My mother's favorite old-world house is haunted, I'm sure of it. When the sun hits it just right, the shadows of the ornate wooden banister look like a person reaching out for something, and the creak in the front door is like a voice, whispering a language at me that I can't understand. I've theorized ghosts before in the past, but on my daily visits to watch the sunrise, I have never actually seen one. But I've never felt quite alone either. I've felt comfort—the kind my mother used to give me. The kind I don't feel too often anymore except here.
There's no relief from the cold beneath the caved-in roof. I shiver as I navigate through the entryway, stepping over stray shingles. I'm nowhere near dressed for the weather, wearing only flannel pajamas and my mother's corduroy jacket. Tomorrow, I'll bring a blanket, although I know at some point soon, when the winter comes, I'll have to stop coming, at least until the temperatures rise again. It won't be this week, however. I'll muster through as long as I can. Watching the sunrise from my own bedroom window just isn't the same.
Once I get to the center of the room, I stop and lie down on my back, looking up and out at the sky. It's a perfect view. I never paid much attention to sunrises growing up. If I'm honest, I always missed them. Like most, I slept in, awakening to a sky already gray and a morning well under way. But after my mother left, a newfound restlessness took her place. Now, whether I like it or not, I watch dawn break every morning.
It's nothing sensational. A mixture of pale orange and lavender that appears brownish the poorer the air quality. I hear it's always this way in Notness, where they've stripped most of their land clean to build manufacturing plants. At least we in Eldae get the essence of colors, faint as they may be. Today's is the usual muted tangerine, getting more and more beige by the second. So pollution is bad today, I register. Good to know.
Few works of literature from the old world survived the End, but in one of them—a small poem found tucked within a cookbook with its byline ripped off—the sunrise is described to be vibrant. Vivid. With pinks and reds and indigo, streaked across the sky like a painting. Some mornings I look up through the roof at the brown and recite some lines of the poem in my head, and it baffles me how at one point, hundreds of years ago, the sunrise actually looked that way. But the world was different back then. We call it the old one for a reason.
We're taught the lesson of the End every year in school, to make sure we never forget. It began with a string of natural disasters—fires, earthquakes, and mass floods that rose high enough to engulf full countries. Quarrels as to who was to blame broke out between the remaining nations, which escalated into a full-scale nuclear war. Nearly everything and everyone was decimated.
But it was not a full apocalypse. Those who survived crawled out from the rubble, picked themselves up, and resolved to make good use of the last livable pieces of land left. They sought to create a new world—one more peaceful than that before it. Instead of breaking apart into separate nations like before, they formed a single country which they named Delicatum—a reminder of the delicate balance between us and this land. Delicatum has a single sovereign leader, to be elected every half decade as per the people's choice. This was all very important to our founders: the single country, the single leader, the unity in it. For if history has taught us anything, it is that the more countries and leaders and general separation, the more potential for conflict.
Delicatum is comprised of three united states, each serving its own purpose for the country. The largest state is Notness, which takes up most of what used to be the middle and western parts of North America. They specialize in manufacturing all of our commodities, with thousands of factories spanning the spacious land. And while many sovereigns have certainly attempted to push for more environmentally friendly means of production, the whole country lives under a near-constant shroud of smog.
My state, Eldae, is to the east of Notness, filling up the rest of what's left of America. Our southernmost region has enough fertile land to make us Delicatum's source for agriculture, but the northern region, where I live, is practically useless. With such close proximity to Notness, too, our skies are always gray. It's every kid's dream to one day get the chance to move away to someplace better—to Betnedoor.
Across the ocean in a small pocket of what used to be southern Europe, Betnedoor is the most prosperous state in Delicatum. Their purpose is to produce new technologies, although not many of their advancements make it over to Eldae and Notness. Air travel is rare and expensive, reserved only for the wealthier elite, so it's a pipe dream to even consider visiting. Though we have plenty photos of it to prove otherwise, there is always a rumor amongst kids here that the streets in Betnedoor are paved with shiny gold.
We can try all we want to not make the same mistakes the old world did, but we can't control how their actions have affected us. The atomic bombs they dropped left chemicals that have conjured countless aftershocks, especially where the weather is concerned. Sometimes we have no rain for months. Our winters can be brutal.
And then there is the phenomenon we call Darkenings, where, every thirty days, with the moon cycle, thick chemical particles bunch into the air and cover up the sun. We live in complete darkness for two whole days.
In some areas, the effects of these particle buildups are so bad that the land is barely livable. Citizens of each state, regardless of radiation levels, get a mandatory immunity booster every year just to avoid any hugely adverse effects to exposure, like skin burns and diseases. That said, we've found ways to adapt the best we can, but sometimes it's distressing to think of the way the old world left us. Even now, as I look around the skeleton of this house, one of thousands like this one lying around Eldae, I am reminded that we live in the wake of something much, much bigger than us.
A hazy shade of gray settles over the sky, signaling daytime and my cue to come home. I cut through the front yard, stepping through weeds covered in frost. With a turn around the corner, the world changes from old to new. My home is a squat, concrete thing, the same as all the others down the street. These were quick and cheap to make in the beginning, much less expensive than trying to refurbish old houses. They might be terribly ugly, but they're some of the better living options in Eldae. In more crowded cities, like Colburn, these structures are stacked into big, grotesque apartment buildings. At least we have our own space, separate from our neighbors. And we're so close to the ruins, too, which is a plus. It isn't lovely, but we could do worse.
No one is awake yet when I creep in through the door. They never are. Father stays in his room all day anyway, and Brandyce and Dalton's alarms won't go off for another half hour. Mornings are always my time to breathe; the calm before the daily storms of judgment. In my room, I change into my school uniform: brown slacks, a button-down shirt, and a forest green sweater vest. The color varies based on which grade you're in, although most kids believe it's hardly necessary anymore. There are other ways to identify which class a student is in that you can't take on and off like a vest. Still, it's tradition. I tuck the wool into my trousers, then fasten it with a belt.
As I make breakfast I click on the television. My siblings hate it when I watch the news too early and wake them, so I keep the volume low. Normally I'd mute it and just piece the stories together based on headlines, but the red borders around footage of a podium bear the caption Geddes to Make Statement on Upcoming Darkening and I know I have to watch. This is important news. This is news about the Famoux.
There are plenty of celebrities in Delicatum, sure, and they do pretty well. But none quite hold a candle to the Famoux. They are an absolute force—the most beloved, most glamorous, and most entertaining clique in our world. Each member is gorgeous, the paragon of perfection in their own unique way. They're at the top of their fields, too, be it music, or acting, or sports, and so on. They rule over everything.
And then there are their broadcasts. The way their every step is documented and plastered on magazine covers, it's safe to say that the Famoux members already live their lives in constant spotlight. But their Darkening broadcast, called The Fishbowl, take this to its extreme. It airs for the entire two days of the blackout without stopping, giving viewers an uninterrupted glimpse into the way they live. It's watched by almost everyone. Even my family tunes in, though Brandyce thinks they're overrated.
As I settle onto the couch, the television screen dissolves into the view of a podium. There's no caption to specify where this footage is coming from, but I know from the sky that it's Waltmar, Betnedoor's capital city. All the way across the ocean from Notness's emissions, they are the least affected by smog, which means their sky is actually blue. Their sunrises have more color too. Not quite the vivid pinks from the old-world poem, but the photos I've seen show brighter oranges and bolder purples. It would be breathtaking to see a sunrise like that in person. Makes me wonder how many people over there sleep right through it, unaware of what they're missing.
Just beyond the podium, crowds of reporters and paparazzi stretch farther than the cameras can even catch, eager to hear the news. This is our second press conference this month from the Famoux's trusted manager, Norax Geddes, but they're usually a very rare occurrence. She only ever steps out to address scandals, debunk unavoidable rumors, or make big, status quo–changing announcements.
The statement earlier this month was one of the latter. The Famoux's status quo had certainly changed for the worse: one of their members had died.
We're lucky the cameras weren't on Bree Arch when it happened. Just before the accident we had been watching an argument between the others at dinner on the second night—some halfbaked betrayal over Kaytee McKarrington's latest single. Bree had excused herself to go to the bathroom, uninterested in the drama, when the lights cut out. It wasn't until a backup generator restored the power that Kaytee found Bree lying by the foot of the crystalline stairs and screamed. One of Bree's limbs was twisted, a small pool of blood forming by her head. She'd tripped and fallen. She was dead.
Days after, I recall the blue Betnedoor sky feeling entirely too cheery during Norax's statement—insulting, even, given the way the Famoux was huddled together, crying by the podium. Norax tried her best to keep a brave face as she spoke, but even she faltered. She used that statement to assure the world that they would be taking the thirty days before the next Darkening to honor Bree with a memorial, make sense of what happened, and decide whether or not they'll be ready to broadcast The Fishbowl again with the next blackout. With the Darkening happening next week, the anticipation for this next statement has been high. Will The Fishbowl air, after what happened last time? Or will we have to sit through the darkness for the first time without them? The world has been speculating.
Today, Norax walks into view with her head held high. The five remaining Famoux members trail behind her, their eyes dry. They're doing better today, although they're all still wearing black, as I've seen in every paparazzi shot of them for weeks. As the cameras do a close-up on each of their faces, my breath catches in slight. They are impossibly beautiful, as always. Then the camera settles onto the other end of the podium, where an older man in a suit stands. Lennix Geddes, Norax's father. The founder and creator of the Famoux.
Lennix formed the idea over thirty years ago. He had a background in managing acts for the popular music label Buchan, and while there he saw the value in bands over solo artists. More members meant a greater audience reach. The first iteration of the Famoux had been a curation of the most popular celebrities in every industry. They became a team, supporting each other's work and creating great art together during the Darkening broadcasts. Ten years passed, and the members entered their later twenties, and the audience's interest dwindled. Lennix retired the group, picking out new stars he saw were gaining traction for the second iteration. He did this for a third time before declaring that, with the fourth iteration, two years ago, he would be passing over the reins to his daughter Norax.
The world had already been placing their bets as to which lucky celebrities would be asked to join next, but much to everyone's surprise, Norax decided to shake things up. After a long audition process, screening countless options, she plucked six new members we knew nothing about, and encouraged us to get to know them and their talents as they unfolded before us. It was a total success. The kids at school have loved spending the last two years figuring them out.
Since retiring, Lennix is rarely pictured at Famoux events. Having amassed quite some riches from the Famoux, he's been known for investing in tech advancements all over Betnedoor, becoming quite the influential figure. There are rumors that next year, when it comes time to vote in Delicatum's next sovereign, he'll run. If true, I am sure he would win. He has a level of maturity to him that our current sovereign, a forgettable man named James Atlas, so blatantly lacks. And I could only imagine how much Delicatum would change for the better if he ran it like he ran the Famoux.
He meets his daughter's gaze soberly and nods, perhaps permitting her to begin. She turns to the cameras and clears her throat.
Her voice is strong and clear. A true leader's voice like her father's. Perhaps she should run for sovereign some day too.
"We first thank you for granting us the time to collect ourselves before making a follow-up statement," Norax begins. She closes her eyes. For a moment I'm afraid she might break down like last time, but then she takes a breath, and her stoicism returns. "We know this has been a hard few weeks for our fans as well as our organization. Our Darkening show has always striven to be a source of entertainment and comfort for its viewers—a light to get them through the two days of darkness. But I am afraid that in our last broadcast, The Fishbowl was anything but a light. The horror we all had to witness, broadcasted across Delicatum, is something that I know will live with us for a long time. Nevertheless, I am so grateful for how we have all pulled through together in the last few weeks. We—"
"This is pathetic!"
I glance away from the television toward Brandyce, who's chuckling from behind the couch. Dalton stands beside her eating a bowl of cereal, a stain of milk visible on his navy blue uniform vest. I didn't hear them come in, and I'm surprised they haven't walked out yet. If we're not in the midst of the month-end Darkening, with few options for entertainment other than The Fishbowl, usually the topic of Delicatum's favorite celebrity clique sends my siblings running in the other direction.
Not this morning. Brandyce snorts, joining in on the fun. "You can tell she's so done with having to talk about this. Look at her. No emotion."
On-screen, Norax's expression is stern, but there's a vulnerability to it. I admire her, but I wouldn't say that out loud; it'd be a step short of murder in this house to defend the Famoux. Dalton has friends who are fans, so his dislike plays mostly for jokes, but Brandyce really despises them. For years she's been rattling off how only mindless drones buy into their gimmicks. "It's the people too stupid to live their own lives," she'd say, "who want to sit and watch the Famoux live their lives the grandest."
A part of me wonders if maybe it's just an excuse for how little is going on for her nowadays. After all, it was only after Mom left that Brandyce started hating them with such fervor.
She isn't really wrong, though. For Eldae and Notness, where conditions are a far cry from grand, the Famoux is like a portal to another world. Beauty, riches, and opulence beyond belief. Their show might air only during Darkenings, but every day the magazines have new photos of them wearing the best clothes, eating at the best places, partying at the best clubs in Betnedoor. Even just the paparazzi pictures or grainy fan-filmed videos are thrilling to watch. There is a constant bustle with them—a sense of neverending excitement for what'll come next. For most, following their lives is the only way to get that feeling. I know that's the case for me.
Dalton points at the screen, engrossed but hiding it. "And look at them!" he agrees. "They really don't care about someone who actually died, huh? It's so fake."
As if on cue, the camera shifts, zooming in on the members. Specifically, Till Amaris, who appears to be having the hardest time staying dry-eyed today. I try to remember if Till was especially close with the girl who died, but it's hard to say. Their show churns out a new feud between the members each month, so it's not easy to tell who's on good terms. As we watch them, Norax's speech continues.
"The death of our beloved member, Bree Arch, was a tragic accident, and it is our job to make sure nothing like this happens again. Since my last statement, I have learned that the cause of this accident was a statewide power outage in Notness caused by the accidental activation of an abandoned manufacturing plant. For our next broadcast, at the week's end, which will be happening"— murmurs of excitement fill the crowd here—"we assure our viewers that new safety measures have been implemented and adequate backup power facilities are already in place."
"New safety measures? What are they going to do?" Dalton asks. "Childproof the place?"
"Well, the Famoux are children," says Brandyce. "At least, they sure act like it."
I can't help but notice how my sister pronounces Famoux so harshly. Fame-ox. Some of the aristocratic kind say fame-oh or fame-ooh, as if the X is silent. But when Norax Geddes says the name, the X is always included. She says it so smoothly: fame-ecks. Because sharing the word famous with every other notable person isn't enough, no; this group deserves a whole other adjective to describe their grandeur.
"With a special tribute gala to come soon," Norax continues, "we hope to properly honor Bree Arch's life and celebrate the good she did for Delicatum. We hope that you, the fans, stay with us as we navigate this unprecedented time, and much later, embark on the search for a suitable new member. Thank you."
With that, her speech is concluded. Dalton and Brandyce take turns critiquing each Famoux members' walk offscreen. Earlier this month, when the members were really mourning, they got a real kick out of watching them stumble through their tears. Even today, their harsh judgment makes me sick. If there's anyone who should know the feeling of unbalance after losing somebody, it's this family. But then I notice the way Dalton fidgets with his hands, and the way Brandyce's leg bounces in her seat. Nervous ticks. Maybe they're replaying the accident back in their heads, too, more affected than they're letting on.
I shudder as the image of Bree Arch at the bottom of the Fishbowl stairs fills my head. Horrific. For the last few weeks, it's been all the kids at school can talk about. And that image—it's still plastered on every magazine stand. I have to keep my head down when I pass storefronts.
"You know, maybe this girl isn't even dead," Brandyce says, as if she hadn't seen Bree's body too. She clicks the television off decisively. "What if she up and returns during this Fishbowl broadcast like nothing happened?"
"Oh, no," Dalton groans. "My friends would never stop talking about a Famoux member who eluded death."
"Doesn't it make you wish you were like Emilee?" she asks. "You know, so you wouldn't have any friends to listen to in the first place?"
Stinging singes through my chest, even though I expect this from her. Between Brandyce inside and Westin van Horne outside, I rarely get through an entire day without at least a few jabs on my behalf.
As if reading my mind, Dalton says, "Hey, come on, she already gets enough from the guys at school." Brandyce rolls her eyes but relents.
I'm thankful for it. Dalton might not defend my honor in front of people like Westin anymore, but he always does his best to keep the peace at home. It makes me shudder at the thought of how hard things will be when he leaves next year. The plans aren't set in stone yet, but I know he's already looking for opportunities in Waltmar, just like Brandyce had before our mother left. It's every kid in Eldae's dream to someday work in a lab in Betnedoor. And he's smart enough to get there too.
Dalton slings his backpack over his shoulder and gives our older sister a salute. "See you after school."
She groans. "I'll be here. As always."
I take my time grabbing my things. My brother needs the head start rather than me walking fiendishly slow to keep the distance between us. Dalton stopped walking with me to school when we were much younger, after his entire class shunned him for almost a whole year when they discovered we were related. It was hard work convincing everyone that he wasn't secretly a glitch like me. Luckily he's a year older, which corroborated his claims. Had he been younger, people would've assumed our parents realized their error and were trying to cover their tracks with colored contacts.
If only they'd done that in the first place with me—bought gray ones and forced me to wear them growing up. Dalton says our father once suggested it, but our mother refused. She didn't think anyone would care what color eyes I had. But she grew up in a version of Eldae much different than mine and my siblings'. Hers wasn't in the midst of a genetic phenomenon, where things as simple as eye color carry actual weight.
It's been this way for the last nineteen years. Since then, whenever a child in Eldae has been born, they are born with key identifying traits identical to every other child born within that year. The traits change every January, now known as Changing Month.
But they didn't know that at first, of course. Initially there were only outcries of confusion, of marital infidelity. Scientists weren't sure what to make of it. Known now as Gen 1, every infant born within the year had yellowish gold eyes. They kept the hair color, skin color, and so on passed down from family, but the eyes were all the same unreal color, like the children had been painted this way in an assembly line.
Brandyce was among these Gen 1 kids, much to my parent's surprise, as neither of them had an eye color close to that shimmery gold. Born in February, she was at the beginning of the wave too. Doctors ran tests on her and countless others—she has small scars all over her body to show for it—but they were inconclusive. Every gene chart somehow showed the same dominance for golden eyes, as if it was hereditary. They were ready to write it off as a fluke, but then the next January rolled around, and every baby born had plum purple eyes. Then came Gen 3—Dalton's generation—with emerald green.
These mutations were unique to Eldae—no similar phenomenon was occurring in Notness or Betnedoor. For a while, no one knew how to explain it, until a few scientists in Betnedoor theorized nuclear radiation. After all, radiation affects our weather patterns already, and Eldae's geographical location is said to have been a central point of conflict during the war. Notness to the west was hit badly, too, but nowhere near the devastation in Eldae. So if any of the three states in Delicatum were to feel delayed effects ofradiation—the kind that could permanently mess with genetics— it doesn't take a qualified scientist with a measuring device to guess it would be Eldae.
And so it was accepted. For the first few years of the mutation, each Changing Month brought only new eye colors. After a decade, the mutation evolved, adding small, yet noticeable physical attributes. Some of these second-decade generations reach only five feet tall, while others are steadily growing, with pointed noses or clubbed thumbs or one arm shorter than the other. We're nearing the end of our nineteenth year, so there is much talk about what could be added next year as we enter the third decade of the mutations. Most guess hair color will be affected next. But what color first? Something natural like brown? Or something more interesting, like pink or green? I hear people in Betnedoor are already placing bets on it, like sports. To them, our mutation is a bit of a joke.
In any case, Changing Month is one of the biggest events Eldae has, with media coverage that rivals the kind of attention the Famoux gets. The more inventive the eye colors and attributes, the more coverage.
After three years of exciting eye colors, my Gen 4 was the first disappointment. The least exciting color of the first decade, eyes-only generations. Gray. Not even shimmery silver, like Gen 1's gold, but a flat pewter color with no flare or dimension. Unfortunately for me, being a part of the blandest generation makes my differences all the more blaring. I have my mother's eyes: icy blue, almost white. No generation has had anything close to this except Gen 17, with a shade of white-lilac. But they're two years old. Anyone who sees me knows right away that I'm an outlier.
But of course, my mother thought I was a miracle. When the mutations affected both Brandyce and Dalton, she rued the thought that none of her offspring would get her striking eyes. She had been the only one in her family to get them since her grandfather, since the color is so recessive and easily overtaken by newcomers with darker shades. My father has brown eyes, too, so even before mutations began she was worried none of her children would get them. So when I was born, she rejoiced. She never once tried to cover them up.
It's a shame. I would've been lucky to have needed only the contacts—not some kind of special surgery to change the length of my arms or anything like that. It would've been so simple to make me fall in line. But even when my father suggested the contacts, my mother was headstrong. She claimed there had to be others like me who hadn't gotten get the mutation. That flukes like this—no, miracles—happen often. She wanted me to be proud of myself. She didn't think there was a reason for me to hide.
Maybe she was right, and maybe there are others somewhere in Eldae who don't fit the mold. But they certainly don't go to my school. I am the only anomaly. When I was younger, the kids used to be so frightened of my eyes that they thought I was possessed— like I'd pass an evil spirit onto you if you met my gaze. A fun game they played was never looking me in the eye. It's still a game now, come to think of it. Most people at school pretend I don't exist, except Westin and his crew, although I wish they would.
×××
Turns out, Brandyce's joke earlier doesn't have much merit—even without actual friends, I'm still bombarded by talk of Bree Arch.
People have already been discussing her all month, but after Norax's statement this morning that The Fishbowl broadcast is in fact happening in a few days, I can't walk two steps in school without hearing her name from every direction.
It's sinister to admit, but days like this, when the Famoux has stirred up new drama for the kids at school to gossip about, are some of the best for me. After my mother left, leaning into this fantastic and flummoxing world became the best way to keep distracted. But I can't be a regular fan, like my classmates. I can't go out of my way to buy their albums or see their movies. Brandyce and Dalton would never let me live it down. My only way to hear about the happenings of the Famoux is by watching newscasts in the morning or eavesdropping on their most avid devotees.
Lucky for me, almost everyone at school is one.
"What do you think Calsifer is going to do in that house?" a girl asks her friends at the locker next to mine. "The memory of her . . ."
I'm fiddling with the combination on my lock, but in my peripheral view I catch one of them crossing her arms over her chest. "How many times do I have to tell you this?" she asks. "Bree wasn't dating Calsifer. She wasn't dating anyone."
"But they would've looked so beautiful together!"
I nod absentmindedly. They would've. Any combination of the members would. But the Famoux usually dates outside the clique, like Foster Farrand and his string of models, or Kaytee McKarrington and her long-standing boyfriend, Cartney Kirk. The two of them are musicians, and the duets I've overheard are sappy enough to make me feel like I know what love is.
A locker slams, and the girls head down the hall, out of my earshot. It's no matter—all I have to do is step toward the water fountain to hear another group cooing over how handsome Chapter Stones looked this morning, in his all-black suit. They're right, of course. He seemed especially gutted today, which, according to these fans, means he looked especially good.
I catch more conversations like this on my way to class, and as the day progresses, I find that even those like my siblings who are too cynical to mourn Bree still have her name in their mouths, cooking up inventive theories as to how she died. Some believe it wasn't an accident—that someone must've pushed her. But the rest of the Famoux were in the main room at the time, so it doesn't make sense. Still, they insist it's true. Teachers try in vain to get attention in class, but even they know it's no use. The only topic worth any value today is Bree, and all lesson plans gravitate to her by the time everyone is in the room.
By the end of the day I'm so preoccupied with the mourning and the musings that I nearly let myself believe Westin van Horne will take a day off. As if he ever has. It isn't until a hand smacks down on my shoulder on the way to my final class that I realize just how conspicuously my guard had dropped.
"Hey Westin! I found Sticks!"
My flight instinct kicks in. I jerk my arm away, but I can't shake the grip. From the end of the hallway, a pack of about a dozen boys in green vests comes forth, their identical Gen 4 gray eyes eager. Westin van Horne's group. At some point they decided to call themselves the Greyhounds, as if a clique like the Famoux, although the Greyhounds aren't nearly as exclusive—there seem to be more and more of them every week. All you need to join are Gen 4 gray eyes, as per their namesake, and a hatred of me. Which means most of our grade, the way Westin has them wrapped around his finger. He leads the pack with a cruel smile. "Look who it is!" Westin's voice brims with mock surprise. He pats my cheek. "Sticks. Lovely to see you, as always."
They've been calling me Sticks since we were young. They think it's funny, equating me to something so weak and breakable. As much as I hate it, I can't quite say it's inaccurate. The Greyhounds have been snapping me in half for longer than I can remember.
"Westin," I start. "Please—"
"What do you say, boys?" He turns to his friends. "What should we do today?"
In comes the choir of suggestions, most of which they've already done a hundred times over. Rip up my books, lock me in a room, tie me up to the school flagpole. A few of the boys carry notebooks, reading off a list of newer options, eager to be picked. These attacks are planned. A daily reminder that my very existence is a mistake. I don't know how many times I have to tell them they've convinced me already and can stop.
Felix, Westin's second-in-command and ever competitive to please him, speaks up above the others with wicked vigor. "I know. Why don't we throw Sticks into Clarus Creek? Haven't done that in months."
I grimace. The last time they threw me into the Clarus was horrible enough, and that was summertime. I could've sworn I saw frost on the surface on my way to school this morning.
"Oh, good call, man!" he says, pleased with the suggestion as the others ring in their agreements. He and Felix share a smile, and for a moment they look completely the same. Felix has a dedication to Westin that surpasses mere admiration. He moved to our city, Trulivent, only a few years ago, just around when my mother left, but he quickly cemented himself at his leader's right hand. They both have brown hair, and Felix cuts and styles his hair the same way, and even buys the same belts and shoes. Anything to look more like Westin.
It was hard enough growing up with one Westin—now I have to deal with two.
Four of the Greyhound boys grab hold of my arms, dragging me down the hall like a doll. I plant my feet firmly into the ground, but I'm no match for this many of them. My shoes leave marks on the linoleum floor as we go. I push and pull and protest all I can but decide there's no use. I've never been able to shake them, not once. Why would today be different? There have been much worse days than this, anyway. And I've survived it all so far.
Through the loudspeakers, the late bell for my last class rings. I guess I'll be missing Eldae History today. It's no surprise; I usually do. More often than not I fail whatever class falls last on my schedule, since Westin loves to drag me out of it. But Westin's parents are wealthy, perhaps one of the wealthiest in Trulivent, so they pay the school good money to assure he never fails, even if he misses all his tests. Maybe he promises the same to the Greyhound members, as extra incentive to join. Although they hardly need any.
Once outside, a brisk gust of air greets the back of my neck, and I perish the thought of how much colder the water will be when they throw me in.
Clarus Creek is a narrow strip of water that snakes through Trulivent, all the way to my neighborhood at the edge of the city. It serves as my main pathway to and from school. Until Westin decided the river was a great place to torment me, it had been a safe haven of sorts. Even after the worst of days, reaching the Clarus meant I was on my way home—that no one could hurt me anymore. All I'd have to do was follow the streams of colorful fish. Then Westin realized its value around the time we turned twelve, after he started following me home. The Greyhounds have been throwing me in at least once a year ever since.
Our school rests on one of the creek's banks, so it's only a few steps before they let me go, tossing me brusquely to the marshy grass. On my knees I get a good look at the water, at the clean sheet of ice on its surface. I shudder, which makes Felix laugh.
"Nervous, Sticks?" he sneers.
I swallow hard, trying to be clear and grounded, like how I saw Norax be this morning. She spoke with such confidence, even when it was clear she was breaking. If she managed to show strength in her own trying time, it could be worth a shot.
"This isn't necessary," I say, voice struggling to keep level. "I'm the worst. You don't have to prove it."
"Oh, but we like proving it," insists Felix. "If we're not consistent, you might forget."
"Please, I swear—"
He digs one of his long, dirty nails into the back of my neck, right where the skin is exposed. My wince is long and involuntary, which the rest of the Greyhound seems to enjoy.
"No, Sticks," he hisses. "It's quite necessary."
Beyond us, Westin brings a hand up. Felix stops what he's doing, alert and attentive. His leader gestures to the water. He is the one clear and grounded like Norax as he asks me, "Are you going to do it yourself, or are you going to make us?"
I hesitate.
A mistake. Westin takes this second to give his group a small, yet godlike nod. Before I can so much as open my mouth to say I'll jump, Felix is pushing me in.
First, I hear the crackle of the ice as I break through it. Then, I feel it. The chill slices through me like a knife. I involuntarily gasp, water filling my mouth, and I gag, which only makes it worse. Clarus's water is a murky green that's impossible to see through, but I manage to get my feet on the edge of the bank and push, propelling me farther to the center. That's crucial if I want to surface and breathe. The first time the Greyhounds did this, I came up immediately, and Westin was already crouched on the ground waiting to grab my head and hold it underwater.
When I tear through more thin ice several feet from the edge, they're booing. "Come on, Sticks," taunts Felix. "We promise we won't bite."
It's hard to focus on anything other than the agony of the cold. A numbness is already stretching over my legs, making it harder to tread water. I muster a small bit of strength and resubmerge, hoping they'll be gone the next time I come up. The last few times, this has worked, but it was warmer and easier to stay under then.
I surface again, too quickly. They're still here.
"Sticks," Westin warns. "Don't make me come in there—"
But I'm already going under again before he can finish. I've known Westin long enough to recognize when his threats are just bluffs. There is so much dirt and algae in the Clarus, I'm positive he wouldn't risk ruining an expensive school uniform for this. He never has in the past. Plus, he sees the ice I smashed through coming in the water. No one in their right mind would willingly join me.
I force myself to stay put, holding my breath until my lungs burn. I count thirty seconds. A minute. Maybe it's my imagination mixed with the numbness, but I feel myself sinking, as if there won't be enough time for me to get back to the surface before I absolutely need to breathe.
When something breaks the surface beside me, I writhe, jerking sideways. Did Westin actually jump in? I push myself as far away as I can get until my head hits the other end of the creek with a thud, and I come up.
To my relief, it's just my backpack. My work for the semester is ruined, but not beyond repair. My mother taught me how to clip the papers up on a string and air dry them in the sun after the first time they threw me in. When I come back to the surface, Westin and the Greyhounds are gone, running back toward the school to catch the rest of class. Another few minutes and they're through the doors, and I'm safe. I clamor out, my skin burning with what I hope doesn't turn into frostbite. I've lost a boot in the mud, but I don't care. I run the whole mile-long distance alongside Clarus back to my house without stopping once, shivering and shaking with the cold.
Long gone is the comfort I once got as a child, returning home to my mother. I'm sopping wet and still gasping for breath when I open the front door and rush inside, but Brandyce doesn't bat an eye. She only regards me with annoyance.
"Em, come on," she says. "What are you doing?"
"I—Westin—"
"Don't ruin the floors."