One of Us (9 page)

It's footage from twelve years ago. Music crackles in a solemn dirge. Figures run across the screen. Some are running away, and some are chasing them. It takes me a few seconds to realize that all the people running away are dressed in Brotherhood clothes.

Government soldiers—citizen soldiers—shoot everyone who moves. They pitch their bayonets into children. One holds up fingers, grinning, keeping score. The soundtrack laments.

“Rebellion at Gatesbrooke . . . successfully contained . . .”

Not a rebellion. A massacre. There was nothing about this in Oskar's Manual.

Serafina's staring at the screen, chewing popcorn. She doesn't look shocked at all. I'm glad it's dark, because I can sense Greg leaning forward, as if he's trying to look at my face, to see my reaction. I move back in my seat.

The music fades as the camera pans jerkily closer and closer, until it finds the wound, the still body, the face with a silent scream.

The popcorn is a sticky clump in my palm. I make myself swallow the bits in my mouth.

Greg leans farther forward, around Celestina. I look to see if he's going to speak. His eyes gleam
in the light from the screen, but he doesn't say anything. I turn away to see Serafina looking up at Greg. Then at me. Her hand flies to her mouth. She covers my hand with hers and squeezes it.

“I'm so sorry, Verity,” she whispers. “I forgot they show that. It must have been terrible for you, seeing it for the first time. We'll go, if you want?”

I shake my head. I don't want to get up. I want to stay here, in the darkness. Serafina presses my hand again. She seems so concerned. I know she thinks I'm thinking of the bomb that killed my parents. And she's right. But now there's something else to think of too.

All around us is the sound of popcorn. Then the screen flickers and the main film begins. I don't really watch it. I make myself relax because Serafina is still holding my hand. What am I doing here? Now it feels wrong. I didn't think this through. I need to see Oskar. But all of a sudden I can't even remember what he looks like. His face has blurred into just his familiar gray eyes, smiling from behind his dirty-blond fringe. And I have to wait for a whole week before I can meet him.

In the darkness, from the corner of my eye, I can see Greg's and Celestina's profiles lit in colored flashes from the screen. I've never felt so alone.

After the film finishes, Greg waits at the end of our row, until I reach the steps. “Did you enjoy it, Verity?” he says. He looks at me as if he knows something, as if he's caught me out.

I can't believe I almost thanked him for not telling anyone about my swim. “Um,” I begin.

He looks right into my eyes. “They always show
that,” he says. “Before every film. We've all seen it hundreds of times.”

I just nod.

Greg's eyebrows lift. “So we don't forget.”

You can't forget something you never knew.

CHAPTER 9

“V
ERITY,” MS. COBANA
says. “What's wrong with your picture?” She pushes her black-framed glasses up her nose and taps the drawing board.

I look at my sketch, pinned to the board. The whole class is waiting, gathered around Ms. Cobana's desk while she dissects the week's work. This is the first portrait that I've ever drawn. I wish she'd put my other picture up—fish in a colored-ink aquarium. I stare at the charcoal Greg. The real one is frowning at my drawing. His sketch was perfect, like all his other work. Ms. Cobana has just spent ten minutes praising it while Greg sat there looking pleased with himself.

A girl called Melissa leans forward, but Greg speaks first. “My head's too big!”

You said it, Brother.

Ms. Cobana makes Greg stand at the other end of the Art room, so that we can all hold up our pencils and measure how many times his head goes into his red-checked shirt. Not that many. Ha!

“OK, then.” She hooks a wild strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear. “Your head goes about eight times into your body, less if you're sitting down. Get back in your pairs and have another go.”

So I have to go with Greg again and that means I'll have that feeling that he's watching me. He disappears into the supply closet, and comes out with two pieces of drawing paper and a box of charcoal. Even though I've been here a week, I still can't believe that this is an actual school subject that people think is important. Or that they have a whole closet full of everything you could possibly need.

“Drawing boards?” Greg says to me.

I open my mouth to tell him what to do with his drawing boards, but stop myself just in time. I glance at the clock. Only five hours to go, and I'll see Oskar.

So I go into the closet to fetch the boards. The doorway darkens as Greg blocks it.

He holds something out to me. “D'you want this?” He places a paintbrush in my hand. It's an expensive one with a wide bit for painting a wash but also a fine dot of a point.

“Thanks.” I stroke it across the back of my hand, and the fibers spring back. “Was it in the closet? I haven't seen any other brushes like this in here.”

Greg half-turns toward the Art room. “It's an old one of mine.” He takes the drawing boards from me. “You can keep it if you want. I don't paint much.”

Light floods back as he moves away from the doorway. I look at the brush. On the glossy black wood there's a sticky patch from the price label, and it looks new. Did he buy me a paintbrush? What's he up to?

Greg is already sitting on the stool, grinning at me. He has carefully placed his hands on his knees so that the perspective makes them even harder to
draw. I can't stop looking at his smile, and it's hard to stop myself from smiling back. He's a Brotherhood boy, I remind myself. He was at the station on the day of the bomb. How do I even know that he didn't have something to do with it?

“How about you turn and face the closet?” I suggest coldly. I refuse to like him. “And put your hands under your legs?”

He laughs at me. “Nice try, Verity.”

I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

Ms. Cobana is watching, so I shut one eye and position the pencil end in the air where I see the top of Greg's dark brown hair, which lies smoothly on his head like a seal's. He has good cheekbones. Then I slide my thumb down the pencil to the edge of his chin. How many of those into the whole of Greg? I move my thumb mark on the pencil down his red-checked chest, his blue jeans, and then his legs until they meet his sneakers. Greg's eyes are wide open and staring straight at me. He holds mine a moment too long, but I pretend not to notice.

I mark two almond shapes over the eyeballs, then add the pupils, very large. I darken them with a soft pencil, leaving a little bit of white to make them come alive. Greg's eyes are chestnut brown, with golden-brown lights, when you look closely, so I mark the irises with tiny fanning-out lines. I put in his eyelashes with tapered strokes . . .

“Time's up!” calls Ms. Cobana. “Change over now.”

Everyone is swapping places, taking the chance to look at each other's work. I scribble in the rest of Greg, so that at the end his eyes jump out with a dark intensity. It's not bad.

Greg stands up and stretches. “Pins and needles,” he says. He comes over and looks at my drawing. “Is that what I look like?”

“Not really.” It's obvious that I spent far too long trying to capture his eyes. “I'm no good at drawing people.”

I hop up on the bench. There's so much space here. In my old State school there were thirty students in every class, but here it's about half. “So, how come everyone calls you Greg, not Gregory?” I ask. Maybe I can start to find out the truth about this boy. And why he's buying me brand-new paintbrushes and then lying about it. “Everyone else has long names.”

Charcoal splinters out from behind Greg's easel. “It's what my little sister used to call me.”

“Oh. It's quite short, that's all.”

“So, what about your name, then?”

My name? K? My fingers grip the wooden edge of the bench. I stare back at Greg.

“
Verity
,” he says. “Would you have picked it, if you could have chosen?”

“Yes.” No. But I can imagine new parents choosing “Verity” for their baby girl. Not like “K.”

“So . . . you know what it means?” He's still splattering charcoal shards.

“Of course I know what my own name means.”
Careful, K. Don't take the bait.
“So, what do you want to study next year?” I ask quickly, changing the subject.

The charcoal shower pauses. “I'm going to take Science subjects. For Medicine.”

“I thought you'd want to study Art.” I try to keep still.

“My parents are doctors, and I always thought I'd
be one too.” He starts drawing again, even more wildly than before. “I wish I could study Animation, though.”

“Then you should,” I say. “It's your life.”

Greg doesn't reply. Maybe I've annoyed him.

“OK.” He steps out from behind his drawing board. “I'm done.”

I jump down and walk around the easel. The picture's not like me. This girl's hair is behind her shoulders. Has he made it look longer? She's staring far into the distance, but she looks like someone you'd want to be friends with. She's . . . pretty. “Does it look like me?”

“I think so,” Greg says.

I thought his picture of me would make me look somehow suspicious. But it doesn't.

Ms. Cobana walks over and looks at the drawing of Greg over my shoulder. “Come here, everyone!” She holds up my portrait. There's an appreciative little buzz as people stop to look at it. I think of the secret drawings I used to make when I was little, of Grandma finding one and ripping it in two. Ms. Cobana is still talking about my work, as if it's important. It's the first time anyone has ever liked my pictures. For the first time, I feel as if they're looking at the real me.

CHAPTER 10

W
HEN HE DROPPED
me off a week ago, Oskar showed me where to meet him, from the other side of the school grounds. Of course we didn't know about the afternoon indoctrination sessions then, so I'm going to have to miss today's talk.

At lunch, when we're sitting at the table by the
long glass doors, I turn to Serafina. “I'm not feeling too good,” I say. “I've got a really bad headache. So after Math I'm not going to the talk today. Don't bother waiting for me.”

I can see that Greg is listening, because his fork has stopped in midair. Celestina carries on eating, but I'm sure she's paying attention too. Jeremiah is eating at another table with other friends.

“Oh, poor you.” Serafina touches my arm. “Why don't you go and lie down now?”

“No, it's OK,” I say quickly. “I can't afford to miss Math.” If anyone finds out and asks me later why I didn't go to the Sisters' house, I'll say I went for a walk to clear my head.

Nobody is around as I walk into the woods after the day's last lesson. They're all in the auditorium, so maybe it's good timing after all. The fence runs alongside the Gatesbrooke road and all I have to do is follow it downhill through the woods in the Institute grounds. Oskar said he would wait by the huge oak. After about ten minutes of quick walking, I get there.

It's very quiet here. The mist threads silver beads along the fir needles.

“K?”

I jump. Oskar appears behind the wire mesh, in his leather jacket and pointed tan boots. He puts one finger to his lips and gestures with a pair of wire cutters toward a hole in the fence.

My long skirt snags as I crawl through the cut wire, which scratches a line along my thigh as I stand up. Oskar nods toward the woods and I follow him across
the road. His motorbike is parked a little way up a forest path. I wonder where we'll go. His spare helmet is strapped to the passenger seat, ready for me.

He waves the wire cutters at me. “Result! This way nobody will know you've even left the grounds.” He smiles. “So no need for anyone to follow you.”

It's so good to see him. His sandy hair is flattened by the crash helmet. His eyes are grayer than I remember. I feel like I did the first time I met him; as if I've known him always. I stand beside the motorbike, trying to stop smiling.

Oskar drops the wire cutters into the motorbike crate. “Everything OK?”

“Not bad,” I manage to say.

He sits down on a granite stone, and pats the space beside him. I thought we'd be leaving straight away, but I sit down too.

“How's it going? It must be difficult pretending to conform to their beliefs?”

I shake my head. “They don't really talk in their services.” I pick moss off the rock. “Except Brer Magnus, in his afternoon talks. Every day. Endlessly.” I fix my face into Brer Magnus's stare. “Nonbelievers!” I deepen my voice. “They corrupted our heritage and stole our country!”