CHAPTER 1
Clover
I’m in the loft of an abandoned barn on the outskirts of the small town I grew up in.
I’ve been coming here a lot lately, especially as it gets closer to my twenty-first birthday. That’s when my life changes. When everything I’ve known becomes part of my past. When everything I can see from this loft fades into my memories, never to be seen again.
From here I look out upon the steeple of the old church I attended, back when my parents still believed, the dry fields that no longer yield crops, since the ground was salted into sand, and the school my younger sister still attends because her future is one that I’m not even foolish enough to dream about. I can even see my house from here. A simple wooden shack, like most of the others in Troona, but it’s always been home for me.
All of it will be part of my past soon. Part of my memories.
That’s just how it is for the second child.
I hear something behind me, and don’t look back at first. There’s only one person it could be. She doesn’t join me often, but she’s facing the same future I am, and we’ve bonded over our shared fate, since our birthdays are days apart. When the time comes, we’ll face that future together.
“Clover, you up here?” Rose calls out.
“Yeah, usual spot,” I reply, nudging some hay into the wind and watching it swirl before disappearing out of sight.
“Good, I’m coming up,” Rose says from below me. “And guess what? I brought agave wine.”
“I knew there was a reason you’re my best friend,” I say.
Rose climbs into the loft and plops down beside me like she’s done more times than I can count. It’s become our refuge over the years, since the family who used to live here moved to Concord City.
The loft is a place where we can hide out, talk freely, and not worry about anyone overhearing us. Sometimes we get to share a bottle of the agave wine her father makes. It’s the only alcohol this dusty, dried-up land can produce.
“Where are the cups?” Rose asks, smiling as she begins twisting the cork out of the bottle.
“Somewhere around here,” I mutter, spotting them off to the side where we discarded them last time. “They’re a little dirty, though.”
“That’s okay. Better than drinking straight from the bottle like my dad does,” she says.
I’ve always thought Rose was a lot prettier than I am. Sun-kissed skin, the kind almost everyone in Troona gets from years spent under the sky that never gives us rainwater worth drinking. Honey-blonde hair that falls in loose waves past her shoulders. Blue eyes, bright as a cloudless summer day, that always sparkle like she’s one bad idea away from laughing, despite everything we’re facing.
I don’t have any of that going for me. My skin just burns instead of tans. My hair doesn’t curl or have a natural wave. It’s just a straight brown mop that looks better in a ponytail than loose, so that’s how I normally wear it. My eyes aren’t bright or shimmery. Just dull, lifeless brown, like most of the world I can see stretched out below us.
I turn and reach for the two cups we found in the barn years ago. We use our first pour of wine to clean the ceramic, and after our cups are full again, Rose raises hers.
“Two weeks until the train ride,” Rose says, tapping her cup against mine.
“Wish we had something better to toast to than that,” I mutter, but I nod in agreement and sip my wine.
“I’ve been through a whirlwind of emotions this week,” Rose admits. “But we’ve known this day was coming our entire lives. The day we make things better for our families.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, gesturing to the edge of the loft. “Sometimes when I’m up here, that’s the only thing that keeps me from jumping.”
“Jumping?” Rose’s eyes widen. “Why? It wouldn’t kill you. All you’d do is break your leg. They’ll just wrap it up and stick you on the train.”
“Well, in my head I don’t survive it,” I retort, taking another drink of wine. “But I could never do that to my family. They’ve taken care of me my entire life, and they need the money.”
“Our older sisters will have a good dowry, which means they’ll marry well,” Rose says. “Your younger sister and my younger brother will both get educated, so they won’t spend their lives farming cactuses.”
“And our parents will be able to retire. Even after setting aside some for dowries and education, there should be enough left for them to live comfortably, wherever they decide to call home after we’re gone,” I say.
“Mine won’t retire,” Rose scoffs, downing some of her wine. “My dad likes to drink too much, and as long as he’s making it himself, my mom can’t complain about it.”
“Pretty sure she’d never agreed with that logic,” I laugh under my breath, feeling a slight buzz from the wine.
