5

000.181.23.20.16

Shock. People react to it in different ways. Some scream, some drop things, some babble. Me? My brain enters an instant sludge of numbness and idiocy. My tongue muscles recover sooner than my mental ones and I spew foolishness. “You have a goatee.”

Trevor gives an embarrassed laugh—the type that comes from a parent when his or her child does something unusually stupid.

The shock lessens, but leaves behind the debris of silent questions. Why is he so young? Why is he here? Why isn’t he a wiry, pointy-nosed, bookworm with glasses?

I attempt to remedy my declaration of immaturity. “Excuse me, Mr. Chase.” I step forward with my hand extended. “Parvin Blackwater. My surprise in seeing you rendered me thinkless.”

At first I think he may ignore my hand and salutation altogether, but perhaps he likes my creation of the word thinkless—being a fellow writer and all—because, after a moment, he shakes my hand with his thumb and first two fingers.

Not too friendly, but he’s my miracle worker and it will take more than an aloof handshake to wipe away my admiration.

“I believe you wished to meet with him.” Trevor must have abandoned his embarrassment because now he’s beaming. His humanlike happiness unnerves me.

“Yes, I did—do.”

Skelley Chase tosses his fedora onto his head and stands from the chair. “Shall we have a day of it? I have only a day.”

I look to Trevor. He rests his hand on top of my closed file. “We’ll meet next week, Parvin. We don’t have to hit the exact six-month mark.”

Skelley Chase leads the way out of the room, carrying a brown leather briefcase. The elevator ride passes in formal silence.

When we stride across the cold entrance, the receptionist squeaks and jumps to her feet, clutching a marker and a wrinkled paper version of Sacred Seconds to her chest. Skelley Chase walks on. Rat Nose opens and closes her mouth several times. We leave the county building before any sound emerges from her lips.

“Should I bother driving?”

Only now do I notice the sleek, forest-green car plugged into the county building’s electric port. It glimmers in the sun like a dropped coin.

The color reminds me of his hat.

“There’s nowhere to park.” I glance around. “And the streets are too small.”

Not to mention all the booths and vendors in the way. I can’t remember the last car in Unity Village that wasn’t a black Enforcer beetle. The train is Unity’s transportation, and the people are better off spending their limited specie on provisions or real windows than on roads or charging ports.

I frown. “I thought personal automobiles were banned in the Low Cities.” This recent piece of national news popped up on The Daily Hemisphere just yesterday. I suspect the USE doesn’t want to develop Low Cities any further than it has to. Now only government cars are allowed.

“This is my first visit to a Low City.” He adjusts his fedora.

He didn’t answer my question. He must already know about the ban. Perhaps biographers are exempt, or maybe he wants to make it clear he’s higher class.

“I come from a High City.”

I assumed no less. Upper and High Cities are filled with media-food: politicians, actors, actresses, athletes, musicians, etc—those who have Numbers long enough to affect the world.

“Have you ever visited one?”

“No.” I respond in a clipped voice. I haven’t even seen an Upper City. I’ve read about how they compare to the average city before the Wall—technology, Internet, automobiles, plumbing, copy-paste apartments, stores filled with mass-produced food—but a person must apply to live there. Anyone can live in a Low City.

Unity Village may be impersonal and a bit run-down, but I’m proud to live here. The people are stiff and determined to work hard. We survive without too much government assistance.

“Lead on.” Skelley Chase waves his hand at me.

Something in my chest tightens. “Where do you want to go?” My voice comes out timid, and queasiness plays against my stomach like a drummer. Where can I take him? What will we talk about? What did he mean earlier by, “Make a day of it”? I force myself to swallow the illness and inhale some fresh confidence.

“Does your village sell coffee?” His sarcasm is masked just enough to appear casual.

Coffee. My mind takes a mental sprint through the limited map of Unity. A street vendor sells coffee grounds on Sunday mornings. I doubt Unity Village has anything Skelley Chase might call classy.

My mind skids to a stop on the steps of a glass-windowed, red-awning café I’ve never entered. It was built a year ago. It’s the top of style for us. It will have to do. “Yes.” I’m relieved to hear more confidence in my voice. Or is it defiance?

I lead the way, avoiding the muddier streets for the sake of Skelley Chase’s polished shoes, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mud. By the time we reach Faveurs, splatters and muck cover the rim of his ironed slacks.

Four two-seater round tables with burgundy tablecloths and a tiny vase of fresh magnolias on each surface flank the propped door. Pink magnolia trees always bloom first in Unity Village before the dogwoods.

Skelley Chase takes a seat on the right at the table furthest from the door. I sink into my own cushioned wicker chair. Wreaths and garlands of woven magnolias twirl around the awning’s framework, trickling down to tickle the top of the door.

This is my first time here. I’ve never had the coin or desire to visit before. Mother’s black sludge from the morning fire tastes good enough to me. I think the café owner built Faveurs in an attempt to provide the people of Unity Village with a sense of dignity, but our dignity comes from something far more valuable than a luxury coffee shop.

A waitress, who could pass as a model, floats out the door in a white spring dress with blue trim and matching high-heels. Heels? She can’t be from Unity Village.

She places a folded cloth napkin before each of us with a manicured hand. Goosebumps dot her tiny pale arms. “Bonjour. What may I get you?” she asks in a soft French accent.

Certainly not from Unity Village, but I’m grateful for the high-class feel of the café. Skelley Chase might lose his sarcasm.

“Double cappuccino, extra dry, breve, please,” he drones.

Frenchie nods as if she hears this every day. I’ve never heard, read, or spoken these words in my life. Is he ordering food or a drink? Skelley Chase watches me. I jump and Frenchie blinks long, fake eyelashes.

“Um, nothing, thank you.” My pockets are empty and I don’t speak coffee except for two words: hot and sweet.

“Nonsense.” Skelley Chase plops his fedora on the table beside his napkin, frowns, and surveys me. Despite my skill at a calm façade, I know my face betrays surprise. He squints, taps his finger a moment, and turns back to the waitress. “She’ll have a single vanilla mocha, extra hot, no foam, and a little whip.” He considers me for a quick second then adds, “Better make hers breve, too.”

Frenchie retreats with the order. I pray she can write me up a tab and trust I’ll return later to pay for whatever monstrosity he ordered.

“Let’s get to business.” Skelley Chase eyes me. “Why am I here?”

I push my tab worries aside to make room for the wave of new worries that flow in. Deep, calming breath. I am in control. “I need your advice.”

He folds his hands.

I fidget with the napkin before continuing. “I’m six months into my Last Year. I wrote my own biography and I want your opinion.”

He holds up a finger. “Writing your own biography makes that an autobiography. Why do you want my opinion?”

“Because you’re the best. I’ve read several of your biographies. My biog—autobiography needs to be good enough to get published. Maybe you could even connect me with a publisher?”

He sighs. “You want to die famous and well-known.”

The way he says it makes me feel ashamed. “Remembered,” I supply. “I want to be remembered.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Frenchie arrives with a tiny cup topped with milk foam and a dusting of cinnamon for Skelley Chase. She places what looks like a birthday dessert in front of me. “Eez there anything else you need?”

“A plate of lemon rinds, please.”

Skelley Chase’s request is so absurd, I snort. He picks up a tiny cinnamon cookie that arrived with his drink and raises a single eyebrow. “Manuscript?”

I stop laughing and pull the wad of tied papers from my satchel. He looks at the stack with half-closed eyes. My confidence dwindles. Did I expect a cry of delight?

He removes the brown twine and reads the first page while sipping his coffee. Is he impressed it’s written on paper?

Page two. Silence. Page nine is where I reveal the secret about Reid’s and my Clock. How will he react? Am I making a mistake by sharing that long-protected information?

By page three, I pick up my own sugar-topped drink and take a sip. The whipped cream goes up my nose. I snatch my napkin from the table and wipe my face. He’s still reading. The swallow I manage to obtain from beneath the cream mountain is thick and sweet, like a liquid candy bar—just how I like it.

“This will never get published.” Skelley Chase sets aside page four.

I drop my cup back onto the table. “Why not?”

“It’s bland.”

My calm dissolves. “You’ve read four pages!” Are my thoughts and words so worthless?

“Four pages too much. Your only good line is the one your Mother wrote in her journal. Other than that, it’s you writing about your own life for yourself. You’re not writing for a reader, which is why I’m bored with it already. I’m not you.” He pushes it toward me.

“It’s supposed to show people who I am, so they can know me.”

He sniffs. “Why should anyone care about knowing you?”

My heart ices over. Why? Because I’m someone with depth. I matter, despite my Low City status. “I-I n-need your help to make this better. Please keep reading. It won’t get published without you.”

“That will take more than a day.”

I slump in my chair. My great plan now seems ridiculous. Any passion floats away in the chilled breeze. I don’t have the time to rewrite the autobiography. Mother was right—I’m being reckless. Six months wasted. Six months to go until all opportunity for meaning is gone.

I make a last-ditch effort, my voice deadened. “Can’t you at least read the whole thing? Maybe you could stay an extra day.” I cringe at the selfishness in my request. Skelley Chase is famous. Who am I? Why should he stay? My attitude is distancing me further from his respect.

He takes the twine and binds it around my papers again. “That depends on Mr. Rain. I’m not cheap.”

I straighten. “He’s paying you to be here?” My Last-Year funds are financing this torture?

“Time is money.”

“Please, for the sake of my Last Year, just read through it.” I’m begging, but without Skelley Chase’s miracle I can do nothing but give up. I’ve given up my entire life so far. It can’t end the same way.

He wipes a coffee drip off the side of his white cup with his thumb. “My train leaves at seven tomorrow morning. I’ll be here for my morning coffee at six-thirty. You may gather your manuscript then. I’ll try and write in a few pointers, but don’t count on them for publication.”

He stands as Frenchie arrives with a plate of lemon peels. He pulls a plastic bag from his briefcase and dumps them inside. He then hands her a specie—more than enough for both our coffees. “That covers tomorrow morning as well.” Without another word to me, he leaves Faveurs the way we came.

“Thank you,” I mutter, though he’s already turning the corner onto the main street.

I sip the rest of my drink to thaw my heart. When I leave, I pluck a flower from one of the wreaths and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger. Skelley Chase doesn’t think I matter. He’s branded me because of my city status.

“Stupid Low City.” I squeeze the flower stem until it crunches and wets my fingers. “Just because where I live is considered obsolete doesn’t mean I have to match it.”

I walk past Father’s carpentry shop. His spring display consists of sugar bowls and dessert plates with carved flowers around the edges, sitting dainty behind a small lattice window. A thin coating of dust blurs the detail. My hands itch to wipe the dishes clean, as I did so often when I helped out here.

The door is closed and the Enter sign flipped around. Reid must be home. I place the flower in the door latch and quicken my pace. How could I have forgotten Reid? He missed his own six-month Assessment. His Mentor, Monica Lamb, probably enjoyed the free half hour.

Programmed anticipation urges me to run home, but I resist. I’m lacking the excitement I used to have when Reid came home. This time, I’m not sure what to expect. Last time, he left me and, though he’d promised, he never wrote. I thought we’d have a year to bid farewell to the Earth and each other, and we now have only six months. Or do we? What if he’s home again just for a few days?

I round the corner to Straight Street and run into a human brick wall. I stumble backward with a gasp and the man catches my forearm before I fall. “Excuse me,” I say, still recovering from the collision.

“Clock?” The one word comes out in a deep rumble. I look up into the serious face of a black man with a pointy E tattooed backward on his left temple.

My hands fly to my spring jacket, but the square lump isn’t there. “Um . . .” My arms begin to shake. “I just had it.”

His grip tightens and my free hand fumbles in my satchel. Down at the bottom, my fingers close around the cold wooden box and my knees weaken. I pull the Numbers out and hold them in front of his face, not looking into his eyes.

“These are your Numbers?”

“Yes.” I’m panting now and pull against his grip. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“You don’t have much longer.”

“I know.”

He releases me, and I sprint to my house. I look back up the street before entering. The Enforcer approaches the Newton’s door. He raises his fist. I slip into my house before I can hear his knock. The front door creaks when I close it and the safety of home washes over me.

I fall back against the wall, holding my Numbers over my heart. I’ve never been Clock-checked before. The new Enforcers have been here a month. They must be getting bored if they’re wandering by my street. I can’t blame them. There’s not much to do since few people leave or move to Unity.

I spare a thought for the Newtons. They’ve been here six months. They were escorted here for relocation. How does that work if they’re registered Radicals? Will this Enforcer allow them to stay or do they have to move again?

The kitchen is empty and the fire laps up its last coals. The chairs sit crooked along the table. I hang my scarf on a loose peg in the entrance beside Mother’s sage-green shawl and then snag a log from the homemade wood box.

Mother bursts from her bedroom. I jerk, and the log slips from my fingers, leaving behind a thick splinter in my skin. “Mother!” I suck breath through my teeth and clutch my wounded hand, squeezing away the pain.

Her hair has fallen from its loose brown knot and her hand jumps to her throat when she sees me. “Parvin.” My name comes out in a gush of air.

“What?” I bark. My hand throbs and I increase the pressure.

Her gaze darts around the kitchen and lands on the log on the floor. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” I hold my hand away from myself and pick at the tip of the sliver.

She strides forward, slaps away my attempts, and yanks the splinter free, leaving behind tiny specks of wood and a burst of blood.

“Ouch!” I throw her a glare. She drops my hand and snatches her shawl from the entry. She looks confused and . . . frazzled. Mother is never frazzled. “Mother, what’s wrong?”

Her eyes lock with mine, wide and fierce. “Reid’s train derailed.”