Chapter 3
RUMORS AND OATMEAL
My oatmeal is gray again. Thick, gluey, impossible to swallow without water.
I prod it with my spoon and glance around the breakfast table.
Avery’s pin catches the light as she whispers to Mister M.
He’s watching her closely, eyes focused on her glossy lips.
Beside her, Ivy slouches, staring at the abstract artwork of the sky that frames the otherwise barren back wall.
The tier one dining hall is loud, no matter the time.
Mentors barking orders, girls crying when attendants make their rounds with vitamin injections, enforcers calling out diagnostic orders like they aren’t the same every week.
Each table is a pod: six girls, one mentor, four pod enforcers who act like they’re not listening even when they are.
No one asks about the girls who used to occupy them.
June nudges me, jade eyes sparkling. “All right. If you had to kiss one of the enforcers, who would it be?”
Brielle’s spoon clatters to her bowl in an ungraceful fashion. “June!”
“That’s what you want to talk about?” I ask, shaking my head.
“What?” June teases. “You’d rather talk about oatmeal?”
Of all the things she could bring up right now, she’s thinking about romancing the pod enforcers?
Meanwhile, nerves are tugging my attention in all directions.
Today is a huge day, a huge step forward in what has so far proven to be a very stagnant six months of existence.
We’ll be one step closer to the finish line, graduation.
Graduation means I did it right, that I earned my place. That’s all I need to focus on today.
Although, it’s not a terrible question now that I think about it. The pod enforcers aren’t hideous. I’d even venture to say they’re attractive, in their own ways.
Ryder’s look is effortless. Purposefully effortless. He keeps his sandy blonde hair short, and I doubt it’s ever been touched by a comb. His skin is sun-kissed and lightly freckled. Impressive, considering we never go outside.
Vance is the opposite, pale enough to make ivory look deep. He keeps his jacket buttoned to the throat, every line of him permanently rigid. What gets me, though, are his eyes. Startlingly gray and unyielding. He never smiles; I’m not even sure he knows how.
Ralston isn’t like either of them. For one, he’s massive.
Easily over six foot, built broad enough to block a doorway.
Deep umber skin, close-cropped black hair, onyx eyes that should be intimidating, but aren’t.
He isn’t kind, exactly, but his presence is solid.
Like a wall you could lean on without fear of it breaking.
Even June behaves better when he’s on duty.
And Colt…well, Colt may just be attractive. Broad shoulders, deep brown hair that’s always a little too mussed, soft caramel eyes to match. He’s not sharp like Vance or polished like Mister M. He’s charming in a boyish sort of way, all toothy grins and a mouth he can’t seem to keep shut.
“It’s an honest question!” June throws her hands up in surrender.
“I guess if I had to pick…” Bri taps a finger to her lips, eyes drifting to where the four of them are posted along the wall, hopefully out of earshot. “Ralston’s not so bad.”
Ivy finally looks up, unimpressed. “Gross. We see them every day. Watching us eat, sleep, escorting us to the bathroom. You really think that’s romantic?”
Brielle huffs, cheeks pink. “Well—”
“She’s right,” I say. “They’re not exactly handsome strangers we can swoon over. It’s hard to be starry-eyed when they’re the ones dragging us to drills at dawn.”
Juniper feigns a swoon, pressing a hand to her head. “Still. Colt’s shoulders—”
“I beg you,” Ivy groans.
Mister M clears his throat. “Girls,” he says, flicking his wrist in warning. “Meals are a quiet activity. If you wish to chatter, do us all a favor and keep it hushed.” He turns his attention back to Avery with unmistakable approval.
“Sorry, Mister M!” Bri and I chant in unison, then giggle not-so-quietly at our perfect sync. He shoots us a sharp glare.
“Anyways,” June says. “I heard a rumor.” She looks a little too eager as she leans in, a loose curl slipping from her poorly-pinned bun and into her bowl. I cringe, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Spill,” I say, reaching to tuck the strand behind her ear.
“Apparently, the graduates with the highest performance scores get to travel around the country to perform!” My eyes widen, as do Brielle’s. Traveling. I don’t know how much of the world I’d seen before I was saved, but I would assume it doesn’t count if I can’t remember it.
I try not to mind. I’m better now, and soon I’ll be someone worthy of all the effort the organization has invested in me.
“Do you think it’s true?” Brielle whispers, eyes flicking to me.
“I’m sure it is,” I tell her, placing my hand closer so our pinkies touch. “Who would make up something that wonderful?”
The conversation spirals until we’re arguing over whether Bri looks better in green or red, or how many mentors Mister M could take in a fight. Silly? Maybe. But terribly entertaining. It’s cut off far too soon by the chime that signals our transitions.
Typically, we’d be herded to morning drills, then lectures, then review block. Instead, Mister M veers right, down a hall I’ve never traveled. It’s long, lined with navy carpet runners beneath metal sconces. Music pours from a set of open French doors ahead.
Inside, a girl with tanned skin and perfectly styled midnight curls is poised at the piano.
Her spine is ramrod straight, red uniform dress smoothed over her lap in precise pleats.
I can’t help but notice she isn’t really looking at her music.
Her eyes are like shattered glass. Her lips press into a faint smile as her manicured fingers dance along the keys.
Mister M inclines his head toward the display.
“Sorrel Montgomery. She’ll be graduating next week.
” I nod along, eyes transfixed on her. She looks ethereal.
The music emanating beneath her fingers is nothing short of magic.
It should make me excited. And it does, in a way.
It would be a dream to get to play an instrument.
She may even get to travel the country like June said.
A feeling twists in my chest. Envy. It’s an ugly trait—or so my instructors tell me. A voice in my head tells me I could do it. A deeper voice tells me I could do it better. I startle, clamping my fingers tight by my sides.
“That could be one of you someday,” Mister M says, directing us back to the path. Avery nods enthusiastically, grinning like he had whispered it in her ear rather than announcing it.
The group moves forward, but I linger. Fascination isn’t the right word for it. I’m engrossed. Watching every shallow breath, every hint of emotion that almost flickers behind her stormy eyes.
A note rings sour. Sorrel’s head snaps up, and she finds me almost instantly.
Her eyes light with something real, wedged between curiosity and confusion.
The more I look, the more it twists into something familiar.
She blinks a few times, eyes scanning the walls like she’s taking in the room for the first time.
“Oh,” Sorrel murmurs, tilting her head. “It’s you.
” Her words are slow, guarded. Like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be voicing them.
She rises from the bench, gliding toward me in gentle steps.
“You’re not supposed to—” She stops, eyes snapping above my head.
It’s only then that I catch the distinct tread of boots.
“We should go,” Colt says, suddenly at my side. He grips my elbow, tugging me down the hall with more force than necessary. I look back at Sorrel, but she’s already settling at the piano, eyes glossed over.
We’ve barely caught up to the rest of the pod when Mister M stops, gesturing to the door ahead like it’s wrapped in gold.
“Prepare yourselves, girls. Your future lies just beyond that door.”