Defy the Dark

Aprilynne Pike Nature

In the end, it’s because of my hips.

The nurse doing my physical looks up from the icy calipers pressing against the skin fold at my waist. “When did you eat last?”

Caught.

“Monday,” I mumble. When scores were released. There’s no reason to lie; it’s too late to change anything.

“I want you to go right to the cafeteria after this, do you understand? Eat something soft—yogurt, soup—otherwise you’ll have a terrible bellyache.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper.

She’s still for a few moments before she loops a cold, plastic tape measure around me, pulling it firm but not tight across my navel. “You know,” she says without looking me in the eye, “it’s not about fat; it’s your pelvic bones. They’re perfect for a Nature.” Her hands find my pelvic ridges and grip them almost possessively. I suppress the urge to pull away, to get her hands off me. “Good oblong girdle, wide, but with a generous depth—we’ll have to do some measurements via ultrasound to be sure, but I predict a perfect-sized outlet.”

“My scores are high,” I blurt, not wanting my fate to be fixed yet.

“Not sure it matters,” the nurse says, and marks down numbers for my waist, my bust, my hips. “These hips are going to subtract a lot of points.”

“They’re very high,” I insist. It’s a lie.

She laughs. “Please. Can’t be all that high if you starved yourself to get your measurements down, can they?”

My face burns red and I want this physical over. I just want to leave.

And my stomach is growling.

Traitor.

Three and a half more minutes drag by before the nurse smiles. “You can go now,” she chirrups in a tone that makes me want to strike her.

I grit my teeth, hating that I’ve succumbed to these violent feelings again. I’ve had a lot of them lately—it wasn’t something I ever struggled with before.

Before the scores.

“I don’t know how you did on your exams, of course,” the nurse says, distracted as she writes more numbers on my chart. “But I suspect we’ll see you tomorrow for that ultrasound. Don’t fill up your schedule, just in case.” Her busybody hands sweep me out the office door, quickly but not unkindly, and I shift to the side as another girl from my class gives me a nervous smile and takes my place in the examination room.

The door closes and I’m alone in the foyer. “They’re quite high,” I whisper to no one.

But the nurse is right—they’re not high enough.

Last year I was fifteen, top quarter of my class, headed straight for the life of a Nurture. I had just finished a growth spurt that stretched me tall—five nine, with a slim, boyish figure I expected to keep. Everything was perfect.

But evidently my growth spurt was just the beginning, and I learned firsthand the definition of “late bloomer.” In the last six months I’d gone from flat and skinny to curvy. I didn’t think much about it until I couldn’t zip up my jeans and had to go to the clothing emporium for new pants for the second time in three months. I had to fill out a special form and get my nutrition and body fat analyzed. But my fat percentage had barely changed. I just had hips and breasts now.

With the new clothes came the realization that those hips could ruin everything.

It’s been almost a thousand years since the Bust, when birth rates in the more developed parts of the world dwindled to the point that societies could no longer support themselves and collapsed. The economic devastation that followed was nothing compared to the war for resources that wrecked the environment and ended with most of Africa turned into a nuclear wasteland. It was a whole new Dark Age, characterized by the rise—and subsequent fall—of several high-control autocracies, theocracies, plutocracies, and just plain crazies.

“Doomed to failure,” our government books say. And they were right. Human beings are too free-spirited to thrive under so much control. It’s a concept we learn from our youth. Besides, in such a government, the balance is so precarious, it only takes one strong rebel to topple everything.

That’s how New Horizon came to be. Founded by Stewart Richardson—a runaway from a totalitarian dictatorship—our community rejects the idea that a governing body should control our lives. But Richardson also knew that we had to avoid another Great Collapse (the proper name for what most people just call the Baby Bust). So, as a society, we give up a small part of our freedom for the benefits of a well-ordered community. In return, we have strict laws protecting the freedoms we most value.

It always made sense to me. How could it not?

Until five days ago.

One hundred and eight. My test score.

It’s black and white; one hundred and over become Nurture. Ninety and under become Labor.

Ninety-one to ninety-nine are Nature.

If my hips weren’t so big, I would have been Nurture for sure. Every inch over thirty drags down your score if you’re female. For males, it’s about chest circumference.

I saw the number the nurse marked down for my hip measurement. It brings my final score down to ninety-nine.

I scoop up a large spoonful of pudding and stuff the whole thing into my mouth, feeling the tingle of butterscotch on my tongue. For a moment—only a moment—it is me and my butterscotch in a world of pleasure that nothing and no one can touch.

Until I realize tears are streaming down my cheeks.

Natures are exactly average. I don’t want to be average. I understand why our society is built around the mathematical median. Extremes cannot sustain themselves. Everyone knows that. It’s the most basic principle, taught by Richardson to my ancestors two hundred and fifty years ago, when New Horizon was established. New Horizon has lasted longer than any country since the Bust, because we know that the answer to the age-old question of Nature versus Nurture is . . . neither.

And both.

Halfway. A median point. Median intelligence, median education. That’s what produces the most perfect human beings. The most balanced human beings. Cutting out the extremes keeps things stable.

But Richardson also understood that even the median can be taken to an extreme. Those are the more complicated philosophies, the ones they teach you when you’re a Nurture—the ways to maintain the balance that keeps our community alive. I was going to spend the rest of my life learning about those ways, but one of them I already know. Everyone knows; the physical markers of females who are likely to be healthy mothers and produce healthy babies.

Good hips.

Wide hips.

One inch. And my plans for the rest of my life are shattered.

There is no ceremony. No elaborate good-byes. No awards or medals of distinction. It’s just life. In the year we turn sixteen, at the end of March, we separate and go on to our assigned roles. It’s the one big freedom we’ve given up to our governors. For our own good.

It always made sense to me.

Until five days ago.

There are no tears or heartfelt partings; it’s not like we won’t see each other. Nature, Nurture, Labor, we all mingle freely—a freedom that’s heavily protected—but like those proverbial birds of a feather, each classification tends to flock together.

To be honest, I’ve never before given it a second thought. We all have different kinds of jobs. What Laborer wants their work interrupted by a chatty Nurture, anyway? Learning doesn’t come easily to them, and they’re often relieved to give it up. They are the pillars of support in New Horizon, and Richardson taught that we are never to look down on them. Their life is far from grueling—no one works more than forty hours a week and never in unsafe conditions. We have thousands of years of terrible history to teach us that breaching either of those standards is a sure road to societal dissolution.

New Horizon is better than that.

The Nurtures will head off to university. They’re the learned of our society, and their mission is twofold: to enhance our society for the next generation, and to raise the next generation to enhance society. Most will go on to teach, to nurture children into proper citizens. It’s the path I should be headed down.

Instead I’m following two other teenagers, one girl and one boy, to the tall, broad building where the Natures live. It’s their job—our job—my job—to simply produce the next generation.

Well, not simply. Natures are intelligent enough to work what I always called the “semiskilled” jobs, because, in my mind, those jobs weren’t as important as the Nurture jobs.

The job someone else is going to do now.

I’ll be given a career that won’t break down my body—a body that is now excessively precious to New Horizon as a whole—but that will require more skill than many of the Laborers possess. It won’t be something that requires sustained focus or consistent attendance; nothing will be allowed to interfere with the creation of a new generation. I won’t be assigned; I’ll rotate until I find something I like, and then I’ll get to choose. It’s not like we’re brood mares with no liberties.

But right now it kind of feels that way.

It’s early evening. Most of the day workers are home. Almost all of them are through with dinner at the cafeteria and are home with friends. It’s a time for socializing and enjoying life, a life that’s comfortable for everyone.

I had butterscotch pudding again—just butterscotch pudding.

The woman leading us is barely pregnant enough to show, but not enough that it slows her down. She gives us name tags and cards that will let us into the Nature Building. She pauses at an elegant set of double doors and asks in a gentle, quiet voice, “Do you have any questions?”

I can hear that she expects there to be none. We’ve studied Richardson. We know our roles. We’ve been learning them since the first grade. There are no secrets in New Horizon.

I want to ask her if she’s happy.

But I don’t.

When none of us speak, she smiles, swipes her card, and pushes both doors open. I’ve never been here before and don’t know really what to expect.

But a party?

Maybe this is normal.

We’re surrounded by surprisingly attractive people gathered around tall tables that are just the right height to lean on while standing. Munchies are set out, and I feel a little sick when I catch sight of a tray of cream puffs drizzled with chocolate. I should have eaten something decent at dinner.

There are a good number of pregnant women, many reclining in comfortable chairs set around the perimeter of the enormous room. I admit, not as many as I thought there would be. I guess I expected everyone to be waddling around with swollen bellies. But there are only a handful of those, maybe one in ten.

But they look good. Weirdly. They’re swathed in colorful clothing that makes them look chic and sophisticated, smiling and chatting with one another—not merely fulfilling a biological process that any female could potentially do. Prior to being initiated as a Laborer or Nurturer, anyway. Only Natures have children.

I’m trying not to stare when a shout from the front of the room mercifully pulls my attention from the women. It takes me a few seconds to locate the source of the noise, and by the time I do, he’s done talking and he’s raising a glass high in the air. Higher than everyone else. I crane my neck as those around him raise their own glasses in response and realize he’s sitting on one of the tall tables.

A grin full of straight white teeth fills much of his face, barely leaving room for his straight nose and pale blue eyes. Messy curls top off a look that could have come straight off the cover of a pamphlet about the Natures.

I admit, I take a moment to notice his long torso and broad chest.

Oh.

Broad chest. That’s the big score adjuster for males. Not only because a broad chest is indicative of both strength and virility, but because the male Natures need to be attractive to the female Natures.

So it works. So what? It’s built into millions of years of my DNA.

But that’s as far as it goes. This virtual god is clearly happy to be here, wants to be here. Probably always wanted to be a Nature and was thrilled when his chest pulled him up from Laborer.

I turn away.

I don’t like him.

I slap the dough down on the floury countertop to force the air bubbles from it. I’m making a yeast-based confection called bienenstich from a country that vanished in the Bust. Allemagne, it was called in some places. Germany. Deutschland.

I admit, I was surprised when I saw baker’s assistant on the list of job openings suitable for a Nature, but I soon discovered there’s more to the position than making cakes and bread. You oversee the regular Laborers, create new recipes, file paperwork. Marie, the current head baker, needs someone to manage the bakery when she births and then spends six months focused on breast-feeding.

Seeing as how Marie has already birthed four times and is not yet thirty, I suspect it will happen somewhat often. I look at her wide hips and wonder if they were once the same measurement as mine.

The dough. I have to think about the dough.

I’ve only been doing it for three days, but I like this job. I do paperwork with Marie at night and I’m picking it up pretty quickly.

After all, I am one of the highest-scoring Natures. I won’t forget that.

Sometimes Marie looks at me with a strange desperation in her eyes and asks how I like the work. I get the feeling she’s had a lot of Natures rotate through here—clearly none of them chose to stay. New Horizon won’t force us into a job. Another freedom.

I’m happy I can honestly assure her that I’m enjoying it. The yeasty scent on the air, the feel of dough in my hands, watching a simple lump turn into something beautiful and mouthwatering in the oven . . . and cooking is a lot like chemistry, which I was leaning toward when I thought I would be a Nurture. Baking’s not exactly lab work, but it has a similar charm.

It’s satisfying work that, surprisingly, helps me understand Laborers more than I ever thought I would. Do they feel the same satisfaction in creating something with their own hands? In putting forth physical effort—even to the point of making their muscles ache—to be rewarded by everything turning out just so? The Laborers I oversee seem to.

Except that when their shift is finished, they go home. I stay with Marie and learn the management of the bakery. I don’t mind that, either. It adds variety.

Nonetheless, at the close of my third day I’m tired, and when the bones in my spine crack as I stand, Marie reminds me that I don’t have to work so hard on the bakery floor—that I can leave the mixing and kneading to the others.

To the Laborers.

“It’s important that you learn not to overtax yourself,” she says. “When you’re carrying a little one, you’ll have to listen to your body and know when to stop.” With a smile she adds, “Your role as a child-bearer is much more important than your career. Don’t forget that.”

Like I could. It’s in my face every day.

Our government would never force anyone to have a child. Or to have sexual relations. But their encouragement is everywhere, reminding us not only about the biology but also that New Horizon is counting on us, that we are the guardians against another Great Collapse. Already my shock is fading and I’m growing numb to the encouragement of “coupling” in the Nature Building.

Nothing is segregated by gender, and while changing stalls are available—and you can practically gauge how long a new member has been living there by whether or not they still use them; I still do—you can’t expect everyone else to use them. Each night and morning I am surrounded by beautiful, virile bodies in various stages of undress. There’s nothing sexual about it, for the most part, but it’s so different.

Just as the strength of males makes them ideal Laborers, resulting in more male Laborers than female, the birthing capability of females is needed among the Natures, so every year there are far more girls than guys. And because that ratio isn’t conducive to strict pairings, promiscuity is also encouraged.

It’s still hard to accept.

I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but, if nothing else, finding that one perfect someone has always been a dream of mine—a dream much better suited to a Nurture, where the ratio of males to females is a nearly even split.

But even with their sometimes carnal encouragement, the governors have tried to be sympathetic to people like me, and there is a long wing full of more private rooms where . . . well, where anything can be done. I like to take some snacks from the large gathering room and get some quiet time.

Alone.

I’m balancing a bottle of apple juice and some soft snickerdoodles (the eggs are the secret to perfect cookies) on a plate when I reach the end of the hallway. Even in this quiet, private area, I try to get as far away as possible.

I reach out a pinkie and manage to push the door handle down and kick it open.

Too hard.

It hits the wall behind it and I bite off a shriek when someone stands up from a pile of pillows on the bed.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize, throwing my arm up over my eyes.

The arm holding the plate of cookies.

They hit the floor with dull thuds, crumbling to pieces around my feet.

“My fault,” a deep voice says. “I guess I didn’t throw the lock all the way.”

I chance a peek and the first thing I see is a completely clothed torso.

Thank goodness.

I peer behind him and don’t see anyone on the bed. There’s a rather high pile of pillows, but not big enough to hide a tryst partner.

My breath escapes from my lungs in a loud sigh before I realize it and I blush at the sensitivity that marks me a newbie.

I look up at him, daring to meet his eyes for the first time.

It’s him—the guy from the first night—the one with his glass raised high as though he hadn’t a care in the world. As if being a Nature was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. I look away as if his gaze might burn my eyes. Maybe it would. It practically shines with life and vitality.

Or it did—right now he looks almost as nervous as I do.

I drop to my knees and start picking up pieces of cookie. “I’m so sorry. I was just looking for a quiet room to read and . . . and the lock, well, obviously—” I’m rambling. “I’ll get out of your way. Right now.” I look at the floor, my long brown hair falling around my face as I try not to look at him, red heat creeping up my neck. Maybe I can get away before it reaches my face.

“It’s okay.”

His voice is butterscotch.

“I was doing the same thing.”

I pause and look up at him skeptically. “Reading?” The adrenaline pumping through me makes the question pop out with more disbelief than I intended.

I hear him swallow hard, and he looks away toward the window, where I can see the inky black sky and pinpricks of starlight. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, and there’s a quiver at the edge of his voice.

Guilt surges through me and I mutter what’s supposed to be an apology but is really only a mishmash of random syllables. The pieces of snickerdoodles are back on my plate and there’s nothing I can do about the crumbs, much less the oily butter stains. “I’ll go now,” I murmur, my head still down. At the last second I say again, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay!” the boy snaps, then sighs and runs his fingers through his honey-colored curls, which bounce back like feather-soft springs. “I’m sorry,” he says, the toe of one foot blocking the door. “You’re new. I’m Jeremy.”

He lets the introduction hang, an unspoken invitation.

My heart is beating wildly and I can’t say exactly why. After a moment Jeremy reaches out his hand, palm down. I have to tuck my bottle of juice under my arm to free up my hand, but years of social niceties, honed to instinct, have me doing just that before I can even think. My cold hand slides into his warm one.

“Kylie,” I whisper before I flee.

Jeremy is everywhere.

Raising his glass in toast after toast, walking trays of food around to all of the near-due mothers to make sure they’re “getting enough for you both,” flirting in the hallways.

Flirting in the bedrooms.

Flirting in the cafeteria, on the streets, in front of the Nature Building.

For two weeks I stand in the shadows and watch. Everyone knows him. Everyone likes him.

Everyone wants him.

Not me.

Not me.

I slap down the bread dough.

Not me. He disgusts me.

Slap.

The chime above the front door rings, and I lock gazes with a set of equally shocked blue eyes.

They remind me of a swimming pool. So light they’re almost clear, but still with that aqua hue that makes them unmistakably blue. They’re wide in surprise, mirroring my own but, unlike mine, are lined with light lashes—almost blond—that curl ever so slightly at the ends.

Something is warm on my feet, and every inch of my skin flushes red when I realize I’ve dropped an entire pile of half-kneaded dough onto my shoes. I crouch so quickly, I suspect it looks like I fell. Because the klutz who just dropped eight pounds of bread dough would, obviously, also trip on it.

“Marie!” My voice is shaking; I shouldn’t be so embarrassed—it’s just bread dough—but the moment feels oddly tragic.

Marie hurries forward, giving me a brief questioning glance, but not stopping to speak to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I slip out of my shoes and try to get as much of the dough off as possible. I don’t think they’re a completely lost cause. But I’m glad I’m due for a new pair next month.

“Kylie,” Marie says, lowering her body so we’re eye to eye. I want to look up and see if Jeremy is still there, but I don’t dare. “This young man is here to speak to you. I’ll take care of this.”

Me?

Oh no.

Not only am I going to have to look at him, I’m going to have to try to create coherent sentences.

I pad over to the counter in my stocking feet. In his defense, Jeremy isn’t smiling. Not that he’s scowling. I guess there’s a pleasant sort of turning up at the edges of his mouth, but he’s not smiling in the way that really means laughing. At me.

I don’t move. I don’t look at him. I say nothing.

“Kylie?”

He says my name like a question; I have to look up at him. I would rather heft a full-stuffed sheet cake from the hot ovens than lift my chin three inches.

But I do. I have to.

“There you are.” And now he smiles.

My face flushes even hotter and I try to look down again, but a finger on my chin stops me. “Don’t—”

It seems like the move should be seductive, a calculated finger on my face meant to flutter and excite. But something about the way his voice cuts off makes me think, somehow, that he’s feeling as awkward as I am. The curiosity of that thought makes my eyelids rise—my eyes peer up to meet his.

And I see fear.

Why fear? I’m not someone to be afraid of.

“I—I have to admit I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I work here,” I say flatly. He flinches as though I’ve struck him and I don’t know why that was the wrong thing to say. But it was.

He laughs with a nervous, tinny tone and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s had a trim since I last watched him do that, but the curls are still silky, and instead of frizzing like most people’s curls, they simply fall back against his head, soft and bouncy. “Yes, but—I didn’t know,” he says as if that were some kind of an answer.

Silence.

It stretches between us like sticky taffy, equally fragile, and I wait for it to break.

“I came to buy you something.”

“At my job?”

“I didn’t know—” That snappy tone again. Like there’s a hot temper always bubbling just beneath a thin glass exterior. “I didn’t know it was your job. I wanted to get you some kind of dessert. Something special. Since I made you break your snickerdoodles,” he says, and by the time he reaches the last word I can barely hear him, his voice has grown so soft.

The taffy silence again, and dimly I realize Marie has gone to the back room and Jeremy and I are alone.

My turn.

But my mouth refuses to speak. It’s dry and crumbly, like the flour.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Jeremy says, and glances at me.

It wasn’t a statement, but a question. Is this a bad idea?

Is it? “Butterscotch,” I blurt, way too loud. My voice fills the small space, echoing off the walls.

“Butterscotch?” he echoes.

“Butterscotch cookies. The ones with butterscotch chips, I mean—the big ones dipped halfway into white chocolate,” I say, inclining my head to the case full of delicate pastries. “They’re my favorite.”

He drifts over to the case. As if in a mirror, I scoot as well, matching him on the other side of the counter.

“These ones?” He points.

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.

“I’ll take one,” he says, digging into his pocket. “Gift-wrapped, please. With a ribbon, if I could.”

“Of course,” I say in my cheeriest we-have-a-customer voice. This is definitely the strangest thing I’ve ever done. When I’m finished wrapping the box with a ruby-red ribbon—also my favorite—I set it on the counter.

“How much?” he asks, digging into his pocket.

I’m not sure. He insinuated it was for me. Is he expecting it for free? I’m not allowed to do that. “Four credits,” I whisper.

We’re not a strictly socialistic society. Yes, the government provides for our needs—and then some. And no, we don’t get paid for our jobs. But there are numerous ways to earn individual credits that you can spend on anything you want. All of them involve going above and beyond your everyday requirements.

I’m not sure I want to know what Jeremy did that was considered “above and beyond.”

He hands me his card and I run it through my scanner, deducting the four credits. It doesn’t tell me what the remaining balance is. I’m dying to know and I’m not even sure why.

The box sits there like a flashing light between us.

“Meet me tonight?” Jeremy asks, and for a few seconds he doesn’t look at me. When he does, I almost take a step back.

He wants this.

So much.

Not me. This. Wants me to meet him.

I’m not sure I should do something Jeremy wants so badly.

He must see the hesitation in my face. He leans forward, so close I imagine I can feel his breath on my face. “I heard you hoped to be a Nurture. That you almost were.”

I say nothing but can feel the blood draining from my face.

“Meet me?” he asks again, his voice full of pressure. Temptation. “That same room. I’ll make sure it’s free.”

The world stops. There is only me. There is only him. There is only now.

“Yes,” I breathe.

Sound returns, the world presses PLAY. Did I win?

Jeremy wants to smile, to grin. Maybe to laugh. I can tell. But he simply reaches out and slides the box off the counter.

“I’ll see you at nine,” he says without looking back.

He is gone for at least a minute before I pull my aching fingers away from the smudged glass.

I don’t know what to expect. Have I read him completely wrong? Did he say that Nurture thing just to get me to come? Bait to draw me in only to seduce me the way he probably has a dozen others?

But . . .

I can always leave if I don’t like what I hear.

See.

With that thought running over and over in my mind, I step away from my assigned cubby—one with a lock only I have the key to (right to privacy)—without looking at the full-length mirror affixed to the door.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I put one foot in front of the other, traversing the long, romantically lit hall. Everything in this godforsaken building is romantic.

I pause in front of the last door, the door to the room where my snickerdoodles and I humiliated ourselves in front of Jeremy two weeks ago.

As opposed to the bakery, of course, where my bread dough and I humiliated ourselves just this afternoon. The lock says OCCUPIED, the red words shining out at me like a searchlight.

Knock?

Walk away?

He said he would make sure this room was available.

I lift my hand and stand like that for a long time, my fist shaking as my courage threatens to fail me. I don’t so much knock as let my hand fall in such a way that my knuckles hit the door.

Whatever happens next is gravity’s fault.

The sound seems to echo and I wonder if anyone is in there at all. Maybe the lock is just jammed. It would be my luck.

The door opens.

It’s Jeremy, and he lets out a breath at the same time as I do. We are a mirror—the fear, the anxiety. It’s strange to see it on Jeremy’s face, Jeremy who’s always so confident. Cocky, even.

Which one is the act? I wish I knew.

His eyes scan the hallway. “Come in,” he says, stretching to let me duck under his arm, the door inches from my back as he almost sweeps me into the room with it.

He turns the lock back to OCCUPIED with a sound like the fall of a headsman’s ax. It’s too late to change my mind. Not too late to run away, but now it will be running away, not standing him up.

Jeremy attempts a smile, but it looks awkward. He reaches down and brings out a white box from under a pillow on the bed. A bed that seems to have grown threefold and is the only thing I can look at.

“For you,” he says, handing me the white box with the red ribbon. “I’m sorry it’s not a surprise.”

I shrug with one shoulder as I take the box. “If it was a surprise, I probably wouldn’t have gotten my favorite.” I’m being nice to him now. Did I do that on purpose?

He stands with his fists on his hips, looking at my feet long enough that I start to squirm.

“My score was 107,” he whispers. “But my chest is forty-eight inches.”

I say nothing, but my hands start to tremble. I study him. His body. He’s tall—at least six five. A paragon of virility. No wonder they want him to make strong, healthy babies. His chest is particularly wide, I realize. It tapers to a narrow waist slung with jeans that are tight and loose in all the right places. He’s everything any female could want. A perfect Nature.

“I don’t want to be here,” he says as though reading my thoughts.

“But—”

“I know what it looks like,” he interrupts, and there’s a hint of that bubbling anger. I understand now; it’s not directed at me. “It’s how I hide. In plain sight, you know?” He forces a short bark of a laugh and then is silent again.

He walks over to the bed and reaches for the blanket and I get ready to bolt. He throws back the covers to reveal . . .

Textbooks?

I look at him, questions in my eyes.

“I study,” he answers. “Every night. It’s not technically against the rules. I—I have a friend who is a Nurture who gives me—anyway . . .” He waves at the books and stops rambling.

I look over at the books and my hands ache to go stroke their shiny covers. I didn’t realize until now how much I miss my classes—crave them.

I don’t belong here.

Apparently, neither does Jeremy.

“I hide them up in the box spring,” he says, dropping to his knees and pointing to the hammock-like shelf he’s rigged there. “They vacuum under here, but no one ever really looks.” He peers up at me and appears strangely small on the floor before me. “They’re always here. You can come study anytime you want. But . . .” He hesitates and the fear is back in his eyes. How does he mask it all the rest of the time? I’ve never seen even a hint before. “What I’d really like is if you come study with . . . with me.”

He’s looking down at the ground, and I stand wordless until he looks up and meets my eyes again.

It takes a long time.

“Why me?” I whisper.

“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I haven’t been interested in anyone—anyone—since I had to come here. I haven’t . . . I never . . . never more than just what people see,” he finishes, and I’m grateful he’s looking elsewhere again when my face burns red.

“But you—after that night. You made me want something again. Not just, you know, but company. Friendship, Kylie.” He’s looking at me again; he wants me to know that he’s telling the truth. As if I couldn’t already tell with his transparent swimming-pool eyes that can’t hide anything.

Not from me. How did I not see that before?

“When I came here, it was like I died inside. And these last couple weeks, watching you— learning you—it’s like I might be alive again someday. Maybe.”

His eyes plead with me to say something. Anything. Even rejection.

I don’t know what to say. He’s laid out all the feelings in my heart and they resonate within me like a violin string.

Then a sinking feeling comes over me. “This is how they do it, isn’t it?” I choke.

“Do what?” Jeremy asks.

“Keep us happy,” I whisper, admitting to myself that for the first time since I saw the measurement of my hips, I am happy. “Someone for everyone. Even us.”

It takes a moment before Jeremy understands and I see the realization dawn in his eyes. He looks down again. “Does it matter?” he murmurs almost too quietly to hear.

“I don’t know.”

Silence stretches between us and I’m not sure what to do.

Maybe I should leave.

“Stay.”

It isn’t a command. It’s a plea.

“Stay with me.” His voice is stronger now.

To stay is to admit I belong. But it also means confessing that I don’t.

Is it enough?

I sink to the floor—I’m not ready to share a bed with him, even if that bed is simply a space to sit—and pull the loose end of the deep-red ribbon. Inside the box is the oversized butterscotch chip cookie; the white chocolate is soft but not quite melty against my fingers. I break the cookie in half and hand a piece to Jeremy with a tentative smile.

His eyes sparkle and for a moment I wonder if I see a mist of tears, but he turns away and clears his throat before biting into the sweet confection. He pauses midchew, sets his piece in the white box, and reaches for the ribbon.

“May I?” he asks, and his hands are reaching toward me before I can speak. His fingertips brush the sides of my neck and my breath catches in my throat. When he’s done tying the ribbon around my ponytail, he pulls away and again those warm hands touch my skin. “Red looks good in your hair.”

My turn to confess. “That’s why I picked it.”

His eyes sparkle and I realize I’ve given him a gift.

He turns and stretches his long, beautiful arm up to the bed and slides a book down. “Chemistry?” he asks, already leafing through the pages.

I smile and wonder if the innuendo was intended.

But I guess it doesn’t matter.

As I sit, my shoulder brushing his, the bliss of butterscotch on my tongue, I know what will happen. I see it laid out before me like a film. Jeremy and me, hiding in plain sight, living our elaborate lie. I’ll wear the red ribbon, and no one will even notice. Except Jeremy, who will say nothing. Not in front of anyone, anyway. Never together in the daylight, we will laugh, and drink, and flirt, sharing only the rarest of secret glances.

But at night, we will be here.

Perhaps there will be kisses one day. Perhaps we will be lovers.

But that doesn’t matter. Because now I know.

When the sun goes down we will be

Together.

I will be

Myself.

And we will find

Truth.