Compliance (12 page)

I lean back and wipe my face on the sleeve of my t-shirt. Smiling, she hands me a square of white cloth.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A handkerchief. Use it to dry your tears, to blow your nose.”

“But—?” It’s hers and the thought of soiling its gleaming fabric is horrifying.

“Keep it. It’s yours now.” Looking directly at me, Mrs. Kalin smiles, and I feel like I’ve fallen backwards into a pile of soft blankets, like I’m floating in a lake with the hot sun on my face, like I’m being hugged by my mother.

It’s been ages since I’ve felt so calm and safe. There’s no one inside Haven who knows the full truth about me and I wish I could tell Mrs. Kalin who I am, what I did, what I’m doing to make up for it. The truth tingles on the tip of my tongue, gurgling up so insistently, I fear I’ll choke in my efforts to contain it. I want to tell her how many Deviants I’ve helped and still hope to help. How I’m sacrificing myself to save others. I want her to be proud.

“Thank you so much.” I look down, unable to trust my emotional control enough to maintain eye contact. My breaths come faster.

Nearly hyperventilating, I grow dizzy and close my eyes. It’s been so long since I cried, and my mind’s thick and clouded. I struggle to sort through my confusion, my divided
emotions. Have I let myself be sucked in by Mrs. Kalin’s kindness out of guilt and loneliness? Am I that desperate to feel loved again? To be forgiven?

Keeping my eyes closed, I shake my head. I can’t forget who this woman is. I mustn’t. She might be kind. She might be insightful. She might even be sincere in her wish to mentor me, but she’s still Management. I shouldn’t trust her—not fully. And I can’t let myself be distracted by my selfish need to feel loved.

I
N THE
M
ANAGEMENT
mall, sitting in the chair in a room that Mrs. Kalin called a Salon, I run my hand down my hair, unsure how to react. It’s softer and silkier than I imagined possible and feels so different without the permanent ridge from my ponytail string.

Spending ration points on something like cutting my hair seems frivolous. Most people I know learned how to cut their own hair by age six. I glance into the mirror and instantly feel uncomfortable, like rats are crawling over my skin. When I was little, we had a small mirror in our apartment and I’m not sure where it went.

Once the mirror was gone, I had no ration points to replace it, and looking at my reflection for the first time in years, I shudder. My hair flies up, then falls back into place—perfectly. It must be a result of the smooth, sharp
cuts—a feat not possible with the knife I use. I look down.

“You look beautiful,” Mrs. Kalin says from beside me.

My gaze snaps back to the mirror. It’s kind of true. I barely recognize myself. My skin shines from the lotions the lady put on after scrubbing it, and my bruises barely show through the make up she dabbed on my cheeks.

“I can’t get over it.” She bends and puts her cheek next to mine, nearly touching. “We might be mistaken for mother and daughter.”

Our eyes meet in the mirror and warmth floods up from my chest. Tears heat my eyes.

She spins my chair around to face her. “What’s wrong?”

“I—nothing. This is so lovely. Everything you’re doing for me. Thank you.”

“You miss your mother.” She bends and takes my hands in hers. “Of course you do.” She runs her hand over my hair. “I was never blessed with a daughter, but if I had one, I’d want her to be exactly like you.”

I keep my eyes down.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Kalin rests her hand on my shoulder. “Are you worried about Cal?”

I shake my head.

“Don’t you like your hair?”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.” Not wanting to face her, I twist my chair back and keep my gaze away from the mirror.

“But
something
’s troubling you.” Her finger tips my chin up, but I focus on a foggy patch on the mirror instead of our reflections.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Even I can tell my words aren’t sincere, and my skin prickles under her attention. I don’t deserve the happiness she makes me feel. As much as she reminds me of my mom, she’s not, and I can’t yield to the comfort my traitorous subconscious seems determined to accept.

She slides an arm over my shoulders and bends so that our cheeks are nearly touching. I assume she’s looking at our side-by-side reflections, but I stare above at the reflected image of a laser-projected sign that advertises the President’s Birthday celebration. Apparently there’s a banquet that only executives can attend.

“It’s so fortuitous that we found each other, don’t you think?” Her voice is so bright I let our eyes meet in the mirror for an instant, and smile. “If I can do anything for you, let me know. Please. Anything. Just ask.”

I look down. Her tone is almost pleading, as if my asking her for something would be the key to her happiness. I glance into the mirror again, and her expression’s so warm that I let my gaze linger on the reflection of her eyes—brown and deep and caring. Instantly I feel safer, calmer. I know that it’s only because of how much she looks and sounds like my mom; I know it’s only because I’m missing my mother; but it’s been years since I’ve been so relaxed. Surely it can’t hurt to absorb this feeling a few moments longer. Logic dictates that I should be terrified of this woman, hate her, but it’s just the opposite. I’m realizing that I’ve never felt less afraid.

“Maybe I can help with whatever’s troubling you,” she says. “Is it your young man?”

I shrug, fighting the urge to tell her everything I’ve been dying to tell someone—anyone.

“He’ll be fine. Or is it something besides his injury?” She squeezes my shoulders. “You know, only 63.4 percent of dating licenses result in marriage contracts. Don’t worry. You’ll find the right boy.”

“He is the right boy,” I blurt. “I’m the wrong girl.” It’s uncanny how she reads me.

“Look at me.” Her voice is stern and I lift my eyes to focus on hers in the mirror. “Don’t say that,” she says. “Ever. You are absolutely the right girl, the most special girl I’ve met, and I won’t have you think otherwise.”

She doesn’t know all the reasons she’s wrong, but her words ease my discomfort and I suddenly want to confide in her, to ask her advice. Maybe she can help me feel like less of a freak. Or figure out how I can feel so much for Cal after everything that happened with Burn. Or why it hurts so much that Burn’s being cruel. Or why I could let anything happen with Burn in the first place, when I knew how much Cal loved me. Or whether it’s possible to love two boys at the same time. Or whether someone like me can ever experience love.

With so many questions, I don’t know which to ask first and I look down at my hands.

She straightens and smoothes her dress. “We’re all done here. How about we find you some nice clothes.”

An hour later, I tug at the fabric covering my ribs. The dress shows too much of my figure—a figure I didn’t know was
there. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a reflection of my whole body at once. Who knew mirrors came in such big sizes?

Mrs. Kalin rises from her chair in the curtained-off section of the clothing store. “I think this is the one.” She brushes the fabric covering my shoulder. “The red makes your hair gleam and deepens your eyes.”

I glance back at the mirror and study the dress as objectively as I can. She’s right: dressed like this, I’m prettier than I thought. “Thank you, but I don’t need this dress. Where would I ever wear it?”

The woman who works at the store steps closer. “You can wear it on the President’s Birthday,” she says brightly and I don’t point out that I’ll be in a Comp uniform, on duty that day.

“Your daughter is very beautiful,” she says to Mrs.Kalin. “You must be very proud.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Kalin says before I can open my mouth. Contradicting her in front of this stranger seems rude. The saleswoman’s lips are bright pink, in a shade that couldn’t be natural, especially paired with her brown skin, and I assume she’s got some kind of colored wax or paint on them. I make a note to ask Mrs. Kalin about it later.

“That will be all,” Mrs. Kalin says, and the woman returns to the front of the shop where she was busy arranging an entire rack of similar dresses when we arrived.

Mrs. Kalin stands next to me and smoothes my hair. “I’ll keep the dress at my apartment if you like. That way your friends won’t be jealous.”

“Thank you.” I smooth the skirt, trying to keep focused.
I’m still feeling overwhelmed and lightheaded. Everything here is so brightly colored—the store even smells nice—and I draw a long breath, trying to pinpoint the scent. I realize it reminds me of Outside, of a fresh breeze coming over the fields. I wonder how they get the air so clean down here. “I didn’t even know stores like this existed.”

“Lower paygrade employees aren’t meant to know of such things,” she says.

“Why not?”

“If employees are exposed to goods and services they can’t afford, it’s bad for employee morale.”

“That doesn’t seem right.”

She takes my shoulders and turns me toward her. “You have a generous heart—it’s one of the reasons I admire you—but you know that not every employee can earn ration points at the same level. The economy would collapse if they did. Pay rates vary according to responsibility and ability. Otherwise, no one would accept the more challenging jobs.”

“But—” I remember how hard my mom worked in the sewing factories, how she came home with her fingers cracked and bleeding. I think of how many Sky Maintenance workers are killed every year in accidents. I look into her eyes, studying her expression and trying to judge whether or not I should state my opinions, but before I start, I realize she’s right. If I’d known that such lovely things were available for purchase—new—I would have resented it.

I look away from Mrs. Kalin’s eyes and down to the shiny, soft fabric of the dress and wonder where such fine weaving was done. I can’t quite get my head around the fact
that, according to the storekeeper, no one has ever worn this dress before—ever!—and staring at the tiny woven threads, dizziness overtakes me. My vision blurs.

Something shifts in my mind, like when one of the TVs in the Hub has interference, and I remember that nothing’s as black and white as Mrs. Kalin makes it seem. Cut off from my family and worried about Cal, cut off from the FA and sliced to bits by Burn’s cruelty, I’m too vulnerable right now. I’m letting memories of my mother and Mrs. Kalin’s kindness cloud my judgment.

“Employees who grow up in the Pents”—I don’t look up—“never have a chance to train for the jobs that earn enough ration points for things like this. Everyone in Haven works hard—not just Management.”

Stomach churning, I brace myself. Will she rip the dress from my body and have me expunged for speaking out against the P&P? I lift my eyes to gauge her reaction. For a split second I think she’s frowning, but then realize I’m wrong.

Empathy and understanding emanate from her in warm waves. She crosses to sit in a plush, two-person chair next to the mirror. “I agree that we need policy reforms,” Mrs. Kalin says. “As safe as the P&P makes life for every employee, there’s always room for improvement. As a senior member of Management, I’m always open to hearing suggestions—especially from a bright, young employee like you. How can we in Management change things if we don’t know what needs changing?”

“You think things should change?” I make a conscious
decision to close my gaping mouth. Surely she’s not criticizing the P&P, criticizing Management.

“Yes.” She leans close. “Not every senior executive feels the way I do, but I hope to make Haven a better place for everyone.”

“Really?”

She nods. “The P&P was never meant to be a static document. Policies can and should change.”

“What about Deviants?” I say.

Mrs. Kalin tips her head to the side as she rises. “What about them?”

My stomach tightens. I’ve said too much. But this might be my chance to affect real change inside Haven, real change without bloodshed, without terrorist bombs, without more FA soldiers like Clay dying needlessly. It’s time to be brave. I lift my gaze from the shiny silver floor to face her.

“How come Management tosses Deviants out into the dust, no questions asked? How can you be sure that all Deviants are dangerous? I mean, maybe they’re just different. Different isn’t always bad.” I chew on my lower lip.

“I agree.” Mrs. Kalin’s voice is a conspiratorial whisper. I snap my eyes up to look at hers and find no deception. She leans in close. “But don’t tell anyone I said so.” She takes my arm, draws me over to the big chair, and we sit together. My red dress nearly glows against the plush, dark blue fabric.

“Understanding what makes Deviants different,” she continues, “is one of my top priorities for Health & Safety. One of the primary research projects at the Hospital.”

“Really?” Excitement scrambles inside me. “You’re doing
experiments to discover why some people became Deviants after the dust?” Is it possible that Mrs. Kalin might save us all?

“Yes.” Her expression intensifies and fills with what looks like pride. “I knew you had a head for science.”

“What have you found out?” I ask, breathless.

She glances up to the front of the store, as if she’s checking to make sure the woman’s not listening. “My current hypothesis is that Deviants hold the key to the ongoing survival of mankind. Deviants adapted to the dust. It behooves us to understand that, not fear it.”

My excitement nearly bursts through my chest. She gets it. She understands. Better than that, she thinks Deviants are the key. I am the key.

“It is true,” she continues, “that some Deviants have committed horrible crimes, but if we treat Deviants like criminals, what should we expect?” She shrugs one shoulder.

It’s the first time I’ve felt so accepted, so understood by an adult, and I have to remind myself that she doesn’t actually know that I’m a Deviant.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s saying these reassuring things to let me know it’s okay to tell her. Maybe this is her way of letting me know she’s on my side—no matter what.