The Ivory Tower

Chapter Two

No matter how much I tried to recall the blend of emotions the tower had aroused, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing than what I'd experienced. That longing haunted me, and I had no one to talk to about it.

Christine had disappeared shortly after we returned to camp. The last thing I remembered was a look of terror clouding her eyes and a silent scream that stilled her voice. As much as she'd wanted to tell, to share the fear tearing through her, she couldn't. No one spoke about these things. Alarming the camp would only bring pressure down on us. No one wanted the pressure or extra notice from the guards.

Staying silent wasn't as tough for me. No one spoke to me anyway. I bit my tongue, enduring the loneliness of Christine's absence.

It'd been three days, but it felt like an eternity. Images of the tower haunted my every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower overtook me. Instead of rotten wooden planks in my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaky floorboards in the cabin reminded me of the swinging of the threshold marker. Even as I waited in line for my daily rations, the wind blew against the frayed remains of our camp's striped flag, the stripes just like the red roses that sprawled across the base of the white tower. I couldn't escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially Christine—or more specifically, the lack of her presence.

My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in the line. A tingle of anxiety wormed its way through me. She should be here. Skipping rations and school was unheard of for her. I had to beg before she'd skip with me, and now she'd missed three days. Something was wrong.

I shivered, feeling a knot in my stomach as scenerios danced in my mind. Did her parents punish her? Had she slipped into remnants of the contaminants? Or worse, was she missing like the others? Panic pulled the edges of the knot tight, squeezing my heart into a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, pressing my nails through the rough fabric—anything to distract me from those thoughts.

Refocusing on the empty spot in line, I counted the families around it. At the front of the line, Hector Carringer and other camp elites stretched out on the wooden deck in front of the general store. Mr. Carringer leaned against the first wooden post, his arms folded against his chest and his face hidden beneath the wide brim of his straw hat. Every once in a while, his chin jutted forward, and he brushed the tips of his handlebar mustache down. With a single-digit number, the bright white cuff at the bottom of his denim sleeve announced his position in the camp hierarchy.

Behind him, the checkers, called that because of their black-and-white patterned shirts, kept to themselves. In charge of market inventory and storage, they rarely spoke to anyone except each other or the guards. Any time I'd gotten close, their conversations sounded more like a secret code, as if they were systematically checking off a list in their minds. Further back, other camp officials sat atop wooden boxes and overturned pallets, crowding under the store's overhang.

The rest of camp sprawled out along the warped deck in front of the meeting hall, down the dusty path, around the overgrown garden, and to the other edge of center camp, where broken stones and rotten planks bordered the main street.

As I scanned further down the line, clean clothes grew darkened with stains, patches overtook shirts, and the tips of straw hats frayed. Dirt permanently marked the thighs and knees of the work pants. Layers of grime stained the farmer's clothes, blocking the sewn-in numbers. Dust scattered around them as they painstakingly brushed off the dirt. A hidden number was as good as a missing number.

By the time I reached the number 170, my heart raced. Sawyer, the youngest of the Wentmire brothers, laughed. Even from the end of the line, I could hear his rich chuckle and see the way his face scrunched up in amusement. Each laugh punched me in the gut. He used to laugh at my jokes that way.