UnBound (6 page)

Second. She placed second in her squad! She immediately looks for Risa in the stands, but her eyes are bleary, and she can't find her. Did she leave? Did she not see her place second? Trying to catch her breath, Brooklyn manages a smile at Logan, who almost fells her with his congratulatory shoulder slug. She peers over his shoulder to look for the major, but he also seems to have disappeared.

“Fifteen minutes,” Logan crows. “You did it in fifteen minutes!”

“And four seconds.” She tries to act casual, but she can't help smiling big. It's her new personal best, and she's sorry that she's missing Thor's reaction to the streamed data back at the StaHo complex.

That's when she sees Kip and the sarge huddled on the grass in the center of the track. Sarge looks unhappy, and Kip's clutching his ankle. So what? Toughen up, dude. Competition sharpens a soldier. Pain makes you stronger.

The shooting range is a long trek, at the very edge of the StaHo grounds, nearly half a mile away. She heads toward it with the rest of her squad. Thirsty, she inhales a third of her canteen and then pours a third over her head. It feels good dribbling down her neck.

She doesn't notice the clot of boeufs in front of her slowing down or the ones behind her speeding up till someone shoves her into the muscle-bound guy ahead of her. His name is Dex, but everyone calls him Pecs for obvious reasons. She bounces off him and lands on her butt. He turns, reaches down, grabs her shirt, and jerks her to her feet so fast, her head is spinning.

“What gives?” he snarls.

She pries his fingers off her shirt. “Nothing, man. Someone pushed me.” She turns around, but no one is there. She looks for Logan—maybe he saw who had pushed her—but he's nowhere to be found. Half a dozen boeufs are now looking at her—mostly guys. Not a friendly face in the crowd.

She spreads her hands. “Forget it. Let's get to the firing range.”

“Someone pushed you?” Pecs says. “You mean like this?”

He plants a big hand on her chest and shoves her. She lands on her ass again. Remembering Tuesday's fight and the note in her file about it, she can't take another black mark. Especially now.

Staying on the pavement, she tries an ingratiating smile. “Yep, exactly like that. You all go on ahead. I'll wait here for Logan.”

She hopes mentioning Logan's name will appease them, but it doesn't. Two boeufs haul her to her feet. She balls her hands into fists and then grabs her canteen, strangling it instead of Pecs. They won't make her angry. They won't. . . .

Pecs sneers. “You think you can trip Kip and get away with it?”

That catches her off guard. “I didn't trip him. He just fell.”

Pecs steps closer till she smells his stinking breath. “Kip says you did. You saying he lied?”

She feels rage from the others crash over her. She freezes. Then Pecs slowly unscrews his canteen and takes a mouthful. She doesn't expect what he does next.

He spits at her. Right in her face. In shock, she stands in front of him, the water dribbling down her face and shirt. It doesn't feel good. It reminds her of when . . .

She wipes the spray from her face with the sleeve of her T-shirt, her fury rising. She can't control herself. Her canteen is still in her hand, and so she whacks Pecs in the nose with it. He roars and reaches for her, but years of dirty fighting have honed her skills. She ducks under his hands and knees him in the groin.

“What's going on?” Sarge yells.

The lieutenant and Sarge are now standing next to her. Pecs is paddling weakly on the ground, moaning. Most of the squad melts away from the scene.

The horror of getting caught creeps over her. First she swipes at her face; the grossness of Pec's spit almost seems worse.

“He spat on me,” Brooklyn says. The two men look down at Pecs. His nose is bleeding from where her canteen hit it, and his hands cup his groin.

“Get a medic,” the sarge growls. Someone races back to the track.

The lieutenant studies her expressionlessly. “You're the one that started the fight last week?”

She could argue that it's never her who starts it, but she knows what the headmaster wrote in the report.

“Yes,” she says. “But I didn't start
this
.”

The lieutenant nods at Sarge. “I don't want her with the others. Walk her to the firing range. Now.”

Sarge grabs her arm and frog-marches her all the way to the shooting range behind the others, blistering her ears with commentary for the full time it takes to get there.

He releases her near the cart. Her weapons locker is the only one left on the cart's bed. One of the plebes—a younger member of the squad—is charged with monitoring the weapons cart. Seeing the scowl on both Brooklyn's and the Sarge's faces, he steps back and lets her open her weapon locker.

Jabbing a finger at her and stopping inches away from her eyes, Sarge says, “You go last. The squad's probably gunning for you, and I won't be explaining why you got shot. Hear me?”

She nods. She's lucky they haven't already sent her back to the StaHo. She's actually surprised they're letting her finish the tests.

When they call her name, she uses every technique she's learned about relaxing and how to breathe while shooting.

In the first firing position she lines up her rifle on a barricade. She makes eight of nine good shots, but then the gun jams. Like she's been taught, she slaps, pulls, observes, releases, taps, and then shoots again. Distracted, she misses the shot.

In the second firing position she stands without the rifle supported. It malfunctions again on the second and sixth shots. She clears it each time, but now she's rattled. She misses all but four shots.

In the third position she kneels in a make-believe foxhole, but now it feels like she really
is
in a foxhole, fighting for her life. It's nearly noon and the sun is high, beating down. The rifle jams on the first shot, and she's tempted to throw it as far as she can and then stomp on it. Though the only thing she can see are the single and pop-up targets downrange, she knows her squad is watching every shot.

Five minutes later she still can't clear the malfunction. She admits defeat.

As she surrenders her weapon, she sees her score. Twelve. Miserable. Lowest score in her squad.

Logan is waiting by the gate, but before he can say anything to her, the lieutenant orders him away. The sarge takes her back to the main StaHo building alone on the army cart. He drives, and she sits on the seat next to him, the lockers and ammo boxes jouncing in the back.

Not once does he speak on the entire return trip.

•  •  •

Back at the StaHo she expects Sarge to escort her straight to the headmaster's office. Instead he marches her to a classroom where the rest of the squad is waiting for their written test. She slips into a seat next to Logan. Every eye is on her. Logan is frowning, puzzled and worried at the same time.

The proctor watches the clock so they can start the test on the hour. Five agonizing minutes to listen to a fly buzzing at the window.

On her other side Kip's bandaged ankle is propped on the chair in front of him. Pecs is conspicuously absent.

Then, too low for Logan to hear, Kip says, “Guess who's in the infirmary because of you?”

She refuses to look at him, keeping her eyes on the proctor.

He sings softly, “Someone's in trouble.”

As the proctor sets the tests facedown on their desks, Brooklyn takes one last look at the other members of her squad. Maybe some of the girls and younger guys are looking at her with admiration for having stood up for herself. Maybe one of the older ones gives her a small nod of approval. Most are disgusted with her, though.

Her skin crawls. This is Risa's fault. If she hadn't been in the stands, Brooklyn wouldn't have pushed herself so hard. She would have realized the diplomatic benefit of taking third place in the race and not challenging Kip's asinine pride. At the thought, someone in a practice room upstairs starts playing arpeggios. Brooklyn hopes Risa's fingers malfunction during her recital. And that the whole audience spits at her.

•  •  •

After the written test Brooklyn only wants to scour the sweat, gunpowder, and spit off her skin. But even before she can strip down in her dorm, someone raps at the door. She thinks it might be one of the DormGuardians to hurry her along, since she's the last one out. It would mean she'd have to go to lunch reeking and take her shower later.

But no—it's just another ward. The absolute last one Brooklyn cares to see.

“Can I come in?” Risa asks.

“What, are you lost?” Brooklyn says. “Isn't your room in the south wing?”

“North,” Risa says.

“Good, I'm glad you're not lost,” Brooklyn tells her. “Now
get
lost.”

Instead, Risa steps in, moving closer to Brooklyn. “I know it was you yesterday.”

Brooklyn won't look at her. She grabs her soap and a towel for the shower. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I saw your reflection in the dance mirror. I thought you might turn me in for being there on a Sunday.”

“Who says I still won't?” She tries to push past Risa, but unlike most of the other girls, Risa's more of an obstacle than a turnstile. When Risa's shoulder doesn't give, Brooklyn stumbles, dropping the soap. “What the hell's wrong with you?” She's about to order Risa to pick it up, but Risa does so of her own volition, holding it out to Brooklyn.

Brooklyn takes it reluctantly. “What is it you want from me?”

“Just to thank you for listening,” Risa says. “None of the other kids care enough to listen. Half the time the teachers don't care enough.”

Brooklyn shrugs. “You're good at something,” she admits. “And maybe I got some culture. Maybe I'm not the bonehead boeuf you think I am.”

“I don't think that,” Risa says, then grins. “Well, maybe a little.”

Brooklyn finds herself fighting her own grin. “And maybe you're just a little bit of a stuck-up bitch who thinks she's better than the rest of us.” It feels good to say that to Risa's face after all these years.

Then Risa nods and says, “Maybe sometimes I do act that way.”

Brooklyn isn't sure how to take Risa's acceptance of her rebuke. It was always so satisfying to hate her. This is new territory. Uneasy territory.

“I've seen the way you sign with that deaf boy,” Risa says.

Brooklyn tenses up, sensing an insult, or at least a dig. “That's none of your business.”

“I know—I just think it's cool that you learned how to do it. It's a talent.”

“A useless one!” Brooklyn growls. “There are barely any deaf people out there to use it with. Auditory tracts are cheap.”

“But you still learned it for the kids in here. Maybe just for that one boy.”

The fact that she's right—the fact that she can read Brooklyn so easily—makes her uncomfortable. When people know you, that knowledge can easily be turned against you. Brooklyn starts wondering if there's something she knows—or could find out—about Risa that she could use against her. Not that she would, but like old-world nukes, a balance of power could save their little world from nuclear winter.

And then Risa says, “In a way, it's not all that different from playing the piano. I mean—you use your hands to create meaning, just like I do.”

Brooklyn just stares at her. What is her angle? What does she want?

“Are we done here? Because I really do have to take a shower.”

“Yeah, we're done,” Risa tells her. “I just wanted to thank you for liking my music. And to congratulate you on taking second place today.”

“Why were you even there? Shouldn't you have been practicing for
your
test?”

“The practice rooms were all taken,” Risa said with a shrug. “Besides—you stopped to listen to me. I thought I'd return the favor.”

Risa turns to go, and, not wanting to let her have the last word, Brooklyn says, “You made three mistakes.”

Risa turns back to her. “Excuse me?”

“When you were playing, I heard three mistakes. But if you fix those three, it'll be amazing.”

Risa's smile is genuine. Almost dazzling.

•  •  •

Brooklyn finds Thor waiting for her just outside the cafeteria.

You scared me,
Thor signs.

Why? Did you think I got unwound before lunch?

Anything's possible.

With Risa's interruption and her shower, Brooklyn hoped she'd be late enough to entirely miss her squad, but the lunch line is moving slowly today, and she can see they're all still there. Two guys from her squad, having apparently inhaled their food, are the first to leave. They pass her in the hallway as they exit the dining hall, looking like they want to shove her, or worse. Thor glares at them coldly, and they move along, as if intimidated by him. Funny how a skinny deaf kid has more power than hulking boeufs.

Another fight?
Thor looks resigned as he signs.

Ignoring the question, she signs back,
How bad is it?

This is preliminary. It's just your ranking with the boeufs and academics. It doesn't include arts kids yet—they test after lunch.

With her written test already computer scored, there's nothing more she can do. Her performance is her performance, both in the field and the classroom.

How bad is it?
she signs again.

He looks around them. Through the swinging doors the dining hall is crowded and filled with watchful eyes, but the hallway is empty. There's no one listening, no one watching—and even if there were, no one could decipher their hand gestures.

Get your lunch,
Thor signs.
We'll sit down and we'll talk after.