My mind flashes to Steve—his easy laugh, his long, tan fingers skating up my thigh—and I will the image away quickly.
“I don’t bite, you know,” Fred says lightly. I’m not sure whether he means it to be an invitation to move closer, but I stay where I am.
“I don’t know you,” I say. “And I’m not used to talking to boys.” This is no longer exactly true—not since Angelica and I discovered the underground, anyway—but of course, he can’t know that.
He spreads his hands. “I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”
I look away from him. I have many questions: What did you like to do before you were cured? Do you have a favorite time of day? What was your first match like, and what went wrong? But none are appropriate to ask. And he wouldn’t answer me anyway, or he would answer the way he has been taught.
When Fred realizes I’m not going to speak, he sighs and climbs to his feet. “You, on the other hand, are a complete mystery. You’re very pretty. You must be smart. You like to run, and you were president of the debate team.” He has crossed the porch toward me, and he leans against the railing. “That’s all I got.”
“That’s all there is,” I say forcefully. That hard thing in my throat is only growing. Although the sun went down an hour ago, it is still very hot. I find myself wondering, randomly, what Lena is doing tonight. She must be at home—it’s nearly curfew. Probably reading a book, or playing a game with Grace.
“Smart, pretty, and simple,” Fred says. He smiles. “Perfect.”
Perfect. There’s the word again: a locked-door word—stifling, strangling.
I’m distracted by movement in the garden. One of the shadows is moving—and then, before I can cry out or alert Fred, a man emerges from the trees, carrying a large, military-style rifle. Then I do cry out, instinctively; Fred turns around and begins to laugh.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “That’s just Derek.” When I continue to stare, he explains, “One of Dad’s guards. We’ve beefed up security recently. There have been rumors. . . .” He trails off.
“Rumors about what?” I prompt him.
He avoids looking at me. “It’s probably overblown,” he says casually. “But some people believe that a resistance movement is growing. Not everyone believes that the Invalids”—he winces when he says the word, as though it hurts him—“were eradicated during the blitz.”
Resistance movement. Invalids. A prickly feeling starts to work its way through my body, as though I’ve just been plugged into an electrical outlet.
“My father doesn’t believe it, of course,” Fred finishes flatly. “Still, better to be safe than sorry, right?”
Once again, I stay quiet. I wonder what Fred would do if he knew about the underground, and knew that I had spent the summer at forbidden, unsegregated beach parties and concerts. I wonder what he would do if he knew that only last week, I let a boy kiss me, let him explore my thighs with his fingertips—actions reviled and forbidden.
“Would you like to go down into the gardens?” Fred asks, as though sensing the topic has disturbed me.
“No,” I say, so quickly and firmly he looks surprised. I inhale and manage to smile. “I mean—I have to use the bathroom.”
“I’ll show you where it is,” Fred says.
“No, please.” I can’t keep the urgency from my tone. I toss my hair over one shoulder, tell myself to get a grip, and smile again, wider this time. “Stay here. Enjoy the night. I can find it.”
“And self-sufficient, too,” Fred says with a laugh.
On the way to the bathroom, I hear the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen—some of the Hargroves’ servants, I assume—and am about to keep walking when I hear Mrs. Hargrove say the word Tiddles quite clearly. My heart seizes. They’re talking about Lena’s family. I inch closer to the kitchen door, which is partially open, certain at first that I’ve only imagined it.
But then my mother says, “Well, we never wanted to make little Lena feel ashamed because of the rest of her family. One or two bad apples . . .”
“One or two bad apples can mean the whole tree is rotten,” Mrs. Hargrove says primly.
I feel a hot flash of anger and alarm—they are talking about Lena. For a second I fantasize about kicking open the kitchen door, right into Mrs. Hargrove’s simpering face.
“She’s a lovely girl, really,” my mother insists. “She and Hana have been inseparable since they were little.”
“You’re much more understanding than I am,” Mrs. Hargrove says. She pronounces understanding as though she’s really saying idiotic. “I would never have allowed Fred to run around with someone whose family had been so . . . tainted. Blood tells, doesn’t it?”
“The disease doesn’t carry through the blood,” my mother says softly. I feel a wild urge to reach through the wood and hug her. “That’s an old idea.”