Breathe (2 page)

Abel beams. “Of course I’m coming!” We slink back into the street and Abel throws his arm around my shoulder. My insides tumble.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. He tickles my neck with his fingers.

“Cut it out, Abel!” I say. “We’re comrades, not a couple.” I want him to contest this and tell me he can’t live without me. He doesn’t. He just laughs. And I do not push his arm away.

But unlike him, I’m not laughing.

Ten candidates sit around the glass table. Many of them are fidgeting. One girl is chewing her nails and spitting them onto the table. A boy is eating the insides of his mouth. I try to appear calm. When I look at Quinn sitting across from me, he grins to show he isn’t worried for either of us; he is as relaxed as he always is and leans back into his chair, his hands behind his head.

We are waiting for the professor. We are waiting for the debate. We’ve all spent over a year studying and it’s time to prove how well we can outwit one another. Everyone else in the room is a highly groomed, prepped Premium, and apart from Quinn, who isn’t in the least bit snobby and who you’d never know is a Premium unless you were close enough to see the circle tattooed onto his earlobe, I feel small next to them. Like Quinn, most of them probably had tutors preparing them for the debate, so they’re ready to pull me apart.

When the professor sweeps into the room, he doesn’t look at any of us. He turns his back as though he hasn’t even noticed we’re here. We freeze and peer at him as he powers up the screen at the front. When he speaks, his voice is metallic.

“The following exam requires rigorous brain functioning. Those of you who have taken the exam before and failed”—he spins around and eyes a boy with beads of sweat spotting his neck—“will remember that we are not looking for the
right
answer. We are looking for plausible arguments. Strength of reasoning. We are looking to build leaders who have the logic and fortitude to run the pod. You have been chosen because you performed exceptionally in your preliminary tests under simulated debate conditions. The only true test, however, is human-to-human contact in a real debate. This examination is being watched by several governmental officials and by directors from Breathe, the sponsors of this leadership program.” Quinn glances at the mirrored walls. I guess he’s wondering whether or not his father, a senior director at Breathe, is here. “The examination will be recorded, and you will be informed on your pad of your status as soon as you have been assessed. We will recruit no more than two of you. And we may recruit none of you.”

It is not an ordinary debate, with one team on one side and another team on the other. We all sit around a conference table, much like we’re in a board meeting, and take sides simply by listening to one another and deciding which candidates we agree with. At any point in the debate the professor can eliminate a student he deems aggressive, too quiet, or irrational. The key is to stay calm, stay in the game, and get others on your side. The professor settles himself into the high-backed chair at the front of the room and assigns us numbers by which to address each other. “If we have a situation wherein you all agree, points will be awarded for those among you who can act as a devil’s advocate. I won’t explain what this means—you all passed the preliminary tests.” He turns to the screen, flicks a switch, and a statement appears:

Trees are no longer essential to our survival, nor our progress
.

Obviously. What else does anyone ever talk about? A boy in a crisp white shirt jumps in first. “Trees were essential, historically, but now they’re dead, we can do without them. One only need enter the pod to witness how happy and healthy every citizen is.” Of course. A Premium
would
think of the pod as a paradise. But he’s jumped in without thinking through his argument and there’s no way he’s going to be able to maintain that position for a whole hour.

“I disagree,” I say. “Auxiliaries can’t afford to buy extra oxygen to exercise. How can we be healthy?” And so it begins. We argue. Teeth are bared and voices raised. A few pushovers are easily eliminated. Then more. And at the end of the hour only two are left: me and Quinn.

“What type of progress are you talking about?” I ask. “Are we happier than our predecessors?” Quinn tilts his head and looks at me carefully. We are facing each other, a table between us. Quinn’s fingers twitch. He glances at the professor.

“But progress and happiness aren’t the same thing. We have more sophisticated technology than before The Switch because the loss of trees forced us to advance,” he says. He looks apologetic because I know he doesn’t want to battle with me. When we were given our test dates and saw we had been scheduled together, he threatened to quit until I convinced him otherwise.

“I didn’t claim that progress and happiness are the same thing. I’m asking how we
define
progress.” I pause, waiting for Quinn to respond, but he doesn’t. He just shrugs, a little defeated. I’m sure he has an answer, and I don’t want him to
let
me win. Before I can push him into responding, the gong sounds and Quinn lets out a sigh of relief. Then he smiles, not smugly or with any self-satisfaction but in a congratulatory way. I smile back.

“Thank you, candidates,” the professor says, tidying his things. “A notice will be sent to your pads in due course.”

Once outside the Scholastic Institute, Quinn turns to me, grabs my hands, and says, “You did it, Bea! You were better than all of us. And you were so tough. I can see that tattoo on your ear already!” He hugs me, and I smile, both because Quinn has me in his arms and also because I’m sure he’s right: I argued perfectly.

“So
now
do you have time to hang out with me?” he asks. I’d been seeing Quinn less often as I prepared for the debate. Now that it’s over with, we can get back to living in each other’s pockets.

“I would
love
to,” I admit.

“Cool. Because I have something massive planned: a camping trip out of the pod. Three days. What do you think? We have a school holiday coming up.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’ve got to get a few things first, but I think we could go this Sunday, if your parents will let you. We can’t go Saturday because I have a soccer match.”

“Great, I’ll ask. But … oh …”

“What?” He steps closer to me and pushes his hair from his eyes.

“There’s the mock trial on Monday evening,” I say. “I’m the lead lawyer for the defense.”

“Oh, right.” He bites the inside of one cheek.

“I’d love to go on a trip, but I’ve been working on the trial for ages.”

Quinn shakes his head. “Don’t be silly, it’s important,” he says. He puts his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels, thinking. “You know what, I’ll skip the match and we can go on Saturday morning instead. I’ll tell coach it’s a family trip.” He looks up and nods.

“No way. You love those games,” I say. And I love watching him play.

“Nah. I need to get out of the pod. And we need some time together to work out what you’re gonna do once you become Premium.” He takes my hands again and we sway together as though we’re in some black-and-white movie. “You’ll be dancing in the streets, Bea.”

A woman pushing a stroller passes us and elaborately clears her throat. “Stop!” I laugh, pushing him away. “We’re going to get arrested.” We aren’t moving energetically enough for what we’re doing to be illegal, but I’m self-conscious dancing with him out in public.

“Do you wanna skip school today? We could go back to my house and watch a movie. I know … let’s get drunk. Dad never locks up the booze,” he says, laughing. I push him again. He’s teasing because he knows I’ve never missed a day of school in my life and, unlike him, I can’t drink more than a glass of anything alcoholic without falling over.

“I can’t. The mock-trial team is having a meeting. Anyway, don’t you have a history test?” I say.

“Thank God I have you to keep me on the straight and narrow, Bea,” Quinn says, taking my bag and throwing it over his right shoulder, his own bag already over his left. Walking together in Zone One feels so natural, I forget for a moment I don’t belong here. But walking along wide streets and enjoying the light, being with Quinn, of course, are things I could definitely get used to. I shouldn’t, but I start to plan for a new life—a life as a Premium.

I spend the whole day dreaming and planning and recalling my victory in the debate, so the message that lights up my pad as I’m waiting in the school foyer for Quinn to finish soccer practice doesn’t make any sense at all:

Dear Ms. Whitcraft
,

We regret to inform you that your recent candidacy for the Breathe Leadership Program has been terminated. We encourage all failing candidates to maintain high scores in standardized tests to increase the chances of being recalled next season to stage-one enrollment
.

Professor Felling

I stare at the message for a couple of seconds, stand up, and march out the double doors of the foyer. I walk as quickly as I dare down the street, slumping onto a bench several blocks away. I reread the message several times, and when I’m certain I haven’t misunderstood, I turn off the screen and push the pad into the deepest pocket of my backpack. I sit looking down at my hands.

A small part of me wants to storm into the Scholastic Institute and demand justice. But I don’t know how to be brave or pushy. Instead, I stand up and quietly walk home from school wiping my eyes and nose along my sleeve whenever the tears get the better of me. I think about calling Quinn, but if I didn’t make the Leadership Program, he probably did, and hard as I might try, I’d find it difficult to be pleased for him.

I take the winch up to the fifteenth floor of my building, walk down a corridor ablaze with fluorescent tubes, and press my thumb against the fingerprint scanner. The outer door to our small apartment buzzes open and as I step inside, it closes with a gulp before the inner door automatically slides open. The apartments are airtight and fitted with oxygen meters so the Ministry can monitor our intake—if they have to pump in any more oxygen than our taxes cover, we pay extra.

Mom is already in the hall, where she clicks on the light so she can see me better. I must be red and puffy. “Bea?” Mom’s face is deathly pale, her wrinkles so deep they could be scars. She has blue circles beneath her eyes. I just can’t help it; I imagine how much longer she has to work and struggle without ever taking a break, and I start crying again.

“I don’t want you to die,” I whimper.

“Goodness, Bea, what’s gotten into you? I’m not dying. I’m tired, that’s all.” She wraps me up in her bony arms for a moment, and when she lets go I notice my father sitting at the dining table. A steaming bowl sits in front of him, but he is so tired that he has fallen asleep in the chair, with his fork standing upright in his food.

“I failed the debate. I’ll have to wait a year to reapply.”

“Oh, Bea.” Mom hugs me again, pressing my face deep into her shoulder. She doesn’t tell me not to worry because she knows I will. And she worries, too, when she wonders how we’ll live if I don’t manage to reach Premium status soon. “Let’s go for a walk,” she says. Yes, a walk: we can afford that.

We stroll along the choked streets of Zone Three into Zone Two, where the buildings don’t appear to be toppling into one another quite so much. The schools are here, the hospitals, the steward academies, and the housing for low-level Ministry workers. I could live here one day if I trained as a nurse or something. But I don’t want to live here. I want to live in Zone One on the pod’s edge with all the light. I want to live in a spacious house on a wide, linoleum lawn. Getting to Zone One is easy—you just walk in a straight line from any direction toward the light. Staying is quite another thing.

When we reach it, we peek through stocky gates at the few families who have their lamps on and blinds open for a glimpse into what we’re missing: antique dining tables salvaged from The Outlands with a gaggle of plump children surrounding them; platters of real food; glinting chandeliers.

At the world-viewing post, only a block from Quinn’s house, we sit on a metal bench looking out at the air-recycling stations connected to the pod with thick rubber tubing and listen to them whir. Beyond the stations lies an expanse of cleared land punctuated by faint patches of rubble, and in the far distance, the remnants of the old city. A steward passes by with his hands behind his back, glares at us, and when he is satisfied we are behaving ourselves, moves on.

“Haven’t they anything better to do than watch us?” Mom grumbles.

“I should get a job. We need the money,” I say.

“No, Bea. I want a better life for you than the one I’ve had. And that means school. Your job is to study.” She squeezes my hand. Sitting with my mom, looking out at our starry-skied, oxygen-starved planet, I’m no longer sure I’ll ever get my family out: I rely on my brain, but it doesn’t look like that will be enough.

“Your grandfather hiked a trail over there. Every spring,” she says, pointing. “But, gosh, I haven’t been out of this pod since the honeymoon. We saved up for a year and were out there for three full days. It was spectacular. Scary though. When the sun goes down it’s dark—no artificial lights anywhere.” She turns and waves at the streetlamps gently illuminating Zone One. “We slept during the day and hiked at night just so we could enjoy the stars. We got as far as Marden. No, Maldon. Oh, I can’t remember its name.” She points to a spot we can’t see because a low hill hides it from view. “They used to have boats you could take out on the water.”