Chapter 5 Coded Messages – Belle
The library’s rare books section smells like aged paper and dust, a scent I’ve come to associate with safety purely because it’s one of the few places on campus where students congregate naturally without raising suspicion.
I’ve spent the last two days planning this, working out every detail, every contingency, every possible way this could go wrong.
The book in my hands is a first edition of Nineteen Eighty-Four .
Fitting, considering we’re living in our own version of Oceania, complete with Big Brother watching our every move.
I’ve been careful—so fucking careful—about how I’ve prepared it.
Each highlighted passage, each margin note, each seemingly innocent mark on the page is part of a larger message. A code hidden in plain sight.
Literature has always been about reading between the lines. I’m just taking that concept more literally than usual.
Max sits across from me at the study table, pretending to work on an essay while actually keeping watch.
We’ve developed a system of signals—him adjusting his watch means someone’s approaching, running his hand through his hair means the coast is clear.
Right now, his posture is relaxed, which means we have time.
“Hey.” Luna appears at the end of the aisle, Erik close behind her. She’s carrying her own stack of books, looking genuinely pleased. “Sorry we’re late. Professor Jamal kept us after class to discuss our Ethics papers.”
“No problem.” I gesture to the empty chairs. “We were just getting started.”
The “book club” was Erik’s idea, actually, after I managed to pass him a note in the dining hall—a folded piece of paper that looked like trash but contained a single word: LIbrARY .
He caught on immediately, suggesting to Luna that they should start a weekly reading group to discuss classic literature.
Something intellectual and enriching to take their minds off everything they’ve been through.
Luna loved the idea. She has no clue it’s actually a desperate attempt to communicate without Selena’s surveillance network catching on.
“So what are we reading?” Erik asks, settling into his chair. His gray eyes meet mine, and I see the question there. What’s really happening?
“I thought we’d start with dystopian classics.
” I spread the books across the table— Nineteen Eighty-Four , Brave New World , The Handmaid’s Tale , Fahrenheit 451 .
“They all deal with surveillance, control, and power structures. Given what we’ve been through with our families and the network, I figured the themes might resonate. ”
“Dark choices,” Luna observes. “Where do we start?”
“I thought we’d each take a book and read the first few chapters, then discuss our initial impressions.
” I slide Nineteen Eighty-Four toward Erik, Brave New World toward Max, and The Handmaid’s Tale toward Luna.
“I marked some passages I found particularly interesting. It might help focus our discussion.”
Erik picks up his copy, and I watch as he opens it, his eyes immediately finding the first highlighted section. Page 37, Winston’s description of the telescreen that watches him constantly. I’ve underlined specific words: SURVEILLANCE , EVERYWHERE , NO PRIVACY , PARTY CONTROLS .
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he keeps his expression neutral, casual.
He flips to the next marked page, where I’ve highlighted a passage about doublethink—the ability to hold two contradictory beliefs simultaneously.
In the margin, I’ve written what looks like study notes but actually spells out something more: S.H. = BIG brOTHER .
He goes very still, his fingers gripping the edge of the page too tightly.
Then, slowly, carefully, he turns to page 67, where I’ve laid out the most important message.
The highlighted words, when read in sequence, spell it out clearly: SELENA IS ARCHITECT.
CAMERAS EVERYWHERE. TRAPPED ON ISLAND. PRETEND NORMAL. TRUST NO ONE.
The color drains from his face. For a moment, I think he might say something, might break the careful facade we’ve been maintaining. But Erik’s always been good under pressure. He closes the book, setting it down gently, and when he looks at me, his expression is perfectly calm.
“These annotations are really insightful,” he says, his voice impressively steady given what he’s just read. “The way Orwell frames surveillance as protection, as something the Party does for your own good…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “Yeah, we should absolutely spend time on this.”
I understand , he’s telling me without words. I get it. I’ll play along.
Luna is flipping through The Handmaid’s Tale , scanning the pages I’ve marked. I’ve been more careful with her copy—the message doesn’t appear until later in the book.
“This is perfect,” Luna says, settling in with her book. “I’ve been wanting to reread this anyway. The themes of institutional control over women’s bodies, the way the state uses religion to justify oppression—it’s chilling.”
She has no idea how chilling our actual situation is. No idea that while she’s analyzing fictional dystopias, we’re living in a real one.
Max catches my eye across the table, and I see my own fear reflected back at me. This has to work. We have to find a way to communicate, to plan, to figure out how to escape this place before Selena decides we’re more trouble than we’re worth.
“I brought some snacks,” Luna announces, pulling out a bag of pretzels and some chocolate. “For authenticity. All good book clubs have snacks, right?”
“Absolutely,” I agree, grateful for the normalcy of it. We need to look like exactly what we’re claiming to be—four friends having an innocent literary discussion. Nothing suspicious. Nothing threatening.
Erik flips back through the pages, and I watch his expression shift as the coded message reveals itself fully.
First confusion, then disbelief, then something close to horror as he pieces together what I’m telling him.
Selena isn’t our savior. She’s The Architect.
This island isn’t protection. It’s imprisonment.
Every promise of safety was a lie, and we walked right into her trap.
The question is: What do we do with that knowledge?
“Belle, this annotation you made here,” Erik says, pointing to a page. To anyone watching, he’s asking about my literary analysis. But the passage he’s indicating reads: We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end.
He’s asking me what Selena wants. Why she brought us here, what her endgame is.
I shake my head slightly, and his expression tightens. I don’t know. That’s the terrifying part—I don’t know what she’s planning, only that we’re pieces on a board we can’t see.
Luna looks up from her book, noticing the tension. “Everything okay?”
“Just struck by how prescient Orwell was,” Erik says, setting the book down. “The way surveillance becomes normalized—not through force, but through convincing people they’re safer when they’re being watched. That it’s for their own good.”
“It’s insidious,” Max adds, playing along. “The way authority convinces you that watching you is for your own protection.”
“Or like institutions that promise sanctuary,” Luna says, reaching for a pretzel. “They tell you they’re keeping you safe, that monitoring you is just part of the protection. But there’s a fine line between safety and captivity, right?”
The irony of her statement makes my chest ache. She still doesn’t understand. Still didn’t get to her marked passage.
I’m about to direct the conversation toward getting Luna to read further when I hear footsteps approaching—quick, light, accompanied by the sound of humming. My entire body tenses.
“Oh my God, is this a book club?”
Leyla Clark appears at the end of the aisle, her honey-blonde ponytail bouncing, her perpetually enthusiastic smile in full force.
She’s wearing her uniform with the same careful precision she always does, her backpack covered in those ridiculous dolphin patches that make her look like an overgrown child.
My heart drops into my stomach.
“Hey, Leyla,” Luna says warmly, because of course she does. “We’re just starting a reading group.”
“That’s so cool! I love book clubs.” Leyla bounces on her toes, clutching her own books to her chest. “What are you reading?”
“Dystopian literature,” Max says, and I can hear the warning in his voice, the subtle attempt to discourage her. “Pretty heavy stuff. Probably not your thing.”
“Are you kidding? I love dystopian fiction.” She leans over to see the books on our table. “Oh, Orwell! And Atwood! These are classics. Can I join? Please? I promise I’m a good discussant. I was in the honors literature program at my last school.”
No. No, no, no. This cannot happen. Leyla Clark, with her innocent act and her family connections to the Italian mafia, who probably reports everything she sees back to Selena. She cannot be part of this group.
“I don’t know,” I start, searching for a polite way to refuse. “We kind of want to keep it small—”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Luna interrupts, and I want to scream. “The more perspectives, the better, right? And Leyla’s always been welcoming to me. Even when you weren’t, Belle.”
I want to roll my eyes, pull my hair out, and slap her at the same time.
Leyla beams. “Thank you! This is going to be so fun. Which book should I read first?”
Erik’s eyes meet mine across the table, and I see the same panic I’m feeling. But there’s no way to object now without making it obvious that we don’t want her here, without raising questions about why we’re so protective of our little reading group.
“Why don’t you take Fahrenheit 451 ?” I suggest, grabbing the one book I haven’t annotated. “It’s shorter than the others, so you can catch up quickly.”