“Ah, Mr. Tucci. Good morning. Is this the new one?” He nods in my direction, tugging on his waistband as though his wind pants need adjustment.
“Yes, Mr. Brockman, this is Ms. Hamilton. I’m sure you’ll show her the ropes.”
Mr. Brockman looks me over, his gaze crawling, and I suddenly feel exposed before him. “Not a problem, not a problem,” he says.
I cross my arms. As if that might help to shield me from his measuring look.
“Very good.” With another smile for me, Mr. Tucci departs. I wince as the heavy steel door clangs after him.
And I’m left with Mr. Brockman and the others, HTS carriers whose stares I feel boring into me.
Mr. Brockman motions behind him. “Welcome to the Cage.”
“The Cage?” I echo.
He chuckles. “Yep. That’s what the kids call it. The name kind of stuck. Even the staff calls it that now.” He nods to the wall of chain link behind his desk.
It makes terrifying sense. What better way to remove us from the general population than to stick us down here with only ourselves for company? And beyond isolation . . . we’re confined.
“The Cage” consists of chain link stretching from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the chain link there are about ten desks. Only four students occupy the desks, all staring at me with varying expressions. Maybe Mr. Tucci was wrong about the number. Or maybe number five has done something bad and is in jail.
Immediately, I see that the gate-like door is the only way in or out. Mr. Brockman moves to open it. “It’ll take them a while to round up your assignments. You’ll just have to amuse yourself for today.”
The door squeaks as he pulls it open.
I pause at the entrance, reluctant to move inside, to take the first step that will officially make me one of them. I look back at him, unnerved at how close he’s standing beside me, still looking me over in a way that makes me feel like a piece of meat.
“So you don’t actually teach us?” I ask for clarification, scanning his attire. He looks more like someone on his way to the gym than a real teacher.
He chuckles. “No. Call me a glorified babysitter. I started as a part-time sub, but they hired me full-time last year. I just turn your work in to your teachers on the outside.”
On the outside. Teachers I’ll never even meet. I realize this now.
I peer inside the Cage, eyeing the others. Three boys and one girl. She’s no longer looking at me, concentrating instead on carving something into the desk with her pen.
“That’s Coco.” He takes one more step, bringing his body closer. The soft bulge of his stomach presses against my arm. “Bet she’ll be glad for some female company. Just been her in here with the boys since last year.”
There’s something in his voice that makes the tiny hairs on my nape prickle, and suddenly I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: the Cage and the supposed killers inside—or Mr. Brockman on the outside.
“Course you don’t have to go in just yet.” His voice falls close to my ear. “If you want you can stay out here a bit with me.”
Then I know what frightens me more. At least right now, in this moment, the answer is clear.
In the Cage, I notice Coco’s pen holds still. Her attention remains fixed on her desk, but I know she’s attuned to me. To Brockman. Her alertness reaches me, folds into my own veil of awareness.
Squaring my shoulders, I step inside the Cage.
Office of the Attorney General
Department of Justice Order No: 3109-09
_____________________________________________
________________________________________________
_____
By virtue of the authority assigned to me as attorney general, I, Samantha Jinks, hereby direct that all United States citizens be tested for Homicidal Tendency Syndrome, otherwise known as HTS, within thirty days of the issuance of this command. Persons who fail to comply will be taken into custody where they will submit to HTS testing standards accorded within their own locality. . . .
SIX
I SIT NEAR THE FRONT NEXT TO THE GIRL, COCO. IT’S the obvious choice. I’m not ashamed of my predictability. Two of the boys huddle together, their desks close. It looks like they’re playing some kind of card game. One boy sits by himself, his slight shoulders hunched over his desk. He’s small, hardly big enough to pass for a freshman. Face buried in a book, his long, spindly legs stretch out far beneath his desk and he reminds me of a puppy that hasn’t quite grown into his limbs and paws. Hard to imagine he’s a carrier. Maybe he’s like me. Maybe they made a mistake.
Coco doesn’t look up from her desk as I lower into a desk near her. She carves intently, her expression focused. A quick peek at her work reveals an elaborate geometric design.
No one gives my presence much reaction. Several minutes pass and I begin to think this won’t be so bad. Boring, yeah. But not bad. Certainly not dangerous. And then I hear a chair scrape the linoleum floor. My skin tightens, the back of my neck prickling, but I don’t turn to look. I stare straight ahead, pretending I don’t sense someone approaching. As though pretending he doesn’t exist and is coming my way will make him not real.
Coco moves from geometric angles to swirls now. Her pen works faster on her desk, whirring on the air, the pitch reminding me of an aria I sang last year at the bank’s Christmas party.
“Hey.” The word hits the back of my neck in a hot gust of breath.
I jump a little. Masking my fear, I look over my shoulder. It’s only one boy. He occupies the seat behind me, his body dwarfing the desk. He’s wearing a vintage-looking gray shirt with green sleeves that fits him tightly. He smiles. It’s totally insincere though.
His companion watches with interest from his desk. Suddenly, I feel like a lot weighs on this moment, on how I react. I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans. Like a new inmate arrived in prison, I’m being evaluated on all sides.
“Hey,” I return.
“Where you from?”
“Does it matter?” For some reason I hesitate to tell him where I live. I don’t want to come across as the spoiled little rich girl that’s fallen low. Even if I am.
“I suppose not.” He smiles widely. “Nothing matters anymore. Our life is this Cage.”
“Maybe yours,” I return.
His smile vanishes. “Oh. You think so? You think you’re special?”
“This is only temporary. Few more weeks and I’ll graduate—
He laughs and I stop talking. “Stupid bitch. You think I just mean this room? We’ll be in a cage for the rest of our lives. Whether it’s this one or another one. Graduation?” He shakes his head. “You think that’s going to save you? You think you’re going to get a great job or something? Go to college? Right now, the only thing that’s going to help you is how many friends you can make in here.” He looks me over, his cold eyes assessing. “You any good at making friends?”
Friends? As in becoming his friend? Something twists sickly inside me. I don’t answer, but he keeps talking anyway.
“You’re dead to your old friends. You’re swimming in a different pond now. You’ll need new friends. Carriers. Like you.” He leans back in the seat and crosses his thick arms over his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud, but his words hang there. Like me.
I open my mouth, but can’t think of a proper response, too disgusted with the idea that I am somehow the same as him. That carriers everywhere are all the same. Even if that’s how we’re treated. Even if that’s how everyone views us. I’m different. The exception. It’s arrogant thinking, but all I can cling to.
He smiles, clearly satisfied that he’s put me at a loss for words. Leaning forward, he runs his hand along my arm, his fingers soft as moths’ wings. I slap it away. A mistake. His smile fades and he grabs my offending hand, giving my fingers a hard, cruel squeeze. My heart gallops in my chest, stunned that he’s even touching me like this . . . hurting me.
I glance quickly at Brockman. He’s reading his magazine. I try to wiggle my fingers free, but he holds tightly, twisting my fingers until they’re bloodless. Until I have to clench my teeth from crying out. I debate calling for help, but he clicks his tongue at me, drawing my attention. “Hey, don’t look at him. I’m talking to you. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. There are a lot of things that can happen to you. When Brockman leaves to use the bathroom. When he falls asleep at his desk. Hell, even right now. So let’s get off on the right foot.”
I swallow back my whimper and hold his gaze, searching for some scrap of emotion in eyes as glassy and dead as a mannequin’s.
“Leave her alone, Nathan,” the little guy interjects. “She doesn’t need any tips from you.”
I’d forgotten about him.
“Shut up, Gil,” Nathan snarls at him, his face instantly contorting into something mean and ugly. “Keep your nose in your book and I might forget you exist for the rest of the day.”
Gil doesn’t look away. He glares at the bigger boy. “You mean until he gets here.”
Nathan releases me and lurches from the desk. In two strides, he’s at Gil, pulling him up by his collar. He backhands him once, the sound a startling crack on the air.
I jerk in my seat at the blatant violence. Brockman lifts his head up from his magazine, looking into the Cage, his expression mildly concerned but mostly just annoyed. At Everton, teachers intervene at the slightest whiff of a fight. With a pronounced sniff and swipe at his nose, he goes back to his magazine. I gawk. He’s not going to do anything.
“He’s not here now, wimp.” Nathan gives him a shake. “Or every morning, for that matter. If I were you, I’d watch your mouth. Plenty of chances for you to get a pounding. He can’t protect you every minute of every day.”
That said, Nathan flings Gil back into his desk. The boy’s hip crashes into the top of the desk. He winces as he falls awkwardly into his seat. He folds into himself, pulling his thin frame close.
Then Nathan looks at me, evidently remembering my existence. “You better learn how things work around here quick.” Those dead eyes slide off me as he returns to his desk.
I glance over at Gil. His breath is a wheezy little rasp as he clutches at his hip.
“You all right?” I whisper, convinced more than ever that he’s like me and in here by mistake.
“Yeah. Stupid ape.” His eyes widen. “Oh, not you—”
I smile. “I know.” I shoot another glance at Nathan, engaged in his game of cards again.
“He’s right, you know. You should try and make as many friends as you can. Allies are important.”
I glance around the Cage. My choices aren’t exactly overflowing. So far, Gil looks like the only candidate. He must read that conclusion in my face because he starts shaking his head. “I won’t exactly help your rep. I’ll just get you beat up or . . .” His gaze lowers, skimming my body before quickly looking away.
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. The sudden flush in his cheeks says it all, and I understand. A shiver rolls over me. Ironically, being labeled a dangerous individual has left me a target for violence. How messed up is that?
“Really. For your sake. We shouldn’t talk. Find a friend that can actually intimidate guys like Nathan and Brian back there.” His head jerks slightly in the direction of the boys playing cards behind us.
He returns to his desk, leaving me to stare at his profile as he picks up his book.
“Listen to him.”
I snap my gaze to Coco. The first words out of her mouth, but it’s like she never spoke. She’s not looking at me. She’s still hard at work carving up her desk. She’s back to geometric patterns. No more angry, fast-spinning swirls.
Not a glance. Not another sound from her. Listen to him. That’s her advice? That’s it? Frustration wells up inside me as I sit. Alone. Ignored. And realize that it might not get any better than this.
“Yes, Mr. Brockman, this is Ms. Hamilton. I’m sure you’ll show her the ropes.”
Mr. Brockman looks me over, his gaze crawling, and I suddenly feel exposed before him. “Not a problem, not a problem,” he says.
I cross my arms. As if that might help to shield me from his measuring look.
“Very good.” With another smile for me, Mr. Tucci departs. I wince as the heavy steel door clangs after him.
And I’m left with Mr. Brockman and the others, HTS carriers whose stares I feel boring into me.
Mr. Brockman motions behind him. “Welcome to the Cage.”
“The Cage?” I echo.
He chuckles. “Yep. That’s what the kids call it. The name kind of stuck. Even the staff calls it that now.” He nods to the wall of chain link behind his desk.
It makes terrifying sense. What better way to remove us from the general population than to stick us down here with only ourselves for company? And beyond isolation . . . we’re confined.
“The Cage” consists of chain link stretching from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the chain link there are about ten desks. Only four students occupy the desks, all staring at me with varying expressions. Maybe Mr. Tucci was wrong about the number. Or maybe number five has done something bad and is in jail.
Immediately, I see that the gate-like door is the only way in or out. Mr. Brockman moves to open it. “It’ll take them a while to round up your assignments. You’ll just have to amuse yourself for today.”
The door squeaks as he pulls it open.
I pause at the entrance, reluctant to move inside, to take the first step that will officially make me one of them. I look back at him, unnerved at how close he’s standing beside me, still looking me over in a way that makes me feel like a piece of meat.
“So you don’t actually teach us?” I ask for clarification, scanning his attire. He looks more like someone on his way to the gym than a real teacher.
He chuckles. “No. Call me a glorified babysitter. I started as a part-time sub, but they hired me full-time last year. I just turn your work in to your teachers on the outside.”
On the outside. Teachers I’ll never even meet. I realize this now.
I peer inside the Cage, eyeing the others. Three boys and one girl. She’s no longer looking at me, concentrating instead on carving something into the desk with her pen.
“That’s Coco.” He takes one more step, bringing his body closer. The soft bulge of his stomach presses against my arm. “Bet she’ll be glad for some female company. Just been her in here with the boys since last year.”
There’s something in his voice that makes the tiny hairs on my nape prickle, and suddenly I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: the Cage and the supposed killers inside—or Mr. Brockman on the outside.
“Course you don’t have to go in just yet.” His voice falls close to my ear. “If you want you can stay out here a bit with me.”
Then I know what frightens me more. At least right now, in this moment, the answer is clear.
In the Cage, I notice Coco’s pen holds still. Her attention remains fixed on her desk, but I know she’s attuned to me. To Brockman. Her alertness reaches me, folds into my own veil of awareness.
Squaring my shoulders, I step inside the Cage.
Office of the Attorney General
Department of Justice Order No: 3109-09
_____________________________________________
________________________________________________
_____
By virtue of the authority assigned to me as attorney general, I, Samantha Jinks, hereby direct that all United States citizens be tested for Homicidal Tendency Syndrome, otherwise known as HTS, within thirty days of the issuance of this command. Persons who fail to comply will be taken into custody where they will submit to HTS testing standards accorded within their own locality. . . .
SIX
I SIT NEAR THE FRONT NEXT TO THE GIRL, COCO. IT’S the obvious choice. I’m not ashamed of my predictability. Two of the boys huddle together, their desks close. It looks like they’re playing some kind of card game. One boy sits by himself, his slight shoulders hunched over his desk. He’s small, hardly big enough to pass for a freshman. Face buried in a book, his long, spindly legs stretch out far beneath his desk and he reminds me of a puppy that hasn’t quite grown into his limbs and paws. Hard to imagine he’s a carrier. Maybe he’s like me. Maybe they made a mistake.
Coco doesn’t look up from her desk as I lower into a desk near her. She carves intently, her expression focused. A quick peek at her work reveals an elaborate geometric design.
No one gives my presence much reaction. Several minutes pass and I begin to think this won’t be so bad. Boring, yeah. But not bad. Certainly not dangerous. And then I hear a chair scrape the linoleum floor. My skin tightens, the back of my neck prickling, but I don’t turn to look. I stare straight ahead, pretending I don’t sense someone approaching. As though pretending he doesn’t exist and is coming my way will make him not real.
Coco moves from geometric angles to swirls now. Her pen works faster on her desk, whirring on the air, the pitch reminding me of an aria I sang last year at the bank’s Christmas party.
“Hey.” The word hits the back of my neck in a hot gust of breath.
I jump a little. Masking my fear, I look over my shoulder. It’s only one boy. He occupies the seat behind me, his body dwarfing the desk. He’s wearing a vintage-looking gray shirt with green sleeves that fits him tightly. He smiles. It’s totally insincere though.
His companion watches with interest from his desk. Suddenly, I feel like a lot weighs on this moment, on how I react. I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans. Like a new inmate arrived in prison, I’m being evaluated on all sides.
“Hey,” I return.
“Where you from?”
“Does it matter?” For some reason I hesitate to tell him where I live. I don’t want to come across as the spoiled little rich girl that’s fallen low. Even if I am.
“I suppose not.” He smiles widely. “Nothing matters anymore. Our life is this Cage.”
“Maybe yours,” I return.
His smile vanishes. “Oh. You think so? You think you’re special?”
“This is only temporary. Few more weeks and I’ll graduate—
He laughs and I stop talking. “Stupid bitch. You think I just mean this room? We’ll be in a cage for the rest of our lives. Whether it’s this one or another one. Graduation?” He shakes his head. “You think that’s going to save you? You think you’re going to get a great job or something? Go to college? Right now, the only thing that’s going to help you is how many friends you can make in here.” He looks me over, his cold eyes assessing. “You any good at making friends?”
Friends? As in becoming his friend? Something twists sickly inside me. I don’t answer, but he keeps talking anyway.
“You’re dead to your old friends. You’re swimming in a different pond now. You’ll need new friends. Carriers. Like you.” He leans back in the seat and crosses his thick arms over his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud, but his words hang there. Like me.
I open my mouth, but can’t think of a proper response, too disgusted with the idea that I am somehow the same as him. That carriers everywhere are all the same. Even if that’s how we’re treated. Even if that’s how everyone views us. I’m different. The exception. It’s arrogant thinking, but all I can cling to.
He smiles, clearly satisfied that he’s put me at a loss for words. Leaning forward, he runs his hand along my arm, his fingers soft as moths’ wings. I slap it away. A mistake. His smile fades and he grabs my offending hand, giving my fingers a hard, cruel squeeze. My heart gallops in my chest, stunned that he’s even touching me like this . . . hurting me.
I glance quickly at Brockman. He’s reading his magazine. I try to wiggle my fingers free, but he holds tightly, twisting my fingers until they’re bloodless. Until I have to clench my teeth from crying out. I debate calling for help, but he clicks his tongue at me, drawing my attention. “Hey, don’t look at him. I’m talking to you. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. There are a lot of things that can happen to you. When Brockman leaves to use the bathroom. When he falls asleep at his desk. Hell, even right now. So let’s get off on the right foot.”
I swallow back my whimper and hold his gaze, searching for some scrap of emotion in eyes as glassy and dead as a mannequin’s.
“Leave her alone, Nathan,” the little guy interjects. “She doesn’t need any tips from you.”
I’d forgotten about him.
“Shut up, Gil,” Nathan snarls at him, his face instantly contorting into something mean and ugly. “Keep your nose in your book and I might forget you exist for the rest of the day.”
Gil doesn’t look away. He glares at the bigger boy. “You mean until he gets here.”
Nathan releases me and lurches from the desk. In two strides, he’s at Gil, pulling him up by his collar. He backhands him once, the sound a startling crack on the air.
I jerk in my seat at the blatant violence. Brockman lifts his head up from his magazine, looking into the Cage, his expression mildly concerned but mostly just annoyed. At Everton, teachers intervene at the slightest whiff of a fight. With a pronounced sniff and swipe at his nose, he goes back to his magazine. I gawk. He’s not going to do anything.
“He’s not here now, wimp.” Nathan gives him a shake. “Or every morning, for that matter. If I were you, I’d watch your mouth. Plenty of chances for you to get a pounding. He can’t protect you every minute of every day.”
That said, Nathan flings Gil back into his desk. The boy’s hip crashes into the top of the desk. He winces as he falls awkwardly into his seat. He folds into himself, pulling his thin frame close.
Then Nathan looks at me, evidently remembering my existence. “You better learn how things work around here quick.” Those dead eyes slide off me as he returns to his desk.
I glance over at Gil. His breath is a wheezy little rasp as he clutches at his hip.
“You all right?” I whisper, convinced more than ever that he’s like me and in here by mistake.
“Yeah. Stupid ape.” His eyes widen. “Oh, not you—”
I smile. “I know.” I shoot another glance at Nathan, engaged in his game of cards again.
“He’s right, you know. You should try and make as many friends as you can. Allies are important.”
I glance around the Cage. My choices aren’t exactly overflowing. So far, Gil looks like the only candidate. He must read that conclusion in my face because he starts shaking his head. “I won’t exactly help your rep. I’ll just get you beat up or . . .” His gaze lowers, skimming my body before quickly looking away.
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. The sudden flush in his cheeks says it all, and I understand. A shiver rolls over me. Ironically, being labeled a dangerous individual has left me a target for violence. How messed up is that?
“Really. For your sake. We shouldn’t talk. Find a friend that can actually intimidate guys like Nathan and Brian back there.” His head jerks slightly in the direction of the boys playing cards behind us.
He returns to his desk, leaving me to stare at his profile as he picks up his book.
“Listen to him.”
I snap my gaze to Coco. The first words out of her mouth, but it’s like she never spoke. She’s not looking at me. She’s still hard at work carving up her desk. She’s back to geometric patterns. No more angry, fast-spinning swirls.
Not a glance. Not another sound from her. Listen to him. That’s her advice? That’s it? Frustration wells up inside me as I sit. Alone. Ignored. And realize that it might not get any better than this.
