Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(14)

I’d gone stretches like this without eating before. There had been a few months during the War before the soup kitchen opened when the only meal I could count on was my government-issued school lunch. I’d always saved three-quarters of it: half for my mom, and what little there was left—an apple, a pack of peanut-butter crackers maybe—for dinner. The gnawing hunger I felt now reminded me of my days rib-counting in front of the bathroom sink.

With a sharp pang I wondered if my mother had eaten today. If it was a sandwich—she liked sandwiches—or something off the line at the soup kitchen. For my sanity, I banished this from my mind. But other forbidden thoughts surfaced.

Chase. The same question, over and over. How could he? He’d known us all his life. Had he honestly thought when he’d promised to return to me that it would be like this?

But that was the problem. He hadn’t returned. Not really. That soldier at my doorstep had been a stranger.

In the evening I was permitted to go to the common room with the other seventeens, and was alarmed to learn that Rosa was still not back from her punishment. I wondered if she had a concussion, then I thought of the empty girl we’d seen this morning and worried that Rosa had been injured worse.

While I agonized over these thoughts, Rebecca recited with a sickening amount of enthusiasm the school rules for the new people. Then we prayed. At least, they prayed. I continued to ruminate anxiously.

Before we were excused, the guard announced that there was one final issue to attend to. I cannot say exactly why, but I knew from the moment Ms. Brock set foot into the room that she meant to harm me.

“Ladies,” she began slowly.

“Good evening,” several of them chimed, Rebecca included. I said nothing.

“There was another incident today. A breach in the rules. Those of you who have been with us some time will know how we handle these issues, yes?”

I concentrated on sitting tall, with my chin lifted and my eyes fixed on the witch that moved soundlessly before me. Apparently starvation had not been enough; she meant to humiliate me publicly for the telephone incident. She could do whatever she wanted. I refused to show her I was afraid. Someone needed to stand up to the school-yard bully.

The next thing I knew, Randolph was yanking me out of my chair. He dragged me over to a side table in the common room, testing my commitment to be brave.

“But Ember is new, Ms. Brock!”

Rebecca could not completely sugarcoat the defiance in her tone. Her face was streaked with red. I was shocked that she was defending me.

“She is entitled to a probation period while she learns the rules. Ma’am,” she added as an afterthought.

Another guard placed himself between us. The girls were staring from their SA, to me, to Brock in quick succession. No one spoke.

Ms. Brock glared at my roommate for several seconds. I held my breath. I didn’t want Rebecca’s support, but I sensed it was better to keep my mouth shut.

Finally Ms. Brock exhaled loudly through her nostrils.

“You’ve worked quickly, Ms. Miller,” she said. Her harsh stare traveled to Rebecca. “Like a virus, infecting our brightest. But you see,” she announced to the rest of the room, “Ms. Miller has already attacked a soldier, and her actions today cannot go unpunished.” The other girls were watching, some in shock, several now in interest. It was sickening.

“Here, Ms. Miller.”

Ms. Brock motioned to the table, sidling around to the opposite side. Randolph stepped behind me and removed the baton from his belt. He had an absent, almost dead look in his eyes. My breath quickened.

“Would you like to tell the other seventeens how you broke the rules today?”

I locked my jaw as tightly as I could.

“You have been asked to explain yourself, Ms. Miller.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brock,” I told her clearly. “You told me if I have nothing to say, better just to keep quiet.”

I felt a wave of triumph speaking the words out loud and thought, with both pride and trepidation, that my mother would have approved. Several of the other girls gasped. I broke away for a moment to see Rebecca’s expression grow grim.

Ms. Brock sighed. “It appears insubordination is a communicable disease amongst our new students.”

“Speaking of, where is Rosa?” I asked.

“That was not the question,” she said. “The question was if you would like to—”

“The answer is no. I feel no need to explain myself,” I answered as assertively as I could. I was so mad my organs vibrated.

Ms. Brock’s face pinched with fury, and her eyes lit with fire. She removed a long, slender stick from her belt that had waited beneath the folds of her skirt. It was thin like a chopstick, only twice the length, and flexible. The end of it swung back and forth as she waved it before my face.

Who was this woman?

“Hands on the table,” she commanded coldly.

I took a step back and nearly tripped over Randolph. A chill swept through me. This wasn’t the Middle Ages. Human rights still existed, didn’t they?

“You can’t hit me with that,” I found myself saying. “That’s illegal. There are laws against that sort of thing.”

“My dear Ms. Miller,” Ms. Brock said, with patronizing warmth. “I am the law here.”

My eyes shot to the door. Randolph read my intentions and raised his baton higher.