Chapter 8
When I get home, I rush to my bedroom for the last pamphlet. Maybe Hux is a lost cause, but talking about President Graves
reminds me that my parents used to care, Before. After a couple hours of sleep, when I head to Lyceum headquarters, I leave
the pamphlet on the kitchen table.
Energy thrums in my veins, because it all feels real now. This is how we make a difference. Hux is wrong. People matter, words matter, the vote is going to matter. We just have to remind
people—people like my parents—of that.
I find a corner of the prep room and write quietly, letting the hours slip by in a peaceful blur. Someone has left an outline,
and the text of the pamphlet flows out of me. I can’t stop writing.
I only look up as Nef and Uri come in, followed by two other members whose names I don’t know.
One is a tall, gangly girl with long dark hair, and the other is a blond girl with wide blue eyes that are so light they’re almost white.
Uri introduces them as Meg and Candice. Nef sits next to me and waggles her eyebrows.
“So? Hux. What did he want? Besides you, of course,” she whispers.
Uri’s brow furrows as he clocks Hux’s name on his sister’s lips, but he doesn’t look up or ask questions. For a moment, I
consider telling the truth—telling Nef who Huxley really is. It could be something Lyceum could use. Maybe we can write about
it and expose their location.
But Hux would be arrested. And he wouldn’t be shipped off—he’d be killed. While it’s important to stop the Machs, that cost
is just too high. That’s what makes us different. We don’t trade lives.
“He just wanted to make sure I was okay,” I lie.
Nef thinks, then wrinkles her nose. “Boring,” she intones, reaching for a pen.
“I’ve been drafting a new pamphlet,” I say, to change the topic. “It’s a great idea, to get people excited about a new candidate.
I think if we start with the positives . . .”
Suddenly I’m aware of the silence, that everyone in this room is listening to our conversation.
I bite my lip and bend back to my writing. Candice stalks over and borrows my first page; she and Meg confer for a moment,
voices low, but before I can ask if there’s a problem with my draft, they all set to copying and printing, and I join, until
the basket of new pamphlets is full. Uri volunteers to take the basket to the loading dock and Nef joins him.
That leaves me alone with Meg and Candice. Which isn’t weird until I look up from writing and see them both staring at me with unreadable expressions.
“Um,” I try hesitantly, “is everything okay?”
I’m not imagining how flustered they look, how Candice turns and tries to write with a capped pen or how Meg twirls a strand
of hair in an innocent act.
“Yeah,” Candice says coolly.
“I really appreciate how welcoming everyone has been,” I offer, hoping to break a little bit of the solid wall of three-foot-thick
ice that seems to have suddenly appeared between us.
Meg lets out a snort. “Well. Everyone has heard of Ripley Hart.”
The way she says it, it doesn’t sound like a good thing. My gut churns, feeling sour. “What do you mean?”
Has she read Written in the Stars? Saffron was an invention of a lonely kid. I’m not her. Maybe she thinks I’m that desperate for affection, or that annoying—
“Everyone here had to start with paper pressing and pen sorting. Must be nice not to have to earn your spot.”
I keep my head tilted down toward the page, but my eyes drift up on their own. The vitriol is not even hidden a little bit
now.
“I didn’t know there was a lower level,” I say as lightly as I can, but there’s an edge to it I can’t hide. “I would have
started wherever Ms. Astor put me.”
“Well, Ms. Astor isn’t here, is she?” Meg spits, her lower jaw jutting forward.
I sit back. Enough is enough. “I’m really sorry about what happened with her. But she wanted me to join. You need people who
can write,” I say, stopping when I see her eyebrow arch. I shrug. “I can’t do a lot, but . . . I can write.”
Candice narrows her icy eyes at me, a smirk curling up the side of her mouth.
Self-consciousness blooms hot under my skin, and I swallow against the lump in my throat, warring with irritation.
“People like my writing,” I insist, refusing to minimize myself. Time to be brave. Bold. “I mean, millions have read Written in the Stars. If I can use that power to connect with people . . .”
I trail off. Their expressions make me uneasy, especially when Candice turns to roll her eyes at Meg. It’s like I walked out
of the bathroom with the seat protector stuck in my pants and they’re waiting for the right moment to tell me.
“Right. It’s your love of writing that brought you here,” Candice coos, laughing as she grabs more paper and gets to work.
“Candice.” A sharp voice bites through the room. Uri and Nef stand at the door, and my face flushes as I wonder how much of
that they heard. From the thunderous look on Uri’s face, probably enough.
“We need bodies on bikes. Both of you,” Uri orders. The smirks fall from their faces as they stand, but Meg still shoots me a smug look before pushing her chair in and following Candice into the hallway.
“Ignore them, Ripley,” Uri says softly.
He and Nef join me again, and the sound of pens scratching on paper fills the room.
But it does nothing to soothe the doubt that Meg’s cruel smile kicked up in my mind. The feeling grows roots, settling low
in my belly. And it only gets worse when I get home and find the pamphlet I left for my parents shredded into a fine confetti
that settles in an even layer across the trash like snow.
I slip up to my room and boot up Spindle.
I access Written in the Stars and click through until I find the chapter I’m looking for—the one where Orion cuts his hand on a lava rock as he’s climbing
to bring backup to Saffron and her crew on Mars. Together, they stare down the invading Hammers as they seek to decimate a
village below.
“We’re outnumbered,” Saffron says, her back pressed to Orion’s. Lasers fly around them, the sound of metal screeching against
dirt fills the air.
Orion turns, then, pressing his body against Saffron’s. It’s the heat of battle, but they don’t care.
“You and me. We’re together. The two of us together. That’s the only number that matters,” Orion says, wrapping his hand around
the back of Saffron’s neck.
They kiss, and Saffron’s hand finds the holster of her light spear as his lips still on hers, his breath hot against her mouth.
She remembers, as he presses his forehead to hers, what she’s fighting for. She remembers that she can be scared and still
move. Being scared is what makes you brave, after all. Everyone knows this.