Breathe (6 page)

“He got fat,” I say. It’s obviously a joke, but it’s not funny and pretty much irrelevant. My father settles himself into an armchair and gestures for me to sit down, too. I collapse onto the couch.

“You don’t seem happy,” my father says.

My mother balances herself on the arm of my father’s chair. “He doesn’t seem grateful, either,” she says. Why should I be grateful? If anything, I should be furious. I only passed because my father is a director at Breathe. Bea needed this. She deserved it. Yet her failure and my success were both fixed. As usual, I can’t be allowed to achieve anything on my own.

My father is scrutinizing me, and when I look directly at him he smiles and dips his head, ever so slightly, as though to say
You’re welcome
. “I don’t want this. I want to pass because I’m good enough, not because you threatened some examiner.” And I wanted to attend the Scholastic Institute with Bea, I think, but I don’t say it.

“Oh, grow up, Quinn. I watched the footage. That friend of yours completely thrashed you,” my father says. He seems mildly jubilant, as though my inadequacies are cause for celebration.

“So why would the Pod Minister want me to train with the leaders? Why would
you
want me to do that?” I never know what my father wants from me. Sometimes he ignores me completely, so I assume he doesn’t care what I do, and at other times he won’t get off my case. I think what he really wants is to create a miniature, muffled version of himself.

“Oh, my lovely boy,” my mother says, and comes to sit next to me on the couch. I hate the feel of her dry hand against my face. I brush her away. I’m not a child anymore. She can save the stroking for the baby.

My father continues. “You are my son and connections matter. This is life, Quinn. You can’t help it that your father knows the Pod Minister, and Bea can’t help it that her parents are subs.”

“Father!” I shout. I’ve never heard him use this slur before. I shake my head and jump to my feet.

“Don’t be so dramatic, son.”

“Sir, I—”

“You may go,” he says, and abruptly stands up. So I leave the room, bumping him with my shoulder as I storm out. Lennon and Keane are sitting cross-legged at the foot of the stone staircase. They aren’t drunk, but they’re not what you’d call sober either.

“Poor Bea,” Lennon says.

“I love Bea,” Keane adds. This is true. Keane’s loved Bea since he was a toddler. And she loves him. “What are you gonna say to her?” he wants to know. I shrug. “She’ll cry,” he says.

“For certain, she’ll cry,” Lennon agrees. I imagine Bea as they do: her lips pinched together, her nostrils twitching as she listens, too proud to cry in front of me.

I don’t even need to make the Leadership Program; whether or not I succeed in politics or business or anything else doesn’t affect anyone, whereas Bea’s success could save her whole family. I’m ashamed. I pat the tops of my brothers’ heads, warn them to go easy on the whiskey, and head upstairs to my room.

I lie on my bed, turn on my pad, and flick to the tracking menu. Bea’s active and I can see that she’s at home. I want to call her, tell her everything and tell her I’m sorry. Instead, I lie awake worrying about it.

On cue, a message comes through from her:
You heard from the professor yet?
I lie staring at my pad, wondering how to respond. After several minutes, I tap out the words
No, not yet
. This is the truth: I haven’t heard from the professor.

I turn off the pad and toss it onto the floor. Then, still fully clothed, shoes and all, I pull the covers over me, ease into the alcohol, and go to sleep.

The apartment is silent. The lights are out. And in the living room Silas is on the couch with his head in his hands. My aunt and uncle are in there, too, sitting on either side of him. Something so awful has happened that no one is screaming. No one is shouting. All they can do is sit.

“Silas,” I murmur. I’m afraid of upsetting the stillness. My aunt looks up and dashes toward me.

“Where in hell’s name have you been?” She hugs me then stands back to check I’m okay. “They found Abel,” she whispers. Though I know I’ve heard her correctly, I can’t believe it. My parents have been missing for a year, and there’s been no news. I want to ask
where
they found him, as though he might have been hidden under his bed, or in the bathroom taking a shower. But I know that what I’m really asking is how he died because if he were alive, no one would need to whisper.

So I say, “
When
did they find him?”

“This morning,” Aunt Harriet says. “It’s been all over the news. The poor boy was found between the pod and the recycling station. They say he was cutting the tubing.”

“Yeah. With no airtank. He ran half a mile holding his breath,” Silas mutters.

“So they scratched him from the system, then found him again just so they could kill him? Why?” I ask. Silas shrugs.

Uncle Gideon stands up. “Silas told us what happened at the biosphere. He must have been flagged.”

No one is looking at me now. Do they think it was my fault? It was my decision to bring him along on the mission. And I forced him to throw the second rock. He didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to throw the first one. Was it worth it? How can working for the Resistance be more important than our lives? So we’ll manage to steal a few tree cuttings, smuggle them out, and replant them somewhere—it hardly constitutes saving the planet. When the trees make a comeback, Abel will still be dead. We’ll
all
be dead.

I must be shaking because Uncle Gideon and Aunt Harriet are standing on either side of me holding me up. If I hadn’t liked Abel so much, he would still be alive.
Don’t get involved with each other
, Petra warned us. She warned us again and again. Why didn’t I follow the rules?

Silas is watching me. It’s possible he guessed how I felt about Abel a long time ago. He won’t say anything though; he won’t put Abel’s death on me. He turns on the screen, turns up the volume, and jumps up from the couch. “You have to leave the pod. Even if you weren’t spotted, we can’t be sure he didn’t betray you—in the end. You have to go to Petra.”

My breath quickens. I have no airtank to help me breathe outside the pod and even if I did, I’d never make it through Border Control with the Ministry after me. Silas sees my panic. “Pack a bag, Alina. They’ll be coming for you.” He marches into his own bedroom. “Now!”

My aunt and uncle look at each other frantically and then, without speaking, spring into action. Uncle Gideon dives into the recesses of a kitchen cupboard and pulls out a large airtank and facemask. “For emergencies,” he says. Aunt Harriet is packing a bag with food and water.

Only two days ago I was celebrating with Abel, and now Abel is dead and I’m going on the run. My gut turns and suddenly I am on my hands and knees retching. I can’t stop myself. Aunt Harriet rushes to me and holds my hair out of the way.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, smiling as though she really believes it.

“Alina, get moving!” Silas hollers.

“I’ll clean it up,” I tell my aunt.

“Just hurry,” she says. And then we hear it. The thudding on the apartment door that can only mean one thing: the Ministry has arrived.

“The plants,” my uncle whispers. Silas runs to the balcony and throws open the door.

“Come,” he says. I take the bag Aunt Harriet has half filled for me and dash out onto the balcony with him. We both stand there for a moment, terrified, desperately looking at the plants and then at the street ten stories below. It’s time to dump the plants.

“Over here,” comes a crackling voice. Silas and I turn with a start to see Old Watson leaning on the railings of his balcony, gazing at us. I turn to Silas. I don’t know that we can trust him, but what choice do we have? Either I jump and fall to my death, or I climb over his balcony and risk betrayal. Old Watson sees us hesitate. “You didn’t really believe the story about why I water my plants, did you? Pass them over here,” he says. Inside the apartment, Aunt Harriet and Uncle Gideon are trying to stall the stewards who are banging on the door. “Get a move on,” Old Watson clucks.

I glance up at the apartment buildings and balconies crowding in on us, but to check for people watching is ridiculous when so many probably are. I throw my small backpack onto his balcony and climb over myself. When I get to his side, I look down at his plants and see he wasn’t lying: everything is real—some of them are even flowering.

“Pass the boxes,” I tell Silas, and he does, heaving them up and laying them in my open arms as carefully as a person might hand over a baby. As I put the final box safely on Old Watson’s balcony, we hear a scream.

“They’re in,” Silas says. A glance I can’t read passes between Old Watson and Silas. Then Silas is gone, the balcony doors beeping as they shut firmly behind him.

Old Watson leads me into his apartment and I gasp. His entire living room is filled with plants. “Magnificent, aren’t they,” Old Watson says. “You steal from them, I steal from you,” he confesses.

“I have to escape,” I tell him. “If I stay in the pod, they’ll find me.”

“Yes,” he says. Something crashing in my apartment causes the wall to vibrate. I shudder and consider climbing back across the balcony. If I surrender, they might leave my family alone. Old Watson leads me to the front doors. “Go while they’re busy,” he says. With a beep we step onto the porch. Old Watson looks through the peephole in the outer door. “It’s clear. Now, is there anything you need?”

“Where do I go?” I ask.

“Get to the Border. Find a group of Premiums and cross with them. They always get through.” He’s right. My only chance is with a Premium. “Quickly,” he whispers. He pushes me into the empty corridor. Muffled noises, like someone is being strangled, filter through my own front doors. “Get out of here, you stupid girl,” Old Watson snaps. “Go on! Go!”

I push open the emergency door to the stairwell and scamper down ten flights of stairs, following the routine Silas and I have when we train. I come out in the alleyway between our apartment building and the monstrous construction next door. It is silent and dark. I pause to get my breath and plan a route. I need to run and I can’t do that in the open. I know all the alleyways in Zone Three, but I haven’t explored the ones in Zones One and Two. I’ll have to do my best when I get there.

As I turn the first corner, I come upon a couple panting and pulling at each other. I start for a moment but then relax. It isn’t unusual to see this kind of thing; it takes a lot of oxygen to be in love, and if they stay at home they’ll get taxed for the excess air. I keep running and the half-naked couple doesn’t even notice me.

I think of Abel as I run. I knew he wasn’t quite ready for the mission. I wanted him with me because I wanted an excuse to be alone with him. And now he is dead and I will never get the chance to be alone with him ever again. Abel is dead because I liked him.

I can’t allow myself time to grieve because up ahead I spot a lone man with long thin hair standing in the shadows. Illegal exercise and sex aren’t the only reasons people dwell in alleyways; this is where criminals hide, too. I pause, and when the man in the shadows hears me, he looks up and licks his lips. He drags himself toward me pulling a bad leg behind him. Screaming would be too dangerous. And he seems to know it. He snickers and pulls out a short, sharp blade. I’ve run almost twenty blocks and hate to turn back, but he’ll cut me for sure. So I turn around and run. Behind me he calls out, “I wasn’t going to hurt a delicious thing like you. Come back, my tasty.”

Natural dawn light from outside starts to fill up the pod. The night has been so long. I haven’t slept or stopped. At least I’ve made it safely to Zone One. I walk up the main street toward the border. The air is burbling with excitement. Packs of giddy travelers check their backpacks one last time.

I have nothing. A few scraps of food, some water, and an airtank. I didn’t even bring warm clothes.

I have no idea how I’m going to get across. And even if I do, how will I survive out there?

Mom taps on my bedroom door before popping her head into the room. “Quinn’s here, love. Shall I send him in?” I shake my head and follow her into the hall, where Quinn is standing holding not only his own backpack but the bag with the tent in it and both our sleeping bags. His hair has fallen over one of his clay-colored eyes. When he sees me, he smiles.

“Let me carry some of that,” I say.

“You can’t.” He peers at the floor. He’s right; I haven’t the strength, or a permit for carrying heavy loads. Mom is standing between us smirking.

“I saw the things you bought for my Bea, Quinn. That was very kind of you.” She touches him gently on the arm.

“It’s nothing,” he says, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Bea, are we going?”

“Stay for breakfast,” Mom says.

Quinn shakes his head. “Thanks, Mrs. Whitcraft, but we want to get to the border before the crowds.” He always does that, addresses my mom as
Mrs
. Whitcraft even though he’s a Premium and within his rights to use her first name. My mom blushes.

“It must be nice to have a father who works for Breathe. All those airtanks,” she says. She looks at me, at Quinn, then back at me. I have to get out of this house and away from my mother’s suggestive smile. I kiss her on the cheek and move to the front doors just as Dad strolls out of the bedroom toward the kitchen wearing only a pair of baggy orange underpants. When he sees us in the hall he shuffles over, rubbing his hairy belly. He yawns. I’m close enough to be able to smell that he hasn’t brushed his teeth.