so she can yank them up again."
I don't say anything. I've heard rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove have close ties to the president of Deliria -Free America, one of the most powerful anti- deliria groups in the country. It makes sense that she likes to weed, to uproot the nasty, creeping growth that blemishes her perfect garden. That is what the DFA wants too: total eradication of the disease, of the nasty, dark, twisting eify, twistmotions that cannot be regulated or controlled.
I feel as though something hard and sharp is stuck in my throat. I swallow, reach out, and squeeze the porch railing, taking comfort in its roughness and solidity.
I should be grateful. That's what my mother would tell me. Fred is good-looking, and rich, and he seems nice enough. His father is the most powerful man in Portland, and Fred is being groomed to take his place. But the tightness in my chest and throat won't go away.
He dresses like his father.
My mind flashes to Steve--his easy laugh, his long, tan fingers skating up my thigh--and I will the image away quickly.
"I don't bite, you know," Fred says lightly. I'm not sure whether he means it to be an invitation to move closer, but I stay where I am.
"I don't know you," I say. "And I'm not used to talking to boys." This is no longer exactly true--not since Angelica and I discovered the underground, anyway--but of course, he can't know that.
He spreads his hands. "I'm an open book. What do you want to know?"
I look away from him. I have many questions: What did you like to do before you were cured? Do you have a favorite time of day? What was your first match like, and what went wrong? But none are appropriate to ask. And he wouldn't answer me anyway, or he would answer the way he has been taught.
When Fred realizes I'm not going to speak, he sighs and climbs to his feet. "You, on the other hand, are a complete mystery. You're very pretty. You must be smart. You like to run, and you were president of the debate team." He has crossed the porch toward me, and he leans against the railing. "That's all I got."
"That's all there is," I say forcefully. That hard thing in my throat is only growing. Although the sun went down an hour ago, it is still very hot. I find myself wondering, randomly, what Lena is doing tonight. She must be at home--it's nearly curfew. Probably reading a book, or playing a game with Grace.
"Smart, pretty, and simple," Fred says. He smiles. "Perfect."
Perfect . There's the word again: a locked-door word--stifling, strangling.
I'm distracted by movement in the garden. One of the shadows is moving --and then, before I can cry out or alert Fred, a man emerges from the trees, carrying a large, military-style rifle. Then I do cry out, instinctively; Fred turns around and begins to laugh.
"Don't worry," he says. "That's just Derek." When I continue to stare, he explains, "One of Dad's guards. We've beefed up security recently. There have been rumors. . . ." He trails off.
"Rumors about what?" I prompt him.
He avoids looking at me. "It's probalf 8217;s bly overblown," he says casually. "But some people believe that a resistance movement is growing. Not everyone believes that the Invalids"--he winces when he says the word, as though it hurts him--"were eradicated during the blitz."
Resistance movement. Invalids. A prickly feeling starts to work its way through my body, as though I've just been plugged into an electrical outlet.
"My father doesn't believe it, of course," Fred finishes flatly. "Still, better to be safe than sorry, right?"
Once again, I stay quiet. I wonder what Fred would do if he knew about the underground, and knew that I had spent the summer at forbidden, unsegregated beach parties and concerts. I wonder what he would do if he knew that only last week, I let a boy kiss me, let him explore my thighs with his fingertips--actions reviled and forbidden.
"Would you like to go down into the gardens?" Fred asks, as though sensing the topic has disturbed
I don't say anything. I've heard rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove have close ties to the president of Deliria -Free America, one of the most powerful anti- deliria groups in the country. It makes sense that she likes to weed, to uproot the nasty, creeping growth that blemishes her perfect garden. That is what the DFA wants too: total eradication of the disease, of the nasty, dark, twisting eify, twistmotions that cannot be regulated or controlled.
I feel as though something hard and sharp is stuck in my throat. I swallow, reach out, and squeeze the porch railing, taking comfort in its roughness and solidity.
I should be grateful. That's what my mother would tell me. Fred is good-looking, and rich, and he seems nice enough. His father is the most powerful man in Portland, and Fred is being groomed to take his place. But the tightness in my chest and throat won't go away.
He dresses like his father.
My mind flashes to Steve--his easy laugh, his long, tan fingers skating up my thigh--and I will the image away quickly.
"I don't bite, you know," Fred says lightly. I'm not sure whether he means it to be an invitation to move closer, but I stay where I am.
"I don't know you," I say. "And I'm not used to talking to boys." This is no longer exactly true--not since Angelica and I discovered the underground, anyway--but of course, he can't know that.
He spreads his hands. "I'm an open book. What do you want to know?"
I look away from him. I have many questions: What did you like to do before you were cured? Do you have a favorite time of day? What was your first match like, and what went wrong? But none are appropriate to ask. And he wouldn't answer me anyway, or he would answer the way he has been taught.
When Fred realizes I'm not going to speak, he sighs and climbs to his feet. "You, on the other hand, are a complete mystery. You're very pretty. You must be smart. You like to run, and you were president of the debate team." He has crossed the porch toward me, and he leans against the railing. "That's all I got."
"That's all there is," I say forcefully. That hard thing in my throat is only growing. Although the sun went down an hour ago, it is still very hot. I find myself wondering, randomly, what Lena is doing tonight. She must be at home--it's nearly curfew. Probably reading a book, or playing a game with Grace.
"Smart, pretty, and simple," Fred says. He smiles. "Perfect."
Perfect . There's the word again: a locked-door word--stifling, strangling.
I'm distracted by movement in the garden. One of the shadows is moving --and then, before I can cry out or alert Fred, a man emerges from the trees, carrying a large, military-style rifle. Then I do cry out, instinctively; Fred turns around and begins to laugh.
"Don't worry," he says. "That's just Derek." When I continue to stare, he explains, "One of Dad's guards. We've beefed up security recently. There have been rumors. . . ." He trails off.
"Rumors about what?" I prompt him.
He avoids looking at me. "It's probalf 8217;s bly overblown," he says casually. "But some people believe that a resistance movement is growing. Not everyone believes that the Invalids"--he winces when he says the word, as though it hurts him--"were eradicated during the blitz."
Resistance movement. Invalids. A prickly feeling starts to work its way through my body, as though I've just been plugged into an electrical outlet.
"My father doesn't believe it, of course," Fred finishes flatly. "Still, better to be safe than sorry, right?"
Once again, I stay quiet. I wonder what Fred would do if he knew about the underground, and knew that I had spent the summer at forbidden, unsegregated beach parties and concerts. I wonder what he would do if he knew that only last week, I let a boy kiss me, let him explore my thighs with his fingertips--actions reviled and forbidden.
"Would you like to go down into the gardens?" Fred asks, as though sensing the topic has disturbed
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