Chapter Eight

When I am sure the hallway is clear, I slip out the door and shut it firmly behind me. 11000536. That is the code. That is the only code I need to remember. My heart beats in my throat, but this time it isn’t with fear. It is with pure joy, and it feels foreign, it feels intoxicating.

An hour or more must have passed with me sitting up there, doing nothing but staring at the brilliant world aboveground, warm but otherwise safe under the protective prism of glass known as the Oracle. I could have spent many more hours there, perfectly at peace, but I can’t be gone too long or the others will start to wonder. Maggie and Hunter know I wake early.

I want to tell them, I do, but I know that I won’t. It is my secret—my beautiful, wondrous secret—and I smile to myself as I stream through the corridors toward the atrium. My secret to be shared with no one.

“Eve?”

I freeze at the sound of my name, then I laugh. I laugh because suddenly it sounds unfamiliar. Alien. Like I have met this Eve person before, but I don’t know her well.

I am no longer in the Oracle, I remind myself; I am back in Compound Eleven, on the fifth floor where I don’t belong, where I’m not allowed. Eve is me, and the speaker is someone I recognize. Him. The Preeminate. The one from the fight. One I thought I would never lay eyes on again.

I turn, vaguely hoping my face is disinterested, passive. Except I can barely contain my excitement. All I can think about is my secret, and I can only hope he doesn’t notice.

His wide-set eyes stir as we face each other, but otherwise his face is even. He wears a plain black T-shirt and blue jeans, and the bruises on his face have all but disappeared. “You look different,” he finally says.

I resist the urge to burst into laughter. If only he knew. I don’t simply look different, no. I am different. I can feel it in my veins.

Of course, he is probably talking about my face—no longer swollen—or maybe it is my loose hair or my unsoiled clothes. It doesn’t matter which it is. Nothing matters, now that I have seen aboveground.

He takes a step closer and squints like he is trying to see deep inside me. “What are you doing up here?”

“Library,” I say automatically. “I was in the library. I go there sometimes, remember?” I shrug.

“Library’s back that way.” He points behind me.

“Yeah, well, I decided to stretch my legs.”

He nods like he doesn’t quite believe me.

“Writing a book?”

“Your face looks better,” he says instead of answering. “I take it you’re feeling okay?”

This time I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up in my throat. It tips through the air between us. I am more okay than I have ever been. “Fine, thanks,” I mumble, fully aware of how crazed I must seem but unable to bring myself to care.

He stares at me, and a crease forms between his brows. His flashing eyes are like X-rays, but even they can’t see my secret. I am sure of it.

“Where were you?” He takes another step closer. Now there is only two feet of space between us, and that is strange because the hallways up here aren’t narrow. It is strange because it feels like there is something magnetic between our bodies, but I can’t tell if it is pulling us together or pushing us apart. All I know is that we are connected. Maybe fighting a person has that effect.

I shake my head. “I told you. The library.”

“Your face is flushed.”

“So?”

“So you’re lying.”

I scowl. “Nobody asked you, Preme.”

“My name’s Wren, by the way.”

“Okay. Nobody asked you, Wren.”

He shakes his head, but that gentle mouth of his hides a faint smile. Then he holds out a hand. “Nice to officially meet you, Eve.”

I stare at it, at the smooth skin unblemished by ink. Premes aren’t subjected to such debasing markings. The last time I saw this hand up close was at the Bowl, and it was cocked. It was coming toward my face, and when it landed, my face exploded in pain. Except that it didn’t explode, because here I am, speaking with this strange boy, and before I know what I am doing, my hand extends forward.

It feels small in his, my forearm unusually narrow. But instead of making me feel weak, it makes me feel strong. I can’t understand why.

Only after I shake it do I notice the gun gripped in the other.

“Shooting range,” he explains as his gaze follows mine.

“What do you mean?” I take a step back. “Are you a guard or something?” Preeminates are never guards—such a position is beneath them. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be. He is a Preme; he can be whatever he likes.

But he shakes his head. “One of the perks of the fifth floor, I guess.”

“Guns?”

“Guns.”

Underneath our boots, there is a loud roar, followed by a chorus of angry men and women. Protests. They have been happening more and more; unrest in Compound Eleven is rampant and growing by the day. Floor Two is particularly vocal, demanding better conditions, more allotments, respect. As far as I know, Katz and the other leaders don’t bat an eye in return.

I ignore the chanting and frown under bright lights. I should be mad. The Premes get to carry guns, and the rest of us don’t. It isn’t fair; I know that. But my eyes still radiate with sunlight, and I can’t summon the will for anger.

Wren is talking. “Is being a guard something you’re interested in?” One hand runs through light brown hair. Then he leans against the wall with the gun hanging easily by his side. “I assume you’ll be picking a job next month, seeing as how you’re not working and not in class right now.”

“I finished school a few weeks ago,” I agree. My gaze follows every move he makes, from the way his fingers tap gently against the plastic wall behind him to the way his neck arches when he looks at the floor. Suddenly, my experience in the Oracle begins to fade. Suddenly, the fact that I am standing in a hallway with the boy who beat me to a pulp becomes apparent. And we are having a regular conversation, seemingly, except that I am a Lower Mean and he is a Preme. A Preme.

I feel like I am betraying everyone I know.

“A few weeks ago?” he says. “Yeah, me, too. So I guess that would make me two years older than you.”

It would. Premes go to school until they are eighteen, Means until they are sixteen, Noms until they are twelve. “Wow,” I say. “I didn’t know pretty boys could do math.”

“And I didn’t know you thought I was pretty.” He grins.

I roll my eyes. “Two years older. Well, no wonder you won in the ring, then.”

He tilts his head like he’s considering it, and I take the opportunity to stare at his straight nose, the one I smashed blood from while the ref wasn’t looking. It has healed without a trace. And the cut under his eye has disappeared, leaving smooth and even skin in its wake. Maybe I am disappointed by this, maybe not.

Now he’s watching me examine him. “What?” His low voice is quiet.

I cast my eyes quickly away. “Nothing,” I mutter. As blood rushes to my face, I turn toward the atrium. “I should go.”

His back straightens so he no longer leans against the wall. “You’re not heading downstairs right now. Listen to them.” He is referring to the protesters who grow louder by the second. Any moment now, the shouting could be interrupted by a spray of bullets from the guards, a reminder that insubordination is not appreciated by the Premes in charge, that revolt will be met with ruthless and indiscriminate force.

“I’ll be fine,” I say sharply. I don’t need him looking out for me, that much I know.

“There’s the Eve I remember. Are you ever not fine?” Before I can turn my head or feel the full twinge of defensiveness rising in my stomach, he laughs. “If you’re thinking about applying for a guard—”

“I’m not,” I interrupt. “I’d rather die.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Well even so, if you’d like to learn how to shoot…” The hand holding the gun gestures to me.

“Are you serious?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “You’ll show me how?”

“If you’re interested.”

Of course I am. But why would he do something like that? I am a waste of his time; he said so himself.

So I shake my head and shrug. “Somehow I doubt they let Means into the shooting range.”

“You’re with me. Come on, it’ll be fun.” He doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just turns and heads to a corridor I haven’t been down before.

You’re with me. What does that mean? He’s a Preme; of course he gets special treatment. Or is there more to it than that?

I stare at the back of his head and exhale. I can’t go. I need to get back downstairs before people ask questions. I need to relive my time in the Oracle before it fades from my mind. I need to not betray all those who are important to me by hanging out with someone like him.

Instead my feet kick after him. My body has an unfortunate habit of disobeying my brain.