Текст книги "The Woodlands"

Автор книги: Lauren Nicolle Taylor

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

I stood before the class and held my paper in front of my face, my hands shaking a little; I patted my pocket for reassurance. Someone sneezed and I waited until the fit had ended before I started. I had the insane thought that maybe I really was dust and the corner of my mouth turned up in a suppressed smile.

“Get on with it, child,” Mr. Singh said impatiently.

“Superior Grant is the lawmaker of the Woodlands. His carefully weighted and wise decisions have brought prosperity to the Woodlands,” I said, rolling back on my heels, hands clasped behind my back. Trying my hardest to look like the model student.

I went on to describe several of Grant’s laws. The one about people from the same town not being permitted to marry, the one about children not being allowed into certain Rings to preserve their innocence and maintain their safety. I also mentioned Grant’s failed law, when he stated that people with the same eye color couldn’t marry. This had turned out to be a huge mistake as almost everyone, in our town anyway, had brown eyes. This law was reversed after one year when the birth rate plummeted and the poor, blue-eyed people in our town were being harassed. Singh’s face pinched at my use of the word failed but I quickly covered it by saying that Grant was not so proud that he couldn’t admit a mistake and correct it. By this time, I had Singh slightly less unimpressed and the rest of the class was half asleep.

“The one-child law was Grant’s most recent law. The law was made to protect the philosophy of All Kind on which our society is based. It has also raised the level of competence in schools and at the Classes five-fold due to the focused attention on one child rather than several and has therefore been a successful endeavor.”

I looked to Singh. He was nodding along encouragingly.

It was so boring I was almost putting myself to sleep. And it was entirely false. The Woodlands had suffered due to his latest law—with fewer children, there were fewer workers, and of course, fewer marriages. I crossed my arms, pausing for a second. It didn’t make much sense when one of the main objectives of the Woodlands was interracial breeding.

My heart started beating faster and I could feel my cheeks redden as I started into the last part of my speech, “Grant came to our town to announce the law when I was eight years old.” I deliberately dropped my piece of paper. It floated down to the ground slowly, like a feather caught in the wind. I crouched down with my back to the class to get it and quickly whipped out the mascara to smear it over my top lip and chin.

I stood to face the class and stroked my chin, winking at the front row, “Hi y’all,” I drawled, remembering Grant’s strange accent. Someone snickered and a few pairs of eyes looked brighter. At least I’d woken them up. A girl in the front row had her jacket on her desk so I snatched it quickly and shoved it under my shirt. Parading around the room with my shoulders back I said, “As you can see—” I hefted my bulging stomach up with both hands and let it fall, “I’m waaasting away…yer children are eatin’ all ma food,” I slurred, slipping into more of a drunk tone than I had intended. “And,” I pointed my finger to the sky, “And…” I thought Singh would have stopped me by now, but he was just staring at me with his mouth open, his fat cheeks wobbling in disbelief.

My time was running out and my courage started to diminish as I realized how very far over the line I had gone. I ran my hand through my hair and shook my belly at the class. I had to keep going. “So I’m takin’ yer kids so they can make me and my gigantic wife more…more of that delicious creamed spinach you kids seem to love so much.”

The whole class erupted into laughter for a second. I grinned at them sheepishly, leaning forward for a bow. My stomach fell out which caused another round of laughter.

Bang! Singh slammed a book down on his desk, rounded it, and caught a hold of my shirt, balling it up in his fist. He flung me to the floor, my elbows jarring as I tried to break my fall. Everyone went quiet.

He hovered over me like a dark storm cloud, breathing quickly, hands on his hips. “Rosa!” he said cuttingly, slapping the smile off my face with his tone. “You are making a mockery of my class and a fool of yourself. What do you have to say?” He was furious but I saw his eyes darting from window to doorway. If someone reported that he had no control over his students, then he would be the one in trouble. I knew that.

“My point is...” I started, looking up to him from my lowly position, breathless from running around and the pain in my stomach, “Grant could say anything he wanted and we would have to go along with it, wouldn’t we? My reasons are probably just as true as the ones they passed out on the day they announced the law. It’s rubbish. Why don’t they just say each family can only have one child every eighteen years and if you disobey us, we will torture you in front the whole town? It’s short, it’s sweet...” That was the last straw. Singh pushed me with the tip of his shoe like he didn’t want to get contaminated and told me to get out of his class.

“And wipe your face,” he said, pushing a bunch of tissues into my palm and turning his back to me.

I was sent straight to detention, which was cleaning a week’s worth of filth off the toilets, readying them for next week’s filth.

I hadn’t expected those words to come out of my mouth. I wiped the black from my mouth as I walked to the cleaning supplies room. I picked up my usual bucket, mop, and rubber gloves, and wondered why I had said it. I was just trying to get a decent detention, not make a political point. But I knew that I really believed what I had said and it worried me. My father may have been long gone but parts of him still lived and breathed in me without me realizing. I didn’t want to end up on the center podium, having my eyes poked out or my fingers chopped off for being a dissident. The Superiors were all about creative forms of punishment, the worst being the punishment for violating the one-child law.

As I filled my wheeled bucket with hot water, letting it scald the tips of my fingers, I remembered the one violation that was forever seared into my memory. It was a young couple who’d had a seven-year-old boy. They lived a few houses down from me. One night, I remember waking up to police sirens and hearing a woman screaming. A heart-breaking scream carrying with it some unknown trauma. My mother had come into my room—it was rare for her to do this—and sat with me until the screaming had ceased. I still recall her cool hand stroking my hair, my tiny body curled up in her lap as she rocked me back to sleep.

The next day, they announced over the croaking old PA system that everyone was to meet in Ring One at noon. As we all gathered around, they dragged a man and woman onto the center podium, their hands tied behind their backs. People exchanged worried glances. No one wanted to be here but we were all glued to the ground. The man looked like he had been crying all night and had been badly beaten. The sun was beating down on his bowed head; sweat dripping from his glossy black hair. The woman wore the expression of one who knows her fate. Solemn, resigned, and stony. The police brought two boys to the front; they looked so similar they had to be brothers and could not be more than one or two years apart. The policeman announced that they had been hiding the younger boy for five years. We all knew what was coming next. Parents buried their children’s faces in their chests and covered their ears. I wanted to look away, I tried to, but I felt the strong arms of Paulo pushing down on my shoulders and holding my head still.

The father fainted quickly. He was so badly beaten, I think he was half dead anyway. But the mother looked her boys in the eyes and locked on to them as the knife was buried in her chest. I remember thinking the odd thought that the heart didn’t look quite right; it was misshapen, too big on one side. See, they carved the shape of a heart into the victim’s chest. It was a reminder, a painful one. A scar they could never escape that would remind them what you got if you broke the rules and broke the hearts of the Superiors. This policeman looked like it was too much for him today. His eyes squinted and his teeth gritted as he continued his gory work.

“Look into my eyes darlings, Mama will be ok,” the mother said calmly, trying to soothe her terrified children.

The pain must have been excruciating but she only cried out once during the initial stab, letting out a strangled moan as it punctured her skin and sliced a gash across her lung. The policeman swore at his mistake. Like air escaping a balloon slowly, the cry had not enough air to produce much of a noise, but it was enough to make me want to scream myself. Blood pooled at her feet and dripped over the edges of the podium like a paint tin tipped over, thick red coloring the sandstone pavers and soaking into the stone. People were moving back to get away from it, blood reaching out to touch the tips of their shoes.

The mother looked up at the sky as her life left her body, her sweat-soaked, light brown hair falling back from her face in streams as she whispered, “I love you,”“ to her boys. The brothers were screaming and holding each other, beyond hysterical. They were bundled into a van and driven away. It was over. Two crumpled bodies lay in the center of the circle, grotesque, misshaped love hearts carved into their chests. Everyone walked away. Mother took me to buy shoes that day.

I doubted that memory would ever leave me. It was carved into my chest like those love hearts. I felt it sitting there, a cut-in scar. I held my hand across my chest and dragged my bucket down the hall to start my work. Water sloshed carelessly over the side, sending steaming splats of strong smelling chemicals in my wake.

It would take me at least three hours, maybe more. I hoped I would be late enough that I could sneak into the house, grab a warm dinner, and go to my room. Paulo was insistent on dinner being served at seven sharp. I imagined my mother carefully laying out the meal, glancing at the clock anxiously. I felt guilty, but cleaning filthy toilets was preferable to eating with them. Paulo would bait me and I would surely say something I shouldn’t. This way I was occupied, they could eat in peace, and no one ended up in an argument.

I finished one toilet block and moved to the juniors’ section, nodding my head in greeting to the cleaner who was sweeping the hallway. I tried not to think about going home, about the weekend that stretched before me like a desert. I had to cross it, and Paulo was always there, dangling the ice cold water right in front my face, sneering at me and pouring it out on the cracked earth as I watched it sizzle and turn to vapor. The stupid thing was all that waited for me on the other side was more school. The Classes couldn’t come soon enough. I poured out the cleaning water, almost black with things I didn’t want to think about, and wrung out the mop.

The halls were peaceful. The grey walls and green linoleum was not quite so oppressive under the dim glow of the emergency lights. Without the scared, scurrying children, I could pretend I came here to learn, not kill time.

I placed the cleaning gear back in the cupboard, ready for next Friday, and noted the time—eight. If I really took my time, I could get home just as they went to bed. I made my way to the principal’s office.

He was staring down at a piece of paper in his hands, reading and then putting his finger to certain words and reading again. When I tapped gently on the door he jumped, his glasses falling off his face. He fumbled around on the floor, found them, and turned his face to mine, giving me his best icy stare. I swallowed my want to mock him. He was about as intimidating as a puff of wheat.

“I’m finished with the bathrooms. Can you sign this so I can go home?” I said, trying to sound repentant.

He was irritated by my interruption, nothing new there. He held out his hand and I placed the detention slip in his palm. He scribbled on it and held it up, waving it slowly in front of my face, teasing.

I narrowed my eyes, wanting to snatch it from his stubby fingers. “You know, I don’t know why they would bother sending you to the Classes,” he said with a look of self-satisfaction, like he’d just solved some great mystery “We all know this is exactly what you’ll be doing when you get out.”

I took the slip from his fingers, managing to whisper pathetically, “You don’t know that.”

I exited his office quickly, but not before I heard him snort. He had me pegged. Menial, meaningless labor for Rosa.

I ran out the door, dragging my bag along the ground, listening to it scrape and pick up the loose dirt. After I scanned my wrist, the gates opened, uttering my name in a computerized drone. Stepping outside the school grounds, I dropped my bag on the pavement. I closed my eyes and held my face to the sky. Opening them, I stared at the stars appearing, each one twinkling with scornful liberty. I pretended just for a second that I wasn’t surrounded by walls and locked gates, that where I stood was as open as the sky overhead, then I returned my eyes to reality and dragged my sorry existence back to my so-called home.

I managed to sneak in just as they were getting ready for bed. Mother looked to me quickly out of the corner of her eyes, concern brimming over her black lashes before Paulo snapped at her to come to bed, joyfully adding that he had thrown out my dinner. The appearance of concern was about all I was going to get from her. Actions required confidence, and maybe bravery. She had neither of those. Did she think that a sorrowful look was enough to convey some sort of feeling for me? What a joke.

“If you’re not going to get here on time, then we are not going to save dinner for you. Rosa, you need to learn respect,” the bedroom doorway stated.

My stomach grumbled and I put my hand to it, quickly reminded of how tender it was from the punch earlier. I made a point of poking my head in the door, flipping my hair back, and smiling at him. “It’s fine, Paulo. I’m not hungry anyway.” I strolled deliberately to my bedroom.

I stripped off quickly, not even wanting to look at the bruise I knew was blossoming over the dark brown skin of my stomach. I was like an ill-adorned Signing Day tree. Blue and purple blobs decorated my skin in a grotesque pattern; lash marks ran across my back, linking like plastic tinsel. I sighed. Was the principal right? Was I bound for a life of mopping toilets or emptying garbage cans? Had I given up? It seemed to me to give up you first had to give in to something. I had no ambitions, no idea what I wanted out of my life, only that I uncontrollably tumbled from one bad event to another.

I pulled on my nightdress and climbed into my rickety old bed, pulling the thin yellow covers up to my chin. Maybe things could be different. I could try harder at school. I could stop getting into trouble. It wasn’t too late for me. I giggled humorlessly as I realized what a ridiculous thought that was. And I gave in to it. To the fact that I was a troublemaker and tomorrow I would most likely do it all over again, in another way, in another place, but it would always be the same. Nothing changes.

When I woke up the next morning, the greyness still offended my eyes as it had the day before. I wondered if other people ever got used to it. Did they crave difference the way I did? I peeked out my door to see if my parents were still having breakfast and was startled when Paulo rapped on it, sending it banging into my nose.

“We need to speak with you,” he said, his chest puffed up like he was so proud he could burst. I knew this couldn’t be good. I rubbed my nose and said I would be out in a second. “Don’t dawdle, this is important,” he snapped impatiently.

My nose was searching for phantom smells of the cooked breakfast we usually had on weekends but there was no eggs or ham sizzling. So I took as much time as I could, literally dragging my toes backwards on the carpet as I walked, enjoying the itchy burn it created across my feet. When I finally got to the kitchen Paulo was tapping his foot agitatedly and frowning.

“You should sit down,” Paulo said with a criminal smile. I was irked at his tone and did the opposite. I stood, leaning my folded arms across the old, wooden chair, rocking it back and forth, enjoying the creaks and the irritated look on his face as he twitched every time it made a noise.

I eyed the odd assortment of furniture, no chair matched. Everything was clean but used. We never knew where it came from. When they moved us the first time, we were told to leave everything behind and that our new home would already have the furniture we needed. I stared down at the chair and wondered who used to sit here. Did they have these parental meetings? Did they sit around the table with their child eating meals in silence?

I was pretty sure I knew what this was about. My latest string of detentions had to come up eventually. It made Paulo look bad to have such a disobedient stepdaughter.

He stared down at me as he paced around the kitchen; his slick, dark hair combed back to reveal his wrinkled brow and strained eyes. I tried to look at him objectively. Maybe he was handsome once. Now he just looked cruel, his whole face twisted into a dark, unreadable smile.

Whilst Paulo was itching to get my attention, my mother could barely look me in the eye. Her frail, dark hand traced the lid of the jam jar over and over like she would wear a hole in the rim. She would let him do the talking. She was afraid of him. I was not. Her whole demeanor curled away from Paulo and from me. Like a leaf dried up in the sun, you just had to step on it lightly for it to disintegrate to nothing and Paulo’s foot was always hovering over her, ready to come down.

The table was spread with a bizarre assortment of food: pickles, jam, olives, and bread. Like Mother had just grabbed an armful of pantry, distractedly, and thrown it on the table. It didn’t matter. No one was eating. I looked at the food questionably and then at Paulo. “What’s this about? I have homework to do and I’m sure you have important tasks on the agenda for today, like sorting through your clothes to see which shirt stinks less.” Giving him attitude would certainly result in a harsher punishment.

Paulo smiled and a shiver ran through me. He locked eyes with mine, making me feel like something someone had scraped off the bottom of their shoe.

“We are moving house in a few weeks. So yes, I do have some important jobs to do today.” He smiled and twisted a stray hair back into the oily, black scrape on his head.

My mother gave him the slightest look of annoyance—like he had said the wrong thing—but covered it quickly.

“Where are we going?” I said with an edge of panic in my voice. I tried to push it down. I didn’t want Paulo to see me struggling—whatever was going on.

“WE are going to Ring Two. You? Well, I don’t know where you’re going yet,” Paulo said through straight teeth set in a sickening smile.

My heart sunk and surged and I started to panic. Panic, which quickly flipped to anger as I sifted through the possibilities that would separate our uncomfortable little family. Was I going to the Classes? No, I was too young. I was sixteen; they couldn’t take me until I was eighteen, unless…

Then it dawned on me. The obvious answer.

“You’re pregnant,” I said dully. “But you promised to wait until I was eighteen.” I was in a soundless vacuum. I was unsurprised and completely disappointed that it had come to this.

Mother didn’t respond, her head bowed, ashamed or maybe too tired to bother explaining to me how she could do such a thing.

“We couldn’t wait any longer,” Paulo said in a voice that fit him as well as a tutu would. Happy.

“No, I suppose not,” I said bitterly. “You’re a medical miracle as it is,” I exclaimed, walking around the kitchen, throwing my arms in the air. “Pregnant at the ripe old age of thirty-eight, that never happens.”

Paulo grabbed my arm, squeezing it harder than necessary, and spoke in his irritatingly controlled voice, “Don’t speak to your mother that way. This is not her fault.” The chirp was gone from his voice like I had imagined it.

“I bet,” I said meeting his gaze as I shook my arm free.

“I know it’s how you operate but getting angry isn’t going to get you anywhere, Rosa,” Paulo said, in an unnervingly calm voice. “You need to decide whether to go now or when the baby comes,” then he gave Mother a sideways growl, “although I don’t know why we are letting you decide.”

I looked at my mother, who was still avoiding my gaze. I wanted to scream at her, to try and shake some sense into that tiny body. But it was pointless. It wouldn’t change anything. She’d made her choice a long time ago and it wasn’t me.

“So I could go to the Classes now?” I said, thinking out loud.

My mother placed her hand on my arm as I rounded her side of the table and tried to still my nervous pacing. “I’d like you to stay,” she said weakly, the shadow of a question mark hanging on the end of her statement, her eyes looking vacantly through me and out the window, like she wasn’t sure she really meant it. I looked down at her loose grip on my shirt. Her thin fingers were calloused from pinpricks and running her hands back and forth through her ancient sewing machine. They worked her so hard. I shook my head; sympathy for her had no place in my mind right now. She was giving me up. Whether it was now or nine months from now, she was abandoning me.

I could feel hot tears rising and threatening to spill over but I didn’t want Paulo to see me cry. “I need to think it over,” I said in my calmest voice. It sounded wooden, forced out with shock.

I brushed Mother’s hand off violently, like she was a bee who would sting me, and went to my room to grab my jacket.

“Take your time,” Paulo called after me, his voice lacquered with dark intentions. “It won’t change anything.” And he was right. My fate was already decided, but at least I could have some say in the timing of it.

I walked out the door feeling like my life was being upturned and dug up all around me. Now I had to be filter through the dirt and decide which crappy future I wanted and when.

As I stood on the front step, a cool wind hit me and I felt my body tense with anger. Anger at the difference between us—the always unfulfilled wish that she would be stronger and tell him no. But I also felt a misplaced prick of protectiveness over her that urged me to consider staying. She might need my help.

A baby. Paulo, the stickler for rules, had broken the big one and they were having a baby. I wondered how he talked her into it; I shuddered at the thought of the two of them together and pulled the blind down on that visual nightmare.

This ‘happy’ news gave me an instant headache and I wasn’t going to come to any answer right away. I stomped down the steps and strolled down our garden path, thick slabs of concrete teetering as I stepped on them at the wrong end. The word garden was laughable. Every yard was the same in Pau Brasil—one square of lawn, a concrete path, and one Pau Brasil tree in the center of every lawn, which had to be maintained meticulously.

I looked back at our dreary accommodation. The grey-green render was peeling around the doorway. The low roof hung out over the window of our modest lounge, the gutter sagging at one end. Every house looked the same. The only difference between the neighbors’ and ours was the painfully cheery curtains Mother had sewn out of scraps from her workplace. The patchwork of yellow and purple looked ridiculously out of place amid all the grey.

My steps took me past three rows of houses, each a carbon copy of the next. Nervous faces peered out of windows, or over letterboxes. People stalking the morning, seeing whether the coast was clear to go for a walk without bumping into police. They needn’t have worried so much. I knew police would be packing the shopping district this morning; that’s where most citizens were and more people meant more chances for catching someone out.

I slapped the letterboxes as I went, chalky green residue coming off on my fingers. Inspecting them, I rubbed the wearing paint between my fingers. I could leave this green-grey world behind but for what? I was sixteen and would be two years younger than everyone else. I wasn’t as prepared. And the next intake was only a few weeks away. It was so soon. I think I always thought I would straighten up as I got older and then I’d have a chance at a good Allocation. I snorted to myself. These things didn’t just happen on their own and I was about as crooked and curly as could be. Maybe there was no straightening out for me. Chances are I would tangle back up again anyway.

The Superiors assessed you for your natural skill and allocated your Class based on that. I wondered if there was a Class for being a smart mouth. Probably not. They probably had a special Class for people like me. I shuddered.

I imagined a Class of troublemakers. All I could picture was a room with a man at the front pointing to the blackboard saying, ‘Now what you need to do is rub the pencil all along the edges of the binoculars then get them to press it to their eyes…’

I was looking down at my feet, shaking my head at my own silliness, a prank class, yeah, that would be the dream, when I slammed straight into the gate of Ring Three, a metallic vibration pulsing through the air. Rust stains rubbed off onto my grey, wool jacket.

“Watch it! You’ll break it and then we’ll all be in trouble,” someone shouted. I looked up to see a smirking face staring down at me. He was sitting on one of the concrete posts that supported the gates, legs dangling casually.

I tried to dust the stains off my jacket, only managing to rub them in further. I sighed. I would be in more trouble when I returned home.

I stood at the gate for a good two minutes, staring blankly, rubbing my elbows, lost in thought. I held out my wrist to scan my tattoo so the gate would open, but the rusty piece of junk didn’t budge. Had I been denied access? I should be able to get all the way through to Ring Six without too much trouble. I realized that if I left at sixteen, I would never be granted access through gate Seven or Eight.

“Allow me,” the smirking boy said, as he jumped agilely from the concrete post, landing with a thump. He sidled up to me, a big smile on his face. He rattled the scanner and adjusted the beam. He grabbed my wrist, without asking, and put it at a funny angle until I heard the familiar, long beep and the latch of the gate retracting.

“Rosa Bianca,” the electronic voice spoke.

“Um, thanks,” I said. His warm hand was still clutched around my skinny wrist. I looked up at him coolly, “Can I have my hand back now?”

“Sure,” he said as he shook my stiff hand enthusiastically. I pulled back my arm sharply and pushed through the gate. I was not in the mood for company. I had a lot of searching through pointless options to do before I slunk home, just after dinner, so I didn’t have to talk to my mother about what I was thinking.

“Joseph Sulle,” the voice announced. I heard the gate shut and I quickened my pace towards the only place I knew I could really be alone. Loud, thumping footsteps followed behind me.