Chapter 2 #3
Something I haven’t done since the last time I was scared.
As I click, the screen sputters and then turns white. A file folder pops up: WitS. I click it, and documents populate, each with a name on them.
Dreams. Lake Swim. Chipped Concrete.
I scroll until I find the one I was thinking of—
Starlight.
I open the file and look at the story I started writing eight years ago.
He wasn’t the kind of boy who would tell you how he felt, and I knew that. It made sense. His whole life, he’d been trained
to keep his emotions in check.
Orion looked down at her, his green eyes sparkling with unsaid words.
Saffron knew that he wouldn’t tell her what was going through his mind. She would have to read it.
He leaned closer.
All of a sudden, the sound of a grinding engine split the air, and Saffron and Orion jumped apart.
“No,” she said, turning and breaking into a dead sprint.
She knew what was happening, and she knew he was close behind her.
They were going to cut down The Tree.
The one in the greenhouse observatory where they’d sit and watch the stars. The tree where they met as kids, became friends,
and then became something more.
Saffron sprinted down the metal hallways of the ship, lurching to a horrified stop as she beheld the men in orange work vests
revving their chainsaws.
“No!” she screamed, and then Orion was next to her. No, he was passing her.
He was running at the tree. He threw himself against the trunk before scrambling up into the branches.
The men on the ground yelled out their protests, but Orion didn’t care. He smiled at her, throwing the words out over his
shoulder.
“They’ll have to take me down with it,” he called.
She knew two things: he meant it, and she loved him for it.
I stare at the words, the boy’s voice echoing in my memory. It’s so different now—not as pure, and not as hopeful. But it
used to be full of life.
They’ll have to take me down with it.
I started writing years ago, and I started for a stupid reason that quickly became the only reason that made sense: I had
feelings for a boy.
Not just any boy, but the boy who lived next door. Writing it down seemed to be the only way to make sense of it. To make
it mine, because he would never be. It felt brave and magical, like I was grabbing something intangible and holding it in
my hands. And now that’s all illegal.
I wonder how long it’ll take for the new law to erase this file even from this computer. After all, my word processing files
have all been erased from my tablet. When I was younger, I uploaded all the files to an anonymous server so I could share
with Nef.
I wonder if they’re still there.
And then I pick up my tablet and navigate to Spindle, where I used to link things for Nef. I wonder what she’d say if I sent it now. I wonder if she ever even read it back then.
It takes two clicks, but I watch as the story loads on the server.
And then I almost drop my tablet. All of Saffron and Orion’s stories are there. And they’ve been viewed over a million times.
Something like a laugh breaks out of me, because this can’t be real.
And it will all be for nothing once Spindle is erased and I’m shipped off to war.
Still, a small part of me flares with something like pride. The feelings I had for him didn’t do anything to save us, but
maybe they can save someone else. Maybe someone can learn from my mistakes, and say how she feels before it’s too late.
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor of the attic, staring at the numbers on my screen, but finally I draw in a deep breath.
I stare at the message that was sent to me today. A mystery. A taunt. A death sentence.
Even though my fingers shake, I type out: What do you want?
The reply is immediate: The Huntington.
One hour.
Or we drop this birth certificate off at the nearest recruitment center.
This time I can’t choose to be brave. I guess bravery is one of those things that drags you behind it, ready or not.
I don’t even try to be quiet as I slip down from the attic.
I could probably even slam the front door behind me, but muscle memory inspires me to head for my bedroom window, inching out onto the eaves as I ford out into the blackness, slipping my mask over my nose and mouth.
The streetlights over here go dark at nine o’clock.
There’s no reason to be out after then, anyway.
No legal reason, anyway.
Which is why it’s interesting to me that as I prepare to sneak off through the bushes, I see a familiar shape walking across
the roof across from me: my neighbor, Huxley Finn.
As if sensing my presence, he whips his head in my direction. If he sees me, he doesn’t say anything. I’m frozen up here,
perched like a cat, as he grips the gutter and spills seamlessly down to the sidewalk below, smooth as a shadow. He’s done
this before, I think. Maybe I imagine the shine of his eyes, a glance over his shoulder, before he disappears into the dark.
Well, well, well.
The Huntington is in the opposite direction. I can’t follow him, not tonight. But where is Hux going at this time of night?