Collapsed: Book One of The Illusion of Truth, page 10
Bam, bam, bam.
I shoot up from bed and my eyes widen at the banging on my bedroom door. The room is filled with morning sunlight. My first instinct is that I’ve overslept, but I tap my Flexx and see that it’s still well before my alarm is supposed to go off.
Does someone know I was on the roof with Jax last night? Am I in trouble?
Guilt over my risky behavior makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Despite that and my unkempt appearance, I scramble from bed and throw open the door. Standing in the hall is Isaiah, looking calm as if he hadn’t just been banging on my door like the whole house was suddenly on fire.
Is the house on fire?
I open my mouth to ask what’s happening, but I never get the chance.
“Madam requires your presence,” he says, with little emotion in his voice.
My heart skips. That might be worse than the house being on fire. “Madam? Why at this hour?” Does she know I was with her son last night? Does she know about my meeting with Dr. Pierce yesterday? I suddenly realize why I’ve spent so much of my time avoiding trouble. Not only does it help one fly under the radar, but it reduces the stress that I am obviously ill-equipped to deal with.
Isaiah tips his head and eyes me up and down. “I don’t have that information, but I’d recommend changing into your uniform as quickly as possible. No one wants to keep Mrs. Pierce waiting.” He pauses for a moment while I stand in the doorway, suddenly mute. “I’ll remain in the hall to escort you to her room when you are ready.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and shut the door. Hopefully Ellie won’t wake up and try to come in. No time for a shower; I remove my pajamas, slip on a new, clean outfit, twist my hair into a bun and don my socks and shoes. The entire operation takes less than five minutes, and before I head for the door, I tuck my Flexx into my pocket. Don’t want to leave that lying around when Scarlet staff might come in to deliver food and take away my dirty uniforms to be laundered. I’m sure they’re on the lookout for any reason to have me removed.
“Okay, I’m ready.” I meet the ever-patient Isaiah in the hall, and without a word, he pilots me to the other end of the house—but still on this floor, which surprises me.
“Remember, bow your head and only speak when you are specifically questioned,” Isaiah says. He looks me over and then reaches out to straighten my collar.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” I ask. “The other Scarlet staff are not so generous.”
Isaiah straightens his back further than I thought he could. “I wish for the Pierces’ lives to be as uninterrupted as possible. At this time you are a part of their lives.”
At this time.
I run my hands down my skirt. “I’m ready.”
Isaiah taps on the door, in a much lighter fashion than he did on mine.
“Who is it?” Mrs. Pierce’s voice comes from inside.
“Isaiah, ma’am. I’ve brought Miss Hawkins as you ordered.”
“Enter,” she says.
He obeys, and I shuffle into the room behind him and wait. The bedroom is massive with high ceilings and a large bay window allowing the sun to stream in. A hulking four-poster bed made of dark wood should take up a lot of space in the room, but it almost appears small among the lavish dressing area and couch and chair ensemble with a giant media screen on the wall.
Mrs. Pierce stands with the same red haired woman I hadn’t recognized from the staff breakroom yesterday. Today the woman is wearing a maid’s uniform and helps Mrs. Pierce adjust the sleeves of the third expensive day dress I’ve seen her wear since I arrived. To her side is a steel rack with five more gowns, just as luxe. The one on the end catches my eye because I know that I’ve seen it before . . . in Kalib’s apartment. Maybe a month ago Kayla was designing and hand-sewing the maroon gown with fine golden trim and matching embroidered roses along the bodice. It has to be the same one. Kayla once told me that the special gowns she takes home are couture . . . one of a kind. The Scarlet owner of her clothing factory, Mr. Voclain, has several of his workers make gowns to sell at a premium.
Mrs. Pierce studies herself in the mirror and tucks a tiny stray blonde hair over the side of her ear. “That will do, Lydia, for now. You may return in fifteen minutes for the finishing touches.”
Lydia nods. “Yes, ma’am.” She turns and narrows her eyes into slits at me but quickly returns her expression to normal when she sees Isaiah.
“Miss Hawkins,” Isaiah says again as Lydia exits the room. “As you requested.”
Mrs. Pierce tears herself from her reflection and turns our way. “Thank you, Isaiah. You may go.”
Isaiah nods and, without another word, leaves me alone. The door clicks shut behind him.
Without speaking to me, Mrs. Pierce struts to a vanity dressing table. She flips out her full skirt, sits on the backless chair and proceeds to admire herself again in the mirror. Leisurely, she grazes her fingers over several fine lines around her eyes, but her face betrays no hint of how she feels about them.
“Do you think this dress or one of the others would suit me best today?” she asks.
My chest tightens at her unexpected question. How am I supposed to know which of her expensive frocks she should wear? My entire life has mostly consisted of wearing outfits long past their prime to make our family’s budget stretch as far as possible. The gowns on that rack are likely worth a Cobalt family’s wages for an entire year. “Um . . . the one you’re wearing is nice.”
“Nice?” She chuckles. “Well, nice is not exactly what I was thinking. But what would a Cobalt know? For your information, each of the gowns I wear are exclusively made by Voclain.” She turns and waves her hand in the air dismissively. “He sews them by hand.”
I tip my head in confusion and almost want to laugh. Is she trying to make fun of me in some strange way, or does she truly not know that the gowns she wears are fashioned by Cobalt hands? Probably every single one of them in her wardrobe. I highly doubt that Mr. Voclain lifts a finger on the design or actual sewing for any of them. But this fact is not something I could tell Mrs. Pierce, of course.
“He’s very talented,” are the words I actually speak.
“Yes.” She returns to her cosmetics table and runs a fluffy brush over one cheek, then the other, which leaves a pink stain. “All the clothing both Eleanor and I wear is only the best.”
I nod like an obedient Cobalt.
“So . . . this means that I do not appreciate my daughter being permitted any shameless romping in said outfits.” She places the cosmetic brush down and proceeds to apply some other type of makeup to her eyelids.
“I’m sorry, Madam.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I only thought that because we were on your own property, a little playing in the garden would not be an issue.”
She eyes me in the mirror without turning around. “I must speak to Isaiah to ensure you fully understand all the rules around here. It’s not as if I could expect a Cobalt to absorb a lifetime of Scarlet culture in such a short time. But you must, because your primary reason for even being here is to prove that the Cobalts are also loyal to the Scarlet way of life.”
I gulp and instantly understand she means both my speaking out of turn and the proper schooling and behavior rules for Ellie. Immediately I turn my gaze down and snap my mouth shut while my chest burns with anger at her insinuation that somehow Cobalts are denser than Scarlets.
“But . . . while you are here, I will take my personal time to give you a short lesson.” She purses her lips together. “Eleanor will grow up to be a fine lady in Scarlet society. If she doesn’t understand this at an early age, then she will be—as some say—eaten alive. You are here primarily at my husband’s request. He felt it was our duty to take part in the Cobalt Premier Workforce program to help keep the peace.”
Keep the peace? What is she talking about? Keep the peace with whom?
“I am of the mind that there are plenty of other Scarlet families who could participate in the program.” She sighs. “But you are here, so for now we must make the best of it.”
I nod.
She twists her body toward me slightly and leans her elbow out onto the top of the vanity. “You will review the Red Ladies Cotillon curriculum and follow it to a T. That said, I do understand that fresh air is essential sometimes and the rose garden is lovely. We do pay enough for its continued upkeep. But you may only use it with Eleanor to study . . . not waste time on frivolous play. My daughter will take this trajectory in life: She will first be presented to society at age eighteen. After a few years of becoming known, she will marry someone worthy of her status. Several years later she will have a baby, and just as I’ve done, she will run her household, support her husband and children, and ensure that the cycle continues. Consistency must be maintained for order in society.”
I inhale deeply and hold it inside my lungs. The kind of inflexible life Mrs. Pierce is talking about is not right for anyone . . . but particularly Ellie. From the little I know of her, I can already tell that her soul needs to be free. And in this Scarlet world she should be able to be. The Tenement was a cage . . . but in some ways Carmine is no less of one. And then there’s Dr. Pierce, as confident as his wife is in their daughter’s life path. The two of them obviously don’t see eye to eye.
“We cannot be like the Cobalt class where many of those young girls end up unmarried and pregnant . . . all taking up Scarlet taxpayer dollars to put those babies in childcare so the mothers can return to work or school.”
Her sudden prejudiced words hit me like a knife in the chest. Does she not know that so many of those girls end up pregnant with half Cobalt, half Scarlet babies from being either raped in the alleys or seduced into stupid dreams that somehow the Scarlet sentries will rescue them from the Tenement life? Honestly, too many of those girls just go missing, and who knows what happens to their babies. Is Mrs. Pierce simply too blind to understand these things, or is she just completely cruel?
She continues, of course entirely unaware of the thoughts locked tight in my mind. “Not that I can truly ever expect you to understand the upper-class Scarlet culture, Miss Hawkins,” she continues. “But I fully assume, if you would like your stay here to be a smooth and extended one, that you will respect it.”
Once again I nod without uttering a word. But I clench my teeth to prevent my unwanted opinions from spilling from my mouth. I’ve done this for a lifetime. Why stop now?
Mrs. Pierce turns back to her vanity and continues working on her face for the day.
Instead of standing silent, what I’d like to do is tell this woman that I was one of the girls who could have found herself pregnant. Not because I haven’t done everything in my power to ensure that would not happen so I could have the opportunities I’ve always desired, but because I have so little say in my life.
Scarlets rule and Cobalts obey.
That I actually made it through the CPW program is nothing short of a miracle.
I want to tell her that her precious gowns are not made by a fancy designer in a high-end shop: they’re fashioned in hellhole Tenement living rooms late into the night by those people she obviously regards as subhuman leeches. Many of them are the kindest, most hardworking people that she might ever meet.
But she will never meet them.
She doesn’t care either. She doesn’t even care to have ever met me.
Mrs. Pierce is trapped in a world of her own making. A reality that she chooses to believe because it is best for her to do so. A reality so intoxicating that she doesn’t even see her own child’s needs or how her husband wants that child to have something different from what’s expected of her.
This woman’s truth . . . is one she prefers.
“Do you understand, Miss Hawkins?” Mrs. Pierce’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am. I understand perfectly.” The words come out as sure as the hundreds of times I practiced saying them to authority in the Tenement.
She eyes me once more from the mirror. “Then you may go.”
Chapter 14
Ellie’s room is pink.
Not just a little pink. All pink. As I sort through a few books from the massive bookcase in the dedicated schooling area, I scan over the space.
Pink walls, art with pink accents, even a floral rug in the center of her room with a giant pink rose pattern. Against the wall is a wrought iron canopy bed covered with a fluffy pink comforter.
Unlike my one pillow, she has eight in various shades of pink, four large ones at the head and four more throw pillows. Which, true to their name, often end up thrown on the floor when Ellie bounces onto her bed during the day to read or play quietly with one of her many dolls. What good all those pillows are I have no idea.
Of course, growing up I had none of this, and it’s hard for me to fathom why a child would need so much of everything, pillows included.
Ellie sits at her study table happily munching on a tuna sandwich with her elbows on the table. I don’t correct her . . . not this time.
Laid out in front of her is an impressive buffet of four more sandwiches . . . roast beef, turkey, and another tuna. There’s also a bowl of assorted fruits and some homemade potato chips. It’s more food than a family needs for dinner, let alone a small child and me at lunchtime.
I’ve noticed that when I eat with Ellie, the fare is nicer than what has been delivered to my room the last few weeks since I arrived. But honestly, I have no desire to complain. Despite the kitchen staff’s efforts to slight me, they don’t seem to understand that their meager offerings are generally greater portions than the meals I had back home. More consistent, too. Mama did everything she could to prevent it, but I clearly remember skipping dinner here and there growing up.
Six times for breakfast I’ve had dry blueberry muffins. My guess is instead of throwing the ones out the day I was down there, they froze them and keep delivering the old pastries to my room.
“You know . . . I ordered the tuna.” Ellie gives me a wink and takes a big bite of the salad piled high in white bread. “The cook gave me a weird look. But since I can pretty much order what I want as long as it’s good for me, he’ll do it.”
I wink back at her and snatch the other tuna sandwich from the plate. “Had to get it before you do!”
She giggles.
Getting to know Ellie has been one of the highlights of my life so far. She is sweet, kind and nothing like I might have expected Scarlets to be. I have high hopes that she and people like her could change the world.
We’ve been able to do a few small science lessons from the curriculum Dr. Pierce gave me . . . nothing too intense since I don’t really want to push her or risk getting caught. She knows it’s a secret between her father, me and her, and I think she likes having something all her own that her mother can’t control.
For six years old, she’s pretty savvy at times.
After finding the right book, I sit next to her and open it. History. It’s one subject I’ve been avoiding for a bit and have mostly kept to lighter lessons and etiquette. But my reminders in my Flexx keep alerting me that the lesson is overdue.
Beside the open book is a device that allows a hologram to pop up and give more details about the topic, show videos or read the words on the page for the learner to follow along. Integrated reading is what it’s called. I like it because it’s taken some of the stress off me as I figure out how to teach. But learning to work with more tech than I’ve ever been exposed to hasn’t been without its challenges.
I glimpse down at the page and my heart sinks.
History and Success of the Tenement System.
Part of me thinks that this lesson was assigned on purpose, but it could always be a coincidence. Ellie had studies before I arrived, and this is in the middle of the book. She also attends school in person twice a week with a teacher I’ve not met. This could simply be a chapter they haven’t gotten to or want review on.
But how can I sit here and smile while teaching Ellie about where I come from? What will she think? Will she change her mind and stop liking me?
“You come from the Tenements, right?” Ellie asks and claps her hands together. “How exciting that we’re learning about that today. I’ve seen all four of the Tenements from the sky, and they’re so pretty, just like—”
“Big bubbles,” we say at the same time.
My lips form a flat line, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Is it pretty inside too?” she asks and grabs a handful of salty chips.
I tip my head slightly in confusion. She’s only a child, but is it possible that she knows absolutely nothing about the conditions Cobalts live in? I want to tell her that it’s not pretty inside and that it stinks all the time like factory waste . . . that we live in apartments hardly bigger than her entire bedroom suite and study area. But none of that is appropriate for a six-year-old girl.
I guess. Six was the age I was when reality smacked me in the face.
I force the corners of my lips up into a slight smile. “I loved living with my family in the Tenement. And I had a few good friends.”
“Do you miss them?”
Her question makes my stomach tighten. Since I’ve arrived, I’ve done everything I can to busy myself and minimize thoughts about Mama, Papa and Kalib. But keeping memories of them at bay is the worst right before I fall asleep.
“I do miss them.” I smile. “But I’m here with you now.”
Ellie’s eyes crinkle with happiness and she returns her attention to the book. “Let’s read about the Tenement!”
Since I haven’t even seen this chapter before now, I have no idea what it’s going to say and I’m not sure that I want to do the reading, so I tap the pad on the side of the book and it brings up several holographic options.
- Read the chapter.
- Watch the video.
- Learn more.
“Let’s watch the video first,” I say and tap the option.
The hologram switches from text to video, first showing clips from the Second Civil War. Luckily, this textbook’s age range is only rated up to ten, so it’s not terribly graphic, but seeing any images of war must be difficult for kids.
