UnBound (2 page)

“A limited partnership,” says someone else. And that makes a few others snicker.

“Very limited,” Alph finally says. “And we don't have room for schoolies. Got that?”

Jasper knows this is all a show. He knows that Alph likes him. But Jasper has to prove himself, that's all. He's got to show his value. So he goes out on a limb. He knows it might get him beaten up or worse, but it will definitely get Alph's attention.

He turns to the cavernous space of the old theater and says as loudly as he can, “How many of you can read?”

That brings absolute silence. He knew it would. Mentioning one of the three
R
s can be a call to battle. There are some things you don't say to ferals.

Nobody answers him. Even if some of them can read, he knew they wouldn't answer. Answering gives him power, and none of them want to do that. Not without permission from Alph. Jasper turns to Alph. “You need me. I can tell you what's going on out there—the stuff you don't see on TV.”

“Why the hell should ‘out there' matter to me?” Alph says, his voice more threatening than Jasper has ever heard it.

“Because there's this new thing I read about. It's called unwiring, or something. They say it's going to end the Heartland War, and it's also going to solve the problem of ferals.”

Alph crosses his arms in defiance. “This war ain't never gonna end. And we are not a problem. Ferals are the future. Got that?”

Jasper holds his gaze. Alph's hard exterior shows no signs of cracking. No indication that he's going to give Jasper the slightest break. Jasper sighs. “Yeah, I got it, Kevin.”

The fury that comes to Alph's face makes it clear that Jasper has made a critical error.

“Don't you ever call me that.”

Jasper looks down. “Sorry. I didn't mean to. . . .”

Then Alph picks up something that's on the table next to the tangle of jewelry. A snow globe—one of the many weird knickknacks salvaged from the world that existed before the Heartland War. This one shows a little gingerbread cottage magnified and distorted, submerged in water, and surrounded by swirls of fake snow.

“Tell you what, Nelson,” Alph says. “I'll give you until the count of ten. You make it to the door by ten, I won't smash your skull with this thing.”

“Alph, I—”

“One.”

“Just hear me out!”

“Two.”

Raf gets between them. “Better start running, dude.”

“Three.”

And so with no choice, Jasper turns to run.

“Four.”

The others laugh. One kid tries to trip him, but Jasper jumps over his extended foot.

“Five.”

He's almost to the door. The door guards don't try to stop him. They part to let him go, but then Alph does something unexpected.

“Six-seven-eight-nine-ten!”

With the countdown sped up, Jasper doesn't stand a chance. Just before he reaches the door he feels the snow globe connect with his back, striking a middle vertebra. He goes down. The snow globe smashes on the concrete floor.

“Man, what an arm!” one of the guards says. “Alph oughta play baseball or something.”

Still in pain, Jasper gets to his feet. He's going to have a major bruise on his back—but he'll tell no one. “He could have killed me,” Jasper realizes out loud. “He could have hit me in the head and killed me.”

One of the door guards scoffs. “If Alph wanted to hit you in the head, he would have.” Then he pushes Jasper out the door.

•  •  •

“You're late again,” his mother says, the casualness in her tone forced, the suspicion in her voice poorly veiled. She used to manage a restaurant until either the Lifers or the Choicers inadvertently blew it up. Now all she does is micromanage Jasper.

He drops his book bag on the couch and answers just as casually. His tone isn't forced, however. He's a much better actor than his mother. “There was a meeting about school clubs. I wanted to check some out.”

“What club are you interested in?”

“Fencing,” he answers without the slightest hesitation.

“So violent.”

He passes her on the way to the fridge. “You don't
really
stab people, Mom.”

“Before you commit to anything, you should run it past your father, Jasper.”

He stiffens, feeling the chill from the open refrigerator on his arm hairs. “I told you to call me Jazz.”

“That's not a name,” his mother says. “Take what you want and close the door. You'll let all the cold out.”

He spends the rest of the afternoon doing his homework at the dining room table. It must be done, or at least deeply carved into, by the time his father gets home from work, unless he wants the next iteration of the Lecture. The lecture is always the same: all about how lucky he is to be in a corporate school at all, and how if his grades don't improve, they'll pink-slip him. “And then what?” his father would rant. “Without a corporate school, you'll have no future. You won't be any better than a feral!”

All the disgust in the world is packed into the word “feral” whenever his father says it—as if the feral kids are the source of all the world's problems. Jasper can't remember a time before there were ferals. The public schools failed even before the war started, leaving millions of kids with nothing to do but cause trouble for the system that put them out on the street. Nowadays only rich kids and corporation babies get an official education. Jasper is the latter: His father works for a huge shipping conglomerate, which guarantees Jasper's place in the company's educational program.

Unless, of course, Jasper gets pink-slipped.

He's both terrified and enticed by the idea of expulsion. Maybe then Alph would see him as more than just a schoolie.

As he slaves over his homework, he begins to wonder what it was like in the old days, when education was a right, not just a privilege. He wonders if school sucked as much then as it does now.

He's still working feverishly on algebra when his father gets home. He thinks that his diligence will spare him his father's disapproval, but it doesn't. “Why do you work in the dark like this? You'll ruin your eyes, and then what?”

Jasper wants to point out that it isn't dark in the dining room; it's just that outside it's still light, and his father's eyes haven't adjusted to being indoors, but Mr. Nelson is not a man who suffers contradiction easily—especially when he's tired, and he looks exceptionally tired today. So Jasper just turns on more lights, wondering if he'll get a lecture later that night about wasting electricity.
You'll bankrupt us with utility bills, and then what?

His father loves to lecture, and the angrier he is, the longer the lecture goes. Only once did he become physically violent with Jasper. Jasper had gotten suspended for cursing at a math teacher who deserved it, and that night his father blew like a volcano, throwing Jasper hard enough to crack the drywall. Then his father cried and begged forgiveness. Jasper knew this type of thing is rarely a one-time occurrence. In most cases it becomes a pattern—as it is for several of his friends, whose high-stress parents see their kids as the only available pressure valve. But it won't become a pattern if Jasper never gives his father a reason to hit him again. Or at least not until he's escaped to a place of safety. Where kids protect each other.

At dinner his father will often complain about the state of the world or the morons in his office. He still goes off on diatribes about the teen “terror march” on Washington, long after it ended. Maybe because Jasper once commented that he would have liked to have seen it. But tonight his father doesn't voice any opinions at dinner. He doesn't complain about work or about traffic or about anything. Jasper noticed he seemed tired, but it's more than that. He's quiet, distracted, and noticeably pale.

His mother doesn't say anything. Instead she leaves his father's medication on the counter, just in case he might forget to take it. Jasper can't stand a dinner table where the only sounds are the scraping of silverware on china. Even a lecture would be better than that. If no one will say anything, he has to.

“Is it your heart, Dad?” he asks. There are times he wishes his father would just keel over and die, but when that actually seems like a possibility, Jasper hates himself for thinking that and gets terrified that it might actually happen.

“I'm fine,” his father says, as Jasper knew he would—but now the door's been opened for discussion, and his mom takes over.

“Maybe you should get in to see the doctor.”

“It's indigestion,” his father says, a bit louder. “I'm not an idiot; I can tell the difference.”

Jasper scrapes himself a forkful of peas and speaks without looking up at him. “Indigestion doesn't make your lips turn blue.”

His father puts down his silverware with a clatter. “What is this, the Inquisition?”

No one says anything for a few moments. Jasper counts peas on his plate. He ponders how to dissect his steak to get the most meat off the bone. He waits to see which direction his father's mind will go. His father does get cyanotic from time to time. Low blood oxygen. He's already had two heart attacks. He's slimmed down and exercises more but refuses to change his eating habits. The doctors say he'll need a new heart eventually. Which, to his father, is like saying he'll eventually have to clean the garage.

“Fine,” he finally says. “I'll go in tomorrow and get checked out if that will make you both happy.”

Jasper silently sighs with relief. He knows before the end of the week he'll be hoping his father drops dead again—but not until he comes home with a clean bill of health.

•  •  •

They change the dosage of his father's meds, tell him he has to stop eating red meat, and put him on some nebulous transplant waiting list. His lips aren't cyanotic anymore, and for the Nelson family, out of sight is out of mind, so Jasper's attention returns to Alph and his band of ferals.

The trick to impressing Alph is magnitude and audacity. He didn't lay claim to an old theater for nothing; Alph likes drama and spectacle. Jasper can give him that. All he has to do is keep his eyes open for an opportunity to present itself, which it does a week later. It is the confluence of three random events that sets Jasper's stage. One: His parents have a Friday night dinner party—the kind that will keep them out at least until midnight. Two: Jasper's being paid to feed the cats at the neighbors' house while they're on vacation. Three: That particular neighbor has a new sports car parked on the driveway. Candy-apple red. It's what his father calls a midlife-crisis coupe, all muscle and curves. The kind of car that sleazy salesmen call “sexy” and charge more for than it's actually worth. But for a car like that, its parts are more valuable than the car is whole.

And so while his parents are off at their party, Jasper feeds the cats and hot-wires the car. He doesn't have his license yet, but he has a learner's permit and can drive as well as any other kid his age. The trick will be crossing into the wild zone and getting to Alph's hangout without getting jacked by other ferals on the way. He keeps a crowbar on the passenger seat in case he's forced to defend himself.

There's plenty of activity tonight. Bonfires and jam sessions and drunken brawls. Life bleeds like a wound everywhere in the wild zone. Ever since the teen march on Washington, ferals have been celebrating like it was a victory—and perhaps it was. Sure, they were subdued with tear gas and tranqs and batons, but they still proved what a formidable force they can be.

Jasper drives down the darker streets, where there's less activity and fewer chances of getting surrounded by covetous ferals. The ones he passes eye him, though. They stare at the red beast he drives. One kid steps in front of him, trying to make him stop—even smiling to put Jasper's worries at ease, but Jasper doesn't fall for it. He keeps on driving, and the kid has to leap out of the way to avoid being roadkill. If he hadn't jumped, would Jasper have hit him? He's not sure. Probably. Because if he didn't, he might be dead himself. That's the way of things in the wild zone.

When he finally arrives at the old theater, a few of Alph's street lookouts spot him and are flabbergasted.

“Is that the schoolie?”

“Nah, it can't be the schoolie.”

“Yeah, it is the schoolie!”

Jasper hops out, strutting proudly. “Go get Alph,” Jasper tells them, feeling like he's earned the right to give them an order.

One of them disappears inside and comes back a minute later with Alph.

“It was my neighbor's, but now it's all yours,” Jasper tells him, grinning wider than the crescent moon. “A gift from me to you. I don't need anything in return.” Which isn't entirely true. What he needs in return can't be quantified in dollar signs. What Jasper wants is the key to Alph's kingdom. Or if not the key, then at least an open door. A luxury car for the right to join. Jasper thinks that's more than fair. And once he disappears into the wild zone, he can say good-bye to his corporate high school and his parents' expectations and his dull, lackluster life forever. Like Alph said, ferals are the future, and Jasper's ready to be a part of that future, wherever it takes him.

“You steal this?”

“Easiest thing I ever did,” Jasper says proudly.

Alph keeps a poker face. He inspects the car. Jasper impatiently waits for his pat on the back, but it never comes.

“A car like this, every part's got a molecular signature. If I try to chop it, it'll point to me from every freaking direction.” Then, to Jasper's horror, he tells another kid to take it and drive it into the river. The kid seems excited by the prospect and peels out in the stolen car.

“Alph, I'm sorry,” Jasper says, trying to salvage something out of this. “I just thought you'd want . . . I mean, I just wanted to show you . . . I mean, I can do better. I swear I can! Just tell me how. Tell me what you need me to do!”