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“I tell them what I know,” she says, looking out of the window and then back at me. Her eyes, awash in the moonlight, radiate out, her irises delineated and clear. “Which isn’t a lot. I tell them that you’re a bit of an enigma, a loner, that you keep to yourself. That you’re crazy smart even though you try to hide it. That even though all the girls whisper about you, you’ve never so much as dated a single one. They ask if we’ve ever been together, and I tell them no.”
My eyes flick to hers. She holds my stare with a kind of quiet desperation, as if afraid I might break away too quickly. The air between us changes drastically. I can’t explain it, other than it feels like both a hot quickening and a calming softness.
“I wish I had more to tell them,” she whispers. “I wish I knew you better.” She sags her body against the window as if suddenly fatigued by an invisible weight.
It is this leaning – it looks like a surrender – that cracks something in me, like ice splintering on the first day of spring. Pale in the moonlight, her skin is a glowing alabaster; I have a sudden strong urge to run my hands down her arms, to feel its cool clay smoothness.
For a few minutes, we gaze outside. Nothing moves. A rind of moonlight falls on the distant Dome, bejewelling it in a glint of sparkles.
“Why is it that this is the first time we’ve really talked?” She reaches up, tucks some loose hair strands behind her ear. “I’ve always wanted something like this with you, you must have known that. I think a hundred of these moments have passed us by.”
I stare outside, unable to meet her eyes. But my heart is beating faster and hotter than it has in a long time.
“I waited for you that rainy night,” she says, her voice barely audible. “For almost an hour at the front gate. I got completely drenched. What, did you sneak out of the back entrance after school? It was a few years ago, I know, but . . . have you forgotten?”
I fix my eyes on the eastern mountains, not daring to meet her eyes. What I want to tell her is that I have never forgotten; that not a week goes by that I don’t imagine I made a different decision. That I’d walked out of the classroom as the bell rang and met her at the front gates and walked her home, rain slicking down the sides of my trousers, our shoes sloshing through puddles, hands together holding the umbrella above our heads, useless against the downpour, but the wetness not minded in the least.
But instead of speaking to her, I hear my father’s voice. Never forget who you are. And for the first time, I realise what he meant by that. It was just another way of saying, Never forget who they are.
I don’t say anything, only stare out at the night stars, their lights blinking down with abject loneliness. So close together, these clustered stars, their lights brushing, overlapping; but their proximity is only illusory, because in reality they are impassably far apart, separated by a thousand million light-years of emptiness between them.
“I don’t think I . . . know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”
She doesn’t respond at first. Then she suddenly jerks her head to the side, her auburn hair veiling her face. “Light’s too bright tonight,” she says, her voice brittle as she slides on a pair of large oval moonglasses. “Hate it when there’s a full moon.”
“Let’s step away from the windows,” I say, and we move back to the rug, back within earshot of the watching escorts.
We stand awkwardly in front of each other. My escort steps forward.
“We need to get back to the group. It’s dinnertime.”
At dinner, most of us are pretty spent. We’re too tired to engage in anything more than middling conversation, a far cry from the gabfest we had at lunch. I worry about my body odour and discreetly sniff my underarms from time to time. I eat quickly, mindful of my proximity to others. Gaunt Man seated next to me is given to occasional twitches. He doesn’t say anything, but a couple of times, his nostrils enlarge in my direction.
Ashley June sits on my other side. I am conscious of her every move: the closeness of her elbow to mine, every time she picks up and puts down her utensils, the sway of her hair as she ties it into a ponytail to keep it from falling into the drip cups. Mostly, I notice her silence. A strong urge pulls in me to look at her. And to move away from her, keeping my odour from her.
By midmeal, I’m more than worried about my body odour. And the more nervous I get, the more odour I emit. A quick and quiet exit is what’s needed. I stand up; all eyes at the table immediately turn to me. Stepping away from the table, I look for my escort sitting at his own table somewhere in the surrounding darkness. He emerges from behind me a few moments later.
“Everything OK?”
“Yes, fine. I should be heading back to my lodging. I’m worried about the sunrise.”
He looks at his watch. “It’s not due for another hour.”
“Even so, I’m a worrier. I don’t want to chance getting caught outside by a premature sunrise.” Everyone at the table is staring at us now.
“I assure you, our dawn-dusk calculations are never wrong,” he says.
I cast my eyes downward, realising I actually don’t have to feign tiredness. I’m truly worn to the bone. “If there’s nothing else for tonight, I think I’m going to retire early. Pretty pooped.”
I sense him staring at me, trying to understand. “But the food – there’re so many more succulent dishes to come.”
I realise what’s going on. “You know you don’t have to escort me back. Stay and eat. To your fill. Really. I know my way back from here. Two flights down, left down the hallway, right, another left, then out of the double doors with the Institute emblem.”
“You don’t want to stay for dessert?”
“No, I’m fine, really.”
“But the choicest, bloodiest meats are yet to come!”
“Just knackered, is all. Really, don’t you worry about me.”
“You sure you’re fine getting back without assistance?”
“I got this.” And before he can object, I leave. And as I walk away, I shoot a quick look at the table.
They’re all supposed to be eating, ignoring my conversation with the escort, stuffing their faces. But instead they’re looking at me with befuddlement. No; more than befuddlement. This is bewilderment, the kind that nests in people’s minds, keeps them wondering.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter to myself as I walk down two flights. Idiot, idiot, idiot, I inwardly reprove myself as I head down the hallways. “Moron, moron, moron,” I say out loud as I push open the double doors to the outside. And then it is my father’s voice in my head: Don’t do anything out of the ordinary, don’t do anything that sticks you out from the crowd. Avoid anything that’ll draw attention.
Even when I reach the doors to the library a few minutes later, I am still chastising myself. Imbecile, stupid, moron, doofus.
Back in the library, I roam the aisles, the back rooms, hidden corners, scour every inch. But it’s useless. There’s no drinkable liquid of any kind in the library, not so much as a drop. And in the restroom, like in all bathrooms, there’s nothing but hard sanitising dispensers. Knowing better, I dab a few drops of the sanitiser on my tongue. The sanitiser drops scour my tongue with an acidic burn that leaves a foul aftertaste. I’m really worried now. Away from my supplies stashed at home, from all my instruments of subterfuge – my shavers, bottles of water, odour suppressors, teeth whiteners, nail filers – things are deteriorating quickly. The lack of water is causing my head to spin. I can’t concentrate. On things. All my thoughts are jagged. Short thrusts. A pounding headache.
I lift up my arm, take a sniff of my armpit. There. Even I can smell it now. And if I can smell it, they can. No wonder Gaunt Man and Beefy were so distracted at dinner.
I don’t know if anyone suspects me yet. Gaunt Man and Beefy might have smelled something at dinner, but I don’t think they’ve connected the dots to me yet. But by tomorrow, I’ll be reeking.
