UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(69)

“My legs have a dancing princess fantasy.”

“Well, to dance with your legs, I guess I’ll have to put up with the rest of you.”

“No, you won’t,” she says, “because not a single part of me will be here.” Then she glances toward Lev’s portrait, which is now weirdly lit by colorful strobe lights. “Why don’t you dance with your portrait?” Miracolina suggests. “The two of you deserve each other.” Then she storms out. The adults at the door try to stop her from going back to her room, but she gets past them anyway.

After she’s gone, Lev hears the grumbling around him.

“She’s such a loser,” someone says.

Lev turns to the kid with a vengeance. It’s Timothy, the boy who arrived with her. “I could say the same about you!” he snaps. “All of you!”

Then he shuts himself up before he goes too far. “No, that’s not true. But you shouldn’t be judging her.”

“Yes, Lev,” says Timothy obediently. “I won’t, Lev. I’m sorry, Lev.”

And then a shy girl, apparently less shy than all the other shy girls, steps forward. “I’ll dance with you, Lev.”

So he goes out onto the dance floor and obliges her and every other girl there with a dance, while his portrait looks down on them with its irritating gaze of holy superiority.

? ? ?

The next day the portrait is vandalized.

Something rude is tagged in spray paint right across the middle of it. Breakfast is delayed until the portrait can be removed. There is a spray paint can missing from the storeroom, but no smoking gun as to who could have done it. Everyone has a theory, though, and most of those theories point to the same person.

“We know it was her!” the other kids try to tell Lev. “Miracolina’s the only one here who has something against you!”

“How do you know she’s the only one?” Lev asks them. “She’s just the only one with guts enough to say it out loud.”

Out of respect for Lev’s wishes, the other kids don’t accuse her to her face, and the adults are diplomatic enough to keep their opinions to themselves.

“Perhaps we need more surveillance cameras,” Cavenaugh suggests.

“What we need,” Lev tells him, “is more freedom to express opinions. Then things like this wouldn’t happen.”

Cavenaugh is genuinely insulted. “You talk like this is a harvest camp. Everyone’s free to express themselves here.”

“Well, I guess not everyone feels that way.”





26 ? Miracolina

After a day of being cold-shouldered by every living thing in the mansion, there’s a knock on her door. She doesn’t say anything, because whoever it is will just come in anyway; the bedrooms here have no locks.

The door opens slowly, and Lev steps in. There’s a quickening of her heart when she sees him. She tells herself it’s anger.

“If you’re here to accuse me of vandalizing your portrait, I confess. I can’t hide the truth anymore. I did it. Now punish me by taking away all my inspirational movies. Please.”

Lev just keeps his arms limply by his side. “Stop it. I know you didn’t do it.”

“Oh—so you finally caught the naughty tithe?”

“Not exactly. I just know it wasn’t you.”

It’s a bit of a relief to be vindicated, although she did take some guilty pleasure in being a prime suspect. “So what do you want?”

“I’ve been meaning to apologize for the way you were brought here. Tranq’d and blindfolded and all. I mean, what they’re doing here is important, but I don’t always agree with how they do it.”

Miracolina notes that this is the first time she’s heard him say “they” instead of “we.”

“I’ve been here for weeks,” she says. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Lev reaches up and flips his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know. It was just bothering me.”

“Soooo . . . you’re going around apologizing to every kid here?”

“No,” Lev admits. “Just you.”

“Why?”

He begins pacing the small room, raising his voice. “Because you’re the only one who’s still angry! Why are you so angry?”

“The only angry person in this room is you,” Miracolina says, with antagonizing calm. “And there are plenty of angry kids here. Why else would your portrait get vandalized?”

“Forget about that!” shouts Lev. “We’re talking about you!”

“If you don’t stop yelling, I’ll have to ask you to leave. In fact, I think I’ll ask you to leave anyway.” She points to the door. “Leave!”

“No.”

So she picks up a hairbrush and throws it at him. It beans him on the head and ricochets to the wall, where it wedges behind the TV.

“Ow!” He grabs his head, grimacing. “That hurt!”

“Good, it was supposed to.”

Lev clenches his fists, growls, then turns like he’s going to storm out, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns back to her, unclenching his fists and holding his palms out to her, pleading like maybe he’s showing off his stigmata. Well, there might be blood on his hands, but it sure isn’t flowing from his palms.