Chapter Eight
By the next morning, my cheek is jaundiced from the fading bruise. No amount of makeup will fully cover the damage, so I give up and walk to breakfast with my hair in my face. No one in this house will care but I hate that evidence of my slavery is so prominently displayed.
Halfway to the dining hall, someone steps out of a doorway and I stop abruptly to avoid a collision. I recognize his boots and look up into the face I’ve missed the past twenty-four hours despite all efforts to the contrary.
“Linc,” I say as my hair falls away.
“Rav…” My name—my Authentic’s name—dies on his lips. His brows lift in surprise and then it’s as if a mask falls over his features, effectively hiding his thoughts from me. “What happened to your face?”
“I … was struck.” I am suddenly unsure of how to explain my injury. Or how he will react if I do. He shouldn’t care how I’m treated. I hope he does.
“Did that happen on the rooftop?” he asks. “I don’t remember seeing any mark the other night.”
“Yes, the rooftop,” I say, grabbing hold of the flimsy explanation.
He stares for a long moment and I am positive he doesn’t believe me. My heart races as I wait for him to demand the truth, but he doesn’t. He nods toward the hallway, a muscle in his jaw working. “Breakfast?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. We fall into step together, neither of us speaking another word.
***
I play tennis with Sofia on the roof and after lunch, when Gus is convinced I won’t have another migraine meltdown, I run laps. The guard watches from the doorway but like before, I enjoy the solitude of being the only one in the fresh air. Several laps in, I notice Linc stands in place of my original guard. He watches from against the outside wall, but I don’t mind. Linc’s presence is not oppressive like the others.
The ends of my hair tickle my shoulder blades as I move. It would be more comfortable pulled back but I don’t want to risk exposing the ink behind my ear—or more importantly, Titus’s anger should the staff notice. I am hyperaware of the exposed skin between my cropped sports bra and the waistline of my shorts but I tell myself this is me, her, Authentic Raven, and they’ve all seen it before. Or they think they have.
Running is repetitive but it helps in ordering my thoughts. I concentrate on my footfalls, the rhythm it creates. Soon my heavy emotions fall away. I still think of my situation. Of Titus and his threats, of my GPS chip ticking away inside me like a bomb whose countdown I can’t read. But my physical exertion has drowned out my mind’s reaction to it all. I am detached and cold. For the first time since leaving Twig City, I feel like I’ve been trained to feel … nothing.
When I finish my run, Linc is waiting with a bottle of water. I take a swig and keep walking to let my body cool down. He surprises me by falling into step beside me. We are halfway around the loop when he speaks. The wind gusts are strong this close to the roof’s edge and I have to strain to hear him.
“You’re different,” he says.
As soon as he speaks the words, my heart hammers against my chest double-time. Any coldness or distance I’d achieved during my run vanishes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s something different about you, ever since that first attack where you got hit on the head.”
I focus on controlling my breathing, which is coming faster and has nothing to do with the four miles I’ve just completed. “Well, I do have amnesia—”
“No,” he interrupts. “It’s more than that. You’re not … you. I haven’t figured it out, but there’s something off.”
I can’t think of an answer that will pacify him. The amnesia story is all I have and if that isn’t working, I don’t know what will, short of the truth. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that. Even if it didn’t mean his certain death—or my own—I can’t bear to see the horror in him that I’m sure my words would bring.
He lets out a frustrated grunt. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Raven. I may only have worked here a few months, but I can see there’s more going on than I’m being told. Not just with you but Titus, Gus, all of them. Everything’s a damned secret.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Maybe you should ask your boss.”
“Titus is a liar and a tyrant. I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.” He stops walking and pulls me to a stop beside him. We are on the outer rim of the track and I’m not sure if we can be seen from the glass doors, but I don’t dare look away from Linc to check.
“Linc, I …” I have no idea what to say, but I desperately want to say something, because suddenly this boy matters very much. As does his opinion of me. “I am different. I’m not that girl from before.”
“Why? What changed?” He is leaning forward, hanging on my every word, desperate for me to give him a real answer.
I open my mouth but the next words out of my lips cannot be the ones on my tongue. I cannot tell him the truth. I close my mouth again. He recognizes my decision and the fire goes out of him.
There is nothing else to do. I begin walking and clear the blind spot we stood in just as the door opens and a guard steps out. He blinks at me in relief and then steps back inside.
I hear Linc’s footsteps as he catches up. He passes me without a word and disappears inside.
I don’t see him again all day.
***
On Sunday, Titus joins me at breakfast. He is all smiles and compliments and a complete stranger in his forced joviality. It is the first time I have seen him since he struck me but all traces of his anger are gone. My own, however, has only grown. The sight of him jars me so heavily that I have to grit my teeth to keep from snarling. I force one foot in front of the other and somehow I make it to the table. Biscuits and eggs have already been laid out. A steaming mug sits in front of my plate and I concentrate on it.
“Raven, darling, you look lovely this morning,” he says as I take a seat and fold my napkin primly across my lap.
“Thank you,” I say. The compliment makes my skin crawl because it has come from his mouth.
My satin blouse is thin but more than that, his gaze roaming over me make me feel exposed in a way that disgusts me to my core. I smile and sip my gourmet coffee.
The entire meal is Titus fawning over me and telling me what a great job I’m doing. By the end, my nails have torn the skin in my palms where I’ve curled my hands into fists. Titus doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.
“You should take a day off from all this constant exercise, darling,” Titus says when the dishes have been cleared. “It’s Sunday, a day for rest. You should get out, get some fresh air.”
I almost choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”
He smiles. He is fully aware of what he’s suggested—a reprieve from my prison—and I’m not sure if he’s teasing me just yet. Still, my heart thuds against my chest at the prospect of being allowed to walk out the front door.
“I mean it,” he says. “Go for a walk or something. This will all be here when you get back.” He waves a dismissive hand.
I hesitate. I know there is something he isn’t telling me, like the fact that I will never be without a camera on me, no matter where I go. And of course there’s my GPS. But the offer is too good to pass up and I rise to my feet, half expecting him to laugh at me and tell me it’s a joke. He doesn’t. Instead, he smiles a knowing smile and watches me leave.
“See you later, daughter,” he calls out behind me.
I don’t turn.
My steps are methodical as I wind around the circular hallway to the elevator. I don’t bother stopping at my room to change or dab on more makeup. I’m too afraid Titus will change his mind and lock me away after all. I make it into the elevator without seeing a single security guard. The door closes and in this moment, freedom—however contrived—is so close I can taste it.
The elevator stops and the doors open to the lobby. My boots echo against the hard floor, a fast-paced click-click as I hurry toward fresh air. The doorman sees me coming, tips his hat, and pulls open the door for me. I pass through and relish the feel of the air as it hits my face.
Three steps onto the sidewalk, I stop. I have no idea where to go from here. My familiarity of the city ends at the curb, where I’ve only ever been ushered into a waiting car and swept away. Now, with the entire city at my fingertips, I have absolutely no clue what to do next. The thought of escape cloys at the back of my thoughts but I don’t plan to try. For one thing, I know it’s what Titus expects. I am not so na?ve that I don’t recognize this as a test. But more importantly, I promised Linc.
I am also very aware that I appear alone. And though I don’t doubt Titus is somehow watching, I feel like bait dangling from a hook. Whoever wants me will no doubt come for me should I attempt a tour through the city on my own.
Car engines groan and whine as they whir past me. The smell of exhaust is everywhere, mixing with the expensive colognes of passersby in a way that makes me wrinkle my nose. I shift my weight, looking this way and that, trying to pick the least dangerous direction to wander. The longer I stand here, the more I feel like a target. My rooftop attack is still fresh in my mind and I know a repeat performance is a distinct possibility, but I refuse to turn around and retreat inside just yet.
An engine sounds from behind, louder than the passing cars. It dies off as it reaches me and I turn. It’s a motorcycle, shiny black. I cannot see the rider’s face through his helmet but I know him by the shape of his body. I think I would know him anywhere. Linc.
“Wanna ride?” he asks over the sound of traffic.
Despite the way our last meeting ended, I am glad to see him. We haven’t spoken since he walked away from me on the rooftop, but if he’s offering me a ride, I suspect some sort of truce is in effect. I decide to go with it, especially if it means getting back on the motorcycle.
I start to tell him yes, then glance over my shoulder at Rogen Tower. The windows feel like pupils: cold, unblinking, always watching. I hesitate. He looks at the building, as if guessing my reluctance. His hand rolls forward on the throttle and the engine revs. Throaty. Loud.
“Gus cleared it,” he adds.
My lips curve upward at that, and I take the helmet he offers. When it’s fastened, I slide in behind him, loving the way my body tingles where it touches his back. I slide my hands around his midsection, the gesture at once both new and familiar.
“Where are we going?” I call out as his foot works the gears and we ease into traffic.
“Where do you want to go?” he shouts back.
I try to think of an area in the city I want to see again but there’s nothing. Everywhere I’ve been seems coated with either desperate poverty or blood money, and I have no desire to see either.
“Is there somewhere with no people around? No city?” I ask.
“Mother Nature in the raw? Of course.”
His hand slides on the throttle and we’re off. He veers left, then right, weaving in and out of traffic, missing bumpers by inches. I gasp, my fear turning quickly to awe that we can move like this.
The city flies by on either side. I let it all blur together and revel in the way every heavy thought dissolves as we pick up speed. Wind rushes by and after a few moments, I feel a chill on my thighs. It is a comfortable cold, a windy, freeing, delicious cold. I love it.
The city disappears gradually. First, the nicer buildings devolve into more dilapidated versions. Boarded-up windows eventually turn into empty frames and walls emblazoned with graffiti. Trash litters the sidewalks. It blows across the road in front of us, giving off a feeling of loneliness so strong that I blink back tears for all of the people who see this every day—and know the extravagance that exists five miles northward.
I see a few faces peeking out from a sheltered storefront. No one stumbles through the streets here. Even in daylight, it feels dangerous. Desperate.
Finally, the buildings and cracked sidewalks give way to fields. Far in the distance to my left, I see thick forest. Between me and the trees, it is only open fields and grass so tall I think it might cover my head were I to wade in. It is white and feathery. Wheat, maybe.
Ida once called my hair that color. I’ve never seen anything like it outside of a television screen or textbook but it is beautiful as it sways under the weight of the breeze.
The road narrows and the double-yellow line becomes a single line of dashes. I don’t know what this means, though there isn’t much traffic here. My hands tighten around Linc as he increases our speed. In front of us the road stretches as far as I can see.
In this moment, with the wind whipping my hair, the view endless and open, I experience joyful abandon for the first time in my existence. It is sweet and sharp in my mouth. I want to memorize it, store it up, so that when I need it most, I can recall that this feeling does actually exist—and it is every inch worth living for.
The clean air, devoid of the scent of exhaust and oil, is refreshing. Linc leans in for a turn. We dip lower and lower until we’re almost parallel to the ground. My heart accelerates. My hands squeeze. The fear and adrenaline are delicious. I grin as the turn rounds out and the road straightens again.
It is a rare moment when I allow myself to feel like me. Ven. An Imitation. And while that is something I used to despise, I know now that I would take it over Authentic Raven. She is shallow and easy and meaningless. I am deep and complicated and appreciative of the simple experience of joy.
My desire to be all of those things and human is a pain that never dulls no matter how many times I think it. This time, I push the thought away, determined to live in the right now.
Linc slows the motorcycle and pulls onto the dirt shoulder. “Let’s take a walk and stretch our legs,” he says.
I dismount and stand beside him, relieved he’s not suggesting that we head back. I know the time will come but I’m not ready yet. I don’t know how he got permission from Gus for this trip but right now, I don’t care. I’m still awed by the openness of this place.
I slide my helmet off, hanging it on the bike where Linc shows me, and follow him into the grass. It is shorter here but still reaches above my waist. I wade in and before long, the road and the motorcycle have disappeared behind me.
“This is beautiful,” I say as we walk.
“It beats the city.”
“You don’t like the city?”
“I don’t like the extremes,” he says after a moment.
It’s not hard to guess what he means. I decide to ask the question that’s been haunting me since I first arrived. “The poor… why is it so bad when there’s so much money being spent everywhere else?”
“You still don’t remember everything?”
I shake my head, hoping it’s enough of a reason for him to explain.
“Fifteen years ago, there was an attack on our country. It was the largest terrorist act on record but it wasn’t just a single assault. The first wave was digital. They took out our computer systems. Planted viruses, hacked firewalls. Our stock market went first. Then the federal reserve crashed. Systems were wiped, money vanished. Banks were targeted next. People’s entire savings accounts erased.
“The military went broke. It went downhill pretty fast after that. No one took responsibility. We suspected China—mainly because of the failed negotiations over our debt, but no one really knew for sure. Still don’t.
“The chaos of it brought us to a civil war. The military took over the government for a while. When the dust settled, there were two clear-cut classes of people: very rich and very poor. It’s been that way ever since.”
While he speaks, I imagine this world before poverty struck. A world where everyone had money, houses, shoes. I don’t understand much of what he’s saying about viruses and firewalls, but I do understand one thing: despite a dark past, the people I’ve seen in the alleyways could have a future, if only people like Titus Rogen would give it to them.
“And Titus—my father?”
Linc shoots me another sideways glance that lets me know I’ve broken character again. “He’s smart. Like, genius smart. Had a degree in human biology and molecular science when he was thirteen.” He shrugs. “While we were all busy fighting each other, he was figuring out how to make people need him. He’s built his company and his fortune around doing other people favors. Whether he cashes them in or not, at this point, he’s immovable.”
There is no small amount of bitterness in Linc’s words. I wonder how much of the devastation he’s experienced himself but I don’t ask. That story seems so much more personal. I have no right to it—not when I’m unwilling to share any truth of my own.
“How long did the war last?” I ask instead.
“About five years, if you believe the politicians. Not so much weapons and killing as taking land, evictions, government seizing. The military used things like eminent domain and repossessions to push people out. My father—he was killed in a protest march.” His voice takes on an edge. “Arrests were made, complaints were filed. My family got a settlement check. New-age war is so very civilized.”
“And your mother?” I ask because I can’t help myself. The idea of family is so miraculous and foreign to me.
“She lives in a small apartment on the edge of uptown. She cooks for a congressman.”
“But if your family got money from the government, why does she work?”
“Because even a sizable settlement isn’t enough to compete with uptown. And if we can’t afford that, the only place left is the outer rim and, well, you saw the luxury available there.” His words twist with sarcasm but I know it is not directed at me. I can only imagine what he’s been through, and though my own upbringing has occurred more or less inside the walls of a prison, I’ve wanted for nothing—or nothing material, anyway.
We come to the edge of the wheat. There is a wide lane of grass before the woods encroach and take over. I stop and stare into the trees, my back to the wheat and to Linc. I am still thinking of his story, of a world where everyone had enough, and I find myself wishing for a way to make it so again. I am struck by the irony of our opposing pasts. I’ve been raised lacking nothing in the way of meals and clothing and physical comfort, but the way he looks when he speaks of his family—I am positive I’ve never felt that sort of connection or bond with anyone.
The closest I have is Lonnie and Ida. And I know I would do anything for them. But I imagine having a mother is a love that goes deeper than anything I’ve experienced with them.
When I turn back, Linc is watching me with a strange expression. “What is it?” I ask.
“Your hair is almost exactly the same color as the wheat.”
“Ida used to say the same thing.”
The words are out and it’s too late to take them back. Already, his expression has changed from one of earnest interest to one of baffled curiosity.
“Who is Ida?” he asks.
“She is … someone I knew a long time ago,” I say. I hope my vagueness will deter any more questions.
He steps closer, depressing the tall grass with his boots and knocking it aside to stand in front of me. “You used to be a much better liar. Did the knock on the head really affect you that much?”
I hear the demand in the question. I know he is frustrated. I am too. But I hold my ground. “I guess so,” I say with a shrug and what I hope is nonchalance.
He sighs, searching my face for whatever different answer he was hoping for. “It’s like you’re a different person,” he murmurs, the words an exact repeat of the other day on the track.
Like before, my heart clenches as if a fist has wrapped around it. For a terrifying second, I wonder if he’s figured it out. But he still looks lost and disappointed, and I know that he’s only speaking metaphorically. He has no idea it’s possible, that his words could be literal.
“I’m still me,” I say. I can hear my voice strain to remain vague. “I guess the bump on the head just made me want to live a little.” I’m referring to the motorcycle. And him. But if he asks, I am prepared to say it’s the motorcycle.
“What about Daniel?” he shoots back instead. “You didn’t want to live a little with him?”
“There are other ways to live besides hopping into bed with someone,” I say, suddenly furious that he’s ruined this beautiful moment by accusing me of such things.
He shakes his head. “That’s what I mean. The old you wouldn’t have said that. The old you wouldn’t have even thought it.”
“How do you know me so well?” I say, angry at his accusations. Angry because I cannot deny them, not without giving myself away. “You said yourself that we aren’t even friends. We don’t really talk. So how do you all of a sudden know what I’m thinking?”
“I’ve spent enough time in the same room with you to witness how you choose to live. And none of it involves motorcycle rides, or turning down offers from boys with trust funds, or anything to do with me. You’re not deep enough for these things. You’re surface. You’re Raven Rogen!”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“You know exactly what it means. You’re Titus’s daughter. In every way. You care more about the shoes on your feet than the people you step on with them. Me included. So why are you paying attention to me now?”
We are yelling, but I don’t care. There’s no one to hear and I hate that he’s brought me all the way out here, confided in me, only to throw it all back in my face by reminding me who I am. Who I’m supposed to be. I’m no longer channeling Authentic Raven’s haughtiness. I’m channeling my own. Even if it wasn’t me who did all of the things he said, it’s me now. And I hate that I can’t explain the difference.
“I have no idea why I’m paying attention to you. You’re nothing more than a glorified security guard,” I snap at him.
He stills and I know I’ve hit a nerve.
I shouldn’t have said it. I almost don’t care because I’m angry and it felt good to unleash on someone. But I do care. I don’t want to hurt him, but I have. He doesn’t speak, which only makes me feel worse. After a moment, he strides past me and disappears into the wheat and I am alone.
I stand there for a long time, muscles tensed. I am sure that any moment now, I will hear the motorcycle’s engine rev and he will speed off without me, stranding me in this barren field. It is not lost on me that I have a real chance to escape here. I could run in the opposite direction and not stop until I reach the trees. I could find a way to remove my GPS. They would never find me.
I would be free from Titus. Free from the weight of Authentic Raven around my shoulders, in my head. My words would be mine. My actions. My life.
And I would be alone.
No Ida. No Lonnie. No Linc.
It is the hardest decision I’ve ever made when I turn and walk through the grass. I do not stop until I emerge beside the motorcycle and the angry boy sitting on it.