she says.

Laura fans Mother Sarah harder and says, “Tell us about when you were little.”

So our mother tells us about Bible study, when times were easier because sin didn’t cover the world the way it does now. When The Chosen Ones were allowed out of the Compound more. How she used to go to the next town and eat Fudgsicles with all her brothers and sisters, before the chain-link fence, before, when Prophet Childs’s father was our leader.

We’re all quiet, thinking about those Fudgsicles. At least I’m thinking about them. And thinking how Father wasn’t so old when Mother married him.

“You were lucky to live then,” Margaret says, her voice a sigh almost. “And I’m sorry I said hell.” There’s that grin again.

Mother eyes Margaret and says, “You’re forgiven.” Then she breathes out. “I certainly was lucky.”

AT LAST I LEAVE
the Compound the way I always have, slow like I always do, so no one will think any more of this walk than any other I’ve taken over the last I don’t know how many years.

Are they watching me now that I’ve been Chosen? Will they follow me?

My whole walk, all the way into the middle of nowhere, I keep checking behind me. I keep looking.

When I can’t see the Compound behind me, when I’m sure no one follows, I run, stopping when I grow out of breath. Down the two miles of road, to that dot of trees that makes just about the only shade out here not on Compound property. There’s the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels.

Parked right there.

“Hey,” I say to Patrick when he opens the van doors. He’s in his seat, just waiting.

“Good afternoon, Miss Kyra.” He nods. Adjusts that ball cap of his.

I want to tell him everything. I want him to know what’s happening at home. That I’ve been Chosen. But I can’t. The words get caught right in my throat and refuse to come out. Instead, I plunk down
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
, turning it back in.

“I loved it,” I say, just getting the words out. “It was great.” There’s a rock in my throat. When I’m married will I ever be able to come here again? Will I still get books? Still read?

Patrick smiles and says, “My sisters love that book, too. It’s a series, you know.”

I make my way to the rear of the van and drop to my knees. I can’t even look at the titles, I’m so sad. Why did I think coming here would help me? Being here only makes me ache at the thought of never coming back.

“Looking for anything specific?” Patrick says from his seat.

I shrug, not even sure if he’s looking at me. “Not really,” I say. “Just hoping for something . . .” Just hoping . . . just hoping for what? I don’t know why, but somehow, all the sudden, it feels like I could get away in the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels.

In a far corner is a rack that has newspapers hanging from it, like quilts made of words. Newspapers from all over the state. And the states surrounding our state and even a New York paper. A New York paper right here.

I’ve read the newspapers when they have blown free from the garbage pile near the Temple and snagged on the fencing. They’re always yellowed and crisp, like the wind and sun has made them tougher.

But here in the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels, the newspapers smell of ink. They are new and soft almost.

“We’ve got company,” Patrick says all the sudden.

“What?”

“Hide,” he says. “And don’t look up. You’re not here.”

My blood turns cold, makes me feel all watery. How is that possible, to feel frozen
and
as unsteady as water at the same time? I’m not sure I could look out that window if I wanted to.

I slip behind the newspapers. Tuck my dress in close and wait, my heart slamming in my chest so hard I worry maybe whoever is out there might hear.

There’s a tap on the door. I hear Patrick swing it open, then heavy footsteps. The bus tips a little. Whoever this is, is a big person.

“Need to see your license.”

“Yes sir.”

Brother Felix! Oh no! I close my eyes, feeling like a baby. Like if I can’t see Brother Felix—one of The Chosen
and
our local sheriff
and
a member of the God Squad—Brother Felix might not see me.

There’s silence. Blood pounds in my ears. Then,

“What are you doing here?”

“I break here because it’s the middle of my day, middle of my route,” Patrick says, his voice low and calm. “I rest in the shade of trees.”

Again there’s quiet. In my mind I can see those eyes of Brother Felix,
Sheriff
Felix, the way he squints and makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong when you haven’t even had the chance. His squinting is not a thing like Mother Sarah’s. Not a thing like Laura’s. His squinting scares me.

“You might not want to be here too long,” he says.

“Won’t be,” Patrick says. And then, “Am I on private property?”

I keep my eyes closed.

“Close to,” Brother Felix says.

There’s a pause.

“Watch it,” Brother Felix says.

“I’ll watch it,” Patrick says.

The newspaper ink smells so strong I feel sick to my stomach. It’s like I have caught Mother’s illness, the way I feel weak.

“You come here, you stop here, you don’t talk to no one. If I see you talking to someone, I’ll arrest you. If it looks like you might talk to someone, I’ll arrest you. If I
think
you’re talking to someone, I’ll arrest you.”

“I understand,” Patrick says.

If this keeps up much longer, I’ll have to figure out how to throw up in my own mouth without making a sound.

Brother Felix moves and the van shifts like we’ve dropped off a load. The doors shut. There’s the sound of a car driving away. I keep still until Patrick says, “You can come out now, Kyra.”

My legs won’t quite hold me, so I crawl from my hiding place.

“You okay?” Patrick hasn’t moved from his seat. He’s barely turned around. He catches a glance at my face. “Don’t worry, Kyra,” he says. “You can keep looking for something to check out.”

Maybe I should tell him the truth. That I’m not allowed to read anything but the Bible. Maybe I should tell him that Sheriff Felix and all the God Squad are mean ol’ things. Maybe I should say what kind of trouble we can both get into.

But the books mean too much. There’s a chance. There
is
a chance that I’ll get back here. And anyway, I
do
have a few more weeks before I’m married. So all I say is, “Thanks, Patrick.” And when my legs can hold me, and a good amount of time goes past, I get out of the van,
Anne of Green Gables
hidden in my dress.

“You know, Kyra,” Patrick says. He looks at me down the steps. “If you ever need a ride into town, I can give you one.”

“Okay,” I say after a moment.

Another person who has said he will help me.

I walk away first this time. Go at least a mile. Never look behind me. It’s not that long before Patrick and the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels drive by. I don’t even look at him. Just hope I’ll figure this one out.

And remember.

ONE LATE AFTERNOON
I read three Dr. Seuss books from the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels while sitting on the gritty floor of the van. It’s like I’m thirsty and can’t get enough to drink.

Early on, Patrick told me I could read if I wanted. He’d stop. Take a break here. Eat a late lunch. Rest in the shade of the trees while I chose something to read.

“Spend fifteen or twenty extra minutes,” Patrick had said. “Look around. Enjoy.”

And I said, “Okay. Thanks.” But I never stay more than ten minutes. A whisper in my head tells me not to. And I trust that voice. Get in, get out, get home and hide the book in my tree if the weather’s good.

But this afternoon, I took a few minutes more than usual. I read these books we used to have in our home. Seeing those books makes my stomach feel flat. Seeing these books brought back the memory of smoke. And before that, sitting with Father on the living-room floor, his arms around all us girls, Mother right there, too, reading together.

“I read
Fox in Socks
nearly every night to my boy, Nathan,” Patrick said, interrupting my memory. He sipped from a cup that said Big Gulp in white letters.

I pulled
Hop on Pop
from the shelf and remembered Prophet Childs and the Day of Cleansing. This was the first of many cleansings, but of course, I didn’t know it then. The memory floods right through me. That smell of smoke.

“Bring your books,” Prophet Childs had said.

A fire big as a barn burned in the parking lot of the Temple. I could feel the heat from a distance. Sparks flew in the air and winked out in the night.

“Bring the demon’s word here. Burn it all,” the Prophet said.

And everyone did. They brought picture books and teen books. Magazines and newspapers. Novels and even the
Reader’s Digest
.