Deviation (12 page)

Maria wakes me early the next morning with a gentle shake and a murmur of foreign words. She rolls a cart of food and juice over to the chair across the room and clatters the plates until I rouse. I rub my sleepy eyes and try to keep my mind blank for as long as possible. Thoughts from yesterday, of Melanie, of marks and tattoos, of Authentics and Imitations blending together threaten but I shove them away and concentrate on the smell of eggs and coffee.

“Good morning,” Maria says. She is not overly friendly but she at least speaks to me now. I thought something might change after our conversation weeks ago, when I’d spoken kindly of her daughter, but she’d remained distant yet cordial. Speaking only when necessary. I can’t blame her. One conversation isn’t nearly enough to erase the fear that goes along with being employed by someone like Titus. And we are never truly alone with our words.

“Good morning,” I return, sitting primly at the edge of the chair and placing the napkin in my lap like she taught me. “It smells wonderful,” I add.

Maria gives me a slanted look and I stop talking and eat. The eggs are salty and the coffee is hot. Despite having experienced a meal like this every day for weeks now, I savor every bite, relishing the richness of the ingredients before me. I think of the sparse supply of bacon sometimes available in Twig City, and what Lonnie is willing to do for an extra piece. A pang accompanies the memory of our last breakfast together. I wish I’d comforted Ida more, hugged them tighter.

“Mr. Rogen left instructions for you to dress for the track today,” Maria says, fishing a tank top out of my dresser and laying it across my newly made bedcovers. She produces a pair of stretchy shorts from another drawer and adds it to the pile of clothes laid out.

I keep silent, not wanting to be overly kind but unwilling to be discourteous. I finish eating and set my utensils aside as Maria collects the dishes and stacks them neatly on the cart.

I change into the clothes Maria provided, double-knotting my laces before letting her tie my hair into a high ponytail. When she’s finished, Maria’s finger brushes over my tattoo. I pretend not to notice. She’s never mentioned it and I’ve never asked, unsure what Titus has told her. I assume the last Raven had a tattoo in the same place, which at the very least makes mine familiar territory.

“Someone will be here to escort you shortly,” Maria says as she leaves.

The prospect of a run raises my spirits. It allows me to escape in a way that I can’t experience otherwise. Running opens up my muscles, allows me to push myself and extend my limits. Something I am discouraged from any other time.

I wonder briefly if I’ll see Linc today as a knock sounds on my door. “Come in.”

Alton walks in, a voice droning out of the two-way radio strapped to his hip. He reaches down and mutes it. “Are you ready for your workout, Miss Rogen?” His words are clipped and sharp. He doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual.

“Ready,” I mutter.

Alton is silent yet somehow irritating as he oversees my workout. His eyes are sharp, taking in every move. He’s waiting for me to slip up. So that he can fuss or accuse me or worse. I don’t know how I know it but I do. He says nothing except what’s necessary. But when we reach the rooftop track, he dismisses the guard by the door and positions himself to watch over me while I run.

I take my time stretching, breathing in the crisp, fresh air before beginning my jog. The warmth of the sun far to my left chases away the morning chill. Winter is fast giving way to spring. I look forward to the extreme heat of summer. I’ve never felt anything like the warmth of sunlight. Obadiah says it’s annoying, sweating all the time in the party jackets he’s made to wear. I am curious to know what he means about such a discomfort.

Overhead, the sky is a clear baby blue with tiny white clouds dotting the distance. I stare at them wistfully, wishing I could see them from a different angle than the confines of Rogen Tower. Somewhere without the watchful Alton hovering nearby. For the millionth time I wish I was Authentic. Not that it did Raven Rogen—the real Raven—any good either.

What went wrong so many times that Titus continued to discard Ravens and try again?

My run is pleasantly exhausting. By the time I’m finished, I’ve gone the equivalent of five miles and my muscles are tired enough that it numbs my thoughts. I walk the track a few more times to cool off and then stretch beside the railing.

Alton is distracted by whatever the voice on his radio is saying so I wander up to the next level. It is more of a crow’s nest, a viewing area with a railing lining three of the four sides. If I lean a little, I can just make out the street far below me. Cars creep along, as small as ants.

A particularly large one pulls to the sidewalk in front of the building. A driver with a bright red hat and a dark coat gets out and holds open the passenger door. I can’t see the face of the man who steps out but I know instinctively it is Titus. There is no mistaking so much power contained in such a small stature. The sun glints off his head and it would be funny if the sight of him didn’t make me sour. If he’s already home for the day, I’m glad I’m leaving, even if it is with Taylor.

An hour later, I am showered and dressed in a black ruffle skirt and a red pinstriped blouse Maria laid out. I wiggle my feet inside the stiff red heels and try to sit still while Maria finishes blow drying my white-blond hair. It is the exact color of the wheat field Linc showed me once. Back then, he didn’t know me. And he’d already been angry at me for keeping my secret. He’d already wanted me to let him in. Now, I am aching to do so with the information I have and there’s no opportunity. Not with Alton so diligently hovering.

My phone beeps. I manage to snag it without pulling my hair out underneath Maria’s tight grip.

It’s a message from Obadiah.
Good luck today. If it gets difficult have a drink or seven.

Seven. Funny. I don’t respond to his play on the number, though.
Thanks. Call you later.

The orphans say ‘don’t be discouraged.’

I smile and my spirits lift.

Taylor is annoyingly punctual. When Alton insists on riding with us, Taylor rolls her eyes and protests along with me. Her cutting remark about needing a babysitter with more of a personality makes me giggle. I feel only a little guilty for my shallowness before I realize the obstacle Alton presents against any other destination but shopping. Titus appears and puts a stop to all of our arguing and I opt for leaving quickly with an unwanted guard rather than stay and hash anything out with Titus.

“Ugh, it’s crowded today,” Taylor remarks as our car pulls to the curb in front of a crowded sidewalk. Taylor’s driver gets out and walks around to open our door. “I hate when there’s all these bodies pressing on me. It makes me feel gross,” she adds.

I mutter something I hope she takes as agreement and climb out. As soon as I am on my feet, the sun’s rays penetrate my layers. I remove my hat and gloves, shuffling aside as Taylor climbs out behind me. I shake my hair and toss the unwanted clothing back inside the car.

“What are you doing?” Taylor asks.

“I can’t breathe with all that crap on,” I say.

“You’ll be recognized,” she says.

I blink back at her and then my eyes catch on Alton lurking beside us. I hook my thumb at him and say, “That’s what he’s for.”

“If you say so.” She turns from the car, hat and gloves still intact, and scans the storefronts. I do the same, glad she didn’t mention my still-healing bruises that peek out from underneath my blouse.

There is a small crowd gathered not far from us. I strain to see what it is they’re huddled around, but there are too many people in the way. Beside us, Alton’s radio crackles. Linc’s voice buzzing about too many pedestrians. He’s here somewhere. I pause to scan the street behind us but I can’t spot him.

“Can we pick a direction, ladies?” Alton asks.

Taylor glares at him and turns to me. “Let’s go this way. Jorge Estrada has a new plum accessory collection I want to check out.”

“Plum?” I say.

“The story I heard is Jorge bumped his knee and when he saw the bruise, he decided the color was too amazing and he designed his whole line around it.” She shrugs as if the entire thing makes perfect sense.

Right. I want to tell her if bruises were inspiration, I’d be a fashion queen. But I just shake my head, not doubting her story for a second after the outlandish clothing I’ve seen. “That guy is crazy,” I mutter.

“He’s genius,” Taylor says as if the two words are interchangeable.

I fall into step beside her and somehow, the crowd parts as we approach. I keep my eyes forward, trying to look haughty and over-privileged, but every once in a while I zero in on someone as they jump sideways to allow us to pass.

“You’re too conspicuous,” Taylor says. “You should’ve left your jacket on.”

“At least they’re getting out of the way.”

“Good point.”

One boy, a couple of years younger than me, is caught up trying to wrangle his dog and doesn’t move in time. Rather than go around him, Taylor halts and waits, hands on her hips. When the boy still doesn’t see her or move aside, she clears her throat. “Excuse me,” she snaps.

He looks up and away, does a double-take. When he looks back again, his eyes widen. “You’re … Sorry,” he mumbles, scrambling clear.

Taylor’s eyes narrow. “No,
you’re
sorry.”

We walk on.

I almost miss Jorge’s shop. It’s sandwiched between an expensive-looking suit shop with only the letter A to display its name and a bakery with cupcakes shaped to look like pigs displayed in the window. There is nothing different or eye-catching about Jorge’s storefront. For a second, I think maybe the shop is slightly less over-the-top than the fashion show I attended. Then I see the single display case in the narrow window.

It is a headless mannequin whose waist thins to the size of a toothpick. Draped over the flesh-colored torso is a dress. I think. It’s transparent and made of bubbles. I stare, wondering if they’re fragile enough to pop if I touch them. I sort of want to touch them. My gaze eventually catches on the lower half of the ensemble. In place of legs someone has wedged some sort of white Styrofoam. I’m unsure if this is supposed to be tights or a fashion statement announcing pale is beautiful.

“Ooooh,” Taylor breathes. She stares at the bubble dress with a dreamy look. I bite back a smile as I try to picture her in something like that. “Isn’t it amazing?” she asks finally.

“What sort of underwear do you wear with it?” I ask before I can catch myself.

Taylor slants a look at me and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You’re an oddity sometimes,” she says.

“I think when you’re as rich as I am, they call it eccentric,” I say and Taylor laughs.

“Touche.” She grabs my arm. “Oh, I’ve missed your wit. Let’s go shop, darling.”

She steps up to the door and waits. On cue, Alton appears, opening the door for us to pass inside before bringing up the rear.

Inside, the air is heavy with a cloying musk that gives me an instant headache. Speakers belt out music that is all treble and whined vocals. The décor is sparse; the main focus is on the outlandish clothes and ornately decorated shelving along the back wall that holds all sorts of accessories.

I do a full circle around a rack of scarves made from stitched-together washcloths. Alton bumps me as he rounds a tall shelf stocked with wigs. I jump back.

“Sorry,” I mutter before I can stop the word.

He nods and moves away, still watching and circling but with a wider berth. I scowl to myself, hating every second he shadows me. I think of Obadiah and Morton and the others. How will I ever see them again with Alton and me attached at the hip? And what good can I possibly do now, even “undercover” as Morton puts it, if I have Alton watching every move I make?