“Still. That’s unusual,” he presses. “And never allowed again after what transpired.”
My mother’s death. She died in our basement giving birth to her illegal twin daughters. A uterine rupture. Father couldn’t save her.
But she saved me.
I angrily thrust the shovel in the soil and throw the first plant into the basket. I take deep breaths to calm myself and begin on a second cactus.
“You still live at home.”
Jesus, he’s the same as his grandparents: his grandfather and his wine, his grandmother and her questions.
“Most students in the city live with their family, including you,” I say.
“I live in the Governor’s Mansion,” says Halton, believing this somehow does not count. “Your father’s wealth would enable you to live on your own. It’s unusual you would not take that opportunity.”
“I think two cacti should do it,” I say, my patience gone. What is he playing at?
I stab at the soil, heedless of the cacti’s roots, still feeling the burn of his gaze on my neck. The silence presses down on me, and a shiver flashes through my body.
“I’ve been watching you, Ava,” says Halton.
I keep my face carefully composed—the Goodwin way—and hide my growing panic.
He takes a step toward me.
“Every morning before you enter Tower Hall, you hesitate, just for a second, as you switch on that bright smile of yours before marching off to physics class. In choir you close your eyes for the last verse of every single pointless song. In the dining hall you chew your lower lip, working furiously away on your tablet as you eat your homemade meal. Protein first. Sides last. You pop the knuckle of your thumb when you’re anxious before Spanish, toss your bangs when you’re flustered before advanced chemistry. You whisper aloud to yourself on your walk home, your head always down, careful never to draw attention to yourself. I could go on . . .”
He pauses, as if expecting me to say something. Does he think this fanatical attention is some form of flattery?
“Of course, no one would notice these little things but me.” He takes another step forward. “You have to be watching.”
I slowly rise to my feet and peel off my dirt-stained gloves. Sweat drips freely from my brow, but I do not move to wipe it.
“Why are you watching me?” I say, surprised how thin my voice sounds.
“It’s like clockwork—your habits,” he almost coos. An impish smile plays on his lips. “But recently, for the past few months, I’ve seen you touch your right wrist when you get nervous. You touch your microchip. But you don’t do it every day like all your regular habits. Just every other day. You didn’t do it today in choir or at lunch . . . yet you touched your wrist at dinner and again just now.”
Did I? I clench my hands into tight fists, my fingernails digging into my palms.
“That throws off the clock. Puzzling.” The harsh yellow lights from above hide Halton’s eyes beneath two dark pits, and I can’t tell where he’s looking. But it feels like my very core.
“My grandfather has ordered more soldiers outside campus starting tomorrow. You were right in the middle of the incident, weren’t you? What did that man steal?”
He’s testing me.
The greenhouse seems to shrink, the glass walls pushing in, the ground threatening to open up and swallow me.
“The thief was a woman. She was shot with a taser for stealing a bottle of water,” I manage to say.
Halton takes another step forward, and I maneuver the wicker basket between us. “I’m sure they’re expecting us at the house,” I say and turn to move down the row, preventing any more questions.
“My grandparents mean to make a match of us. For marriage.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. No. Never! I think to myself, or did I scream the words out loud?
I keep my back turned and my feet moving, entirely focused on getting to the front exit. Suddenly he’s behind me, reaching for my arm.
“My grandfather wants—”
I strike down his approaching hand with a sharp slap.
“I don’t care what your grandfather wants!” I cry.
Red splotches appear on Halton’s cheeks, this time from anger. I place my hand over my mouth, blocking any more words from slipping out. He stares at me, wide eyed, and I’m sure I look the same. A deer in headlights just before impact.
“Like I said, my grandmother would rather have these instead.” With an arrogant leer, he stoops to roughly tear an entire handful of black-eyed Susans from their roots. Something in me snaps, and I break into a run and tackle him from behind.
Our bodies slam into each other in what feels like slow motion. We drop hard to the concrete. Our weight lands heavily on Halton’s arm, and his hold loosens on my mother’s flowers. They scatter crudely across the pavement, and with tunnel vision I crawl to them, but Halton’s strong grip on my dress stops me. He drags me closer and wraps his fingers around my wrist like a noose, pulling tighter the more I fight.
“Let go of me!” I scream. I struggle madly to pull away, but Halton keeps his grasp right where my microchip should be.
The taser gun aimed at my lower neck shocks me back into reality. Halton releases his hold on me, and I lift my hands in the air, thinking this is the end.
“Stand down, Agent,” says Halton, eerily calm, the way his grandfather speaks when he’s calculating. Agent Hayes lowers his weapon, but his eyes show that he wants to shoot. He’s just waiting for a reason.
Halton stands, taking his time to straighten his clothes. He smooths back his greasy hair and brushes the dirt from his jacket. He bends down so there are only a few inches of air between us. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers.
He seizes a handful of flowers from the ground and marches with his bounty down the row, Agent Hayes following in his wake.
I sit paralyzed, a small figure in the large, empty garden. He can’t know.
He can’t.
AVA
Father stands in front of us like a drill sergeant about to scold his troops. His piercing gaze scans Mira before it falls on me, dripping with disappointment.
Mira and I usually have time alone together before our nightly family meetings, but Father followed Mira into the basement directly after dinner. He didn’t want to give us a chance to formulate a defense justifying our switch.
I can’t hear a thing through the soundproof walls, but I saw Roth strong-arm Gwen and the surprise photo shoot over the surveillance video. Not good at all. Father must be livid.
I need just one glance from Mira to reassure me she managed it all fine, but she won’t give it to me.
“Did you honestly think you could trick your own father?” he finally says.
“We’ve done it before,” I say in defense. And we have.
Last year, I found an illegal bottle of Japanese Nikka whisky buried in the tomato garden I was tending in the greenhouse. Hidden in one of the cameras’ blind zones, I made certain no one saw me take it. I couldn’t resist surprising Mira with such a rare delicacy—the government can’t stop all contraband from being sold on the black market. Mira ended up drinking so much celebratory whisky the night we found out our placement level results at Strake, she spent the entire next morning vomiting. I went to school that day in Mira’s place; Father still doesn’t know it was me.