Chapter 14 #2
“ENOUGH,” I scream, pushing Hux back as my hands come to fists at my sides. The cry is so loud that it hurts my throat, but it does
the trick. For once, the tunnel—all of Lyceum, all of the Machs—go silent. And look at me.
“She is her own person,” I cry, the rage I’ve been holding on to for days finally spilling over as I whip to glare at Uriah.
“You lied to me. All of Lyceum. I thought I found my people—my family.” I hate how my voice catches, and I stop to make sure I can continue without crying. Nef looks down, ashamed, and Uriah has
the decency to look embarrassed as well.
I lower my voice, speaking only to Uriah and Lena: “You didn’t ask. You didn’t trust me. You used my writing—my heart—against
me. But you don’t own me. I’m not Lyceum’s to claim.”
With that, I whip my head to the other side, pinning a smug-looking Hux with the same ferocious glare. “And you. You want to stop a tyrant? Funny, because you seem so ready to become one. You don’t tell me when I’m done. I decide that. No one else.”
I take a step forward, using the moment to catch my breath, surprised that still the silence stretches. People are listening
to me. To my words.
“You need me. I can make a difference. And I will. Because I know what the vote is for, and I’m going to stop it.”
Hundreds of eyes stare at me as I gingerly hoist myself back onto the scaffolding. I make sure my voice is steady, loud enough
that not a single word will be missed: “In a week, the Senate will be voting on extending President Graves’s term. They’re
going to make him dictator. For life.”
Below me, Hux jolts back. Uriah swears under his breath. I look to both of them.
“And someone came into my room and took the books I had there,” I add. “Someone in the White House probably knows that I’m
with Lyceum. That same person could be the one who rigged the bomb. It’s entirely possible that Callum wasn’t the target—I
was.”
Hux’s jaw twitches as he looks to Lena. When he finds my gaze, his green eyes are on fire. “We have to kill President Graves.”
“What?” I hiss, scrambling off my makeshift stage and rushing over to him. “No. No, Huxley.”
“There’s no other way,” he answers, voice raised, and the Machs murmur in agreement.
I step closer to him. “You’re the one who said killing him would only make him a martyr,” I counter. “Give me a chance. We have a week. I can stop this. I know I can get him to help.”
Hux’s eyes narrow, and somehow they’re more murderous than when he was suggesting an actual assassination, so I turn back
to the crowd, standing among them. “Callum Graves is a good person,” I call. “A friend. And he doesn’t want this, either.
If Callum comes out publicly against the vote, I know we can stop it.”
Hux’s hand comes to my elbow, a grip so light I can feel his fingers shaking with anger. “And if you’re wrong,” he bites out,
lips by my ear, “when you can’t convince him, when President Graves outmaneuvers you, uses you in his videos and sound bites,
you’ll have ended democracy in America. You’ll be more than a propaganda princess—you’ll be America’s first actual princess.
The nation, the world as we know it, will end. And there’ll be nothing we can do to stop it.”
“You don’t get to kill people because you don’t believe they can change!” I yell. My scream echoes off the tunnel walls, emotion
soaking every syllable.
Hux narrows his eyes. Everyone’s watching, but it might as well be just us.
“And you don’t get to wager the future of the planet on a boy just because you think he’s a character in your pathetic love stories,” Hux taunts. “You’re a good kisser, Ripley. But not that good.”
My hand whips out before I can think about it, backhanding across his cheek. The slap burns my knuckles as his head twists,
absorbing the blow with a wince.
A collective gasp sounds from the entire tunnel, followed by a sickening, deafening silence.
I’ve slapped Huxley Finn hundreds of times—in jest, in practice, in annoyance. We’ve sparred and traded words and blows and
I’ve never even come close to hurting him. But this time, I forgot. I forgot about the ring.
A sharp gash cuts right over his lip, drawing blood.
The tip of his tongue darts out, licking the trickling red drop as he slowly turns back to look at me, his expression flat,
even as the skin pinks with my force. The rest of his face goes sickly pale.
My chest heaves with rage, hurt, and—though I don’t want to admit it—fear.
He’s right. If I can’t convince Callum, our democracy is dead. What if I don’t mean as much to him as I think? As I hope?
How much of how I feel about him is based on memory? On the story I wove out of desperation? If he doesn’t feel about me the
way I feel about him, we could all die.
“Three days,” Hux says finally. “The Machs will give you three days to convince Callum to defect. Or we kill President Graves
and anyone else who gets in our way.”
Hux doesn’t move his face, but bounces his eyes to Uriah, who I feel behind me.
“Lyceum agrees to the terms,” Uriah booms. There is a murmur of agreement and the sound of boots and shuffling on concrete—the
meeting is adjourned. But neither Hux nor I move.
“Anyone?” I whisper through clenched teeth.
Hux’s eyes flicker, but he blinks the emotion away. “Anyone,” he answers finally, and I understand what he means.
Even me.
My room feels even more empty without my books, but I can’t be alone with my thoughts, so I finally give in and turn on the
screens. There’s no way to turn on just one, and I’m not going to call for help. With my luck, they would send Hux.
I look down at my hand, the one that slapped him. As I stretch and flex my fingers, the diamond glitters obscenely.
I can’t get the sight of Hux’s angry expression out of my mind. The way he shoved himself to his feet when I stepped onto
the creaking scaffold, like he was stopping himself from rushing toward me and checking to see if I was okay.
Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m trying to balance out the good kisser comment by pretending he cares in ways he doesn’t. Maybe that’s been our relationship, these past eight years. Me finding
hints and clues that he cares about me, and him telling me, time and time again, that he doesn’t even want to be my friend.
I shut my eyes and make myself breathe.
“At the top of the hour,” comes the AI broadcaster’s voice, “our main story is the attack on Callum Graves and his fiancée,
Ripley Hart, as they surveyed the ravaged Alaskan coastline in search of the last wild polar bear on the planet, Marcy.”
There are shots of us, and I watch myself lean against him. My hair gets in my face, and I push it away. This was the moment
I was telling him about The Lord of the Rings. I was so self-conscious about talking too much that I didn’t really look at Callum. But now I can see him, eyes dancing as
he watches me ramble.
I step closer to the screen, entranced by him. By how he looks at me.
He reaches up, pushing my hair behind my ear. I didn’t even realize he did that—I must have been talking about Weathertop
or something and was too lost in the story to notice.
But the way he looks at me—how did I not notice?
“The two lovebirds were seen holding each other as they watched the hopeful scene of our beautiful and brave Marcy, no doubt
talking about how future policy changes could save our wildlife. With President Graves expected to announce massive environmental
initiatives at the Union Conference next week, there’s no doubt much for the couple to discuss—”
The camera zooms in on my face, just as Callum and I nearly kissed, and from this angle it looks like our lips are meeting, and on screen my eyes are fluttering closed as if in ecstasy. If Callum looks lovesick, I look terminal.
I hit the button on the table next to the bed, letting the screen go dark.
Propaganda princess, Hux’s voice echoes in my ear.
I fall into the bed and stare at the ceiling and try to ignore how my fingers keep flexing, trying to rid themselves of the
electric-like buzzing that’s been humming under my skin since my skin touched his.