Pure (8 page)

Too late. He’s made up his mind. He can’t afford any distractions right now—from Hastings or himself. He hears the ventilation system click on and checks his watch. He stands and climbs the short ladder to his bunk. He pulls out a small notebook wedged between the mattress and the railing. He opens the book, notes the time, shuts it, and pushes it back into its spot.

Wherever he is now, whether he’s lying there in his mummy mold undergoing radiation or waiting for another vial to be taken from him or during his classes or in his dorm room at night, he studies the patterned hum of the filtration fans—the dull whirring that vibrates throughout the Dome at timed intervals. He makes notations in a book he’s supposed to use to keep track of his assignments and his coding sessions. He barely noticed the sounds before. But now that he’s begun, he can sometimes anticipate the quiet tick just before the motors kick in. He knows now that the air-filtration system leads out of the Dome and that the fan blades turn off at certain times for a period of three minutes and forty-two seconds.

He’s going out because his mother might exist. “Your mother has always been problematic.” That’s what his father said, and ever since Partridge stole his mother’s things from the Personal Loss Archives, she’s felt even more real. If there’s a chance she’s out there, he has to try to find her.

He gets dressed quickly, pulling on his pants and shirt, looping and tightening his tie. His hair is so short it doesn’t need a comb. Right now he has to concentrate on one thing: Lyda Mertz.

WHEN
LYDA
HELPED
DECORATE
the dining hall with streamers and gold-foil stars glued to the ceiling, she hadn’t yet had a date. There were a few people she would have been willing to go with, but Partridge was the only one she wanted to ask her. When he did, standing by the small set of metal bleachers out by the athletic fields during a rare moment when she wasn’t being corralled by one of the teachers, Lyda had thought, Wouldn’t it be nice if it was a little chilly and we were both windblown and the sky was blustered, like a real fall day? But of course, she didn’t say this. She only said, “Yes, I’d love to go with you! That sounds great!” And she fit her hands in her pockets because she was afraid he might try to hold one and her palms were now sweating.

He looked around after she agreed, as if he was hoping no one had heard them, as if he might take it back if someone had. But he said, “Okay then. We can just meet there.”

And now here they are, sitting next to each other at the skirted tables. Partridge looks perfect. His eyes are such a beautiful gray that whenever he glances at her, she feels like her heart might burst. Still, he’s barely glanced at her even though they’re sitting side by side.

They’ve piped music in overhead, all the oldest songs on the sanctioned list. This one, swirling now, is a melancholy but kind of creepy song about someone who is watching every step and every breath someone else takes. It makes her feel a little paranoid, overly scrutinized, and she’s self-conscious enough about the dip of her dress’s neckline.

Partridge’s roommate is leaning up against the far wall, talking to a girl. He looks over and sees Partridge, who gives him a nod. Hastings smiles goofily and then turns back to the girl.

“Hastings, that’s his name, right?” Lyda says. She’s trying to make conversation, but also doesn’t mind lingering on Hastings, maybe to hint that she and Partridge could be sitting closer, whispering.

“That’s a small miracle,” Partridge says. “He doesn’t have a natural way with the ladies.” Lyda wonders if Partridge has a natural way with the ladies but, for some reason, isn’t turning on the charms for her.

Because it’s a special occasion, their food pills—bullets, as the academy boys call them—have been replaced by cupcakes sitting on all the tables on small blue plates. She watches Partridge fit large forkfuls into his mouth. She imagines that it must feel like near suffocation by eating—a rarity. Lyda nibbles her cake, savoring it, making it last.

She tries to start up the conversation again. This time she talks about her art class, which is her favorite. “My wire bird has been chosen to be in the next display in the exhibit in Founders Hall—a student art show. Do you take art classes? I’ve heard they don’t let the boys take art, only things that have real-life applications, like science. Is that right?”

“I’ve taken art history. We’re allowed to have some culture. But really, what good would it do us to know how to make a wire bird?” he says, gruffly. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed.

She says, “What’s wrong? Is it something I said?” He seems to be disgusted with her, so why did he ask her to be his date anyway?

“It doesn’t matter now,” he says, as if she did say the wrong thing, and he’s punishing her for it.

She pokes the cupcake with her fork. “Look,” she says, “I don’t know what your problem is. If something is wrong, tell me.”

“Is that what you do? Look for people’s problems? Try to drum up new patients for your mother?” Lyda’s mother works in the rehabilitation center where some students are taken if they’re having mental adaptability issues. Every once in a while one returns, but usually they’re gone forever.

Lyda’s stung by the accusation. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this. I thought you were decent.” She doesn’t want to storm off, but she knows that she has to now. She’s told him that he’s not decent. Where is there to go from here? She throws down her napkin and walks off to the punch bowl. She refuses to look back at him.

PARTRIDGE
FEELS
GUILTY
BEFORE
LYDA
WALKS
OFF
, but he’s relieved once she has. It’s part of his plan. He wants the key that’s in her pocketbook. He’s acted like a jerk in the hope that she would walk away from him, leaving the pocketbook behind. But he almost apologized to her a few times. It was harder than he’d thought. She’s prettier than he remembered—her small sharp nose, freckles, her blue eyes—and it surprised him. Her looks aren’t the reason he asked her to be his date.

He moves so his hands are more behind his back, slips the ring of keys off the strap of her pocketbook and into the pocket of his suit jacket. He pushes his chair back angrily like this is part of the fight and walks off as if to the bathroom, then quickly down the hall.

“Partridge!” It’s Glassings. He’s wearing a bow tie.

“You’re scrubbed up,” Partridge says, acting as normal as possible. He likes Glassings.

“I brought a date,” he says.

“Really?”

“So hard to believe?” Glassings says with a joking pout.

“With that bow tie, anything’s possible,” Partridge says. Glassings is the only professor he can joke with like this—maybe the only adult at all. He surely can’t joke with his father. What if Glassings were Partridge’s father? The thought flickers through Partridge’s mind. He’d tell him the truth. In fact, he wants to tell him everything. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be gone. “Are you going to dance tonight?” Partridge asks, unable to look Glassings in the eye.

“Of course,” he says. “You okay?”

“Fine!” Partridge says, not sure what he’s done to tip Glassings off. “Just nervous. I don’t really know how to dance.”

“I can’t help you there. I’m blessed with two left feet,” Glassings says, and here the conversation stalls awkwardly for a moment. And then Glassings pretends to straighten Partridge’s necktie and collar. He whispers, “I know what’s going on, and it’s okay.”

“You know what’s going on?” Partridge says, trying to sound innocent.

Glassings stares at him. “C’mon, Partridge. I know what’s what.”

Partridge feels sick. Has he been that obvious? Who else knows his plans?

“You stole the stuff from your mother’s metal box in the Personal Loss Archives.” Glassings’ face goes soft. He smiles gently. “It’s natural. You want to have some of her back. I took something from one of the boxes too.”

Partridge looks at his shoes. His mother’s things. That’s what this is about. He shifts his weight and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an impulse.”

“Look, I’m not telling anyone,” Glassings says quietly. “If you ever want to talk, come to me.”

Partridge nods.

“You’re not alone,” Glassings whispers.

“Thanks,” Partridge says.

Then Glassings leans in close and says, “It wouldn’t hurt you to chum up to Arvin Weed. He’s on to something in that lab, making great strides, you know. Smart kid, going places. Not to choose your friends for you, but he’s a good egg.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Glassings gives him a gentle punch in the shoulder and walks off. Partridge stands there for a minute. He feels derailed, but he shouldn’t. It was a false alarm. He tells himself to focus. He pretends he’s lost something. He taps his suit pockets—where the keys are hidden—and his pants pockets, and then shakes his head. Is anyone even looking? He then turns down the first dim hallway, the route back to the dorms. But once he’s around the corner, he turns again to the doors of Founders Hall. He pulls out Lyda’s keys, picks the largest one, and fits it in the lock.

Founders Hall is the main exhibit space, now home to a Domesticity Display. Partridge pulls out his light-up pen and lets it glide over the nested metal spoons for measuring, a small white timer, and plates with elaborately designed edging. Lyda is in charge of the Domesticity Display. That’s why he chose her, a calculated move on his part to get the keys, which sounds worse than it is. Partridge reminds himself that no one’s perfect. Not even Lyda. Why did she say yes? Probably because he’s Willux’s son. And that fact has clouded all of his relationships. Growing up in the Dome, he can never be sure if people like him for himself or for his last name.

His light reflects a row of sharp glints—the case of knives. He walks over quickly. He runs his fingers over the lock, lifts Lyda’s key ring, the keys clinking in the dark. Because of the coding, he hears the keys too crisply in his mind like high-pitched bells. He tries one key after the next until one glides in. He twists it. There’s a small pop. He lifts the glass lid.

Then he hears Lyda’s voice. “What are you doing in here?”

He looks back and sees the soft outline of her dress, a silhouette. “Nothing,” he says.

She touches the light switch and turns on the electrical wall sconces, set to dim. Her eyes catch the light. “Do I want to know?”

“I don’t think so.”

She looks over her shoulder at the door. “I’ll look away and count to twenty,” she says. Her eyes lock onto his, as if she’s confessing something. He wants to confess too, suddenly. She looks beautiful at this moment—the tight fit of her dress around her narrow waist, the shine of her eyes, the petite red bow of her lips. He trusts her with a rush that he can’t explain.

He nods and then she turns her back and starts counting.

The display case is lined with soft velvety material. The knife has a wooden handle. He runs his finger along the blade—duller than he’d have liked. But it will do.

He tucks the knife into his belt, hidden by his blazer. He locks the case and walks to the door. “Let’s go,” he says to Lyda.

She looks at him for a second in the dim light, and he wonders if she’s going to ask him questions. She doesn’t. She reaches up and hits the light switch. The room goes dark. He gives her the keys, his hand brushing hers. They walk out together, and she locks the door behind them.

“Let’s do what normal people do,” Partridge says as they walk down the hall together, “so no one suspects.”

She nods. “Okay.”

He slips his hand in hers. This is what normal people do, hold hands.

When Partridge steps back into the decorated dining hall, he feels like a different person. He’s only passing through. He’s leaving. This won’t last. His life is going to change.

He and Lyda walk to the middle of the dance floor, under the fake gold stars attached to the ceiling, where the other couples sway. She reaches up and knits her fingers behind his neck. He wraps his hands around her waist. The silk of her dress is soft. He’s taller than she is and lowers his head to be closer. Her hair smells like honey, and her skin is warm, maybe flushed. When one song ends, he starts to back away, but stops when they’re face-to-face. She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses him. Her lips are soft. He can smell her flowery perfume. He kisses her back, runs his hands up her ribs a little.

And then, as if she’s just realized that they’re in a crowded room, she pulls away and glances around.

Glassings is eating off a cake plate, loading up. Miss Pearl is idling by the entrance.

“It’s late,” Lyda says.

“One more song?” Partridge asks.

She nods.

This time he holds her hand, pulls it to his shoulder, and tilts his head so it’s touching hers. He closes his eyes because he doesn’t want to remember what he sees, only what he feels.

ON
THE
MORNING
OF
HER
SIXTEENTH
BIRTHDAY
, Pressia wakes up having slept fitfully in the cabinet. She can hear Bradwell’s voice asking her if she’d turned sixteen yet. And now she has. She can still remember the feel of the raised print of her name on the official list as she touched it with her fingertip.

She could stay in the darkened cabinet all day. She could close her eyes and pretend that she’s a speck of ash that’s floated far up into the sky and she’s only looking down on this girl in a cabinet. She tries to imagine it, but then she’s distracted by her grandfather’s ragged cough, and she returns to her body, her backbone against the wood, her clamped shoulders, the doll-head fist tucked under her chin.

It’s her birthday. There’s no way around it.

She climbs out of the cabinet.

Her grandfather’s sitting at the table. “Good morning!”

Before him are two packages. One is simply a square of paper laid on top of a small mound, topped with a flower. The flower is an ash-choked yellow bell. The other package is something rolled up and wrapped with a cloth, tied with string, knotted in a bow.