Flawed (Flawed, #1)(41)

I shake my head.

“Verbal communication,” she snaps.

“No, I mean, yes,” I stammer. “I understand the rules.” I’m nervous because I don’t want to make a mistake, I don’t want to be punished again. I don’t know what’s right and wrong, what’s expected of me in this new world. I’ve read the rules, I’ve been told about them, but the reality is quite different. My family is all sitting at the table watching me with her. I can feel the tension in the room. I can’t make a mistake. Not again.

She likes how she has unnerved me. I see the smile in her eyes.

I sit for dinner for the first time since I’ve returned. A regular family dinner. Mary May remains in the corner, hat, coat, and gloves still on, her presence as calming as the Grim Reaper’s. Mom has turned music on to fill the uncomfortable silence. Juniper is at the table, eyes down that nervously flit to me when she thinks I’m not looking. The more scared of me she acts, the angrier she makes me feel. Ewan won’t stop staring at me, as though I’m not here to see him.

“What’s she eating?” he asks, looking at my plate of food with disgust.

“They’re grains,” Mom says. “They’re pumpkin seeds. And that’s salmon.”

“It looks like dog food.”

It smells like dog food.

The others are eating chicken and rice. The chicken looks dry and the rice pasty, and I wonder if it is deliberately so. Mom has also cooked cabbage, which she knows that I hate. I can see she is trying to help me, to make this easier for me. I know Mom has tried to keep it basic, but I still want to eat what they’re eating. I don’t want their food because it looks better than mine, or because I’m remotely hungry, because I’m not. I want it because it’s what I should be having. I want it because I’ve been told I can’t. I wonder, again, where this part of me has sprung from. I was the girl who followed rules, I was on their side. I never questioned anything; now I find myself on the wrong side of everything, questioning everything. This must be how Juniper felt every day. I look at her. She has her head down and is playing with her food. Once again it irritates me that she isn’t eating it. She can eat it. She has the right and she’s barely touching it. She looks up just then, sees the look on my face, swallows, and looks away again.

Ewan is staring at me. At the dressings on my hand, covering my temple. He eyes my chest curiously.

“Mom, Dad,” he whines. “She keeps looking at me.”

“Shut up, Ewan,” Juniper spits.

“She’s allowed to look at you,” Dad snaps. “She’s your sister.”

Ewan continues eating, in a huff.

“You know you’re allowed to speak directly to me, Ewan,” I say softly, finding strength within me to be gentle. He’s my little brother. I don’t want him to be afraid of me.

He looks startled that I’ve addressed him.

“Could you pass me the salt, please?” I ask.

It’s closest to Ewan. He freezes. “I’m not allowed to help you. Mom, Dad,” he whines again, absolutely terrified. He looks to Mary May, who is sitting in the corner of the kitchen, observing with her notepad and pen.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like I’ve been punched, as if the air has gone out of me. I have caused such terror on my own baby brother’s face.

“Oh for christsake,” Juniper yells at him, picks up the salt, and bangs it down in front of me. “You’re allowed to pass her the salt.”

They all continue eating in silence.

I watch them, like robots, heads down, shoveling food into their mouths. All except Juniper. I know none of them wants to eat. None apart from Ewan, anyway, but they are, and I know they’re doing it for me. I wish Juniper would. I have a bizarre feeling of wanting to force-feed her that chicken. And then I can’t take it anymore, the anger, the hatred that I’m feeling toward my own sister. It’s not her fault, and yet I’m blaming her.

I stand up. I take my plate and carry it over to the bin, beside where Mary May sits. I press the pedal to open the bin, and I throw the entire plate inside. I hear it smash as it hits the bottom. She doesn’t even flinch. I stick out my finger, ready for her test. I just want to get this over and done with and go back to bed. She pricks my finger, puts a drop of blood on a test strip, and places the strip into a meter that is strapped around her wrist like a watch, which displays my blood results. Instantly, the machine says, “Clear.”

She then puts a contraption on my finger, similar to a pulse oximeter, which is attached by a wire to her wrist sensor, and she asks the question.

“Celestine North, have you followed all Flawed rules today?”

“Yes.” My heart is beating wildly. I know that I have, but what if it says that I haven’t? What if they try to trick me? How truthful are these tests? How can I trust them if they’re controlled by the Guild—they can say I’m lying even if I’m not, and it’s their word against mine.

The watch once again gives a brisk, “Clear,” and she removes the device from my fingertip.

I don’t even look back at my family. I feel too humiliated. I go upstairs. I want to sleep.

Sleep, however, doesn’t come. My painkillers have lessened. I don’t feel as distant anymore, not as groggy, and I long for that feeling to return. I hear Mary May leave, satisfied that I have obeyed the curfew. I sit at the window and look across the road at Art’s house. It’s large and imposing, the largest house on our cul-de-sac. I suppose you could call it a mansion. It is at the head of the street, looking down on everybody. Crevan’s brother developed it, the one who has shares in the soccer club, and they wanted to keep those working in Crevan media on the same street. To control us. Why didn’t I see it before? Bob, Dad, Judge Crevan all together on Earth Day. I thought it was so cozy and fun. Now I know it was all about control. The many windows in Art’s house are all dark. There must not be anybody home. The only life I’ve seen come and go over the past few days is Hilary, their housekeeper. I understand that he can’t visit, that there are too many journalists and photographers outside for him to be able to do that, especially if he is in hiding from his dad, but no real harm could come from visiting me. It’s not illegal. It would be a show of disrespect to his father, but isn’t he doing that anyway? Or failing that, a phone call, a text, or a letter like the one he sent me when I was in the castle would show that he cares, that he’s thinking of me. Just something. Anything.