Parched (8 page)

And so when Abel asks me what I'm going to do today, I don't hesitate.

“I'm going to see Izzy.”

Izzadore Lucy Williams and I met on the first day of pre-education. I'd been busy stealing all the coveted golden building blocks from the communal stash in order to make a castle. When the teacher finally worked out that someone wasn't playing fair, she gently suggested I show her what was under the basket behind me. When I did, nothing was there. The blocks were gone. Izzy sat a few feet away, a pint-sized picture of
adorable innocence. Under her cute ruffled skirt hid a treasure trove of gold. We split the blocks, then worked a two-man scam on Alby Peterson for his milk and pudding cup. We'd been partners in crime ever since.

Part teddy bear, part shyster, that's how she'd always been. I'm average for my height, but Izzy clocks in at five foot two. Her enormous dark blue eyes rimmed with ridiculously long lashes give her a look of perpetual naïveté, which we often used to our advantage. She commanded male and female attention effortlessly and collected broken hearts for a hobby. She was excellent.

Izzy's father is a Guider, which means they live in one of the South Hills houses that have a killer view
and
a pool. Even though every house in Eden is supposedly as good as the last, some are simply more advantaged, and people who work for the Trust are always given the “advantages.” We'd spend our weekends soaking up the sun by the pool, workshopping our love lives—hers: colorful, mine: nascent—and starting rumors about people we didn't like.

But then Mom died and I left. I have no idea how she'll feel about seeing me. Betrayed? Ecstatic? Furious? For all her wickedness, Izzy is, at her core, a total sweetheart who always had my back. I didn't even say goodbye.

“I'm heading out!” I call to Abel, who'd disappeared into his study after breakfast. “I'll see you later!”

“Tess. Greetings.” Abel's assistant, the tall boy I met yesterday, emerges from the study.

I've completely forgotten his name. Harrison? Hugo? “Hey, um—”

“Hunter,” he supplies, unfazed at my faux pas. Physically he's neither particularly good- or bad-looking—mop of dark hair that looks uncombed, typically pale Eden skin, thickish eyebrows above eyes that could be gray or green. It's his unselfconscious focus on me that's the point of difference.

“Hunter, right.” I laugh, shifting awkwardly in his gaze. “Sorry. Bad with names. Surprised you remembered mine.”

He cocks his head at me. “Tess Rockwood, the missing niece who returns after a year in the Badlands? That tends to make an impression.”

I wince. No wonder he's staring at me. Most Edenites never leave the city, even for a night. “What's up?”

“Abel said to come say hello,” he says, inclining his head toward the study.

“Abel said to come say hello,” I repeat in confusion. “Why?”

An embarrassed smile colors his face. His gaze drops to floor. “
I
wanted to come and say hello,” he corrects himself.

“Oh.” I nod. I'm momentarily unsure of how to react to this level of social awkwardness. My fingers worry the gold sword on my necklace. “So, he's got you working weekends, huh?”

“Yes,” Hunter replies. “He's a gauche slave driver who is guileful and malevolent in nature.”

I blink. “He's a what-now?”

“I was being sarcastic,” Hunter clarifies quickly. “Or trying to be, I guess.”

And suddenly, a new level of awkwardness has been reached. “Well, have fun with that,” I say, edging for the front door. “I'm going to get a makeover. An Eden makeover.”

His eyes examine my face as if I were a science experiment. “You don't need a makeover.”

I hook up an eyebrow. “Sarcasm and you do not a fine match make.”

And it's his turn to blink in confusion, just for a second, before his face clears into understanding. “I wasn't being sarcastic,” he says simply. “See you later, Tess.”

“Bye, Hunter.”

“You remembered!” I hear him call out as I head down the hallway. I roll my eyes, a faint smile teasing my mouth. What. A. Weirdo.

Joggers huff and puff past me, lightly sweating in all-white exercise suits. I scan their faces intently. Izzy never used to miss her Sunday jog:
How can I demand physical perfection in others if I'm not committed to it myself
? My foot jiggles with nerves. I feel a bit sick—lucky I didn't have a big breakfast.

Just as I'm about to give up hope, I see her. She's changed her hair. An elegant pixie cut shows off her heart-shaped face and makes her look a few years older. She's chatting with a cute little sub that hovers next to her as she runs. It's soft and cuddly, with snow-white fur and eyes as big as hers. Izzy always did prefer the adorable designs to the more functional types. She's just about to run right past when I call out a tentative “hey!”

She glances up and promptly stumbles to a stop. Her eyes widen as she pants, catching her breath, face frozen in a comical mask of shock.

I wave an unsure hello. “Never thought I'd see Izzy Williams lost for words.”

“Metabolism slowing,” chirrups her sub. “Continue jogging to achieve—”

Izzy hushes it. It buries its head in her neck, purring. She waves it away distractedly, eyes locked into mine.

“Tess?” Her voice is deep with disbelief.

“In the flesh.” I nod, swallowing.
Please be happy to see me
.

Her eyes race frantically around my dyed black ponytail and shaggy undercut, my grimy clothes, my dirt-caked boots. “Where have you been? You just—Tess, where have you been?”

“Away?” I offer tentatively. “But I'm back now.” I exhale a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. “It's really good to see you, Iz.”

“You're . . . you're so skinny,” she says. Then her eyes bug. “You got a tronic?” She flips my wrist to get a better look at the four words that glow under my forearm:
No feeling is final
. “
You
got a tronic?” She sounds equal parts disbelieving and disappointed. Izzy and I were going to get electronic tattoos together, the day we graduated education. We'd spent hours arguing over what to get: a heart, a leaf, the word
beautiful
, the word
true
. But whatever it was, it would be the same.

I make a noncommittal noise, tugging my arm out of her grasp.

She blinks, words stumbling, hands waggling. “You look so—”

“Disheveled, tired, scraggy, wild?” Izzy's sub buzzes helpfully, hovering at her head like a friendly ghost.

“
Different
,” Izzy finishes. We lock eyes. A huge, excited, overwhelmed smile bursts onto her face.
“Tess!”
She squeals, leaping forward to kiss me flush on the mouth and throw both arms around my neck. I go to hug back, but before I can, she pulls herself from me. Her face is screwed in disgust. “Oof. Tess, you
stink
.”

“Oh.” I smile, giving my top a sniff. “Yeah. Guess that's part of the story.”

I see a clutch of white-suited joggers heading toward us, and instinctively move off the path, drifting into the trees behind us. Izzy trots along next to me, eyes unable to leave mine. As we walk, I start with her small questions: I'm fine; I'm staying with Abel; yes, you're the first friend I contacted; no really, I'm fine. Then I answer the big one. “I've been in the Badlands.”

The news cuts through her like an electric shock. “The Badlands?” She gapes. “As in, the
Badlands
Badlands?”

“Yup.”

“On your own—for the whole
year
?”

“After Mom died, I just needed a change.”

“I never got the chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about her.” She shudders, stopping to face me. “So awful, Tess. I can't imagine . . . I mean, the thing she was working on. What was it?”

“Magnus.” The word is an unwilling whisper.

“That's it. I had no idea it was actually dangerous.” She stares up at me, expression pained and pitiful. “Are you okay? I know it was ages ago, but . . . I wished you'd commed. You just left. You were just gone—”

“I know,” I say. “I'm really sorry.” I grimace. “Can we change the topic?”

Without skipping a beat, Izzy says, “Sure.” The air is warm around us, heavy with summer scents and the light trills of birds. We're heading toward a more populated part of the park. Around us, families are out picnicking and tossing Frisbees. Izzy links her arm into mine, a gesture so familiar it's almost automatic. “So,” she says, trying for upbeat, “what are we doing today?”

“Actually,” I say, “I need your help.”

Izzy wrinkles her nose. “I hope it's help with your dirty clothes situation.”

I laugh. Already I'm feeling lighter. “It is. Your father's still a Guider, right?”

“Daddy dearest surely is. Day off today, though.”

“Which means he's working in the garden?” I guess.

She nods, grinning, pulling me closer to her. “It's like you never left!”

“Excellent.” I grin back. “Now, I don't exactly need to break any rules . . .”

“Just bend them into pretty new shapes?” She blinks coquettishly. “Luckily, I am in a
very
flexible mood.”

I tell Izzy I lost my ID in the Badlands, and the border control official said to get a new one when I was back. I tell her I want to see her dad because that process takes days, and I want a new ID now. The truth is the panel of Guiders I'd have to present this story to at a local meet would see through it in a heartbeat.

Izzy's house is just as light and airy as I remember it, all stainless steel and sparkling glass. I'm a little winded from the walk up, but the view across Eden still takes my breath away. The curved glass skyscrapers
in the Hive catch the light brilliantly, as do the glittering solar panels on the roof of the house below. I can even glimpse parts of Moon Lake way up in the north, shining like sunlight on a mirror.

It really is a stunningly beautiful city.

Izzy dismisses her sub, who burrows into a sofa like a white furry cushion. I wait next to it while she changes out of her exercise suit. I used to love coming to Izzy's house. Compared to mine, it was so clean and perfect. Their pantry was always full and her mom was always whipping up snacks: cheese and spinach triangles or homemade lemon gelato. But now it feels different. Empty and too quiet, like I'm waiting for someone after everyone else has gone home.

Izzy emerges wearing a floaty yellow dress and heeled sandals. “Pretty,” I say, and in response she curtsies, smirking at me. Then we head out to the back deck to look for her dad, who'll be lost in a maze of flower beds and potting mix. The crystal clear water of their pool sparkles invitingly. As always, it's a perfect day for a swim.

Izzy cracks her knuckles. “Want me to do the talking?” It sounds more like a statement than a question.

“I can do it,” I reply.

She throws me a sideways glance. “You sure? I don't mind.”

“I'm sure,” I say, spotting her dad raking an empty flower bed. “Ready for a big reaction?”

Izzy bought my story unquestioningly, but her dad is more suspicious.

“You're not supposed to be able to cross the border without ID.” He frowns. Izzy takes after her mom; Mr. Williams is long-limbed and wiry—a man-sized toothpick. He wipes a dirt-stained gardening glove across his brow, leaving a dark smudge. “Maybe I should comm them to make sure. Which crossing did you say you came through?”

Izzy opens her mouth to jump in, but before she can, I fix him with a sincere gaze. “Mr. Williams, I've been away from Eden for a year—a year too long. I just want my old life back. Please? I wouldn't ask if it were't important.”

“Yeah,
c'mon
, Daddy!” I should've known Izzy wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut. “I mean, look at her! It's criminal such a hot girl is forced to look this way.”

He chuckles nervously. “All right,” he acquiesces. “Just this once.”

Whereas Abel's study is all dark wood and dust motes, Mr. Williams's study has floor-to-ceiling windows and a long clear desk that's
perfectly spotless. He pops open a drawer to reveal a roll of bright blue scratch. Guider scratch. Their exclusive portal to the Trust.

“I'll take a new loop for you,” he says. “But I need to actualize the ID alone.” He means print it, in a special 3D printer that can produce official objects for Guiders. And he means alone because only Guiders are allowed to open blue scratch. We're not even allowed to watch.

“Thanks, Mr. Williams.”

He smiles at me fondly. “Only because I know I can trust you, Tess.”

Of course. If nothing else, the Trust has taught us to trust: in them and in each other.

I smile back at him.

The Hive feels . . . sanitized. I don't mean everyone's walking around like they're lobotomized. People chat or laugh or look bored as they go about their business. Substitutes of all shapes and sizes glide, whiz or stride to keep pace with their owners. But there's no underlying urgency. When a buzzcar backfires in a vertical ascent, I'm the only one who cowers. It's as if no one ever told Edenites that life can be dangerous.

What strikes me the most is the sound. In the Badlands, people play handmade instruments—upturned bins for drums, a piece of metal strung with string. When we danced, it was barefoot, stomping our feet into the hard dirt in raw release. It was music that defied, music that celebrated, music that kept us going. In the Hive, classical music drifts from unseen sources. It's as elegant and precise as fine china.

Shimmering holos of Gyan are everywhere. Pearls of his infamous wisdom ripple under the image of our bearded, beatific leader:
Freedom for the self is freedom for the whole. All are equal, equal is all. Evolution, enlightenment, en masse: Eden
. Each of them bears the Trust logo: the swirling white
T
enclosed in a yellow-trimmed blue circle. Either more appeared after I left or, more likely, I just didn't notice how many there are. As we pass through one, the hard flash of light makes me shiver.