Alcatraz (14 page)

It’s not that easy
, I thought.
Will Sing be that forgiving when I accidentally break something precious to him?
His books perhaps?
What will Sing Smedry do when he finds all that he loves broken and mangled, discarded at the feet of the disaster known as Alcatraz Smedry?

Sing smiled, removing his hand from my shoulder, apparently thinking that the problem was resolved.
But it wasn’t, not for me.
I sat down on the stones, arms around my knees.
What’s wrong with me lately?
Sing seems determined to like me.
Why am I so concerned with making certain he knows what I’ve done?

I turned away from Sing and, for some reason, found myself thinking about days long past.

I have trouble remembering the first things I broke.
They were valuable, though – I remember that.
Expensive crystal things, collected by my first foster mother.
It seemed that I could barely walk by her room without one of them shattering.

That wasn’t all either.
Any room they locked me in I could escape without even really trying.
Anything they bought or brought into the home, the curious young Alcatraz would study and inspect.

And break.

So, they got rid of me.
They hadn’t been cruel people – I’d just been too much for them.
I saw them once, on the street a few months later, walking with a little girl.
My replacement.
A girl who didn’t break everything she touched, a girl who fit better into what they had imagined for their lives.

I shivered, sitting with my back to the glass bars of my prison cell.
Sometimes I tried – I tried
so
hard – not to break anything.
But it was like the Talent welled up inside of me when I did that.
And then, when it burst free, it was even more powerful.

A tear rolled down my cheek.
After moving from family to family enough times, I’d realized that they would all leave me eventually.
After that, I hadn’t worried as much about what I broke.
In fact .
.
.
I’d begun to break things more often – important things.
The valuable cars of a father who collected vehicles.
The trophies won by a father who played sports in college.
The kitchen of a mother who was a renowned chef.

I’d told myself that these things were simply accidents.
But now I saw a pattern in my life.

I broke things early, quickly.
The most valuable, important things.
That way, they’d know.
They’d know what I was.

And they’d send me away.
Before I could come to care for them.
And get hurt again.

It felt safer to act that way.
But what had it done to me?
In breaking so many objects, had I broken myself?
I shivered again.
Sitting in that cold Librarian dungeon – faced by my first (but certainly not last) failure as a leader – I finally admitted something to myself.

I don’t just break
, I thought.
I destroy
.

12

A
t this point, perhaps you feel sorry for me.
Or perhaps you feel that my suffering was deserved, considering what I’d done to all those families who tried to take me in.

I’d like to tell you that all of this soul-searching was good for me.
And perhaps it did help in the short term.
However, before you get your hopes up, let me promise you here and now that the Alcatraz Smedry you think you know is a farce.
You may see some promising things developing in my young self, but in the end, none of these things were able to save those I love.

If I could go back, I’d drive Sing and the others away for good.
Unfortunately, at that point in my life, I still had some small hope that I’d find acceptance with them.
I should have realized that attachment would only lead to pain.
Especially when I failed to protect them.

Still, it was probably good for me to realize that I was driving people away on purpose, for it let me understand just how bad a person I am.
Perhaps more young boys should be captured by evil Librarians, forced to sit in cold dungeons, contemplating their faults as they wait for their doom.
Perhaps I’ll start a summer camp based on that theme.

The weirdest part about this all
, I thought,
is that nobody yet has made a joke about a pair of kids named Alcatraz and Bastille getting locked in a prison
.

Of course, we weren’t in a very jokey mood at that moment.
I couldn’t know for certain, since the hourglass – along with my jacket – had been taken from me, but I figured that our remaining half hour had passed, and then some.
I tried very hard not to look at the latrine bucket, in the hopes that it wouldn’t remind my body of any duties that needed to be done.

Yet as I sat and thought, some very strange things were happening to me.
I’d always kind of thought of myself as a defiant rebel against the system.
However, the truth was that I was just a whiny kid who threw tantrums and broke things because he wanted to make certain that he hurt others before they hurt him.
It was that dreaded humility again, and it was having a very odd effect on me.
It should have made me feel like a worm, crushing me down with shame.
Yet for some reason, it didn’t do that.

Realizing my faults didn’t make my head bow but made me look up instead.
Realizing how stupid I had been didn’t cause me grief but made me smile at my own foolishness.
Losing my identity didn’t make me feel paranoid or worthless.

The truth was, I’d secretly felt all of those things – shame, grief, paranoia, insecurity – for most of my life.
Now that I wasn’t covering them up, I could begin to let go of them.
It didn’t make me a perfect person, and it didn’t change what I’d done.
However, it did let me stand up and face my situation with a little more determination.

I was a Smedry.
And while I wasn’t quite certain of all that meant, I was beginning to have a better idea.
I crossed the room, passing Sing, and crouched down by Bastille.

‘Bastille,’ I whispered.
‘We’ve waited long enough.
We have to figure a way to get out of here.’

She glanced up at me, and I could see that her face was streaked with tears.
I blinked in surprise.
Why has
she
been crying?

‘Get out?’
she said.
‘We can’t get out!
This cell was
built
to hold people like you and me.’

‘There has to be a way.’

‘I’ve failed,’ Bastille said quietly, as if she hadn’t heard me.

‘
Bastille
,’ I said.
‘We don’t have time for this.’

‘What do you know?’
she snapped.
‘You’ve been an Oculator all of your life, and have you done anything with it?
Never!
You didn’t even know.
How is that fair?’

I paused, then reached up to touch my face.
I hadn’t even noticed – my glasses were gone.

Of course they are
, I thought.
They took my jacket with the Tracker’s Lenses and the Firebringer’s Lenses in the pocket.
They took Bastille’s and Sing’s Warrior Lenses.
They would have taken my Oculator’s Lenses
.

‘You didn’t even notice, did you?’
Bastille asked bitterly.
‘They took your most powerful possession, and you didn’t even notice.’

‘I haven’t been wearing them for long,’ I said.
‘Only a few hours, really.
I guess it felt natural to me for them to
not
be there when I woke up.’

‘Natural for them to not be there,’ Bastille said, shaking her head.
‘Why do
you
get to be an Oculator, Smedry?
Why you?’

‘Aren’t all Smedrys Oculators?’
I asked.
‘Or, at least, all of those in the pure line?’

‘Most of them are,’ she said.
‘But not all of them.
And there are plenty of Oculators who
aren’t
Smedrys.’

‘Obviously,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder, toward the room where Blackburn and Ms.
Fletcher supposedly were.

Then I glanced back at Bastille, cocking my head.
She stared at me defiantly.
That’s it.
That’s what I’ve been missing
.
‘You wanted to be one, didn’t you?’
I asked.
‘An Oculator.’

‘It’s none of your business, Smedry.’

But it made too much sense to ignore.
‘That’s why you know so much about Oculator auras.
And you were the one who identified the Lenses that Blackburn used on us.
You must have studied a whole lot to learn so many things.’

‘For all the good it did,’ she said with a quiet snort.
‘I learned that studying can’t change a person, Smedry.
I’ve always wanted to be something I wasn’t – and the thing is, everyone supported me.
“You can be anything you want, if you try hard enough!”
they said.

‘Well, you know what, Smedry?
They lied.
There are some things that you just
can’t
change.’

I stood silently.

Bastille shook her head.
‘You can’t study yourself into being something you aren’t.
I won’t ever be an Oculator.
I’ll have to settle for being what my mother always told me I
should
be.
The thing I’m apparently “gifted” in.’

‘And that is?’
I asked.

‘Being a warrior,’ she said with a sigh.
‘But I guess I’m not too good at that either.’

Now, you’re probably expecting poor Bastille to ‘learn something’ by the end of this book.
You probably expect to see her overcome her bitterness, to realize that she never should have given up on her dreams.

You think this because you’ve read too many silly stories about people who achieve things they previously thought impossible – deep and poignant books about trains that climb hills or little girls who succeed through sheer determination.

Let me make one thing very clear.
Bastille will
never
become an Oculator.
It’s a genetic ability, which means you can only become an Oculator if your ancestors were Oculators.
Bastille’s weren’t.

People can do great things.
However, there are some things they just
can’t
do.
I, for instance, have not been able to transform myself into a Popsicle, despite years of effort.
I could, however, make myself insane, if I wished.
(Though if I achieved the second, I might be able to make myself
think
I’d achieved the first .
.
.)

Anyway, if there’s a lesson to be learned, it’s this: Great success often depends upon being able to distinguish between the impossible and the improbable.
Or, in easier terms, distinguishing between Popsicles and insanity.

Any questions?

I wanted to say something to help Bastille.
After all, I’d just undergone a life-changing revelation, and I figured that there should be enough to go around.
Unfortunately, Bastille wasn’t exactly in a ‘life-changing revelation’ sort of mood.

‘I don’t need your pity, Smedry,’ she snapped, swatting my arm away.
‘I’m just fine as I am.
There really isn’t anything you could do to help anyway.’

I opened my mouth to reply, but at that moment, I heard a door open.
I turned as Ms.
Fletcher strolled into the hallway outside our cell.

‘Hello, Smedry,’ she said.

‘Ms.
Fletcher,’ I said flatly.
‘Or “Shasta,” or whatever your real name is.’

‘Fletcher will do,’ she said, obviously trying to sound friendly.
She couldn’t quite pull it off.
‘I’ve come to chat.’

I shook my head.
‘I have little to say to you.’

‘Come now, Alcatraz.
I’ve always looked out for you, despite how difficult you made my life.
Surely you can see that I have your best interests at heart.’

‘Somehow I doubt that, Ms.
Fletcher.’

She raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s all you have to say?
I expected something a little more .
.
.
scathing, Smedry.’

‘Actually, I’ve changed,’ I said.
‘You see, I just had a life-changing revelation and don’t plan to make snide comments anymore.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said firmly.

Ms.
Fletcher cocked her head, a strange look on her face.

‘What?’
I asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘You just .
.
.
reminded me of someone I used to know.
Anyway, I don’t care what game you are playing today.
The time has come for us to deal.’

‘Deal?’

Ms.
Fletcher nodded, leaning in.
‘We want the old man.
The crazy one who came and got you this morning.’

‘You mean Grandpa Smedry?’
I asked, glancing at Sing, who was watching quietly.
Apparently, he was content to let me take the lead in the conversation.

‘Yes,’ Ms.
Fletcher said.
‘Grandpa Smedry.
Tell us where he is and we’ll let you go.’

‘Let me go?
Let me go where?’

‘Out,’ Ms.
Fletcher said, motioning with her hand.
‘We’ll find you another foster family and things can go back to the way they were.’

‘That hardly seems compelling,’ I said.

‘Alcatraz,’ Ms.
Fletcher said flatly.
‘You’re in a Librarian dungeon, and you have Oculator blood.
If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up as a sacrifice.
I’d be a little more friendly if I were you – I’m likely the only ally you’ll find in this place.’

This was, of course, the first time I ever heard about a ceremony involving sacrificial Oculators.
I dismissed the comment as an idle threat.

Foolish, foolish Alcatraz.

‘If you’re the best ally I have, Ms.
Fletcher,’ I said, ‘then I’m in serious trouble.’

‘That sounded just a little bit snide, Alcatraz,’ Sing said helpfully.
‘You may want to back off a little.’

‘Thank you, Sing,’ I said, still watching Ms.
Fletcher, my eyes narrowed.

‘I can get you out, Alcatraz,’ Ms.
Fletcher said.
‘Don’t make me do something we’d both regret.
I’ve watched over you for years, haven’t I?
You can trust me.’

Watched over you for years
.
.
.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Yes, you
have
watched over me.
And every time a family abandoned me, you told me I was useless.
It was like you
wanted
me to feel abandoned and unimportant.’
I met her eyes.
‘That’s it, isn’t it?
You were worried that I’d learn what it meant to be a Smedry.
That’s why you always treated me like you did.
You needed me to be insecure, so that I would trust you – and distrust my Talent.’