3

000.363.04.01.01

The four stitches on my chin look like man-stubble.

Mother chose the thread, Father sterilized the fishing hook, and Reid assured me it wouldn’t hurt much.

He lied.

Though anesthesia is preferred, I avoided the medical center in Nether Town. Their admittance procedures grow more finicky by the day, and I don’t want to raise unnecessary questions with my dwindling Numbers.

My Clock blinks 363 days now, and I carve the number on the top edge of my wax tablet with my stylus. When Mother sewed me up, Reid explained his reasoning behind approving my biography. She relented. My discouragement morphed into determination, which I will channel into this biography. My restlessness must be tamed.

The scratches form white numbers in the black wax. I haven’t used my wax tablet for anything but sewing plans and book lists since leaving school. Now it will hold my story.

I glance at the sewing plans now and realize my problem at once—my tablet isn’t big enough for a biography. It has a middle flap with wax on both sides and a wax coating on the two cover flaps—four pages of wax.

I’ll need paper.

I set down the stylus, pointing the needle-side away from me. I thought I was brilliant when I replaced the dull tip of my stylus with a sewing needle last year. It makes a smoother line in the wax and allows me more room to write, but that will be nothing like writing on paper. I won’t have to think about wax pieces or the heat of the day or the pressure of the stylus.

“Paper,” I whisper to the empty room. The idea of keeping words somewhere permanent sounds surreal. I would be able to draw a design without having to memorize it or erase two days later.

Mother won’t like the idea of spending precious specie on paper after I just broke our window. Maybe I can sell some clothing at the market square. But I can’t wait for the paper. I must start my biography now on my four good pages of wax.

I stare at the black wax and my eyes glaze over. How does a biographer begin a book? God started with In the beginning. Fairy tales begin with Once upon a time. Neither sounds right. I’m not God and I’ll never be a fairy.

I scratch:

I was born.

It looks so boring—an accurate depiction of my life. I press the scraped wax into the top right corner of the tablet and stare at the three words. A tiny fist in my heart squeezes out a drop of sorrow. Why did You let me be born, God, if You knew I’d just waste my Numbers?

I was born. Who cares?

New plan.

Mother, Father, and Reid are out on a reminiscent walk. Unlike me, they find pleasure in tromping through mud and licking chapped lips against the wind. I do it out of necessity.

I grab my overdue library books, wrap a scarf around my threaded facial hair, and then stomp out of the house toward Unity’s one-year-old library. Twenty-six minutes later, I return home with a pile of last year’s hottest biographies—still in paper form due to Unity’s low-class status. It’s ironic to me that paper books are considered “low status” when my family still can’t afford paper. I’m tempted to tear out the blank pages from the backs of the biographies to use for myself.

As I lift the latch to the front door, my foot rolls over something round. I fall against the doorframe and the biographies topple into the October mud. I glare at them. Gunk seeps into their pages.

“Great,” I mutter, scooping them up one by one.

On the doorstep lie two newspapers. Trevor followed through. One is Unity’s own Weekly Unit. The other is a fresh feast for my news-hungry eyes. A fancy electrosheet—weatherproof and programmed to curl into a single roll. The title, The Daily Hemisphere, lines the front and the warped pictures pop with color. A line on the top border is marked with an asterisk:

* Self-updating electrosheet

Perfect. Don’t lose it.

I stumble inside, drop the mud-soaked books onto my desk, and snatch the news from the doorstep. I open The Daily Hemisphere first, never having held an electrosheet before, let alone one carrying national news. It’s lightweight but stiff, and unfurls when I slide my closed fingers down the length of it. Once opened, it’s half the size of a paper newspaper. The first heading reads, President Garraty Approves Increase in Assigned Enforcers.

The article states every village, town, and city must have three Enforcers per population thousand. A picture beside the article shows three men, same height, standing shoulder to shoulder with pointy backward black Es tattooed on their left temples.

Fifteen more Enforcers are coming to Unity? The six we already have cause enough harm. I shudder and set down the electrosheet. New Enforcers won’t know my village or the people. They’ll Clock-check everyone and more people will go through the Wall, even though the rest of the nation registers Radicals and gives them a choice—relocation or the Wall. At least, that’s what the newspapers say the rest of the nation does. I wouldn’t know.

Stupid Low-City status. The Enforcers here don’t register Radicals because they’re lazy. I guess it takes too much paperwork, specie, and tracking devices. It must be easier to murder someone.

I scan the rest of the electrosheet. The words scroll up when my gaze reaches the bottom of the screen. I spend the next several minutes directing the pages with my eyes. It’s so strange I set it down, wary and slightly dizzy, but excited. I’ve never owned something so advanced. “No wonder paper isn’t the norm anymore.”

I leave my new stash of reading material and make a cup of coffee. News will wait. It’s time to read about those who died. Maybe I’ll get some ideas for how to write about my own life.

The first biography opens with a long description about flowing wheat fields. Boring. Book two starts with a joke. Rejected. Book three coaxes me into its pages like a handsome salesman. I resurface after four intriguing chapters about Gloria Pak—a mathematician.

I flip to the cover. Only a gifted biographer could make the life of an arithmetic-savvy reclusive woman from a spit of a town sound interesting. My eyes find the author’s name: Skelley Chase.

My new hero.

I scan the spines of my dwindling stack. The flowing script of Chase covers all books except the two in the reject pile. How have I never heard of this author before? I should have branched away from the fiction section more often. This man must have never-ending Numbers to follow the lives of so many people. Four biographies last year? He’s a miracle-worker. Nothing but a miracle will fix my bland life and get this thing published.

For the second time today, I leave the house on an inspired mission. My heart pounds in time with my purposeful footsteps. Impulse. It’s my oxygen.

The excitement in my chest transforms into abrupt nervousness when I reach the county building. My last meeting with Trevor feels like weeks ago, not yesterday morning. Do I want to see him again?

No. But I need to see him again.

I don’t allow myself to hesitate. This is my Last Year—I must not waste it with cowardice. The pulse in my clenched fingers sends a panic signal up my arm. I enter. When I reach the desk, Rat Nose looks up from her Sacred Seconds magazine electrosheet with obvious reluctance.

“Can I help you?” she wheezes.

My eyes stray to the magazine picture. I glimpse a clean-shaven, thirty-something gentleman with a handsome smirk and a green fedora.

Rat Nose flips the sheet over. “He’s good looking, too old for you, and wouldn’t waste the seconds of a receptionist.”

I squirm. “Um, I’m here to see Trevor.”

Rat Nose jerks a thumb toward the elevator and returns to her electrosheet. I skirt around the desk and avoid my own gaze in the elevator mirror. The third-floor light dings and the doors open. I lift my chin like a tightrope walker.

Confidence.

Trevor’s door stands cracked open. I enter with an abrupt knock. Trevor glances up with bulging cheeks. His office reeks of fish. My attempt at a deep breath claws its way down my throat and I swallow a cough. I make a point not to look at the lunch plate before him.

“Uh hi, Trevor. Do you have a moment?”

He nods and swallows, sweeping a hand toward the same chair as yesterday.

I choose to stand. I won’t stay long. “Can I add something to my Last-Year list?”

He nods again, either still swallowing or choosing not to speak. One hand pushes his plate away and the other reaches into a drawer on his side of the desk. My folder makes its appearance. “What’s on your mind?” His voice comes out in the usual collected manner, but raspy. Must be the fish.

“I want to meet with a biographer for writing advice.”

His fingers tap dance on the screen surface and he picks up a thin pointer pen. “Name?”

“Skelley Chase.”

The pen stops mid stroke. Trevor takes off his glasses and looks at me. He inclines his head.

I scratch my nose. “What?”

Trevor’s eyes jerk to a spot over my shoulder and swift footsteps precede a loud, nasal voice behind me. “Hiya, Trevor I need a new list.”

I jump and turn around. A young man Reid’s height with a receding chin, small mouth, and dusty-blond hair swept to one side, strides past me without a care. He places his hands on Trevor’s desk. Trevor closes my file with his finger saving the spot. The stranger taps his forefinger on my file. I bristle.

“I’ve already met the chicks you listed and it’s no good. They’re not interested. I need to extend the list. Broaden my search.” He stands straight and flings his arms wide, inches away from my face. “I need to have an open mind and a willingness to sacrifice meaningless criteria. I’m no longer afraid of dating someone unattractive.”

It takes me twenty seconds to assess the young man who interrupts, ignores, and nearly backhands me with his hairy knuckles. My conclusion? Instant dislike.

“This is not your file, Dusten,” Trevor says.

Dusten? Dusten Grunt. The childhood “Empty Numbers” chanter. None of his cute-kid looks survived into his teen years. I internally cheer. Sometimes mean people deserve to turn out ugly.

Trevor pulls my file to his chest. I’m pleased to see this measure of confidentiality. “You need to speak with your own Mentor.”

“Monica’s given up on me. She says I need to find a new wish.” Dusten lowers his arms. “Seriously, Trevor—three girls say their Good-bye in the next two years. That’s not much to choose from.”

Trevor points toward me with my file. Dusten turns and flinches when our eyes meet. I raise an eyebrow and fold my arms.

“She’s got a beard.”

My hand jerks to my chin and heat sweeps from forehead to stitches.

Trevor’s mouth twitches. “I think it’s temporary.” He releases a little cough. “Besides, I pointed at her because we are in a meeting. She’s not one of your options. You will have to wait until we are finished.”

“This is important.” What a whiner. “I haven’t got much time.”

He doesn’t remember me. I couldn’t be more thrilled, though I would like to give him a hard kick in the shins. So, he has empty Numbers too.

Hypocrite. Even so, I pity Dusten’s determination to pursue a relationship with dwindling Numbers. No girl will have him with such little life left to his Clock. Even if he hadn’t remained a bully.

He’s still in a better position than you, my conscience nags. I ignore it.

Trevor places his glasses back on his face. “You will have to wait.”

I’m liking Trevor a little more.

Dusten plops himself into the red chair on this side of the desk. I roll my eyes and give Trevor a shrug. As long as nasally Dusten is silent, I can tolerate his presence.

“Parvin, you can’t meet Skelley Chase.”

My momentary approval disappears. “Why not?”

Dusten swings around in the chair and looks at me with his head cocked. “Parvin?”

“Shut up!” I forgot that detail—my memorable name.

Trevor reopens my file. “Mr. Chase is famous and busy.”

“He’s busy with biographies. I’m writing a biography. Wouldn’t he be interested?”

Trevor runs his tongue over his teeth. “Probably not. Biographying isn’t his only job.”

Dusten still watches me, but his eyes narrow. I force myself to stare at Trevor. “Yesterday, you said you could get me a famous actor. Why can’t you get a biographer?”

“Different circumstances.”

“Please, Trevor.” My voice sounds desperate and I grit my teeth. “I want to talk to him about how he writes. I need some pointers.”

He closes my file. “I can’t.”

“What sort of Mentor are you?” I fight the urge to pound his desk. “I can’t cross the Wall. I can’t be a biographer. I can’t even meet a biographer.” I tick off each statement with my fingers and then throw my hands in the air. “Oh, but I can travel to foreign countries and find a boy to kiss me.”

Dusten’s eyes widen like a raccoon’s. I want to slap away his stare. Instead, I place my hands on Trevor’s desk and lean forward. “I want my Last-Year funds.” He opens his mouth, but I slam my fist on his fish-ridden desk. “Now.”

A strand of his combed hair falls out of place. His glasses reflect his wide eyes. Hesitant, with cautious movements, he opens a lower drawer in his desk with a tiny key. Inside sit four camel-colored pouches like the one Reid brought home yesterday, each with a name hanging from the drawstring. “You get half now. You may request the rest at your six-month Assessment.”

“Fine.”

He pours coins into an empty pouch while I watch every move. It looks like half. I wish he’d try and cheat me so I could vent my anger with a few more shouts. The moment he ties the pouch, I snatch it from his hand, turn on my heel, and stride from the office. I jab the elevator button so hard I jam my finger. With a growl, I take the stairs instead, shaking my hand.

As the stairwell door closes, I hear an amused whisper behind me.

“Empty Numbers.”

I run the rest of the way down and burst into the entry lobby. The receptionist looks up, but I stalk past her desk. “I can still write my biography on my own.” I push open the double doors like a bandit exiting a saloon. “I still have sources.”

On my way home, I splurge on a stack of paper from a street shop. I don’t have time to wait. I have to write this biography now. Though I’d planned to keep Mother’s journal for later inspiration, a quote from her private thoughts may be the juicy intro I need for my story.

I turn the corner to Straight Street and trip over a bale of hay bound by twine.

“Watch it!” a voice shouts and I catch myself with my right hand on the rough side of the first house.

My temper is in no mood for this. I push my body back to a standing position. “The middle of the street?” I gesture to the bale and search for the culprit. “There’s no better place for you to put this?” I meet my target’s eyes, and my temper fizzles into an embarrassed squeak.

What’s a handsome man doing on Straight Street? Okay, he’s not pure handsome, but he’s no Dusten Grunt. And he’s a man. On my street.

He’s not from Unity Village; I would have noticed him before. Maybe he’s a registered Radical, relocated here.

Soul mate material?

He tilts his head to one side, a gently disapproving frown on his shadowed face. His nose is a little crooked and his short hair is dark—or is it the shadow from the house? His skin is pale, but in an attractive way. He’s older than I am—just a couple years—and holds no traces of immature boy.

“Good eve. Sorry about that, I’m trying to get the new thatch up before dark.”

I glance back at what I now realize is a bale of thick roof thatch. “Are you moving here?”

“No.” His frown turns into a soft grin. “Enforcers live at the county building.”

All thoughts of handsomeness pop like a punctured balloon. “You’re an Enforcer?”

He steps out of the house shadows and I make out the pointy backward E on his left temple. A few strands of his hair, which I now see is dark blond, rest over the tattoo. He doesn’t seem so likable anymore.

I lose my words and inch around him. “Um . . . okay. Nice to meet you.”

“Tally ho.”

Tally ho? What does that mean? Enforcer lingo?

I turn and walk five houses down to my own house, mentally kicking myself. Nice to meet you? We didn’t even meet. Did I have to be so nervous? If he thinks I’m nervous he’ll think I have sketchy Numbers. He’ll Clock-check me. I’ll be sent across the Wall early. I’ll never finish my biography.

I shut the door behind me, catch my reflection in the entrance mirror, and groan. I’d forgotten about my stitches. Just what I wanted to do: make an unforgettable impression on an Enforcer who now knows where I live. My throat grows tight, but I push myself to stay focused.

Somehow I remember the combination to Mother’s safe from amidst yesterday’s bleeding, arguments, and scalding tea. Good thing, too because I doubt she would give it to me again.

The fire crackles in the grate, attempting to warm the kitchen despite the broken window. The warmth soothes my irritation. Sometimes Mother complains about the small size of our house, but I’ve always liked it. The cooking fire and wood stove heat all three rooms. With the kitchen in the center and a bedroom off each side, the heat filters everywhere except the outhouse.

I knock on Mother and Father’s door before entering. It’s empty. Their bed sits opposite the dresser, nicely made with two wool blankets. I shove back the coats in their cramped closet and kneel beside the black safe. The combination takes two tries, but once unlocked, the door opens without a sound. A stack of yellowed papers tumbles into my lap along with four blank Clocks—the only free gifts from our government.

I set aside the two blank Clocks belonging to Mother in case she has more children. I blame the government for Reid’s and my predicament. It gives women two Clocks in case of twins. It doesn’t account for triplets. And yet, Reid and I will get blamed and punished if caught with our single Clock.

The other two blank Clocks linger in my fingers. Mine . . . for my potential children. They’ll be destroyed once I say Good-bye, childless. I don’t mind, though I squirm at the memory of the thick needle piercing the soft inner skin by each hip. I was alone when the medic arrived at our house on my ninth birthday. Mother and Reid were out gathering ingredients for a birthday cake. Two small ovachips were inserted into my body, programmed to detect a conception and initiate the Clock.

My gut clenches, knowing something electronic with a mind of its own is swimming around in my body. That’s enough incentive for me not to get pregnant.

I put them down, then shove aside birth certificates, immunization records, and an old wooden Clock stuck on 000.000.00.00.00. William’s, the oldest of we three triplets. It figures that one of the two Clocks turned out to be his. Ironic. He never needed it, yet here it is. Expired.

No sense fuming about things I can never change. Reid and I will know soon enough whom our Clock belongs to. Behind William’s Clock is the real treasure—a floppy leather journal with finger-worn corners. The cover is black, like secrets.

I thrust the other items back inside, swing the door shut, spin the dial, and retreat to my room. After slipping on a fresh pair of socks, I curl on my bed and flip to April 2, 2131—my birthday. Mother’s handwriting is barbaric and doesn’t follow the lines, but the challenge of deciphering makes this feel more like an adventure and less like an invasion.

04.02.2131

I want to see my son before he dies. The contractions have begun and midwife Bridget is late. I’m afraid he’ll die before he’s born.

This is all she writes? Happy birthday to me. The entire page is filled with one to three-sentence entries per date. I turn back a page and find the same format. Why so cryptic? After a few thumb-flips, I realize every entry is like this. Mother’s short, to-the-point conversation habits seem to have leaked into her writing.

I return to my birthday entry and read it again. The woman gives birth to three children—one dead, one expected, and one a surprise—yet she writes only three sentences in her journal? Why even keep a journal? Beneath the words is a small black handprint. Mother scribbled the name William beneath it. My forefinger traces the handprint of its own accord.

No mention of me. I can’t start a biography with this. I lick my fingers and turn the page. Two more handprints cover the surface—one in blue and the other in faded pink. Mine is miniscule—smaller than both Reid’s and William’s.

I hold my hand, palm up, against the page beside the corresponding pink one. The seventeen years between my hand sizes zip through my mind like a fly fisher’s cast. Not much stands out: playing with Reid, backing out of dares, being bullied at school, quitting school after eight years, snitching newspapers, sewing random clothing I never sell or share, and waiting . . . waiting for the end. Waiting to see if this year is the end.

My eyes stray to the next entry on the bottom of the page and I find the opening line for my biography.

04.03.2131

I have a daughter. I’m cursed.