The scarlet harvest, p.3
The Scarlet Harvest, page 3
“Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t want you to experience the heartbreak your mother did. And, please, don’t share your Clairemont aspirations with her. If being a doctor interests you, you might consider going to Basic Training to become an Extractor.”
Dad sets his mug on the table and goes outside. The lawn mower starts humming. I head to my room to listen to music. From the hallway, I glance at my parent’s wedding picture. For the first time, I notice the sadness in my mom’s eyes.
Three
At dinner, Mom turns to me. “Have you given any more thought to becoming an Enforcer?”
“I was thinking of going to Extractor Basic Training.” I push food around my plate, building a french fry fortress between the corn and beans.
“I don’t see you as an Extractor.” Mom sounds surprised. “They deal with blood and guts and emotions.”
“Stop taking my food,” Addie shrieks.
Abe shoves a handful of french fries from Addie’s plate into his mouth. Broken french fries protrude from hollow areas where his crooked adult teeth are still coming in. He grins at me and I smile back. Addie threatens to stab his hand with her fork if he tries it again.
While Mom reprimands them, I inhale my food and plan my escape. If I stick around much longer, Mom will put the spotlight back on me.
“Wren is interested in a medical career where she can help people,” Dad says. “You never filled me in on how 306 reached the fourth month of pregnancy undetected.”
I look up from my empty plate. Dad winks at me. I excuse myself as Mom recounts her conversation with Adkins.
“Wren?” Dad calls from the dining room.
“Yes?” I pause in the hallway.
“The weekly Nuclei broadcast will air in ten minutes. Dr. Hahn will be speaking tonight.”
“I’m going to study for the Assessment.” If you’ve heard one Nuclei broadcast, you’ve heard them all.
In my bedroom, I open the Assessment booklet to the beauty section that shows symmetry calculations. When my best friend, Opal, and I were younger, we took turns measuring each other in search of the mysterious golden ratio. We found none.
Standing in front of the mirror, I detach the paper ruler and hold it lengthwise and then widthwise over my face. No changes since I last measured.
I don’t see any trace of my parents in my reflection. My face shape differs greatly from Mom’s square face. Where Dad’s face has sharp angles and a prominent jaw, my face is soft and full. Everyone in my family has brown eyes. How did I end up with blue?
Mom and the twins have golden-brown hair, the color of fresh-brewed coffee as it streams into the first cup of the day. My hair resembles the last cup of coffee poured from the same pot after it sits on the burner for hours: stronger, thicker, darker, not quite black, but almost.
Grasping my hair at the base of my neck, I push it forward to see what I would look like with a chin-length bob. I hate it. I can’t imagine becoming an Enforcer.
Sometimes, I wonder if I could have been adopted or switched with another baby at birth. What if my real parents are in Clairemont?
Not much is known about Clairemont, but it’s enough to know that those assigned to Clairemont are the best and brightest. I imagine Clairemont as a sophisticated city—superior to Hillcrest in every way—where academics spend their days discussing books and theories and solutions.
A knock on my door interrupts my daydream.
“Come in.”
Addie runs, jumps, and belly-flops onto my bed. “I know you sneak out at night.” A smirk slides across the cute little face I normally want to cover in big sister kisses.
I put a finger over my mouth to shush her. “Do not.”
“Do too!” She squeals. “Where do you go?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
She nods.
I lower my voice, as if I’m about to make a serious confession. “Every night, teenagers meet up to make roasted marshmallow chocolate sandwiches over the biggest bonfire you’ve ever seen. The chocolate gets ooey-gooey-melty. It’s the most delicious dessert in the whole wide world.”
“Are you going tonight? Can I go?” She clasps her hands together, begging.
“Got ‘cha.” I tickle her ribs until she begs for mercy. “I just run at night, Addie-bee.”
“For the strength test? Can you run an eight-minute mile?”
She knows a lot about the Assessment. Many kids aren’t interested. Others, like me, spend their entire childhood training to beat it.
“Five-minute mile,” I respond.
Addie’s face grows serious. “Do you think I could run a five-minute mile like you when I grow up?”
I smooth her messy curls. “You can do anything if you work hard.”
As I tiptoe down the hallway, light spills across my running shoes from the night-light in Abe and Addie’s room. I scrunch through the front door and cling to the shadows outside. My parents would kill me if they knew I ran alone at night. The fear of getting caught sends a shot of adrenaline coursing through my body.
I cross the street quickly and quietly, ponytail flying behind me. I steer clear of the pools of yellow light puddled under streetlamps and turn my face away from cameras mounted to the light posts. The only way to escape the feeling of being watched is to go where there are no cameras: the woods offer an escape from Nuclei eyes and ears. As soon as I step into Fidelity Forest, nervous laughter erupts from my lips.
Tonight will be a leisurely run since my pinky toe is tender. For the first half mile, I focus on my breathing. After warming up, my breath and feet settle into a synchronized rhythm. I inhale the earthy smell of the forest and listen to the chirruping cicadas and trilling crickets.
At the halfway point, the brush clears on my left to reveal the cliff overlooking the Valley. Twinkling lights glitter across the Valley as if it’s draped in a starry canopy. Wrapped in a cloak of darkness, the Valley actually looks pretty.
The Valley is no longer a place defined by my parents and other people. I saw it with my own eyes. I had always been told Valley dwellers were criminals, but they didn’t look like criminals. They looked poor and scared.
I follow the trail as it curves sharply to the right. The warm breeze cools the sweat on my brow. My shoe slides over a rotten mango. The smashed fruit smells sweet and putrid. I rake my shoe across a tree root to dislodge the fruit and then find a broken limb to dig out the remaining pulp.
A scraping sound to my immediate right startles me. I tighten my grip on the tree limb and scan the area. A blue blur smudges my peripheral vision. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
My heart jams a distress signal through my arteries; my pulse hammers out a rapid-fire SOS. I shouldn’t have come this close to the border. Branches crackle. Goose bumps crest on my neck and crash down my arms. I spin on my heels and start running, adrenaline flooding.
The forest comes alive with menacing shadows pulsing, something malevolent lurking. Knobby fingers of gnarly branches tear at my hair. Jagged leaves scratch at my face. Weeds wrap around my legs. I stumble over a tree root and catch myself.
Something hooks my rib cage, knocking the air from my lungs. My feet fly out from under me. I try to scream, but my vocal cords freeze. A hand covers my mouth—calloused fingertips dig into my cheeks. I’m being pulled away from the trail, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the forest. Terror rips through me.
I raise my arm and slam my elbow into the gut of my attacker. The grip constricts, crushing my ribs. I continue to kick and struggle. After a short eternity, I’m released like a plastic toy in one of those stupid vending machines at the market. Tumbling to the ground, I land on my butt behind a row of scraggly bushes.
A boy my age stands over me. He crouches and places a finger over his mouth. With his other hand, he points into the distance. A hazy blue mist rises behind tree silhouettes. The voices of approaching figures become audible, but I can’t make out their words.
Three boys from the Valley stop on the path in front of our hiding place and peer down the cliff with their backs to us. I could throw something at the closest one and land it squarely on the back of his head.
How did they cross the electrical barrier?
“You go first,” one says to another.
A third boy stands behind them. “Why don’t you both go first?” He shoves them.
They disappear over the ledge. I gasp. The remaining boy turns and looks right in my direction. I crouch lower. He backflips off the cliff. Seconds later, I hear a splash and laughter.
My attacker doesn’t seem as threatening. He pulled me off the path so the Valley boys wouldn’t see me.
He breaks the silence. “You can see in the dark?”
I frown. “No. Why do you ask?” I stand, brush off my pants, and pull twigs out of my hair.
“You saw the boys when they were hundreds of yards away.” He raises an arm over his head. “It’s so dark, you shouldn’t have been able to see the movement I just made, but you did.”
He’s testing me. I tear my eyes away from his arm and busy myself with tightening my ponytail. He pulls something from his pocket. A bright light hits me in the face.
“What are you doing? Trying to blind me?” I feel a flash of anger and instinctively knock the flashlight from his hand.
It thumps against the ground and rolls away. He retrieves it and aims the beam at his face. A reflective layer beneath his retina glows gold when the light catches it. A tiny scar runs through his left eyebrow.
“I can see in the dark, too,” he says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap.
His admission makes me uneasy. I've never met anyone like me. By elementary school, I knew I was different. Neighborhood kids used to play hide and seek after nightfall. Even on moonless, starless nights, I could easily see them hiding in bushes, under cars, behind basketball hoops. When I figured out other kids couldn’t see in the dark, I pretended I couldn’t either.
At night, the landscape becomes muted shades of gray and blue. The glow that emanates from people and animals is so intense, it nearly blinds me. Now, I focus on the ground to avoid looking directly at the boy.
He pockets the flashlight. “Do you live in Hillcrest? I’ve never seen you in the Valley.”
“Yes,” I answer, stealing a glance at him. I can’t believe his eyes are like mine.
“Why are you alone in the woods this late? It isn’t safe.” He sounds concerned.
“Training for the Assessment. It’s too hot to run during the day.” I slide my eyes toward him once more. “So, you live in the Valley?”
“I live there, but I don’t belong there,” he replies.
“Have you taken the Assessment yet?” I ask.
Girls take the Assessment two weeks after they start their periods. No matter their age, if they are assigned to a different residential cell, they move immediately.
Boys are tested on their sixteenth birthdays; they always finish school in their home cell.
“I’ll be sixteen in two weeks. What about you?” He cocks his head.
My face flushes. He might as well have asked if I’ve started my period. At fifteen, I’m considered a late bloomer. Most of my classmates have already received their Assessment results. Some have even completed job training.
“Not yet,” I stammer, embarrassed.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I cross my arms over my chest and continue to look away. “Wren.”
“I’m Fritz. It’s short for Friedrich. I mean, it should be short for Friedrich…”
People say parents in the Valley are too stupid to know a birth certificate should include a formal name. In the Valley, the twins would remain Abe and Addie as adults, instead of having more grown up options like those on their Hillcrest birth certificates: Abner and Adelaide.
“You have debris on your shoulder.” Fritz takes a step toward me and removes the debris.
I draw back and feel an overwhelming urge to run away.
“It’s late. I better go.” I turn and sprint down the dirt path that leads home.
“Wait,” he calls after me, but I keep running.
All of my life, I thought I was the only one. I thought I was a freak. I thought I would be ostracized if anyone found out I could see in the dark.
The boy from the Valley can see in the dark, too; I’m not the only one. There are others like me. Others like us. A smile buoyed by hope and wonder lifts the corners of my lips.
Four
No matter how tightly I close my bedroom curtains, the morning sun persists until it finds a vulnerable opening in the fabric. Normally, I would yank the curtains together to block the sun’s advance and go back to bed. Today, I flip my feather pillow to the colder side and bury my face in defeat. The encroaching day is the least of my concerns. My lower back aches from being thrown to the ground last night.
I should force myself out of bed, shower, and study. Yawning, I slog down the hallway and peek in the twins’ room. They hunch over a microscope taking turns looking through the eyepiece.
As water cascades down my face in the shower, so many questions swim in my head. What was the Valley boy doing in Fidelity Forest when there must be running trails closer to his home? The electrical barrier is supposed to keep people within their assigned cell. Did one of our passports malfunction or does the electrical barrier have blind spots?
I rinse my hair and turn off the faucet. Pink water swirls around my feet. Is my toe bleeding? Bracing an arm against the shower wall, I stand on one leg and lift my foot. My toe is fine. The blood can only mean one thing. My stomach twists.
I toss my towel in the hamper, get dressed, and rush to my bedroom. How am I going to tell my parents I started my period? And when? I’m not ready.
Combat boots thump down the hall. Mom knocks on my door and enters. “How are things going?”
“Fine.” I sit cross-legged on my bed, leaning against the headboard.
“Do you have something to tell me?” she asks in a conversational tone, as if that question when asked by a parent or teacher doesn’t cause a kid’s nerve endings to crash and collide and misfire.
I squirm and avoid her gaze. Did Dad tell her I’m interested in attending medical school in Clairemont? Did Addie tell her I sneak out at night? Does she know I started my period? I decide to refrain from blurting out all my secrets at once.
“What do you mean?” I nonchalantly pluck lint from my bedspread and pretend my nerves aren’t going haywire and my heart isn’t racing.
Mom sits on my bed, stills my lint-plucking hand, and clasps a black band around my wrist. “Wear the tracker at all times. Your assigned Enforcer will monitor your menstrual cycles and pregnancies throughout your reproductive years.”
So that’s what this is about. My periods and pregnancies are nobody’s business. Resentment builds in me like steam in a teapot. I bite my lower lip to keep my thoughts from pouring out. Mom would not be sympathetic to my feelings. Reproduction Enforcers value adherence to Family Planning laws above all else.
Most girls my age are proud to wear this symbol of adulthood. Not me. I run my thumb over the four overlapping circles etched into the glass face and try to hide my contempt. Mom taps the disk twice. The screen displays a calendar.
“Mark every day of your period. Entries are transferred to the data warehouse. You’ll take the Assessment in two weeks. After you are officially assigned to Hillcrest, your Enforcer will schedule a consultation to discuss your obligations as a fertile member of Hillcrest.”
“What do they do with data submitted on the tracker?” I shoot a distrustful look at the band on my wrist. Being forced to share private information about my body makes me feel exposed and subhuman. I might as well have a stamp on my forehead that reads: GOVERNMENT PROPERTY.
“The Nuclei monitors the data to make sure everyone obeys Family Planning laws. You must never lie. Illegal pregnancies carry grave consequences. You could be fined, forced to terminate the pregnancy, sterilized, or Galileo forbid if you were to carry the child to term, the Nuclei could confiscate it.”
“If I were assigned to Clairemont, I could have as many kids as I wanted.” I can’t hold back my frustration. Why can’t I decide where I live, what I do for a living, how many kids I have?
Mom stands and walks to my bedroom door. “If women were allowed to choose how many kids to have, we might end up right back where we were before the war. Women can’t be trusted to make their own reproductive decisions.”
I start to object. “But, Mom—”
“Have you ever been hungry? Thirsty? Have you ever gone without?” She dips her chin and raises her eyebrows.
“No,” I mumble, looking away.
“Be grateful for everything the Nuclei provides,” she says, stepping into the hall.
Five
After five days spent with a heating pad under my back to ease cramps, I feel more like myself tonight. I've been cooped up all week itching to get out of the house, itching to see Fritz. I can’t stop thinking about our conversation. What if there are hundreds or even thousands of people like us?
I used to dissect the faces of Hillcrest residents hoping to find a single person with eyes like mine. My searches always came up empty-handed. My hope is that someday, I’ll be able to look people in the eye without caring about being different.
Different is not something you want to be in Hillcrest. I think of white-haired Hazel Hanover, aka ghost girl, eating alone in the school cafeteria. I think of the sideways glances, the whispers, the withheld invitations. Students steered clear of Hazel as if albinism were contagious. A twinge of guilt worms through me. I was never mean to Hazel, but I could have done more to make her feel included.
