“Oh. Well, she’s obsessed with mammals,” I say. “So I bet her aptitude will get her in.”
“Most likely,” she says. She’s swallowed her bite and doesn’t take another. “Where do you want to be placed?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably the Beak.”
“The Beak,” she repeats. “What about your focus on functional nutrition? I didn’t know that you’d done any of your research on avian species.”
She’s called my bluff. She knows what all my projects have been on—I’ve asked her input as a mammalian expert on almost all of them.
“Well, I haven’t. But, you know, birds are interesting. Reptiles too, so maybe I’ll ask about the slither.”
She smiles at me, a small amused smile, and I feel foolish, transparent. I stand abruptly.
“I’m going to go see some friends,” I say.
She looks surprised but nods.
“All right,” she says. “Have a good time. Don’t worry about your food: I’ll finish it.”
I leave without replying.
Out in the commune, I inhale deeply. When did it become so hard to breathe at home? I wander. I was as surprised as my mother to hear me say that I was going to see friends: we both know I don’t really have any in the Paw. But it’s not so bad being alone: wandering in the Paw is a lot like being outside if you don’t look up and see the curving ceiling of the dome. Sometimes the walls make me claustrophobic; like they’re part of a cage keeping me from the rest of the world. I look at my feet, at the grass and stones and soil, and imagine that I’m outside the compound, in the jungle and on my own. I wonder if anyone else ever feels this way: the urge to escape and see Faloiv for themselves, beyond the slides that Dr. Espada shows in class, the quick snatches of the world I see on the Worm, or on my rare trips with my father. The soil is soft under my narrow white shoes. If I were a marov, I think, I could just burrow right under the dome walls. I smile at the idea and turn to start across one of the bridges that cross the stream.
“What are you smiling about?”
It’s Rondo. I’m not surprised, as if I knew that by wandering long enough he’d show up.
“I was just thinking about being a marov,” I blurt.
“A marov . . . ?”
He looks confused, and I seize on his puzzlement to distract from my embarrassment.
“A marov,” I say, daring him to mock me. “It’s a mammal. You might want to look it up: it’ll be on an exam sometime.”
He looks away, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the bridge, gazing out at the commune. I realize now I’ve embarrassed him.
“It’s just a furry, fat thing.” I shrug. “Ground dwelling. Eats tubers and leaves . . .”
He returns his eyes to my face, his fingers still drumming, and says, “Honestly, I don’t give a damn about mammals.”
This surprises me. I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or not. He doesn’t seem angry: his face, mostly smooth aside from a little bumpy area on one cheekbone from acne, is lineless.
“No?” It’s all I can think to say.
“Nope. Not at all.”
“What do you give a damn about, then?” I say, and take a few steps toward the other side of the bridge. He’s just come from this way, I’m guessing, but I’m not finished with my walk. I wonder if he’ll come with me, and my stomach stirs, a lone winged insect trapped in its cavern.
“People,” he says, and follows. Inside me, one insect becomes two. “I’m interested in people.”
“Well, there’s no human compound.” It’s a joke, but he doesn’t smile.
“No, there’s not.”
He says it as if this is something he’s already considered and found to be a problem.
“So what would you study if you had to choose? Since people aren’t an option.”
He pauses.
“Music.”
“Music?” I scoff, trying too late to take the judgment out of my voice. I throw a sideways look at him to see if he noticed. He did, but he doesn’t look offended. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s no musical compound either.”
“Mmm.”
“You can’t choose something more . . . logical?”
“There’s more to the world than logic,” he says.
“Not in N’Terra.”
“Yes, I know.” Then finally, as if giving in, he adds, “I guess I’d study birds if I had to choose. If forced.”
“Do you miss the Beak that much?”
“What’s to miss? Everything I need is right here.”
He doesn’t look at me, but his sly smile lets me know the pleasure that blooms in my chest was planted there intentionally.
“I was there last week,” I say.
“I know.” He nods.
“You know?”
“Yes, I heard. A whitecoat was observing a newly hatched oscree in the main dome while you were there. He mentioned to my dad that he saw you.”
He “saw” me. I can hear the philax in his voice: he knows what happened. I wish I was a marov more than ever, and imagine diving into the safety of a burrow, made invisible by soil.
“He saw me,” I repeat, refusing to look at him. We enter a cluster of shops, many of which are closing for the day. The light coming through the transparent ceiling is softer than an hour ago, sunset approaching.
“Yeah, saw you. He said you fainted. I didn’t really see you as the fainting type.”
I grit my teeth. I want to snap that I’m not the fainting type, but then I’d have to admit what actually happened. If I haven’t told Alma, then I’m not telling Rondo.
“So are you just going to stay silent, Octavia?”
The sound of my name in his mouth takes on a special sound—like a rare specimen whose name requires magic to pronounce. I don’t let this magic creep into my reply.
“I can. It would be my prerogative.”
“Damn, O, what happened at the Beak?” he insists.
I groan and he looks briefly surprised before laughing.
“Do you really not want to talk about it?” he says. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes, I fainted, okay?” It comes out more peevishly than I intended. “I saw something happen to a philax and I just passed out.” I walk a little faster, as if to put distance between me and the subject.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting my words fade.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“And you know this how?” I demand. I almost laugh, but what happened at the Beak is too recent to be funny yet. Especially when its consequences are still playing out.
Rondo shrugs.
“I know people. And there’s more to it than that.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing. We’re still on the shop side of the stream, which is mostly empty. People have gone home to their families. We walk by one gray-haired man locking up his shop, keying in his security code. When he finishes, he lets a scarlet banner billow down over the door, an image of some kind stitched on the front. I’ve never seen this before. When the fabric settles, I find the same emblem that the councilmembers wear as a gold pin: the likeness of the Vagantur and the five circular compounds.
“Excuse me,” I call to the retreating shopkeeper. “What is this? The banner, I mean.”