The One (The Selection, #3)(59)

I looked up and saw that Kenna was crying, too, still trying to make her way through the letter. Kota looked confused as he flipped past the pages, seeming to go over them again.

Turning away, I pulled out the little note, hoping it wasn’t nearly as touching as his letter. I wasn’t sure I could take any more of that today.

America,

I’m sorry. When we visited, I went to your room and found Illéa’s diary. You didn’t tell me it was there; I just figured it out. If there’s any trouble from this, the blame is mine. And I’m sure there will be repercussions because of who I am and because of who I told. I hate to betray you that way, but trust that I did it hoping that your future and everyone else’s could be better.

Look unto the North Star,

Your everlasting guide.

Let truth, honor, all that’s right,

Be always by your side.

Love you,

Shalom



I stood there for several minutes, trying to riddle this out. Repercussions? Who he was and who he had told? And what was with that poem?

Slowly, August’s words came back to me, that my display on the Report wasn’t how they knew the diaries existed and how they knew more of what was inside than I’d exposed. . . .

Who I am . . . who I told . . . look unto the North Star . . .

I stared at Dad’s signature and remembered the way he signed the letters he’d sent me at the palace. I always thought the way he wrote his o’s looked funny. They were eight-point stars: North Stars.

The scribble over the i in my name. Did he want it to mean something to me, too? Did it already mean something because we’d talked to August and Georgia?

August and Georgia! His compass: eight points. The designs on her jacket weren’t flowers at all. Both different but absolutely stars. The boy Kriss got at the Convicting. That wasn’t a cross on his neck.

This was how they identified their own.

My father was a Northern rebel.

I felt as if I’d seen the star in other places. Maybe walking in the market or even in the palace. Had this been staring me in the face for years?

Stricken, I looked up; Aspen was waiting there, his eyes holding questions he couldn’t ask aloud.

My dad was a rebel. A half-destroyed history book hidden in his room, friends at his funeral I knew nothing about . . . a daughter named America. If I’d paid attention at all, I would have seen it years ago.

“That’s it?” Kota asked, sounding offended. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

I turned away from Aspen, focusing on Kota.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, coming back into the room with some tea.

“Dad’s letter. He left me this house. What am I supposed to do with this dump?” He stood up, gripping the pages in his hand.

“Kota, Dad wrote that before you moved out,” Kenna explained, still emotional. “He was trying to provide for you.”

“Well, he failed then, didn’t he? When have we ever not been hungry? This house sure as hell wouldn’t have changed things. I did that for myself.” Kota threw the papers across the room, and they flitted to the floor haphazardly.

Running his fingers through his hair, he huffed out a sigh. “Do we have any liquor in this place? Aspen, go get me a drink,” he demanded, not even looking in Aspen’s direction.

I turned and saw Aspen’s face as a thousand emotions flickered across it: irritation, sympathy, pride, acceptance. He started toward the kitchen.

“Stop!” I commanded. Aspen paused.

Kota looked up, frustrated. “That’s what he does, America.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I spat. “You might have forgotten, but Aspen’s a Two now. It would do you better to get him something to drink. Not just for his status, but for everything he’s been doing for all of us.”

A sly smirk fell across Kota’s face. “Huh. Does Maxon know? Does he know this is still going on?” he asked, waving a lazy finger between the two of us.

My heart stopped beating.

“What would he do, you think? The caning thing’s been done, and lots of people say that girl didn’t get it bad enough for what she did.” Kota placed his satisfied hands on his hips, staring us down.

I couldn’t speak. Aspen didn’t either, and I wondered if our silence was helping us or condemning us.

Finally Mom broke the silence. “Is it true?”

I needed to think; I needed to find the right way to explain this. Or a way to fight it, because really, it wasn’t true . . . not anymore.

“Aspen, go check on Lucy,” I said. He started walking until Kota protested.

“No, he stays!”

I lost it. “I say he goes! Now sit!”

The tone in my voice, unlike anything I had ever heard before, startled everyone. Mom plopped down immediately, shocked. Aspen made his way down the hall, and Kota slowly, begrudgingly sat as well.

I tried to focus.

“Yes, before the Selection, I was dating Aspen. We were planning on telling everyone once we saved up the money to get married. Before I left, we broke it off, and then I met Maxon. I care about Maxon, and even though Aspen is with me a lot, nothing is happening there.” Anymore, I amended in my head.

Then I turned to Kota. “If you think, even for a second, you can twist my past into something and try to blackmail me with it, think again. You once asked if I told Maxon about you, and I did. He knows exactly what a spineless, ungrateful jackass you are.”