Parched (20 page)

When I ask her if she's ever had to do this “in the field,” she just laughs. “Of course!” she exclaims, all bravado. “Guiders think they have a right to detain us, just for breaking the law.”

I ask, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Ling's smile disappears. I haven't just touched a nerve; I've mauled one. She glances back in the direction of the house, and makes an excuse about having to check in with Achilles.

I tell myself I'm putting up with Hunter's tutoring sessions to score a place to crash and appease Abel. But every night, I find myself returning home to Liberty Gardens more and more eagerly.

I've never had a boyfriend, but I've also never had a boy friend.

I like how engaged Hunter is with the world. We can talk about anything. And we do. It's easy to get us to stop studying and talk about life. All I have to do is dangle a morsel of information about myself or
a particularly strong opinion I have, and he's in. And I like this. I like being the most interesting person in the world to someone.

My favorite thing about him is his eyes. Not just the color or the shape, but the way they move. Quick and darting; I can
see
him thinking. I wish I could be in his head, to know the thoughts he's examining from every angle.

And we do actually study. Abel's right about Hunter—he's a great teacher. We jump around: natural sciences, psychology, expression, health and longevity. I'm delighted to learn he's terrible at drama and music. I leap on this chink in his perfect armor, and pry it apart by insisting we perform passages from
Romeo and Juliet
out in Abel's tiny courtyard. His wooden rendition is hilariously bad. I find myself replaying the stiff way he read Romeo's flowery declarations of love for Juliet, and giggling to myself for days afterward.

Even though I hate admitting it, I'm dying to know if Hunter has a girlfriend. I keep picturing her: one of those irritatingly pretty girls who always had guys and girls interested in them and doesn't even know that's not what it's like for everyone. Or maybe his girlfriend is one of those quirky arty types who wears long skirts and has a stream dedicated to her own poetry and is called something like Vivienne or Rain.

But obviously I can't ask him about any of this. His love life feels extraordinarily off-limits. Besides, he never asks about mine.

At first, I don't know how to act around Abel, so I do my best to avoid him without seeming like I'm avoiding him. Which, for someone who should be consumed by working on making an artilect for his buddies in the Trust, is actually pretty difficult. He pins me down for breakfast most mornings. I usually recap my tutoring session with Hunter while eating as fast as I can, and this seems to suffice. The Longevity Hub I'm allegedly spending all my time at is a good cover—a kickboxing class explains any strange bruises. I'm furious at Abel theoretically, but it's hard to maintain it practically. Ling warned me not to ask him anything or spy on him at home. I find the best way to behave around him is to believe my own lies—that I really am his returned niece, grateful to be back in the city's protection and slowly moving toward a complete recovery.

The only dark times are the nights. Some evenings I'm lucky, and the day's events have me asleep before my head hits the pillow. But some nights are long. Sleep eludes me for hours and in its place are
thoughts of my mother. I think about how she'd feel about what I'm doing now, if she'd approve, if she'd understand. I think about Magnus, standing to attention two floors below me. And I think about what happened. I only have to touch on it—those last twenty-four hours I spent in Eden—and I'm socked with enough guilt to know beyond the whisper of a doubt that I don't actually deserve any of this.

I don't deserve Kudzu's faith in me. I don't deserve Hunter's interest. I don't deserve Abel's misplaced love.

As the cold, gray light of dawn edges over the horizon, I finally fall asleep with one thought repeating itself.

I don't deserve love at all.

“Greetings.” Hunter smiles up at me from the dining room table and my stomach does a little backflip. Seeing him makes me feel relieved and relaxed, but also strangely anxious and excited. Like I'm coming home and leaving on an adventure at the same time.

“Greetings yourself,” I say, dumping my backpack on the floor.

He's been waiting out my habitual lateness by playing chess against himself, moving the floating black and white pieces with his eyes. But now that I'm here, he closes the scratch and instead focuses on me. “How are you, Tess?”

My hands are rubbed raw from a few extra hours of intense roping. I keep them closed so Hunter doesn't notice.

“I am excellent,” I tell him. “Is Abel here?”

“He'll be back later,” Hunter replies. “He's food collecting with Kimiko.”

“So, we have the house to ourselves, eh?” I say, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Want to riffle through Abel's stuff? Raid the liquor cabinet?”

For a split second Hunter's face flinches into alarm; then it relaxes into a patient, if amused, smile. “Or,” he says, “we can start on history.”

“Yours or mine?” I ask innocently, and am rewarded with a stern frown.

We spend the next hour testing my knowledge of ancient and modern history, from the collapse of the Roman Empire to World War 3. I name brutal kings and psychotic politicians—all men, I point out to Hunter—who were responsible for the messed-up societies of the past. I'm not bad at history, but the year away from education has left me a little rusty on exact dates. Hunter is unsurprisingly great with them. “Let me guess,” I tease him, after he corrects me for the fiftieth time. “You're a history buff, as well as being a science geek.”

“I find history very interesting,” he concedes. “You have to admit, Eden's history is quite fascinating.”

“I just wonder if we're getting the whole story,” I say without thinking.

Hunter glances at me. “What do you mean?”

Hunter and I are alone in the house. I make an educated guess that this conversation can safely remain between us.

“Doesn't it strike you as odd,” I begin carefully, “that Eden has maintained a virtually crime-free city for decades?”

“What do you mean, ‘odd'?” Hunter asks.

“Considering the Trust controls . . .” I'm about the say “the streams,” but stop myself—I'd have to explain how I know that and I definitely do not plan on mentioning Kudzu. “So much of our daily life, isn't it possible they've manipulated our understanding of history? Re-created the streams to say whatever they want?”

“I suppose that's possible,” Hunter says slowly. “But it seems unlikely. The Trust has no need to manipulate anything. What you're saying sounds a little paranoid,” he adds, with the gentle assurance of someone who knows he's right.

“Maybe,” I muse, biting my lip. “It just seems weird to me. The history of the world is this fantastically awful tapestry of wars and injustice and cruelty, and then—bang!—along comes Gyan's grandfather's grandfather and suddenly, the Trust is the first perfect system of government ever?”

Hunter shrugs. “That doesn't sound weird. That sounds clever.”

“A peaceful, crime-free city, and yet we still need Tranqs?”

“Protection ensures peace.”

“No member of the Trust has ever committed a corrupt act?” I push. “No Edenite has ever wanted to revolt or question the system?”

“We've evolved, Tess,” Hunter says patiently. “The Trust showed everyone how to live in a cohesive harmony.”

“C'mon Hunter,” I say. “You can't say that without addressing Mr. White Elephant in the corner.”

“I'm sorry?”

“The Trust isn't actually a perfect system, is it?”

“Why not?”

“Because they're letting the Badlands starve to death,” I say simply. “No matter how well Eden functions, it'll never be perfect while the Badlands is what it is.”

Hunter rubs his chin with just a hint of agitation. I can tell he disagrees with me. For a moment I think he's going to start arguing. But then he drops his hand and his face clears. “Tell me about the Badlands.” His eyes pierce mine, seeming to drill right through me.

And so I do.

I tell him about peyote parties with moon worshippers, out near the shimmering Salt Flats in the west. I tell him about learning to gamble with the Yaquero, a foul-mouthed gang who ran a black market way down in the Valley, and how I had to skip town after losing a stupid $1,000 bet to them. I describe sleeping under the stars and waking up when the sun rose, majestic and brutal, over the horizon. I describe learning to handle a knife, dress a wound, and avoid being groped in a crowd. I tell him about learning Malspeak and how to steal and how not to get your stuff stolen.

I entertain him with my best horror stories. The night I sucked snake poison out of a total stranger's leg, or the week I lived on nothing but ancient sweets in an old, abandoned candy factory, but then got disgustingly sick to the point where now, just looking at a piece of licorice makes me want to throw up.

And I tell him about the loneliness. The fear. The sadness. The way my life became both so small—the sum parts of a backpack—and somehow infinite and enormous.

“I'd never felt as alive as I did out there,” I say. “There was always something to do, someone to help, something going on. If anything got too much, or a routine got so easy that I had time to think too much, I'd pack up and move on.”

He nods, absorbing every word.

“But a year out there felt like ten,” I admit. “It wasn't home.”
And
, I add silently,
neither is Eden anymore
.

“It sounds like life is pretty hard out there.”

“That's putting it lightly.” I snort. “All the ‘problems' I used to have in Eden seemed so ridiculous when I realized how most people were living. Or not living.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's not really living out there,” I say soberly. “It's surviving. And most people aren't even doing that. They're just dying.”

The words hang between us, heavy and hard in their truth.

I glance at the time, shocked to see it's after nine. I've been monologuing
about the Badlands for over an hour. I feel exposed, but not in a bad way. In fact, it's like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I let out a sigh.

“So, back to history?” he suggests.

I shake my head. “I think we need to even the scales a bit first.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You know a ton of stuff about me,” I point out. “I want to know a few things about you.”

He gives me a guarded look. “What kind of things?”

Asking about a girlfriend would give too much away. I try to make my voice sound playful, like my question doesn't really matter. “Tell me about your first kiss.”

Hunter's face clouds over. He sits back a little in his seat, away from me. “Oh.”

“Oh?” I repeat, as if I'm surprised. I didn't think he'd actually answer.

“I didn't realize that was the sort of thing we'd be talking about,” he says slowly, giving me a strange look.

I'm about to tell him not to worry about it and hey, let's get back to history, when he skids his chair around the table, right next to mine. Challenge accepted. I am thrilled.

His voice is low, that of a coconspirator. “Since you asked, Emily Anderson was the first girl I ever kissed. She had red hair and freckles—”

“Aw.” I giggle.

“She was the girl next door.”

“No!”

“Okay, she lived across the street,” he concedes.

“How old were you?”

“Ten and a half. Well, ten and eight months, to be exact.”

“You would've been cute back then.”

He smiles, accepting the compliment. “I guess some people considered me cute. Emily and I would swim in my father's pool after pre-ed. And one day she decided we should play pirates and mermaids.”

“Sexy,” I say.

“Except she wanted to be the pirate and I had to be the mermaid,” he continues.

“Double sexy.” I laugh.

“I informed her I would not pretend to be a mermaid—“

“Very sensible.” I nod.

“And then I told her she was prettier than any mermaid I'd ever seen. And then I kissed her.” He smiles. His eyes are in the middle distance, looking back on the faraway memory. I can picture it so clearly: mini Hunter, adorable in his pint-sized form, pecking this bossy redhead on the mouth and surprising them both. “It was the perfect first kiss. Sun shining through the trees, beautiful summer's afternoon . . .”

“So, what happened to her?” I'm distinctly aware of how much I don't want this pretty little redhead in Hunter's life anymore.

He purses his lips, thinking. “I don't know, to be honest.”

This pleases me. “Well, you know what they say about redheads.” “What do they say?”

“Steal your heart then rob you blind,” I tell him, poking him in the chest with my finger. “You should stay away from redheads.”

“I never heard that before.”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “That's because I just made it up.”

He laughs. It's the first real laugh I've ever gotten out of him. It completely transforms his face, softening it. He leans toward me, both forearms on the table. “So, are you going to tell me about your first kiss, Tess?”

I bite my lip, trying not to blush.

“Come on.” He nudges me playfully. “I told you.”

“Okay,” I relent, a little overwhelmed by how many Hunter rules he's breaking. “But this doesn't leave this room, okay?”

He nods, excited. “Agreed.”

“Okay.” I draw in a deep breath. This story is kind of embarrassing. “I was kissed by Joey Lucas, twin brother of the equally cute Bobby Lucas. But here's the kicker. I was the short straw.”