When We Wake (21 page)

It was dark again, of course, but Koko provided enough illumination to show that Abdi’s fists were clenching as he stood between the mop rack and a stack of replacement humanure containers. I hesitated, not sure if I should stay or go.

“He hates me,” he said. “He hates me for no reason, because he needs someone to hate, and I am here.”

I was pretty sure he wasn’t actually talking to me, but I nodded.

“He’s a stupid, arrogant child!” Abdi shoved the humanure containers. They rocked, threatening to topple. I braced, pushing them back into place. “But people listen to
him
. My mother said people would say things, but I didn’t think—”

The moment was too raw. I should have left, and yet I couldn’t look away.

He dropped his eyes and took a deep breath, then another. “Thank you,” he said after a minute. “Starting a fistfight would have attracted the wrong kind of attention.”

“Thank Zaneisha, not me. I was kind of hoping you’d hit him.”

He let out a huff of air that wasn’t quite a laugh. “If I am charged with assault, I will be deported.”

“Oh. Can
I
hit him?”

“I don’t think you need publicity, either. Not that sort.”

“But it would feel so good,” I sighed, and this time his laugh was real. “Thank you for the Ringo songs. I didn’t know you knew Joph.”

“She’s all right. She doesn’t bother people. She doesn’t gossip.”

“How did you get to know each other?”

His face hardened into blankness again. “Just in class.”

That was clearly my cue. “Speaking of class,” I said, and got up, “I’ll see you later.”

“Yes,” he said. “You will.”

But except for a few stray thoughts, I was actually too busy to think about Abdi much for the rest of the week.

Okay. He’s laughing at me. Because apparently I am sooooo funny.

All right, I might have looked at him once or twice. But I noticed more than a few glances coming my way. It’s sort of obvious when someone seated in front of you keeps looking at the back of the classroom, you know.

Hah, yes, who’s laughing now?

Anyway.

I really was very busy. On top of school, and my psych and physical testing at the base, and the constant media training
and critiques from Tatia, Zaneisha had stuck to her promise to teach me martial arts. I got an hour of training every day between school and Tatia.

I’d had this sort of wistful vision of being hailed as a martial arts prodigy and going straight to breaking bricks in half with my hands. My bodyguard squashed that notion at the beginning of our first session, which took place in our kitchen, on the mats she’d laid out there.

Zaneisha put me through a warm-up routine that stretched every muscle I had and made my heart feel as if it were going to pulse out of my chest. Then she taught me how to fall.

Actually, I
was
kind of good at that, if not quite prodigy level. If there’s one thing you learn from free running, it’s how to roll with the impact of your landing and protect your head. But I hadn’t practiced falling backward from a standing position, and it took a little effort to learn how to sit down and slap the mat as I went back.

“Break your fall, not your head,” Zaneisha instructed as the back of said head touched the mat lightly. I got her point, annoyed with myself; it would have hurt, had I done it on concrete.

“Three more times,” Zaneisha said. “And then I’ll teach you some throws.”

That was enough motivation to get up again. After being tossed a few times myself, just to make sure I’d got the falling part down, I learned how to throw Zaneisha if she bear-hugged me from behind, if she tried to choke me from the front, and if for some reason I just needed to throw her without any provocation on her part. That one was especially fun.

“Very good,” she said. “You should rehydrate now.”

I nodded and got myself a drink. Zaneisha leaned against the bench and watched me swallow.

“Have you ever thought of following your father into the army?” she asked.

I sprayed water all over the floor.

She looked as if she was thinking of slapping me on the back, so I waved her away and leaned over the sink, arms braced, until the coughing stopped. “Um,” I said. “Well, I’ve thought about it. But I have, you know, liberal tendencies. And a few problems with authority.”

“So did I,” she said. “My parents are American. They immigrated here just before the fundamentalist wars. I grew up with no trust for the government—any government.” Her eyes were intent upon my face, and I tried not to back away. Besides, there was nowhere to back up to. “I don’t deny that society needs radicals and protesters to ask questions of the people in charge. You might be better off in a less structured environment. But the army can be a very good place for people like you and me, Tegan.”

I tried to raise one eyebrow, something I’ve never been able to do very well.

She smiled, warm and bright. “Really. We need people who can think, who can make fast decisions, who care about the well-being of others. And, of course, people who have a certain kinetic ability. Your free running has taught you to think laterally in terms of body motion, and you picked up those throws very fast today. With discipline and comradeship, you could be exceptional.”

This was by far the biggest speech Zaneisha had ever made in my presence.

And two days ago, I would have been thrilled to hear it. But I’d seen Dawson drive up to that warehouse in the middle of the night, and my doubts must have been very clear on my face.

“Just think about it,” Zaneisha advised.

“Okay,” I said. It seemed easiest.

Then Tatia came in, and the next ten minutes were taken up with her horror at the fact that I was actually
sweating
, and by the way, Teeg, chicken, where are your glitter gloves, and my goodness, what have you done with your
hair
?

There was absolutely no time in that week for Bethari to come to my place so we could talk about what we’d seen and how we could further investigate. I didn’t trust Koko to transmit or receive a secure message, and at Tatia’s insistence, I was attending school only in the mornings.

We couldn’t even find some privacy at school, and Soren was to blame. While I’d gone after Abdi, Bethari had ripped the famer up one side and down the other for being a first-class bazza, and Joph had flatly stated that she’d never supply his parties again. The next day, Soren made a couple more overtures of friendship to me, which I ignored with all the contempt I could muster.

After that, Soren gave up on wanting to be my friend and went straight for making my life hell. His cohorts spread out on the rooftop garden, leaned against the corridor walls, loitered on the stairs, and kept up a constant report of my activities to the tubes. It was never quite enough to trip the school’s honor code, but more than enough to make me miserable.

The Living Dead Girl is wearing makeup today, but she’s put it on all wrong.

The Living Dead Girl is having trouble with basic physics lessons.

The Living Dead Girl stared at Abdi Taalib all through his flute performance instead of taking notes for criticism like she was supposed to.

On Wednesday morning, Bethari and I headed for Joph’s janitor’s closet as soon as we got to school. But when we opened the door, Soren was there, too, smiling at Joph and making idle conversation about the scents of cleaning products.

“He won’t go away,” Joph said miserably.

Soren’s smile was brilliant. “It’s all school property,” he said. “I’m as entitled to be here as you are.”

“You think you’re entitled to
everything
,” Bethari said.

He ignored her and wiggled his fingers at me. “Hello, Teeg. You’re going to love my next report. The Living Dead Girl loves hiding in small, dark spaces, probably because her mind has been irreparably warped by the revival process—so sad.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m angry,” he said, the smile dropping away. “How dare you side with that filthy thirdie over me?”

“Because I have good taste,” I said, and stormed off to the classroom, disgust thick in my throat.

Still, he couldn’t keep it up forever. He’d get bored, or his friends would want to torment someone else. Bethari and I would just have to wait until the interview was over and the publicity had died down, and then we could work on a plan to
find out what Dawson was up to with the Ark Project, and what it had to do with me.

On Thursday, the day of the interview, I missed school altogether, and Tatia called in her team.

I’d thought the previous makeover had been more than adequate, but oh-ho-ho-ho no. The top layer of skin was scrubbed off, any pimples banished, every single hair below my eyelashes stripped away (at least that didn’t hurt, but it was deeply obnoxious), and of course I had absolutely no say in any of it.

The hairstylist hummed to himself, added extensions, snipped off bits here and there, straightened bits, curled bits, sprayed me with a dozen things, and then, the crowning indignity, turned to Tatia to ask, “What do you think?”

“
I
think I look like a mannequin,” I said.

“A beautiful mannequin,” Tatia said. “Reasonable, Jacob.” She turned to me and clapped her hands twice. “And now, my favorite part!”

Apparently my makeup was too important to be trusted to anyone else; Tatia brushed and buffed and blended until I wanted to scream.

But that might have cracked my lip color, and then I’d have to do the whole thing over again. “There,” she said at last. “Perfect.”

I opened my eyes. The girl in the mirror was recognizably me; it wouldn’t have helped Dawson’s goals to completely alter my features. But everything had been heightened or flattened. My lips were bright red, the cupid’s bow of my mouth emphasized. My eyebrows had been left fashionably unplucked but
darkened until they were the same shade as my hair. Tatia had put in contact lenses that enlarged my irises and added huge fake lashes, top and bottom. My eyes looked enormous, gleaming dark brown against skin that had been polished to ivory, with just a touch of warm pink on my cheekbones.

All my imperfections were gone. No hairs on my upper lip, no persistent zit just under my left ear. The length of my nose was still physically there—I touched it for reassurance—but some trick of shading and perspective had diminished it to a tiny button.

There was something weirdly familiar about the way I looked, with my black hair molded into smooth waves and collected into the illusion of lustrous curls at the nape of my neck.

I climbed into the costume of a heavy blue tunic and gold leggings, trying to pin down that resemblance.

“Snow White!” I said suddenly. “You made me look like Snow White!”

“Awakened from a deathlike sleep by a handsome prince,” she agreed. “We want people to see you as a romantic heroine, not a leech on our national resources.”

“Do people even
watch
Disney anymore?”

“There was a revival about ten years ago. That’s long enough that the association will be familiar but largely subliminal.”

This was just great. The Beatles were obscure trivia, but people could still recognize that stupid movie. It wasn’t worth pointing out that I’d been awakened from actual death by a doctor and an army initiative instead of any kind of prince; Tatia was perfectly capable of ignoring these inconvenient facts.

“Now, another question run-through,” she said, and I tried not to groan too audibly.

Bethari called me right before the interview, just as my nerves were about to fray completely. I yelled at Tatia until she backed out and left me alone in my room.

“Nervous?” Bethari asked.

“Oh my god, yes,” I said. “I’ll be so glad when this interview is over and things get back to normal.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Bethari?”

“I thought you knew,” she said. “Don’t you check yourself on the tubes anymore?”

“Not since I found that place that talks about where people would take me for our honeymoon. What don’t I know?”

“There are rumors that other interviews will soon be announced.”

I sat down on the floor. I didn’t really mean to—my legs just dropped out from under me. “What?”