The chaperone, p.2
The Chaperone, page 2
My room feels cavernous. Barren. Every corner reminds me of Sister Helen. Sister Helen sitting in the armchair next to my desk. Sister Helen selecting a book from the shelves on either side of my windows. Sister Helen perched on the bench at the end of my bed. She’s everywhere.
I watch for the constables out the windows.
“Stella, don’t,” Mom says.
I jump, forgetting she’s behind me.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t watch for them.” She’s biting the edge of her thumb, something I haven’t seen her do in years. “It will look suspicious.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t want them thinking…well, that we had anything to do with this.”
“Anything to do with what?”
“With Sister Helen.”
“They would never think that,” I insist, but when I see the fear in her eyes, I understand she doesn’t believe it. “Right, Mom?”
She doesn’t respond, instead turning away just as Shea sneaks in the door. Mom scoops her up like a kitten. Shea has tiny tears in her eyes, and Mom pushes her head down on her shoulder. “Shhh, don’t cry.” My throat clenches. I’m the one who needs comfort.
“Stella,” Mom says, “why you don’t lie down? I’ll check on you in a little bit.”
She’s out the door before I can protest.
* * *
I grab the white scarf Sister Helen knitted for me last winter and climb into bed. Cold air blasts out the vents, a losing battle against the oppressive heat of August. I wrap the scarf around me, pull the quilt up to my face. I close my eyes, trying to forget. But the image of Sister Helen on the floor plays over and over inside my head. A horror movie on repeat.
I was only eleven when Sister Helen came to us. It was almost six years ago. A few months before my twelfth birthday.
Mom submitted the report to the constables when I got my first period. Adolescent girls are required to have a government-assigned chaperone. Some families can’t afford a private one. Those girls are sent to the government school, but I never worried about that. Dad is president of the largest auto manufacturer in New America. I always knew I’d get my own chaperone. I hadn’t even stopped bleeding when Sister Helen arrived on our doorstep.
Dad requested certain things. He wanted her to be educated and physically active. He wanted her to be older than thirty and a nonsmoker. But ultimately it’s the constables who decide which chaperone is right for each of us. The prime minister has bestowed that power upon them.
My first thought was that Sister Helen was beautiful. Yes, she was older than most chaperones, but the white hair that fell to her shoulders in silky wisps made her seem timeless. And her jade-colored eyes were the brightest I’d ever seen. They were alive with intelligence. She wore the white caftan required of all chaperones, but she paired it with gold drop earrings, gold and white bracelets, and the white pendant she had pressed into my hand just minutes ago.
My life was never the same. Chaperones have freedom and respect other women don’t, but they also give up their own lives to follow a higher calling. Teaching girls like me how to be respectable women is their sole purpose. I was Sister Helen’s top priority, and we bonded immediately.
The night she arrived, she told me about the day she became a woman. Back when Old America was just America, and everything was different. She started her period while her family was on vacation in Florida. Her dad made her go to the beach even though she wanted to stay in the hotel room and cry. It sounded exactly like the kind of thing my father would do. Not long after she moved in, I shared every thought with her. I’m closer to her than I am to my own mother.
Was closer. I was closer.
That’s what they want. For us to become so close to our chaperones that we trust them over everyone else, even our own family. People talk about mothers who try to drive a wedge between their daughters and their chaperones, even mothers who try to get their daughters out of the country, but those stories always end in tragedy. The family gets fined or—worse yet—shunned.
Once you’re shunned, your whole life is ruined. You can’t go to college. No boy will come to Visitation, much less marry you. If you do marry, you won’t be able to attend social events or keep your friends. Mom knew a woman who was shunned after trying to get her daughter out of a marriage arranged by the constables. She was never allowed to see Mom again, and her daughter never did marry, instead becoming a chaperone, which some people say is a way for girls of a certain class to become respectable.
I never had to worry about Mom interfering. She claimed the chaperone program was a godsend because it saved her from being responsible for my education. Like all mothers her age, Mom was raised in Old America, and that makes her nervous about following the rules here. She never talks about it, but I learned in New American History class that life was really different in Old America. People had strange ideas about freedom. They wanted everyone to be able to do whatever they wanted. But it didn’t work. People would fight about it, even getting violent.
That’s why women in Old America could do things women can’t do here—choose their husbands, have careers, drive cars, own guns, play sports, open bank accounts, even dress however they wanted. But some women didn’t want to give those things up, so they left when New America was founded. I was just three years old then, so I don’t really remember, but I guess a lot of younger women left. That’s why they want us to have babies right away.
Honestly it’s kind of confusing.
I want to have choices, but at the same time I know they can be dangerous. That’s why we were all glad when Sister Helen arrived. She learned all about how to stay safe at the conservatory.
But what about the person they send next? What if she doesn’t know how to take care of me? What if she doesn’t fit?
CHAPTER 6
I wake to the sound of sirens.
I jump out of bed, dashing to the windows at the end of my room. Two squad cars and three red SUVs sit in the circular drive, their flashing red-and-blue lights bouncing off the twelve-foot brick wall surrounding our property. One SUV is much longer than the others.
That’s where they’ll put her.
When the door of the first SUV opens, I step behind the curtain. Mom is right. Who knows what they’ll think if they see me? Constables blame girls for all kinds of things. I peek from behind the curtain, but it isn’t a constable I see. It’s Levi Edwards walking around the SUVs on his way to the front door. Levi Edwards is in my Family Development class at Bull Run Prep. He’s wearing a navy bow tie and carrying a small bunch of pink zinnias in his right hand.
Dad forgot to cancel Visitation.
This is the third time the constables have granted Levi a Sunday visit. He’s nice enough, but he tends to say the same thing. You look so pretty, Stella. You’re so nice, Stella. You’re sweet, Stella. Talking to Levi is like talking to a toddler. I like boys who surprise me. There’s one in my Musical Expression class who says the craziest things.
Mateo de Velasco.
Even his name makes me catch my breath. It’s like a poem.
But Mateo’s never been to Visitation. And I’m afraid if Levi keeps coming to visit, he’ll be expected to bring up the subject of marriage. I don’t want to get married. Not yet. I want to go to college. At least a few years. Then I’ll be ready to marry, have kids. All that. But it doesn’t matter what I want. Visitation is mandatory for girls my age.
The whole thing is totally artificial. Sitting with some boy I barely know. Making small talk. Acting like we don’t know why we’re there. I do it because I have no choice. Sister Helen says I have to choose my battles, and Visitation is not something worth fighting.
The doorbell rings, and I sneak to the top of the stairs. But I’m too far away to make out what they’re saying. As soon as the front door closes, I dart back to my room. I get to the window just in time to see Levi throw the flowers in the bushes and skulk away. A few stray petals color the pavement pink. Levi stops when he gets to the gate and turns back, studying the full driveway, his face filled with longing. His gaze floats up to me, and our eyes meet. He puts his hand to his mouth and blows me a kiss. I don’t acknowledge him in any way.
Deflect attention.
People gawk on the sidewalk out front, but the brick wall is too high to see over. Two constables emerge from the front door rolling a stretcher between them. A long black bag rests on top.
It’s her. It’s Sister Helen.
When I pull my eyes from her body, I see a constable staring up at me. He has pale splotchy skin and hair so blond it’s almost colorless. He doesn’t look old enough to be a constable, but he wears their uniform—gray pants, gray button-down shirt, gray tie, red armband, and an automatic rifle slung across his back the same way I carry my yoga mat. I throw the curtain across the windows and step back. But it’s too late.
He’s seen me.
CHAPTER 7
It’s the morning of my first Day of Grief.
Girls who lose a chaperone are required to spend five days mourning before returning to the real world.
When Mom knocks on the door a half hour after I wake, I know it’s her because Shea never bothers to knock. “Stella? Are you going to get out of bed?”
“Why?” I say through the closed door.
Mom pushes the door open just enough to see me. “Don’t you want breakfast? You need to come to the table.”
I have no desire to eat, but I do as she says. When I pull my shirt over my head, goose bumps alight on both of my arms. Something isn’t right. I go to the windows and throw open the curtains.
A red SUV is parked in the driveway.
Again.
* * *
Shea sits at the giant kitchen island, a stack of fluffy pancakes in front of her. The smell of frying oil is nauseating. Mom hovers over the stove with a spatula in her hand. It’s only seven o’clock in the morning, but she’s already camera-ready. Tiffany, our housekeeper, stands behind her at the sink, washing last night’s dishes.
“Pancakes?” Mom’s voice is annoyingly cheerful.
“I’m not hungry.” I pull my scarf around me. Even though it will be nearly 100 degrees outside today, the kitchen is freezing.
Tiffany turns off the faucet and looks over her shoulder at me. “I’m so sorry, Stella. I know you meant the world to Sister Helen.”
A wave of emotion rushes through me, but I hold it in. “Thank you.”
Tiffany stares at me like she wants to say more.
“What is it?”
“It’s just…well…maybe she spent time with the wrong people.”
“What do you mean?”
Mom wheels on Tiffany, her spatula a weapon. “Tiffany!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham, but—”
“Get back to work.”
Tiffany’s eyes meet mine for only a second before she returns to the dishes. Maybe she spent time with the wrong people. What does that mean?
I study Mom while she flips pancakes. “Is that why they’re here?”
“What are you talking about, Stella?”
“The constables? Are they here because Sister Helen knew people she shouldn’t?”
Mom lets out a long sigh before scowling at Tiffany over her shoulder. “I have no idea what Sister Helen did in her free time, Stella. She certainly never confided in me. As for the constables, they’re here to make sure we’re safe.”
“Safe?” I ask as Shea lifts her head from her pancakes.
Mom shakes her head. “I don’t mean it like that, Stella. I just mean…well, you know.”
I know exactly what she’s trying to say. What I’ve known since I was young enough to read. Girls get attacked and kidnapped every day, and if we aren’t vigilant—about how we act, how we dress, where we go, who we’re with—we put ourselves in danger.
I walk toward the annex. Dad’s office is on the first floor, under Sister Helen’s room.
“Stella Ann.” Mom uses her most serious tone. “Don’t even think about going back there.”
“I know, Mom.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the door of Dad’s office creaks open. I back away.
Dad appears in the kitchen minutes later. Sister Helen is dead, but for some reason he’s whistling. And dressed as if he’s going to work. Dark gray suit, striped shirt, matching tie, onyx cufflinks. Even the silver streaks in his chestnut hair are combed perfectly in place. His eyes go to Mom, staring at her from across the room as if she’s as bright as the moon. He takes off his jacket, revealing the pistol on his hip. The sight of it makes my chest hurt.
Mom slides a plate of pancakes across the island, and Dad takes the stool next to Shea.
“Are you going to join us, Stella?” Dad asks over his shoulder as he lops a giant pat of butter on his pancakes.
I can’t remember the last time I had butter or syrup. Pancakes, Mom insists, are a treat all by themselves.
Mom isn’t eating either. She’s still at the stove, pouring batter onto the griddle. It’s not unusual for her to cook while the rest of us eat.
“No, thank you.” My stomach tumbles as he swirls syrup like it’s art. “I’m not hungry.”
Dad spins around. “What’s wrong, Stella?”
What’s wrong? What does he mean, What’s wrong? But I can’t be disrespectful, so I choose my words carefully. “Is everything okay?” Dad raises his eyebrows, giving me permission to go on. “Are we in danger?”
Dad turns back to his plate. “You know the world is a dangerous place, Stella.” He picks up a forkful of pancake but doesn’t put it in his mouth. “You know you need to remain vigilant at all times.”
“But, I mean, will the people—the people who did this to Sister Helen—will they come after us?”
Dad puts his fork down and glances toward Tiffany, who’s finished the dishes and started wiping out the fridge. She must sense his impatience because she closes the refrigerator and says, “I might have a smoke. If that’s okay.”
Tiffany’s smart enough to know when to get out of Dad’s way. He doesn’t normally let her take breaks in the middle of a shift, but today he nods right away. After she pulls the back door shut, he turns to me. “I don’t want you talking about this in front of Tiffany, Stella.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The constables were here to talk about Sister Helen.” He picks up his fork again. “They wanted to go over what’s next.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s next’?”
“We’re all going to have talk to the police, be fingerprinted. Provide a DNA sample.”
“We will?”
“It’s routine, Stella. Nothing to worry about.”
“Do they know what happened?”
He takes a bite. “Happened?”
“To Sister Helen.” I have to force the words out. “Do they know how she was killed?”
Dad swallows. I don’t know if it’s irritation or pancake going down. “She was an old lady, Stella. Old people die. It’s part of life.” His jaw is set in anger. He’s not happy about my questions. Gossip is a sin. Apparently there was a lot of it in Old America.
“May I please be excused?”
Dad looks at Mom who closes her eyes and shrugs.
“Of course,” he says. “You’re still grieving.”
I spin away and run up the stairs. I just want everyone to leave me alone. And for some reason, my wish comes true.
No one knocks on my door.
No one checks on me.
For the first time in my life, I experience true loneliness.
CHAPTER 8
Mom doesn’t drag me out of bed the next day, sending Tiffany to my room with a tray of food every few hours. All I can think about is getting on the internet. I need to find out if they’re talking about Sister Helen on the news.
It’s after eleven before I can sneak downstairs.
Shea’s been in bed for hours, and Mom and Dad went into their room a while ago. The master bedroom is two doors down from mine. Sometimes they go right to sleep. Other times I can hear their smart screen in the hall. That’s the best time to get online—when they’re distracted.
I wrap my scarf around my silk nightgown and creep down the stairs as slowly as possible.
A few years ago, I was at Brooklyn Liu’s house for a sleepover when she bragged about figuring out her mother’s internet password. The names of Brooklyn and her siblings strung together like a poem. SavannahBeauBrooklyn. We stayed up until sunrise that night, watching movies from Old America. Some things are blocked, but the stuff that isn’t too racy is still there.
I was with my best friends, Bonita and Liv, when we figured out our mothers all use the same kind of passwords—some variation of our names with an asterisk or numbers at the end. My mother didn’t even bother with that. Her password is StellaShea. It took me several tries to get it right because I assumed Shea’s name would be first. Now I get online whenever I can. I like to search for information about the latest disappearances and message my friends. It’s the only way we can talk without anyone listening. If I have time, I’ll watch an episode of old TV too. But mostly we save that for sleepovers. That’s how we learn about the things no one talks about—dating, sex, drinking, drugs, even gay people.
As soon as I sit at Mom’s kitchen cubby, I automatically turn to check the windows on the detached garage behind the house. When I see the blue reflection of the smart screen in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, I know it’s safe to log in.
The second I finish typing Shea’s name, the neighbor’s dog breaks into a frenzied bark. I freeze, but the barking stops as quickly as it started. Probably just a cat in the alley. I go back to the screen, and a bubble pops up.
A new message for Mom from someone named RoseInReality.
I shouldn’t open it, but I can’t help myself. When I click, words fill the screen.
I guess this means there’s one less chaperone in the world.
