Breathe (5 page)

He shakes his head. “Of course I don’t mind.” He pauses. “I guess that means I didn’t pass either.” He shrugs, trying to act as though he isn’t concerned about himself when I know that this was something he really wanted to do; he wanted to show his dad he could make the cut on his own merit.

“If you haven’t had a message, there’s a good chance you passed,” I say. I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that his father has influence and maybe his chances were always better than mine anyway.

“It hardly matters. I don’t want to leave school and join the Scholastic Institute on my own. I’d never see you. The plan was that we
both
get into the program. Are you okay?”

I press my lips together and nod. “I’m fine. Let’s change the subject. What happened to
you
today?”

“Nothing,” he says. “But these vaccines … I can’t stand them.”

I swallow and take a guess. “A girl?”

He sighs and laughs at himself. “I don’t know what happens, but every time I meet someone, I turn into a cartoon.” I try smiling, but I actually wish we could talk about the debate again. Anything but Quinn’s love life. “You can’t imagine how stunning she is.”

“You said that about Tilly, and it turned out she was of goblin proportions.”

“Tilly
was
short.” He laughs again.

“Admit she was a goblin,” I say, though I know it’s cruel.

“And she’s got these eyes.” He pauses and shakes his head disbelievingly.

“She has
eyes
? Wow!”

“No, really. She has these piercing green eyes. Now who do you know with green eyes?” It’s hard to believe. He’s looking right at me. He’s looking right into my eyes and he doesn’t notice their color. “Anyway, Alina thinks I’m an idiot,” he goes on. Alina. The name sounds familiar. I try to retrieve an image of this girl in my mind, but I can’t. Our school serves a couple thousand students, and it would be impossible to know every one of them.

“Sometimes you
are
an idiot,” I say. I am trying to tease him, maybe I’m trying to flirt, but he’s so dejected all he does is nod in agreement.

“It was Ferris and Riley. They’re never around when you need them, and when you don’t want to be bothered by them, they show up. God, I’m glad I didn’t invite them camping.”

“You were going to invite them camping?”

“Ferris never shuts up about you. Why don’t you give him a chance?” Now he’s the one teasing. Last week Ferris tried to put his hand up my skirt, and it was all I could do to stop Quinn from pulling Ferris’s arms from their sockets.

“Give Ferris a chance to what? Humiliate and ridicule me?”

“Poor Ferris,” Quinn says with a laugh. “He’s just so—”

“He’s a pervert and an ignoramus,” I interrupt.

“That’s harsh,” he says, but he’s still snickering, so I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s as repulsed by Ferris as I am.

“What about the time he snuck into your house so he could do whatever he wanted with that girl without his family getting an excess oxygen charge? I don’t even want to think about
that
,” I say, though I am already thinking far too much about it.

“Don’t be jealous. You can use my room any time you like.” He winks playfully and I blush, not sure what he means.

“Quinn!” I slap him gently. He holds his stomach like he’s mortally injured and begins to moan. Then we both crack up and only stop tittering when a woman in the seat in front turns and shushes us.

“I’m trying to listen to the news,” she complains, nodding at the screen. We both look up. It’s another terrorist report. Someone has been caught trying to interfere with the air-recycling system. This is the worst thing anyone can imagine. If the pod ran out of air, we’d be stuck, and we’d be dead. I shiver.

The news report continues:

“Suspected terrorist Abel Boone, a member of the Rebel Army Terrorist Sect, was found dead today. It is believed he ran out of air attempting to cut through the rubber tubing that connects the Air Recycling Station East to the pod. Various RATS arrests are expected to be carried out within the coming days. The Pod Minister has asked for calm.”

Right on cue, a solemn Pod Minister appears on the screen with a journalist beside him. “Luckily we avoided a major tragedy, and I am grateful to the stewards for their haste in dealing with this matter. The Ministry will continue to work around the clock to provide safety for
all
people. We will not allow mindless acts of terrorism against tens of thousands of innocent civilians to go unpunished. I urge all citizens to remain alert.”

“And your message to the terrorists, Pod Minister?”

“To the terrorists, I say run. Run.” He looks straight into the camera and grins because a running citizen is an arrested citizen, unless the runner is a Premium with a tank, of course, and the journalist laughs, too, and even the woman sitting in front of us laughs. But I do not. I do not like the joke.

With that the screen goes black before a typically interminable commercial break begins.

When the tram reaches our stop, Quinn stays in his seat. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go speak with the professor?” he says.

“I’m sure,” I say, knowing it would be pointless to speak to anyone: once academic decisions have been made, they are impossible to reverse. We get off the tram, walk up to the camping shop, and choose a bright blue tent and two extra-warm sleeping bags for our trip. Quinn tells me I’ll need boots, a coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves, and he insists I choose from a Premium selection hanging in the women’s department. I can’t look at Quinn as he pays for everything, as the simpering cashier swipes his father’s card.

“I’m nervous about leaving the pod. I didn’t think I would be,” I admit on our way back to the station. “No air? It’ll be so strange.”

“Don’t worry. Look, with all these terrorist attacks, we might find we’re better off out there anyway. And if we’re going to suffocate, wouldn’t it be fun to suffocate together?” He pinches me lightly, trying to put some humor between me and my fear. But what he doesn’t realize is that I
would
want to be with him at the end. If I were to die, I’d rather die out there with him than in the pod with anyone else.

“My clever boy!” my mother announces, throwing her arms around me as soon as I get home. I pull away, embarrassed.

“Hey,” I manage. My father steps forward and claps me on the back. “I’m here!” I say, knowing my homecoming can’t possibly be the reason for their sudden interest in me.

As I walk into the living room, I see immediately what’s going on: standing with one hand behind his back and one holding a glass of something is the Pod Minister, Cain Knavery. During the interview on the tram screen a couple of hours ago, he’d looked serious and purposeful. Now he looks jolly. Jolly-well drunk. He’s standing next to the mantelpiece where, I notice, my parents have taken down our old oil painting of a seascape and put up a portrait of the Pod Minister in its place, so that Cain Knavery looks like he is standing next to himself. They replace the artwork, as well as their personalities, whenever he visits.

“Ha-ha! He has arrived. Well now, Caffrey Junior,” the Pod Minister says, and stretches out a hand. He has at least one gold ring on every hairy finger. “Congratulations. You are a credit to your parents.” He points at my mother and father, like I might not know who they are.

“Thank you,” I say, and shake his clammy, jeweled hand.

“How old are you now?” the Pod Minister asks, still squeezing my hand.

“I’m sixteen, sir,” I say.

“Sixteen! Ha! Well, you’re a fine specimen. You could be twenty-one. Jude, get this man a drink,” he says, finally letting go of me and gesturing to the whiskey bottle on the sideboard. My father scurries over and pours a little of the amber liquid into a clean tumbler. “Is that it? Ha! Don’t be a miser, Jude,” the Pod Minister says, and laughs through his nose. My father chuckles, too, and fills my glass to the top. My father is usually gruff and stoic, so seeing him grovel for the Pod Minister is always fascinating. In fact, the whole scene is sort of preposterous, but why not take advantage of it? I swipe the whiskey from my father and take a large gulp. That’s when I notice the twins, Lennon and Keane, both ten, sitting on the gray couch holding their own measures of whiskey and giggling. Lennon raises his tumbler and mouths the word
Cheers!

If Bea were here, she’d probably sidle over to the twins and, with a stern look, grab their drinks from them, though she’d definitely take a sip herself. She won’t believe it when I tell her about it later.

The Pod Minister clears his throat and my father hurries to refill his empty glass.

“Good man. Ha!” the Pod Minister says. “And your wife? Cynthia, you won’t have a tipple?” I wonder how drunk the Pod Minister must be not to notice that my mother looks like she’s swallowed a balloon.

“A little one on the way, Cain.” My mother rubs her belly. I have to turn away. I can’t look at her at all now that she’s pregnant. Whenever I do, a picture of my parents comes to mind, and it’s not a picture I like. “Anyway, this is Quinn’s day,” my mother says, coming toward me.

“I don’t think he knows. Why don’t you tell him, Cain. Go on, do the honors,” my father says, delighted. He is smiling so hard I can see his back teeth. The ass-kissing is too much. I take another gulp of whiskey.

“What’s new?” I ask no one in particular. They’re all
so
happy they must have something unreal to tell me, like I’m pregnant, too.

“Well, young man, I’m happy to report that you got through round one of the Leadership Program, and you did so well, Professor Felling is promoting you to the final exam without making you go through the other four stages first,” the Pod Minister says. I’m sipping as he’s speaking and can’t help spitting out what I have in my mouth. What am I going to tell Bea? She was so upset today she couldn’t even talk about it.

“My carpet!” my mother yelps, and rushes into the kitchen.

“Well, what do you say, Quinn, my young protégé,” the Pod Minister asks, clapping me on the back so hard I stumble forward and spill even more whiskey as my mother waddles back into the room.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she says, and kneels down in front of me to soak up the mess.

As I look into my father’s beaming face and my brothers’ grins and the Pod Minister’s bloodshot eyes, I know they are all waiting for me to throw up my arms and hoot. They’d probably be thrilled if I performed a one-man can-can routine.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” I manage to say. My mother gasps. My father’s smile vanishes.

“Excuse me?” the Pod Minister says, his eyes narrowing.

“I was
okay
. But Bea Whitcraft was better. And she failed. So I can’t have passed.”

“There has been no mistake,” my father says slowly. My brothers peel themselves off the couch and sneak into the hall. Even my mother backs out of the room.

“Scruples! Ha-ha!” the Pod Minister shouts, and slams me on the back again. I catch hold of the mantelpiece to steady myself. “I love a man with scruples!” I look at the Pod Minister and try again.

“Bea deserves this. I think there was a miscalculation.”

My father strides across the room and has me by the collar before I can defend myself. “Did you hear what I said? There. Was. No. Error.” It isn’t easy to breathe with my father holding my neck. I wrangle with him for a moment until I realize he’s not looking for a fight—he’s looking for my assent, that’s all, so I nod and he lets go. “The mistake may have been your friend’s,” he says.

“We want leaders we can trust,” the Pod Minister says, ignoring the ruckus going on between my father and me. “And, well, when we looked at the footage of the debate, we had to conclude that the Whitcraft girl is not necessarily a person to trust.” Bea can’t be trusted? Have they forgotten that I was in the debate, too? I heard everything she said. I’d tell them that, too, if my father wasn’t giving me the stink eye. “Your friend is what we affectionately call a ‘tree hugger,’” the Pod Minister says. “Although tree huggers have also been called less affectionate names. Ha!”

“Like RATS,” my father says.

“You think Bea’s a terrorist because she argued for the trees?” I say. The idea is ridiculous; Bea is so moralistic, it’s like doing the right thing has been programed into her. The Pod Minister and my father exchange knowing looks and I begin to feel nervous. Is it possible Bea has been added to a suspect list?

My mother tiptoes back into the room. She stands rubbing her swollen tummy again. “Would you like another drink, Cain?” She picks up the whiskey bottle and moves toward the Pod Minister.

“I would love another. Sadly my children are expecting me and I’ll be whipped if I don’t make it home soon.” He laughs. “So, I’ll wish you all a good night. Especially you,” he says, addressing me. “You have a bright future ahead, Quinn.” He is smiling and then he is not. He moves closer to me, takes me by the elbow, and hisses, “Tree huggers beware. Ha!” I stand back and stare at him. I don’t want to be his enemy, and I don’t want Bea to be his enemy. I nod. “And I’ll see
you
tomorrow.” He points his two index fingers, like guns, at my father.

My parents send him off and I’m alone in the living room, still holding the glass of whiskey. I sip some more, then set the glass on the coffee table, hoping to make it up to my bedroom before my parents get back from the front doors. But when I look up, they’re both standing there, and they’re both scowling.