The Undesirable (Undesirable Series) (6 page)

Fostino smirked and then chuckled to himself. I saw the curl of his lips and the whites of his teeth for the first time. God, the sight was beautiful, captivating, and mesmerizing. Fostino had a gorgeous smile. Delicious.

“Charlotte.” His eyes brightened a little. “When was the last time you thought about yourself?”

CHAPTER NINE

“Excuse me?” I gawked at him.

Had I heard him right?

He gave me a knowing look. “You know you’re beautiful. You have to see that.”

“Well, people have told me that before, but I never wasted time on that and—”

“It’s your eyes.” He laughed again and ran a hand through his hair. “Beautiful eyes. So blue, and sometimes green. So round.” Then he faltered. “And it’s more than that. Well, it is for me. You always seem so fragile, so alone, but strong. I just couldn’t keep—”

“But you never talked to me except for that one hello. You never said anything. Not at school, not at the store, not anywhere. Not until last night. Never.” I rubbed my eyes in exasperation and frowned.

“I never knew what to say to you. You were always by yourself in school.” His eyes searched my face again. “You never seemed to have any friends. You were just shut off — some kind of mystery.”

My eyes bulged. “I never had time to have friends. Especially not now.”

“God, Charlotte. So many times I wanted to talk to you, I—”

“Then why did you wait? Why did you wait until the night before the worst day of my life to talk to me?” I shook my head in disbelief.

“I should have talked to you.” Fostino leaned back in the wooden chair until it tipped up on his back legs. “I am so stupid. I never say what I should. I always do stuff like this.”

“What do you mean you always do stuff like this?”

When he didn’t answer me, I leaned back into the couch. I folded my hands between my knees, making sure the robe stayed around my thin legs. I didn’t eat enough. I never had.
I
pulled the green bathrobe even closer.

“I can’t do this right now. No. Too much has happened. It’s been so bad. Why would you tell me this now? I just—” I cried again, and it came out even louder this time. “How come no one is doing anything to stop this? Those people, they have no souls!”

“Quiet,” he pleaded. Fostino slammed the chair down and came over to me. “They might hear you; they might come here and do something awful. I don’t want that. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He put his hands on my shoulders. 

They burned like fire — a fire I wanted. So warm, so enticing. Before I knew it, I buried my face into the Homeland Guard medals on his chest. They dug into my cheek like nails, but I didn’t care. I wanted someone to hold me as I cried. I had been so alone. We stood together for a long moment. Fostino put one hand in my stringy hair and rubbed my back with the other.

“Tired?” he whispered after a few moments. I didn’t move from his arms.

“Yes,” I replied into the medals. “I just want my mother.”

“You need some sleep.” He moved a little and guided me down the short hallway. “Is this the way to the bedroom?” I didn’t need to answer. Instead, I led him into my mother’s bedroom and towards the grey duvet. I climbed into the bed. I shivered with cold and grief. Fostino saw this and slid in next to me.  After wrapping the meager cover around me, he molded his body to mine. I felt the press of the medals, the cold hard metal of his belt, the steel tips of his boots, and the force of the small revolver they issued him. I had never been so comforted by metal before, never been so comforted by the presence of another.

Fostino Sanchez had an effect on me. For sure.

I closed my eyes and focused on the perfect staccato of his breath. My mind drifted away and I soon fell asleep. I jolted awake when his Hologram Watch trumpeted an alarm.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The watch alarm broke the silence. It made my neck hairs stand up straighter than the soldiers that had flooded our town. Fostino jumped, too. In a fraction of a second, we bolted off the bed and onto the unfinished wooden floor.

“What?” I asked in a scared voice. “Why did the watch go off?”

Fostino stopped it and then adjusted his uniform. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at his watch. “Ten,” he muttered. He grabbed my hand and walked to the door.

“Patrols?” I answered the question in my head.

“I need to get back to the drill house,” he noted as he opened the front door and bit his lip. The weird hunted look returned to his face. “I’m late.” He turned his attention to the cool evening outside.

“Wait,” I pleaded.

Please don’t go. Not now.

“Thank you,” I tried. We both reached the front door frame. I pulled the bathrobe tight to shut out the chill.

“Of course,” he replied and gave me a small smile. “No matter what, make sure you survive,” he added as he touched my arm.

CHAPTER TEN

Days passed, then a month. I fell into a robotic routine.

I would get up at 6:15 each morning, grab a piece of freeze dried fruit from the pantry, and report to work at the Coleman Athletic. I made sure to get there at 6:55 AM. No way would I be late.

The soldiers escorted me and about 250 other women into the converted basement of the hall every morning. Someone painted all the walls white with a black stripe in the middle. Someone also painted the four well windows shut and set up a projector in the black of the room. During the entire 12-hour shift, the projector showed propaganda films of the latest scenes from the front and the ongoing campaign. The films showed us the terrible conditions in Canada, our mortal enemy, and the pain from the bombs on our planes.

Row after row of sewing machines greeted us every morning. They hung from the walls with spidery steel legs connected to large Formica tables. Ten workers sat at each table. We sewed tan shirts out of a spool of precut fabric attached to the legs of the table. Someone replenished the spool every night so each morning a mound of fabric 12 inches thick and 5 feet wide greeted us.

We had until the end of the day to finish the roll. It made about 400 shirts per table of ten workers. We each produced 40 shirts per worker, per day.

Soldiers stalked up and down the three halls of the basement all day.  Each had a large black club they tapped in their gloved hands to the rhythm of a clock. They rotated their shift work with the Homeland Guard.

“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” yelled a woman in white makeup at the bottom and top of every hour we worked. She sat on a stool in the center of the room.

We got two breaks a day for the bathroom. Twice a day, someone came around and gave us a cup of water from a portable jug. Once a day, a faceless woman in white pancake makeup came around with aluminum wrapped peanut butter sandwiches and cans of tomato juice she handed to us without a word. She scowled at each of us underneath her red lipstick.

We never got up. We never, ever, talked.

As the weeks went on, the hum of the sewing machines faded into background noise. Before the end of the first week, I could not hear the zinging back and forth. My fingers also adjusted to the pattern of the shirt, and I could almost make one with my eyes closed.

In short, the work became monotonous and the days passed without much change. Early summer heat crept into every cranny of the basement and stifled my breath. I sweated so much I wrung it from my ponytail at the end of the day. I also found secret ways to take in the factory around me, saw other women struggle to make the shirts, and noticed some who caught on as fast as I had. I noticed the patterns of the people around me, how much they resembled bees in a hive. All of us worked toward a singular goal.

Each day, I got angrier. I stitched frustration into every single shirt and kept one eye on the door at the end of the long row for any sign of Fostino. Each time the regular soldiers changed shifts with the Homeland Guard, I trained my eyes on the back door for some sort of clue about him. He never came to the basement.  He never came anywhere near my section of the sweatshop. As the days passed, I worried more and more about Fostino.

Then, one night, I bit my nails down into their quick during my walk home. My eyes scanned every step of the walk for some indication Fostino had been there. A few steps from my door, I thought I saw something. I strained to make it out:  a dusty “F” looked etched in the ground near the door. I stopped and gawked at it.

Had Fostino stopped here? When?

Once I got inside, I sat on the loveseat for hours and remembered the day of the massacre. I thought about how he smelled of sugar mixed with sweat, how I saw pain in his eyes, and how he held me when I broke down. I waited for him to knock at my door once again and prayed he would patrol near my house. I thought about a walk to the cornfield again on the off chance I would find him there.

He didn’t come. Ever.

A few weeks went by, and then one day I finished the first 15 shirts by 11:00 AM, much faster than normal. The precut spool of material and thread flowed through my hands like water.

Slow down, Charlotte.

Underneath the table, I pulled the fabric for the next shirt away from the other bolts of pre-cut material. It didn’t come easy, so I tugged a few times.

“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” repeated the woman in the center of the room as the clock on the far walls struck the time. I bit my lip as she said the grating words. I heard a small rip and panicked. I got closer to the spool so I didn’t tear the material beyond repair.

Then I saw it. A rolled up, thick, small, white piece of paper wedged itself between two sections of material on the spool.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I sucked in a breath and glanced around the legs of the table. I knew I had seconds until the pacing soldiers decided I took too long getting my next pieces of fabric.

I knew Fostino placed that paper there for a reason.  

With the utmost care, I slid the paper out from under the fabric and then waited until the soldiers walked in between tables before hiding it in the side pocket of my government issued black dress uniform. Then I erased my expression and retook my seat. I kept my eyes on the table. I focused my eyes on my numb hands and the industrial sewing machine. I bit my lip so I would not say anything that might draw attention my way.

Then the wait came.

I waited two hours until the woman came around with the sandwiches and the tomato juice for lunch. After she thrust the wilted sandwich my way, I placed it in my lap and used that motion to pull the paper from my dress and slide it under the foil. The paper opened with one hand, and I pulled it until I saw the words.

Meet me in the alley behind the convenience store at 7:30.

My teeth bit my lip harder. My heart jumped and my ears throbbed. I peered from my left to my right and hoped my face didn’t give me away. The clock over the shoulder of the woman across from me said 12:30 PM.

Seven hours to go.

*

At 7:32 PM, my feet rounded the corner and scooted into the alley behind Centre Towne Market. The dim of twilight replaced the sun. My shoes crunched on the gravel and I heard Humvees rumble down the main street with Party Members and soldiers on the way to dinner.

Fostino Sanchez stood in the middle of the alley against the brick wall of the back of the store. He propped one shiny boot up against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. The medals of his Homeland Guard uniform seemed more pronounced.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” I leaned against the brick wall next to him and rubbed my left arm. It hurt from all the work and I winced a little.

“You okay?” He reached out and rubbed my left arm.

“No. It has just been hard for me these days. And I think I strained my arm from all the sewing.”

Fostino grimaced.

Oh, he looked so beautiful even when he did that.

“God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Are you okay, otherwise? Getting used to the schedule?”

I shrugged. He rubbed my arm some more. The massage intoxicated me and sent a tingle of electricity through my body.

“They make me work the top floor of the factory,” he supplied, even though I didn’t ask. “Patrolling. My dad works on that floor too. At night, after the shift, I replace the fabrics on the floor. And we drill every morning.”

“What about the store?” I gestured to the brick wall.

“My parents only keep it open four hours a day anymore,” he said dismissively.  “Not a lot of business since The Party switched us from money to stamps last month. Plus, supplies— well, Party members and The Party get most of the stuff, anyway.”

Oh, right. They told us at the factory we would get only one hundred stamps a month for food and supplies. Money didn’t work anymore — anywhere. 

“The government always seems to be changing things,” I muttered. “When they told us about the stamps at work, it seemed so sudden.”

“Yeah, that did seem weird, but I don’t want to think about that right now,” Fostino’s eyes narrowed and his face sharpened in the dim light. Then he shook his head. “Listen. How long will you keep on living on the outskirts of town?” he whispered.

I hadn’t thought about it until that moment.  “I don’t know,” I replied, my voice also low. I knew we could not be sure who could or would hear us. Fostino stepped closer to me. His boots knocked against my flat shoes, his breath filled the air between us.