Chapter 4
I blink several times, trying to stop my eyes from burning as I click through images. Even though I’m back at school, my mind
is spinning with the book I stayed up too late reading. The world Ray Bradbury crafted had me enthralled—I couldn’t put it
down.
I finished the book around three in the morning and then lay awake until about five thinking about it. Only complete and utter
exhaustion finally made me give in and sleep for a couple of hours before my alarm went off.
I’ve chugged so much coffee today I wouldn’t be surprised if my blood was made up of a small percentage of pure caffeine.
My heart thumps in my chest as I force myself to focus on the monitors.
Cat.
Cat.
Cougar—technically a cat?
Hux is beside me today, and I haven’t looked at him once. I didn’t spare him much thought after I opened the book, but him
sitting next to me brings back the words he spat: We can’t be friends.
As though I was strange for caring about him, as though feeling anything made me weak. I knew that wasn’t true before I read
my first book, but I know it even more now.
And I want more.
Ms. Astor sits at her desk, her shoulders back as she clicks away on her keyboard. I haven’t looked at her either, really,
but that’s because I don’t trust myself to keep my face relaxed. The words you’re a secret librarian will probably appear on my forehead or something.
Behind me, Nef keeps sniffling. Her allergies are getting the worst of her, and I fight the urge to lean back and hand her
a tissue. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself today.
That is the new plan, the one I came up with on the train ride over.
Keep your head down. Don’t cause any trouble, don’t stick out like a sore thumb. Do the job, go home . . . and read.
But in order to do that, I have to find a way to ask Ms. Astor for another book. I have Fahrenheit 451 under the false bottom of my gym bag, ready to return. I’m not going home without a new one.
I click faster than usual, nervous energy sending my fingers flying as my knee jostles up and down.
Hux sighs next to me, but I still don’t look at him.
“They’re going to bring the medics in if you don’t calm down.” His voice is soft as he tilts just slightly, eyeing Ms. Astor
through the space in the monitors in front of us.
I tighten my jaw. It’s not like he actually wants an answer.
It’s not like he’s my friend.
“Ripley,” he says, his voice low.
And maybe that’s it—my first name, for once. I turn to look at him. He’s got a dark bruise under his eye. Not that I care,
but this morning I heard him telling another student that he got hurt while working out.
And for a moment, I see that boy I met eight years ago, and not the asshole he became.
“What is wrong with you?” he whispers.
“Too much coffee,” I say simply. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Hux presses his lips together as we both look back to our screens, clicks punctuating the silence. My knee bounces of its
own accord again as I finish up cats and start another refining portfolio. This one is tiles: bath tiles, roof tiles, all
kinds of tiles. Fascinating.
Just a couple of hours ago, I was deep in a world of intrigue and bravery and betrayal. Now, I’m staring at beige grout. I
want to scream.
No, I don’t want to scream. I purposefully still my knee and click the mouse as I take a deep breath.
I don’t want to scream. I want to talk to someone about it.
I just experienced something singular, something magical.
And until I can get Ms. Astor alone to ask for another book, I can’t tell anyone.
I cast a low, sideways look at Hux.
Hux whistles low, eyes on his screen—he’s sorting images of smiling faces. The grinning girl on his screen has far too many
teeth. “Not even forming full sentences.” Now a smiling boy with eyelashes that sprout and intersect like insect legs. “Maybe
I should call the medics. Exactly how much coffee are we talking?”
“Not enough to put up with your bullshit today, I can tell you that,” I shoot back, chancing a glance at him.
His jaw is shaded with just a hint of shadow, and there are dark circles under green eyes that flick to mine briefly. He smirks.
It’s slight—curling up the side of his mouth briefly—but somehow carries more warmth, more of what it means to smile than the inhuman grimace on his screen.
“A full sentence. I’m satisfied,” he whispers back.
Something flickers in my chest, and I bounce my knee again as I look away. Too much caffeine. That is what sends my heart racing in my chest.
I think this is his way of apologizing. I wouldn’t know, really. I’ve never seen him apologize.
“A whole pot. Blond roast,” I whisper finally. If that’s his way of apologizing, I guess this is my way of starting to think about maybe accepting it.
“Woof,” he says back, and I feel myself starting to smile before I can make myself stop.
For a moment—just a moment—I wonder what it would be like to tell Hux everything. What would he do if I told him? If I introduced
him to Lyceum? We have been told our whole lives that there were only two possible paths into adulthood, and neither was good.
For the first time, I feel hope. We might actually have a future.
An alarm beeps, and Ms. Astor stands and announces that it’s time for weapons training.
Everyone files out of the classroom quickly—the first ones to the recreation area get their pick of the grappling gear, and
no one wants to get stuck with the shin guards that are kept together by electrical tape.
But I have something else I want more.
Hux takes his time, and I half wonder if he can tell I’m stalling. With one more look over his shoulder, he follows Nef out
the door and down the hall.
I wait a beat, pulling my mouse from my monitor and making a beeline for Ms. Astor’s desk.
“I think this is broken,” I say loudly, giving us cover for the conversation. Every single one of these computers is outfitted with a camera and microphone, constantly pushing data through Alba. Any red flags go straight to the Hammers.
Ms. Astor makes a face and reaches for my “broken” mouse, and I lower my voice: “I finished it. I finished the book.”
Her eyebrows jump. Here, she’s careful. Measured. But I can see the glimmer of excitement in her eyes at my announcement.
Maybe she didn’t think I’d actually read it.
“And?” she whispers back, pretending to inspect the mouse.
“I loved it. I brought it in my gym bag so I can give it back. Can I have another?”
She lowers the mouse and roots around her desk. “Yes.”
My chest fills as I half expect her to pull a book out of her drawer. Instead, she withdraws a wire, cracking the plastic
paneling off the mouse and replacing it as she talks.
“But not here.” Her eyes meet mine and fill with warning. “From now on, Ripley, never speak about it here. We keep these lives separate, which keeps us safe. Tonight, Pasadena City College.”
I look around as the realization of what I’m asking and where I’m asking it dawns on me. A room full of cameras and microphones. Alba always listening. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay, Ripley. It’s okay,” Ms. Astor says. She holds out the mouse. “This should work,” she says loudly. As I take the mouse and set it on my desk, Ms. Astor puts an irritated look on her face. “They don’t have all day, Ms. Hart. Please hurry.”
I nod, acting chastened as I hurry into the hallway.
The blue tape stretches against the cracking plastic as I try to pull the shin guards tighter.
“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Nef says, resecuring her wrist wraps with the crisp bite of Velcro. “Those are always
the last pair, and you were so late.”
We’re sitting with the girls on one side of the old gymnasium. Across the way, the boys stretch and warm up. Between us rests
a massive black wrestling mat. The gymnasium feels smaller with everyone packed inside of it, and it smells worse too.
I lean in and sniff the guards on my shin as I stretch, wincing. No, no. It’s not the gym. It’s the pads. After long hours
of refining, the chance to do something active feels good. The fact that we also get to beat the shit out of each other is a perk.
“I had to tell her about the mouse. I didn’t want to get my DopaMine docked again,” I lie.
Nef nods, tangle of curls bouncing in their high bun.
From this angle, I can see the slight pock of a scar along the light brown skin of her cheek—I bandaged that cut during the fencing practicum last year, and then volunteered to spar against the guy who gave it to her.
I stabbed him in the thigh, and the tip of the foil had mysteriously fallen off.
So weird.
“Prepare for first pairing,” Alba says through the speakers, jarring me. I’m still half hoping for Mr. Avilas and his whistle.
The door opens to the right of us, and Hux slips inside, keeping to the wall so he avoids Alba’s motion detectors and getting
docked for being late. I wonder if he was getting into another fight, or waiting for me outside the classroom door?
But why would he do that? It’s not like we’re friends.
A rush of annoyance under my collarbone ratchets up to rage.
“First, we will have . . .” Alba’s voice halts as her system draws a name. “Ripley Hart.” The girls clap, and Nef lets out
a little whoop to cheer me on.
I stand, and the sad, gross shin guard slips down my leg. Great. That bodes well.
“And Huxley Finn.”
The guys let out an encouraging cheer, and Hux rolls his shoulders, grinning as he stares across the mat at me.
“Well, shit,” I whisper as I walk out. I yank the sad shin guard off one leg, and then the other. They were useless before,
and they are especially useless now.
Hux saunters toward me.
He’s got thirty pounds of muscle and a foot of height on me, but that doesn’t matter when we’re training. We learn a mixture
of martial arts that are designed to teach us how to get the advantage over any opponent, not just ones with whom we’re equally matched. After all, we won’t have weight classes in war.
When we meet, he holds his hand up as though measuring my height, and brings his hand to the center of his chest.