Prodigy (31 page)

2007
H
OURS.

T
WO DAYS SINCE MY RELEASE.

O
XFORD
H
IGH-
R
ISE,
L
ODO SECTOR,
D
ENVER.

72°
F
INSIDE.

D
AY WAS RELEASED YESTERDAY AT SEVEN A.M.
I
’D CALLED
him three times since then, each time with no answer. It wasn’t until a couple of
hours ago that I finally heard his voice over my earpiece. “Are you free today, June?”
I’d shivered at the softness of his voice. “Mind if I stop by? I want to talk to you.”

“Come on over,” I’d replied. And that was pretty much all we said to each other.

He’ll be here soon. I’m embarrassed to admit that even though I tried busying myself
for the last hour by tidying the apartment and brushing Ollie’s coat, all I can really
think about is what Day wants to discuss.

It’s strange to have a living space that’s my own again, furnished with myriad new
and unfamiliar things. Sleek couches, elaborate chandeliers, glass tables, hardwood
floors. Luxurious items that I no longer feel entirely comfortable owning. Outside
my window, a light spring snow falls. Ollie sleeps beside me on one of the two sofas.
After my release from the hospital, soldiers escorted me by jeep here to the Oxford
High-Rise—and the first thing I saw when I stepped inside was Ollie, his tail wagging
like crazy, his nose pushing eagerly into my hand. They told me the Elector had long
ago requested that my dog be sent to Denver and taken care of. Right after Thomas
had arrested me. Now they’ve returned him, this small piece of Metias, to me. I wonder
what Thomas thinks of all this. Will he just follow protocol as always and bow the
next time he sees me, pledging his undying loyalty? Maybe Anden has ordered
his
arrest alongside those of Commander Jameson and Razor. I can’t decide how that would
make me feel.

Yesterday they buried Kaede. They would have given her a cremation and a tiny plain
marking on the wall of a funeral tower, but I insisted on something nicer. A real
plot. A square foot of her own space. Anden, of course, obliged. If Kaede were still
alive, where would she be? Would the Republic have eventually inducted her into their
air force? Has Day visited her gravesite yet? Does he blame himself for her death,
as
I
blame myself? Is this perhaps why he’s waited so long after his hospital release
to contact me?

What happens now? Where do we go from here?

2012 hours. Day’s late. I keep my eyes glued to the door, unable to do anything else,
afraid I’ll miss him if I blink.

2015 hours. A soft bell echoes through the apartment. Ollie stirs, perks up his ears,
and whines.
He’s here.
I practically leap off the couch. Day is so light on his feet that even my dog can’t
hear him walking down the hall outside.

I open the door—then freeze. The hello I’d prepared halts in my throat. Day is standing
before me, hands in his pockets, breathtaking in a brand-new Republic uniform (black,
with dark gray stripes running down the sides of his trousers and around the bottoms
of his sleeves, a thick diagonal collar on his military coat that’s cut in the style
of Denver’s capital troops, and elegant white neoprene gloves that I can see peeking
out from his trouser pockets, each decorated with a thin gold chain). His hair spills
past his shoulders in a shining sheet and is sprinkled with the delicate spring snow
falling outside. His eyes are bright, startlingly blue, and lovely; a few snowflakes
glimmer on the long lashes that fringe them. I can hardly bear the sight. Only now
do I realize that I’ve never actually seen him dressed up in any kind of formal attire,
let alone formal
soldier
attire. I hadn’t thought to prepare myself for a vision like this, for what his beauty
might look like under circumstances that would actually show it off.

Day notices my expression and offers me a wry grin. “It was for a quick photo,” he
says, pointing at his outfit, “of me shaking hands with the Elector. Not my choice.
Obviously. I better not regret throwing my support behind this guy.”

“Evaded the crowds gathered outside your place?” I finally say. I compose myself long
enough to quirk my lips into a return smile. “Rumor has it that people are calling
for
you
to be the new Elector.”

He scowls in exasperation and makes a grumpy sound. “Day for Elector? Right. I don’t
even like the Republic yet. That’ll take some getting used to. Now, the
evading
I can do. I’d rather not face people right now.” I hear a hint of sadness there,
something that tells me he did indeed visit Kaede’s grave. He clears his throat when
he notices me studying him, then hands me a small velvet box. There’s a polite distance
in his gesture that puzzles me. “Picked it up on my way here. For you, sweetheart.”

A small murmur of surprise escapes me. “Thanks.” I take the box gingerly, admiring
it for a moment, and then tilt my head at him. “What’s the occasion?”

Day tucks his hair behind one ear and tries to appear uncaring. “Just thought it looked
pretty.”

I open the box carefully, then take a sharp breath when I see what’s inside—a silver
chain with a small teardrop-shaped ruby pendant bordered with tiny diamonds. Three
slender silver wires are wrapped around the ruby itself. “It’s . . . gorgeous,” I
say. My cheeks burn. “This must have been so expensive.” Since when did I start using
cordial social niceties when talking to Day?

He shakes his head. “Apparently the Republic is throwing money at me to keep me happy.
Ruby’s your birthstone, yeah? Well, I just figured you should have a nicer keepsake
from me than a ring made out of goddy paper clips.” He pats Ollie on the head, then
makes a show of admiring my apartment. “Nice place. A lot like mine.” Day’s been given
a similar, heavily guarded apartment a couple of blocks down the same street.

“Thank you,” I say again, gingerly setting the box on my kitchen counter for the time
being. Then I wink at him. “I still liked my paper clip ring best, though.”

For a split second, happiness crosses his face. I want to throw my arms around him
and pull his lips to my own, but—there’s a weight to his posture that makes me feel
like I should keep my distance.

I venture a hesitant guess at what’s bothering him. “How’s Eden?”

“He’s doing well enough.” Day gazes around the room one more time, then lets his eyes
settle on me again. “All things considered, of course.”

I lower my head. “I’m . . . sorry to hear about his vision. He’s—”

“He’s alive,” Day cuts me off gently. “I’m happy enough about that.” I nod in awkward
agreement, and we lapse into a long pause.

Finally, I say, “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes.” Day looks down, fidgets with his gloves, then shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I heard about the promotion Anden offered you.”

I turn away and sit on my couch. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours and already
I’ve seen the news pop up twice on the city’s JumboTrons:

JUNE IPARIS TAPPED TO TRAIN FOR PRINCEPS POSITION

I should be happy that Day’s the one who brought it up—I’d been trying to figure out
a good way to approach the subject, and now I don’t have to. Still, my pulse quickens
and I find myself feeling as nervous as I feared. Maybe he’s upset that I didn’t mention
it right away. “How much have you already heard?” I ask as he comes over to sit beside
me. His knee gently grazes my thigh. Even this light touch sends butterflies dancing
in my stomach. I glance at his face to see if he did it on purpose, but Day’s lips
are drawn into an uncomfortable line, as if he knows where he’s going to take this
conversation but doesn’t want to do it.

“I heard through the grapevine that you’d have to shadow Anden’s every step, yeah?
You’d train to become his Princeps. That all true?”

I sigh, slump my shoulders, and let my head sink into my hands. Hearing Day say this
makes me feel the gravity of the commitment I’d have to make. Of course I understand
the practical reasons why Anden would tap me for this—I hope I
am
someone who can help transform the Republic. All of my military training, everything
Metias ever told me—I
know
I’m a good fit for the Republic’s government. But . . . “Yes, all true,” I reply,
then add hastily, “It’s not a marriage proposal—nothing like that. It’s a professional
position, and I’d be one of several competing for the position. But it’d mean weeks . . .
well . . .
months
away at a time. Away from . . .”
Away from you,
I want to say. But it sounds too cheesy, and I decide not to finish the sentence.
Instead, I give him all the details that have been running through my mind. I tell
him about the grueling schedule of a Princeps-Elect, how I’d plan to give myself breathing
room if I were to agree to it all, that I’m unsure how much of myself I want to give
to the Republic. After a while I know I’ve started rambling, but it feels so good
to get everything off my chest, to bare my troubles to the boy I care about, that
I don’t try to stop myself. If anyone in my life deserves to hear everything, it’s
Day.

“I don’t know what to tell Anden,” I finish. “He hasn’t pressured me, but I need to
give him an answer soon.”

Day doesn’t reply. My flood of words hangs in the silence between us. I can’t describe
the emotion on his face—something lost, something ripped from his gaze and strewn
across the floor. A deep, quiet sadness that tears me apart. What’s going through
Day’s mind? Does he believe me? Does he think, like I did when I first heard it, that
Anden is offering this because of a personal interest in me? Is he sad because it
would mean ten years of barely seeing each other? I watch him and wait, trying to
anticipate what he’ll say. Of course he’s going to be unhappy with the idea, of course
he’ll protest. I’m not happy myself with—

Day suddenly speaks up. “Take the offer,” he murmurs.

I lean toward him, because I don’t think I heard him correctly. “What?”

Day studies me carefully. His hand twitches a little, as if he wants to lift it and
touch my cheek. Instead, it stays at his side. “I came here to tell you to take his
offer,” he repeats softly.

I blink. My throat hurts; my vision swims in a haze of light. That can’t be the right
response—I had expected a dozen different answers from Day except for that one. Or
perhaps it’s not his answer that shocks me so much as the
way
he said it. Like he’s letting go. I stare at him for a moment, wondering if I’ve
imagined it. But his expression—sad, distant—stays the same. I turn away and shift
to the edge of the couch, and through the numbness in my mind I can only remember
to whisper, “Why?”

“Why
not
?” Day asks. His voice is detached, crumpled like a dead flower.

I don’t understand. Maybe he’s being sarcastic. Or maybe he’s going to say that he
still wants to find a way to be together. But he doesn’t add anything else to his
answer.
Why would he ask me to accept this offer?
I’d thought he would be so happy that all this was finally over, that we could try
our hand at some semblance of normal life again, whatever that is. It’d be so easy
for me to figure out some compromise with Anden’s offer, or even to just turn it down
altogether. Why didn’t he suggest
that
? I thought Day was the more emotional of the two of us.

Day smiles bitterly when I don’t respond right away. We sit with our hands separated,
letting the world hang heavily between us, hearing the seconds tick soundlessly by.
After a few minutes, he takes a deep breath and says, “I, ah . . . have something
else I should tell you too.”

I nod quietly, waiting for him to continue. Afraid of what he’ll say. Afraid he’ll
explain
why.

He hesitates for a long time, but when he does speak, he shakes his head and gives
me a tragic little laugh. I can tell he’s changed his mind, taking a secret and folding
it back into his heart. “You know, sometimes I wonder what things would be like if
I just . . . met you one day. Like normal people do. If I just walked by you on some
street one sunny morning and thought you were cute, stopped, shook your hand, and
said, ‘Hi, I’m Daniel.’”

I close my eyes at such a sweet thought. How freeing that would be. How easy. “If
only,” I whisper.

Day picks at the gold chain on his glove. “Anden is the Elector Primo of the entire
Republic. There might never be another chance like this.”

I know what he’s trying to say. “Don’t worry, it’s not like I can’t influence the
Republic if I turn this offer down, or find some middle ground. This is not the only
way—”

“Hear me out, June,” he says softly, holding up both hands to stop me. “I don’t know
if I’ll have the guts to say all this again.” I tremble at the way his lips form my
name. He gives me a smile that shatters something inside me. I don’t know why, but
his expression is as if he were seeing me for the last time. “Come on, you and I both
know what needs to happen. We’ve only known each other for a couple of months. But
I’ve spent my
entire life
fighting the system that the Elector now wants to change. And you . . . well, your
family suffered as much as mine did.” He pauses, and his eyes take on a faraway appearance.
“I might be okay at spewing speeches from the top of a building, and at working a
crowd. I don’t know anything about politics. I can only be a figurehead. But you . . .
you’ve always been everything that the people need. You have the chance to
change
things.” He takes my hand and touches the spot on my finger where his ring used to
sit. I feel the calluses on his palms, the aching gentleness of his gesture. “It’s
your decision, of course, but you know what it has to be. Don’t make up your mind
just because you feel guilty or something. Don’t worry about
me.
I know that’s why you’re holding back—I can see it on your face.”