I tuck the flower in my pocket and keep it there for the rest of the day, as close to my skin as possible.
Throughout the training drills, throughout dinner, I'm only half in the CC. The other half of me is away with Roan, soaring through the sky and dancing in the sunlight.
Every now and then I slip a hand in my pocket and touch the flower, assuring myself that it's real.
I know enough about the outside that it's normal for people to give flowers as romantic gifts – is that what this is?
The books I've read talk about huge, expensive bouquets, but this tiny wildflower feels more precious than all the red roses in the world.
When dinner is over, I head upstairs and carefully pull the flower from my pocket. My heart sinks a bit. It's mostly crushed now, the small petals twisted and crumpled. I straighten them out as best I can, running my fingers along them the way Roan ran his fingers along the place on my neck where my tracker was implanted.
Despite my efforts, the flower is still crumpled, but I find I like it this way. Like me, it is imperfect.
I place it under my bed.
Then I get up and approach the mirror. I stare at my face.
My eyes are brown, like the hair that falls just past my shoulder-blades, and my skin is lightly tanned from all the time spent outdoors. My lips are cut through with scars but . . . isn't my mouth still a nice shape? Aren't my eyes a warm colour?
My scars are pinkish-white against my tan, but for the first time in my life, I don't feel the same sense of revulsion I normally do when I look at them. I look at them, and I keep looking. I've never stared at my own face for so long.
Am I really as ugly as I've always feared?
No, I don't think I am.
After the lights go out, when Taffy and I are in bed, I reach for my flower and plant the softest kiss on it, before putting it back under the bed.
Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to do that to Roan.
The next morning, my little flower is dead.
In the few moments before Taffy drags herself out of bed, I hold it in my palm, looking at its wilted petals, vibrant purple fading to brown, and I expect to feel disappointed, but I'm not. It would have been nice if the first flower anyone's ever given me had lasted longer, but the feeling it gave me will last. The meaning of it will last.
Roan gave me something beautiful, and even if the flower itself is dead, I'll hold the gesture in my heart, precious as a diamond.
At breakfast, Ripley gives us the usual speech, reminding us of our worthlessness, and as she speaks, a flame ignites in my chest, burning along my bones.
I've thought before about the injustice of us being punished for the choices our parents made, but it's never made me as furious as it's starting to now, especially in light of what I learned from Roan. The reality of so much of the country being okay with Seconds being owned as property and locked away in here, simply for the crime of being born, makes my heart feel dark and angry, and my blood boil.
Maybe Roan was right, and the parents who allow their Second children to be born and then imprisoned, aren't simply selfish, but that doesn't change the fact that we shouldn't be punished for it.
And even if we have to live in the CC because there's nowhere else for us to go, why do we have to sit here every day and listen to someone rip away any shred of self-worth we might have? Why is it necessary? Why do we have to feel like we are worth absolutely nothing?
My hands tremble, and I hide them beneath the table.
Anger continues to burn in my chest for the rest of the morning, a miniature sun blazing through my veins. I'm actually looking forward to the training drills this afternoon, because at least I'll have a chance to work off some of this ugly energy.
But first I want to see Roan.
All I have to do is get through lunch. I'm walking to the mess hall, Priya beside me, and Sonny and Taffy walking behind, when Cole strides past us, deliberately knocking Priya with her shoulder as she goes. Priya loses her balance and almost falls; I manage to catch her before she hits the ground.
"Hey," I shout, and Cole glances back, a smirk on her lips.
"Something wrong, Frankenstein? Oh sorry, it's Frankenstein's monster, isn't it? That's more appropriate for you anyway," she says.
My chest boils.
"Don't push my friends," I warn.
"Or what?"
I move closer to her, until we're standing toe-to-toe. Cole is average height, but I'm much taller, and it gives me a thrill of satisfaction that she's forced to tilt back her head to look up at me.
Suddenly she doesn't look quite so smug.
"I don't know why you're set on making life harder for everyone, but back off," I say in a low voice.
I don't know what I expect to see in her face, but it's not the flicker of something that looks like hope and pride.
"You okay, Cole?" says a loud voice, and I look up to see a boy marching towards us.
In my periphery, Sonny flinches away – it's Gavin, the boy who gave him the black eye.
"I'm fine, Gavin," Cole says, not breaking my stare.
He doesn't seem to believe her; he grabs my arm and pulls me away. I yank my arm back. My blood is beating in my ears, and my heart is hammering in my throat.
Isn't it hard enough for us?
Most of the outside world hates us; why do people like Cole and Gavin have to make it worse?
In the past, I've reasoned that it's their own way of feeling like they possess any power at all, but I'm sick of trying to excuse or justify their actions. Cole wasn't always this bad, but Gavin has always been a nasty bastard.
Usually, I try to stay out of his way, but now I refuse to let him intimidate me. We should all be unified here. We should want to lift each other up instead of tearing each other down.
"Walk away," Gavin tells me.
There's something very ugly in his eyes, a barely leashed rage.
"Leave her alone," says Sonny, and Gavin swings around.
Sonny's actually taller than him, but he's all gangly arms and legs, whereas Gavin is dense with muscle, thanks to years of rec time spent lifting weights.
Sonny swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and his eyes flick to me, hardening with a tired kind of resolve. He'll stick up for me, for any of us, even though he doesn't stand a chance against Gavin.
Gavin knows it too; he sneers, wordlessly daring Sonny to say something else.
Cole is strangely silent, and when I glance at her, she just has this resigned look on her face. I'd expected her to cheer Gavin on, but she's starting to look like she doesn't really want to be here.
I don't understand her.
I've taken my eyes off Sonny and Gavin for too long; Gavin suddenly shoves Sonny, hard enough to knock him to the ground. He draws back his fist for a punch, and I grab his wrist, wrenching it down and away from my friends. But Gavin turns with the movement, clenching his other fist and landing a blow to my face that makes my brain rattle.
I fall to the ground. Everything goes a bit foggy, blurring out for a moment, and when the fog clears, Fletcher is there, his baton pressed against Gavin's chest.
Gavin glares at the older man, but even he's not stupid enough to take a swing at a Handler. He backs down.
Taffy kneels beside me, sweeping my hair out of the way so she can get a look at my face. Her eyes glitter with tears.
"I'm okay," I mumble.
My face throbs, but I don't want to give Gavin the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt me.
"Caia?" Fletcher's shadow falls across me.
I straighten up, and over his shoulder, I catch Cole's eye. She almost looks disappointed. She probably wanted me to hit Gavin back, so he would have an excuse to hit me again, even harder.
Fletcher examines my face, and I keep my eyes resolutely fixed on his shoulder. Something about him has always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. "You should probably go to the infirmary," he says.
"But –"
"That's not a request," Fletcher cuts me off. He wheels on Gavin. "You, come with me. Caia, go to the infirmary."
There's no point arguing. With any luck I'll be in and out quickly, and the only thing I'll miss is lunch. I'd rather go hungry than lose my chance to see Roan.
The infirmary is on the ground floor, down a long hallway from the mess hall and indoor rec spaces, wedged between the laundry room and Records, where personal files on all Seconds are kept. The sleeping quarters for Handlers and other staff, as well as Isolation, is on the opposite side of the hallway, but the infirmary is the only room in this part of the CC that Seconds are allowed into.
Like our bedrooms, the infirmary is all white, with rows of small beds that can be partitioned off by curtains hanging from tracks in the ceiling. I haven't spent much time in here over the years, but the antiseptic smell of it makes my skin prickle.
Nurse Barrett is a tired-looking middle-aged woman, wearing a lighter blue version of the narrow trousers and tucked in shirts that the Handlers wear. She doesn't carry a baton.
She's in her office, drinking a mug of coffee when I come in, and she puts the mug down and comes out into the infirmary proper. I'm not allowed in her office.
"Caia, right?" she says.
I nod and tell her what's happened.
She gets me to sit on one of the beds as she examines my face. Impatience hums through me.
"Do you know what day it is?" she says, sounding vaguely bored.
"Wednesday."
"Follow my finger with your eyes," she instructs, moving it back and forth in front of my face.
I do as she asks.
"Any dizziness, nausea, or headaches?"
"My face aches, but my head is fine," I say.
"Hmm." She doesn't look like she believes me. "Caia, I'd like to keep you in the infirmary overnight, just to be sure you don't have a concussion."
Overnight?
Overnight?
My heart plunges like a falling stone.
In the next half an hour or so, Roan will be arriving at the perimeter fence and he's expecting me to be there.
I can't bear the thought of him waiting, waiting, waiting, while I'm stuck in here.
"Is that really necessary?" I ask.
She gives me a slightly patronising smile. "It's better to safe than sorry."
"Yeah, but –"
"This isn't up for discussion," she says, cutting me short just as Fletcher did.
Frustration seethes, but there's no point arguing with her. She might not carry a baton, but all she has to do is call a Handler and they'll come and give her a hand.
Thanks to Gavin, I'm stuck here until tomorrow.
My heart is a rock, weighing me down. My bones feel hollow.
I'm not used to this.
I've never been in this position before. I've never really had anything to truly look forward to, which means I've never had to confront such total and utter disappointment. I don't like it.
Nurse Barrett goes next door to Records, and fetches my file. I wish I could see inside it, but of course I'm not allowed. She jots something down, her pen making a faint scratching noise.
"You're adding this to my file?" I say, surprised.
The CC keeps track of our medical history – vaccinations, any possible developmental problems or learning disabilities, anything like that. Two kids on the fourth floor have asthma. A girl on my own floor has diabetes. Of course these all need to be recorded, but I didn't think a single punch was worth taking note of.
She gives me a clipped smile. "Every accident has to be recorded. We have to keep an eye on your health, after all."
I refrain from pointing out this wasn't an accident. Gavin deliberately punched me, and I don't regret intervening and defending my friends, but I really hope that Gavin is stuck in Isolation right now.
"Is that so you can be sure we're all okay for the Trials?" I ask.
I'm just making idle talk to pass the time, but Nurse Barrett stiffens a little when I say that.
Suddenly, I'm very, very alert.
Roan needs me to find out whatever I can about the Trials, and the last thing I was expecting is to stumble upon a possible lead after being punched in the face, but here is a sudden, shining thread of possibility and I can't let that slip through my fingers.
"I'm just worried about my performance," I say, letting my voice wobble a little. "Even if I have a concussion, it won't stop me participating, will it?"
Nurse Barrett relaxes.
"Of course not. We do keep an eye on your health for Trial-related reasons, but you'll be fine."
Not fine enough to let out of the infirmary, though.
But I can't dwell on that now.
If our files keep track of our health for reasons related to the Trials, then perhaps there is information about the Trials in those files. And if not the files, perhaps somewhere else in Records.
Wings start beating in my chest, fuelled by excitement.
No Seconds are allowed inside Records, not under any circumstances, but if there's even a chance of finding information about the Trials, I have to find a way into that room.