Текст книги "The Unbound"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

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FOUR

WESLEY AYERS is the stranger in the halls of the Coronado.

He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret.

He is the boy who reads me books.

He is the one who teaches me how to touch.

And today, he is the guy on the stone bench, wearing a tux.

It’s the end of summer, and we’re sitting in the Coronado garden. I’m perched on one of the benches in workout pants and a long-sleeve shirt pushed up to the elbows, and Wesley is stretched out on the other in his best black and white. There’s only an hour or two left until his father’s wedding, but he’s still here.

Something is eating at him, I can tell. Something has been since he showed up, and I stupidly assume it’s just the fact that he hates his father’s fiancée, or at least what she means for his family. But he doesn’t offer any of his usual acerbic remarks, doesn’t even acknowledge the wedding or the tux. He just slumps down onto his bench and starts reciting the last of my required reading as if it’s any other day.

And then, somewhere between one line and the next, his voice trails off. I glance over, wondering if he’s asleep, but his eyes are neither closed nor unfocused. They’re leveled on me. I return the look.

“You okay there?” I ask.

A smile flickers across his face. “Just thinking.”

He sets the book aside and pushes up from his bench, smoothing the front of his rumpled tux as he closes the gap between us.

“About what?” I ask, shifting to make room as he settles down beside me. He comes close, close enough to touch, his folded arm knocking against my shoulder, his knee against mine. I take a breath as his rock band sound washes over me, loud but familiar.

“About us.”

At first, I barely recognize him.

Wesley’s hazel eyes are free of the eyeliner I’ve seen him wear all summer; his hair is still black, but instead of standing up, it’s stuck to his forehead with sweat; every bit of silver is missing from his ears. All his little quirks are stripped away, but he’s got those proud shoulders and that crooked smile, and his whole face is lit up from the fight. Even without the bells and whistles, it is still undeniably Wesley Ayers. And now that I see him, I don’t know how I didn’t see him earlier.

Maybe because Wesley Ayers—my Wesley—is supposed to be on some beach, bonding with his family.

My Wesley wouldn’t be here at this stuck-up school, wouldn’t lie to me about going here, and certainly wouldn’t look like he belongs here.

“Who’s next?” he asks, eyes glittering.

“I am,” I shout back.

The spectators—all boys—turn collectively, but my gaze is leveled firmly on Wes. The corner of his mouth tilts up. Of course he’s not surprised to see me. He’s known for weeks where I was enrolled. He never said anything. No “Oh great, we can stick together.” No “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone.” Not even a “Well, what a coincidence.” Why? Why didn’t he tell me?

“Now, young lady, I don’t think—” starts the burly gym teacher as I approach the platform and begin strapping on pads.

“I signed the waivers,” I cut in, tugging on forearm guards, wondering if there even are waivers for this class. It seems like that kind of school.

“It’s not about that,” says the teacher. “This is hand-to-hand combat, and it’s important to match the students in terms of—”

“How do you know we’re not well matched?” I shoot back, cinching down a shin guard. “Unless you’re assuming that because I’m a girl.” I look the teacher in the eyes. “Are you assuming that, sir?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I step up onto the platform, and he doesn’t stop me, which is good enough.

“Give the guy hell!” shouts Cash as I pull the helmet on.

Oh, I think, I will.

“Hey, you,” says Wesley as I meet him in the center of the platform.

“Hey, you,” I mimic bitterly.

“I can explain—” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the whistle.

I kick forward hard and fast, catching Wesley high in the chest before the shrill metallic cry has even stopped. The crowd gives a gasp as he falls, hitting the floor for only a moment before rolling over and pulling himself to his feet. I attack with another kick, which he blocks. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we’re gaining a crowd. He throws a punch, which I dodge, followed by an uppercut, which I don’t. The wind rushes out of my lungs, but I don’t let it stop me from grabbing his fist and his wrist—pain thrumming up my own—and turning fast, flipping him over my shoulder.

He should hit the mat flat on his back, but somehow he twists midair and lands in a crouch, elegant as a cat. In a blink he’s up again and closing the gap between us. I arch back just in time to avoid a hit and recover fast enough to see an opening—left side, stomach—but I don’t take it. It’s been three weeks since Owen stabbed Wesley. Even though it doesn’t show in his stance, I know it still hurts him. I’ve seen the laughs cut short by a wince, the ginger way he stands and sits.

My hesitation earns me a swift kick to the chest, and I’ve got just enough time to hook my foot behind his knee and wrap my hand around his chest plate before I go down, taking him with me. I hit the mat hard and brace myself for Wesley’s weight to land on top of me; but his palms hit the floor before his body hits me, and he manages to catch himself.

He hovers inches over me, breathing hard. Then his mouth quirks into a crooked smile, a familiar smile, and he knocks his helmet playfully against mine.

“Miss me?”

The garden is silent except for the sound of my pulse.

Wesley leans across the stone bench and brings his lips featherlight against my temple. Then against my cheekbone. Against my jaw. A trail of kisses that makes me suck in a short breath, because the only time Wesley has ever kissed me—truly kissed me—he did it to read my memories. That was an angry kiss, forceful and firm. But these kisses are different. These kisses are cautious, hopeful.

“Wes,” I warn.

His forehead comes to rest against my shoulder. “You sound like thunderstorms and heavy rain, did you know that?” He lets out a soft, low laugh. “I never liked bad weather. Not until I met you.”

His voice has its usual easy charm, but now it’s also threaded through with longing.

“Say something, Mac.”

Wesley’s body rests against mine. The combat padding acts as a buffer, and for a moment all I hear are the sounds of his breathing and my heart. How strange. It’s so…quiet. I’ve gotten used to the sound of Wesley’s noise—learned to float in it instead of drowning—but even the relative quiet of the familiar can never match this. His body on mine. Simple as skin.

My pulse quickens, and I have to remind myself that I pushed him away. I pushed him away. Now, looking up through Wes’s face mask into his eyes—his lashes darkened with sweat—I will myself to do it again.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.

“This might not be the best time to—”

“Tell me.”

He opens his mouth. “Mac—”

And then the whistle blows.

“All right, enough of that,” calls the teacher. “Both of you, up.”

Wesley closes his mouth but doesn’t move. I realize my hand is still hooked around his chest plate, holding him there. I let go quickly, and he winks before springing to his feet. He offers me his gloved hand, but I’m already standing. I tug my helmet off, smooth my hair, and scan the crowd of students that gathered while we fought.

They stare at me and seem…stunned. Confused. Impressed. But they stare. Great. More eyes.

“We’ll talk later,” says Wes under his breath. “Promise.” Before I can reply, he’s heading for the edge of the platform and tugging off his gear.

“Hey, wait,” I call after him. He hops down, and I’m about to follow when the burly gym teacher bars my path.

“One of you has to stay on,” he says as Wesley tosses his equipment into the pile. Cash slings an arm around his neck and says something I can’t hear. It sends both of them into laughter. Who is this boy? He looks so much and nothing like my Wesley.

“Normally it’s the winner,” the teacher continues, “but truth be told, I’m not entirely sure who won that match.”

I’m about to say that I don’t want to stay on, but Wesley is already weaving through the crowd, and the next student, a stocky junior, is hoisting himself onto the platform. I don’t want the teacher to think I’m beat after a single fight, so I sigh, readjust my helmet, and wait for the whistle as Wesley’s form vanishes from sight.

Wesley lifts his forehead from my shoulder and shifts his eyes to meet mine. “Please, say something.”

But what can I say? That when Wesley touches me like this, I think of the way Owen forced me back against the Narrows wall, twisting my want into fear as he tightened his grip? That when I feel Wesley’s lips and my heart flutters, I think of him kissing me in the Coronado hall, reading me, and then pulling sharply away, eyes full of betrayal? That when I think of what I feel for him, I see him bleeding to death on the roof—and the pain that comes with caring about him is enough to stop me cold?

What I say instead is this: “Life is messy right now, Wes.”

“Life is always messy,” he says, meeting my gaze. “It’s supposed to be.”

I sigh, trying to find the words. “Two months ago, I’d never met another Keeper. I didn’t have someone in my life I could talk to, let alone trust. And maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t bear the thought of losing you now.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Mac.”

“You walked away,” I say softly.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“When you found out about Owen, you walked away. I know you don’t remember it, and I’m not blaming you—I know it was my fault for lying—but watching you go…I’ve been alone in this for so long, and I’ve always managed because I’ve never had anyone. But having you and losing you… For the first time, I felt alone, Wes. Having something and losing it, it’s so much crueler than never having had it.”

Wesley looks down at his hands. “Does it make you wish we’d never met?”

“No. God, no. But what we have now is still new to me. The sharing, the trust. I’m not ready for more.” I’ll just ruin it, I think.

“I understand.” His voice is soft, soothing. He plants a light kiss on my shoulder, like a parting gift, and pulls away.

“It’s all new to me, too, remember?” he says a few minutes later. “I’d never met another Keeper before you. And having you in my life is terrifying and addictive, and I’m not going to lie and tell you it doesn’t make my heart race. It does.” I wonder if he can feel my own pounding pulse through my noise as he tangles his fingers through mine. “But I’m here. No matter what happens with us, I’m here.”

He lets go and slumps back into the corner of the bench. He doesn’t pick up the book, just tilts his head back and stares up at the clouds. Silence settles over us, heavier than usual.

“Are we good, Wes?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, flashing a smile that’s almost strong enough to hide the lie. “We’re good.”

By the time I finish showering, the locker room is mercifully empty, no prying eyes to watch as I loop the key back over my head, tucking it under my collar. My chest loosens as soon as the weight settles there. It feels wrong to be without it, even though this key isn’t really mine.

I’m tugging on my polo when I feel the scratch of letters like a pin through my shirt pocket. I dig my list out to find a name:

Harker Blane. 13.

But I’m nowhere near my territory—I don’t even know whose territory Hyde School falls in, or where the nearest Narrows door is hidden, and even if I could find it, my key wouldn’t work, since I’m not authorized to use it here—and I’ve got half a day of school to go, so Harker will have to sit tight. I don’t like to make Histories wait; the longer they do, the more they suffer, and the more dangerous they get. I will Harker to hold on and hope he doesn’t start to slip.

My stomach growls as I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and set out to find lunch.

Instead I find Wesley. At least, the newest version of him.

He’s sitting cross-legged on a stone bench halfway to the dining hall with a book in his lap. He looks like a stranger. He’s missing the black polish that usually graces his nails, his hair is swept neatly back, and he looks…elegant in his uniform, all black but for the gold thread tracing the edges.

I see him, but he doesn’t see me—not at first—and I can’t help but stare. Only his silver ring and the faint outline of his key beneath his polo mark him as the same guy I met this summer. It’s like he’s wearing a disguise, only it fits so well that I wonder if my Wesley—the one with spiked hair and lined eyes and that constant, mischievous smile—was the act. My stomach twists at the thought.

And then his eyes drift up from the book and settle on me, and something in him shifts again, and suddenly I see both of them at once: the affluent student and the edgy boy who likes to fight and fits his rock band noise so well. He’s still under there somewhere, my Wes, but I can’t help but wonder as he hops down from the sculpture and straightens, waiting for me to reach him: how many faces does Wesley Ayers have?

“I was hoping you’d come this way,” he says, putting the book away and slinging his bag onto his shoulder.

“I don’t know any of the other ways.”

“Come on,” he says, tipping his head down the path. “I’ll show you.”

We start walking toward the dining hall, but then we reach a split. Even though I can see the highly trafficked main building rising on our right, Wes veers left down a narrow, vacant path. Despite my rumbling stomach, I follow. I can’t stop looking at him, focusing and unfocusing my eyes to find both versions.

“Go ahead.” He keeps his eyes on the path ahead. “Say it.”

I swallow. “You look different.”

He shrugs. “Hyde has a dress code. They discourage eccentricity, which is unfortunate since, as we both know, I’m quite a fan.” He looks at me then, as intensely as I’m looking at him. “You look tired, Mac. Are you sleeping?”

I shrug. I don’t want to talk about it.

I mentioned my nightmares a while back, but when they didn’t go away I decided to stop talking about them. It’s bad enough having my parents coat me with their worry. The last thing I need is someone who knows the truth pitying me. And maybe Wes would have bad dreams, too, if he could remember that day; but he has a twenty-four-hour stretch of black in his mind and only my account and a scar from Owen’s knife to go on. I envy him until I remember that I wanted to remember. I chose.

“Is there anything I can do to help or—”

“How long have you been back?” I cut in. “Or did you even go away?”

His brow furrows. “I got in last night. Haven’t even had a chance to unpack, let alone come by and check on you. Or Jill. You been keeping an eye on the brat for me?”

I ignore his deflection. “Why didn’t you tell me you went to school here?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “At first it was just a reflex. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that you were going to cross more than one of my paths, so I kept it to myself.”

“I get that, Wes, I do.” The Archive teaches us to break our lives into pieces and to keep those pieces secret, separate. “But what about later?” I ask, the words barely a whisper. “Is it because of what happened in the garden?”

“No,” he says firmly. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Then why?” I snap. “You spent the last few weeks reading me books you already knew because you read them here last year. You watched me stress out about this place, and you never spoke up.”

His mouth twitches playfully. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to surprise you?”

I give him a long, hard look. “Well, you succeeded. But I have a hard time believing you lied to me for weeks just to see the look on my face—”

“I didn’t lie,” he says shortly. “You never asked me where I went.”

The words hit like a dull punch. I didn’t ask that specific question, he’s right. But only because Wesley never wants to talk about his life. It’s not that I don’t want to be a part of his; I’ve just grown used to him being a part of mine.

“I told myself,” continues Wes, “that if you asked, I’d tell you. But you didn’t. You made an assumption, and I didn’t correct you.”

“Why not?”

He pulls his hand from his pocket and runs it through his hair. It’s so strange to see it move through his fingers—soft, black, ungelled. I want to touch it myself, but I stifle the urge.

“I don’t know,” he continues. “Maybe I thought if you knew I went here, you’d think differently of me.”

“But why would I judge you for going here?” I ask, gesturing down to my uniform. “I go here, too.”

“Yeah, but you hate it,” he snaps, coming to a stop. “You don’t even know this place and you hate it. You’ve spent weeks dreading it, mocking it.…” I cringe, regretting the time I decided to don a posh accent and do a dramatic reading of a few key passages from the handbook. “But I grew up here. I didn’t choose it, and I can’t help it, but I did. And I was afraid you’d judge me if you knew.” He laughs nervously, his eyes focused on the path instead. “Big surprise, Mac, I care what you think of me.”

I feel the heat spreading across my face as he adds, “But I’m sorry. I knew you were stressed about Hyde, and I could have made it better and I didn’t. I should have told you.”

And he should have. But I think of all the times I kept things from Wes in the beginning, either out of habit or fear, and how it took him nearly dying and the Archive stealing his memories for me to finally tell him the truth. I feel my anger diminishing.

“So you have a preppy schoolboy alter ego,” I say. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

The relief that sweeps across his face is obvious—relief that we’re okay—but he doesn’t miss a beat. “I really hate eggplant.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Seriously,” he replies, bouncing a little on his toes. “But I also hate explaining that it’s because of the name and the fact that I grew up thinking it was a plant made of eggs, so instead I just tell people I’m allergic.”

I laugh, and his smile broadens—and just like that, my Wesley is back. Doling out jokes and crooked grins, eyes glittering even without the makeup.

We start off again down the path.

“I’m happy you’re here,” I say under my breath, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. I raise my voice, but instead of repeating myself, I simply ask, “Where are we going?”

He glances back and quirks a brow. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks. “I’m leading you astray.”

FIVE

A DOZEN STRIDES LATER, the tree-lined path dead-ends at a stone courtyard. It’s raised a few steps off the ground, each of its four corners marked by a pillar. Three students are lounging on the platform, and in the very center of it stands a statue of a man in a hooded cloak.

“It’s the only human sculpture on campus,” explains Wesley, “so it’s probably meant to be Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals. But everyone calls him the Alchemist.”

I can see why. Standing in his shrouds, the statue looks more like a druid than a priest. His elbows are tucked in and his palms are turned up, his head bowed as if focusing on a spell. The mystique is only slightly diminished by the fact that his stone hands are currently holding aloft a pizza box.

“This,” says Wes, gesturing to the platform, “is the Court.”

The students look up at the sound of Wesley’s voice. One of them I’ve already met. Cash is sitting with his legs stretched out on the stairs.

“Mackenzie Bishop,” he calls as we make our way up to the platform. “I will never again make the mistake of calling you a damsel.”

Wesley frowns a little. “You two have met?”

“I tried to save her,” says Cash. “Turned out she didn’t need my help.”

Wesley glances my way and winks. “I think Mac can take care of herself.”

Cash’s smile is surprisingly tight. “You seem awfully friendly toward a girl who just kicked your ass. I take it you know each other?”

“We met over the summer,” Wes answers, climbing the steps. “While you and Saf were off boating in—where was it, Spain? Portugal? I can never keep the Graham family excursions straight.”

It’s brilliant, watching Wesley work other people, twisting the conversation back toward them. Away from himself.

“Don’t be bitter,” says Cash. “You know you’ve got an open invitation.”

Wesley makes a noncommittal sound. “I don’t like boats,” he says, retrieving a slice of pizza from the statue’s outstretched arms, nodding for me to join him.

“The Saint-Marie,” says Cash with a flourish, “isn’t just a boat.”

“So sorry,” says Wes, mimicking the flourish. “I don’t like yachts.”

I can’t tell if they’re joking.

“I see you’ve already begun defacing our poor Alchemist again,” adds Wes, waving the pizza slice at the statue.

“Just be glad Safia hasn’t played dress-up with him,” says a girl’s voice, and my attention shifts to a pair of students sitting on the platform steps: a junior boy sitting cross-legged, and a redheaded senior with her head in his lap.

“Very true,” says Cash as the girl shifts up onto one elbow and looks at me.

“You’ve brought a stray,” she says, but there’s no malice in her voice, and her smile quirks in a teasing way.

“She’s not a stray, Amber,” says the boy she’s been using as a pillow. “She’s a junior.”

He looks up at me then, and my stomach drops. There’s a silver stripe across his uniform, but he looks like he can’t be more than fifteen. He’s small and slim, dark hair curling across his forehead, and between the pair of black-framed glasses perched on his nose and the notes scribbled on the backs of his hands, he looks so much like my brother that it hurts. If Ben had lived—if he had been given five more birthdays—he might have looked just like this.

He looks away and I blink, and the resemblance thins to nearly nothing. Still, it leaves me shaken as I head up the steps and join Wesley by the statue. He grabs a soda from the Alchemist’s feet and gestures toward the other students.

“So you’ve met Cassius,” he says.

“Dear god, please don’t call me that,” says Cash.

“That’s Gavin with the glasses,” continues Wes, “and Amber is in his lap.”

“Amber Kinney,” she corrects. “There are two gold Ambers at Hyde and one silver, and it’s not a name that lends itself to shortened forms, trust me, so if you hear someone use the name Kinney—which I hate, by the way, never do it—that’s me.”

I take a soda. “I’m Mackenzie Bishop. New student.”

“Of course you are,” says Gavin, and I blush until he adds, “Because it’s a small school and we know everybody else.”

“Yeah, well, you can call me Mackenzie or Mac, if you want. Just not Kenzie.” Kenzie was Da’s word; it sounds wrong on everyone else’s lips. “Or M.” M was the name I’d dreamt of being called for years. M was the version of me that didn’t hunt Histories or read memories. M was the person I could have been if I hadn’t joined the Archive. And M was ruined by Owen when he whispered it in my ear like a promise, right before he tried to kill me.

“Well, Mackenzie,” says Gavin, emphasizing each of the three syllables evenly, just the way Ben did, “welcome to Hyde.”

“Mackenzie, will you help me?”

We’re sitting at the table, Ben and I, while Mom hums in the background, making dinner. I’m twirling my silver ring and reading a passage for my freshman English class, and Ben’s trying to do his fourth-grade math, but it’s not his best subject.

“Mackenzie…?”

I’ve always loved the way Ben says my name.

He was never one of those kids who couldn’t speak, who skipped syllables and squeezed words down into sounds. By the time he was four, he prided himself on pronouncing everything. Mom was never Mama, Dad was never Daddy, Da was never Da but Da Antony, and I was never Muh-ken-zee or Mc-kin-zee, and certainly not Kenzie, but always Mah-Ken-Zee, the three beats set like stones in order.

“Will you show me how to do this problem?”

At nine, even his questions are precise. He has this obsession with being a grown-up; not just wearing one of Dad’s ties or holding his knife and fork like Mom, but putting on airs, mimicking posture and attitude and articulation. He has the makings of a Keeper, really. Da didn’t live long enough to see him taking shape, but I can see it.

I know I already took Da’s spot, but I often wonder if the Archive could make a place for Ben, too.

It’s a selfish wish, I know. Some might even call it a wrong wish. I should want to protect him from everything, including—no, especially—the Archive. But as I sit there, turning my silver ring and watching Ben work, I think I might give anything to have him beside me.

I get why Da did it. Why he chose me. I get why everyone chooses someone. It’s not just so that someone takes their place. It’s so that—at least for a little while—they don’t have to be alone. Alone with what they do and who they are. Alone with all those secrets.

It is selfish and it is wrong and it is human, and as I sit there, watching Ben work, I think that I would do it. I would choose him. I would take my little brother with me. If they’d let me.

Of course, I never find out.

In truth, Gavin looks very little like Ben. I know because I’ve been staring at him—and then trying not to stare—for the last fifteen minutes. Luckily, between a long shower and the walk with Wes, fifteen minutes is all I have before the bell rings.

It turns out that even though we’re a grade apart, Amber and I have Physiology together. She tells me on the way how it’s all part of her pre-premed plan, how her grandmother was some incredible war surgeon behind the blood-slicked camp curtains, and how she has steady hands just like her. Between the Court and the science hall—marked by a statue of a snake—I discover my favorite thing about Amber Kinney.

She likes to talk.

She likes to talk even more than Lyndsey, and as far as I can tell it’s not out of a need to fill the quiet so much as a simple lack of filter between her brain and mouth—which is fine with me, because she’s surprisingly interesting. She tells me random facts about the school, and then about each member of the Court: Gavin won’t eat anything green and has a brother who sleepwalks; Cash speaks four languages and tears up at sappy commercials; Safia—because apparently Amber is actually friends with her—used to be so shy she barely spoke, and still hasn’t quite figured out how to speak nicely; Wesley is a sarcastic flirt and allergic to eggplant and…

Amber trails off. “But you already know Wesley,” she says.

“Not as well as you’d think,” I say carefully.

Amber smiles. “Join the club. I’ve known Wes for years, and there are times I still don’t feel like I know him. But I think he likes it that way—an air of mystery—so we all let him have his secrets.”

I wish everybody felt the way Amber Kinney does about secrets. My life would be a lot easier.

“So,” I say, “Wesley’s a flirt?”

Amber rolls her eyes and holds the door open for me. “Let’s just say that air of mystery tends to work in his favor.” I feel the heat creeping into my face as she glances my way. “Don’t tell me you’ve already fallen for it.”

I chuckle. “Hardly.” And that much is true. After all, it’s not Wesley’s secrets that make my pulse climb. It’s the fact that we have the same ones. Or, at least, most of the same ones. I can’t help but wonder, after the shock of seeing him here, what else I don’t know.

His voice echoes in my head: You didn’t ask.

We reach the Physiology room and snag two seats side by side as the bell rings. A surprisingly young woman named Ms. Hill walks us through our syllabus, and I spend the next few minutes flipping through the textbook, trying to figure out which bones Owen snapped inside my wrist. It’s funny—looking at the maps of bone and muscle and nerve, the diagrams of body flexion and movement and potential—how much of this I’ve learned already. More through trial and error and application than assigned reading, but it’s still nice to find that some of the knowledge translates. I run my fingertips lightly over the illustrated fingers on the page.

I make it through the lecture, and Amber points me in the direction of my last class: Government. It’s taught by Mr. Lowell, a man in his fifties with a mop of graying curls and a soft, even voice. I’m prepared to have to stab myself with my pen to stay awake, but then he starts talking.

“Everything that rises will fall,” he says. “Empires, societies, governments. None of them lasts forever. Why? Because even though they are the products of change, they become resistant to change. The longer a society survives, the more it clings to its power, and the more it resists progress. The more it resists progress—resists change—the more its citizens demand it. In response, the society tightens its grip, desperate to maintain control. It’s afraid of losing its hold.”

I stiffen in my seat.

Do you know why the Archive has so many rules, Miss Bishop? Owen asked me on the roof that day. It’s because they’re afraid of us. Terrified.

“Societies are afraid of their citizens,” echoes Mr. Lowell. “The more a society tightens its grip, the more the people fight that grip.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger, going around and around, and each time he does, the circle gets smaller. “Tighter and tighter, and the resistance grows and grows until it spills over into action. That action takes one of two forms.”

He writes two words on the board: REVOLUTION and REFORM.

“The first segment of this class,” says Mr. Lowell, “will be dedicated to the language of revolution; the second segment will be dedicated to the language of reform.” He erases the word REFORM from the board.

“You’ve all heard the language of revolution. The rhetoric. For instance, a government can be called corrupt.” He writes the word corrupt on the board. “Give me some other words.”

“The government is rotten,” says a girl at the front of the class.

“The company is abusing power,” says a boy.

“The system is broken,” adds another.

“Very good, very good,” says Mr. Lowell. “Keep going.”

I cringe as Owen’s voice echoes in my head. The Archive is a prison.

“A prison,” I say, my voice carrying over the others before I even realize I’ve spoken out loud. The room quiets as the teacher considers me. Finally he nods.