Taken (A Dystopian Novel) (The Taken Trilogy), page 6
“Sure if it’s okay with your brother,” she yells back. Aubrey looks at me, but I ignore her stare as I hand her our “release papers.” I drive out of Sasha’s view, watching the buildings recede in my rearview. I go a few miles before I pull over to the side of the road. I open the glove compartment and the center console. I reach under the steering column, tracing the exposed cords with my fingers. I flip the sun visors and feel under our seats. I eject my removable car radio face. Nothing. I replace the radio and start driving to our destination. I turn the radio on, but it is just static from station to station. Aubrey crinkles her nose in annoyance.
It is such a beautiful late afternoon that it almost deceives me into believing that this is a good place. The sun casts a luminous gloss over Wicker Farm, and in the light wind, swaying branches toss flower petals into the street. Aubrey sticks her hand out of the window and lets the breeze sail through her fingers. It is strange to think that we are driving by houses that are in our world, which are next to all these houses that we can see. Driving by other people we can’t see and who can’t see us. It’s trippy. I ignore the vague sense of panic.
“Do you miss home, Aubs?”
“Wynn? Not really. I like it here though. That lady we met the first day was kind of weird, but I do like it.”
“Why do you like it here?”
“Cause of Sasha.”
I groan softly, but she does not notice my reaction. We arrive at a gated townhouse complex, which is about twenty minutes away from The Institute. The wrought-iron gate stretches up high with pointed tips. One of the officers standing in front of it motions for me to stop, and I show him our papers. My eyes drop to his gun, and when I look at the other guard, he also has a weapon.
The eyes of the guard holding our papers are completely obscured by his sunglasses, which reflect a distorted version of my reflection. He exchanges the papers for keys and more papers, including a map and school schedules for the both of us.
“Congratulations. Mrs. Anderson is a kind woman. Best of luck here.” The officer raises two fingers in the air and waves them. The gate parts slowly, and we drive forward until I find the house number. The townhouse community is divided into several sections with three or four units clustered together.
Mrs. Anderson’s home is buttery yellow with a light blue roof, and it is wedged between two white houses. As I drive up, a man waves at me from the house next door. It’s Elias Gray.
“Doctor Gray! We’re neighbors.” I am so startled, I state the obvious.
“Good to have you here, Jackson. Hello Aubrey! My family has known Nora Anderson for quite some time, and any guest of hers is a friend of ours.” He smiles as he walks over. Amusement at my surprise flickers in his eyes. “Stop by any time, unless you’re bothered by the scent of patchouli.” He turns and walks away, and I feel a lot more at ease.
The curtains of the yellow house flutter lightly before the front door swings open and Mrs. Anderson is standing there. Tight black curls, silver at the roots, fall over her shoulders. Her smile is kind. Our new mother. Even thinking it pulls my stomach into a tight knot.
“Jackson and Aubrey? Already making friends with the neighbors.” She laughs. “I’m Nora Anderson. Please feel free to call me Nora. Your rooms have been arranged based on your interests, preferences and specifications.” She beckons us inside. The knot in my stomach frees because no mother would ever say that. Aubrey clutches my hand, her usual belligerence yielding to uncertainty. I have to pull her into the house.
Nora has a quiet and naturally hoarse voice, and I often have to lean in when she speaks. From the documentation I received, she is a retired, widowed educator and something of a foster mom to kids fresh out of transition. She gives us a tour of the house and shows us to our room. Aubrey and I will share a bathroom…again. Better dimension, my ass.
My room looks like something out of a catalogue. The bed is perfectly made, and the sheet has been pulled tight around the mattress, and the top of a reversible comforter folded over to reveal the color underneath. I have a laptop and phone waiting on my desk. The walls are dark blue and dip down to a soft beige carpet. The clothes in my closet look exactly like the ones I was wearing when we got to Wicker Farm, but with varying colors and designs. Below them, three rows of shoes are arranged by color. I can almost hear Marcus’ voice warning me. I know that they’re trying to buy my compliance. Now that we’re out, I need to actually get us out.
I walk to Aubrey’s room, which looks like something pink and furry exploded. The carpet. The curtains. The comforter. There are a lot of toys and dolls and other things that young girls like. It starts to hurt my eyes. Since when is she into pink?
“There are other kids next door,” Aubrey declares. She is perched in the spacious windowsill. I walk over and look through the glass. Three children run out of the Gray house, pile into a station wagon, and a frustrated mother slams the door after them.
“Have you ever heard of Celia?” Aubrey points to the wall. A paper version of a teenage girl with big brown doe eyes stares at me, her midriff bared and a microphone in her hand. I shake my head.
When I see the stuff in her room, my adrenaline surges along with my determination. If Russell hasn’t been able to get out in over ten years, what good can he do for me that I can’t do for myself?
“We’ll get you more music.” I sit on her bed. “I think we should drive around and see the place since we have school tomorrow.”
“I have to go to school?” She looks at me, then pouts and frowns. “Sasha didn’t say anything about that.”
“And the princess falls off her pedestal,” I mutter to no one and turn back to Aubrey. “We leave in ten minutes. What do you say?”
She acknowledges my offer with a smile and goes back to exploring her room while I go downstairs. Wafts of various spicy smells greet me at the bottom of the staircase. Nora turns her head when she hears my footsteps. A boiling pot is rumbling in front of where she stands.
“The two of you like pasta, correct? It was noted on your forms.” She gestures at the scattered papers on the counter. “I have made dinner.” Her tone continues to be formal.
“Yes, it’s fine. Thank you,” I say and sit at the dining room table. When she turns her back, I use the opportunity to probe her house from where I sit. By the look of the décor, she is highly favored in Wicker Farm. Everything looks expensive and well-made. I wonder if she is one of us or one of them.
“My sister and I are going for a drive if that’s okay with you,” I say. “We can leave after dinner if you prefer.”
“Oh, of course.” Her gaze drifts to the clock on the wall. “Curfew is a little earlier for you tonight because you are new, so try not to go too far. We can eat after you get back.”
I walk upstairs and knock on Aubrey’s closed door. She opens it, and I see that she has changed clothes. She has on her Converses, but she’s wearing one of the dresses from the closet. It is black, but white lines the armholes and the hem.
“While we’re here can you try not to write on the shoes?” I request.
“Aren’t they mine now?”
I sigh because I don’t have a response, and she trails me down the staircase. Nora smiles when she sees us. The table is perfectly set, and the pasta sauce is simmering. I nudge Audrey.
“Hi Nora.” Audrey says. Nora greets her politely. “Bye Nora.” I slam the door behind me when we walk out. I look around erratically for any security officers. I wonder if I should at least stop by Elias Gray’s house first, but there is no sign of their station wagon.
As if she is in my head, Aubrey says, “I want to meet those kids I saw earlier when I get back. Sasha says I should make friends.”
Before we get in the car I say to my sister, “If we come back here, you can’t tell anyone where we’ve been. Not Nora, not Sasha, no one. When we get in, you have to direct me back to the street with the pretty trees, okay?”
Bewilderment settles on her face, but she nods and I open the door for her. My heart rate soars when I start the car. The guard reminds me of the curfew as I exit, and I hand Aubrey the map of Wicker Farm. It wouldn’t hurt to see if our dimensions are currently lined up, and then we could simply drive back home.
I spy more gated communities with houses that look like if they had been built just a little higher, they would’ve touched the sky. Since curfew is approaching, most cars are tucked into driveways and garages instead of on the street.
When we are a few streets away, nausea makes my stomach quiver and I slow. I have never been religious, and my mother only took me to church once when I was younger, but I whisper a made-up prayer. It’s full of promises that I won’t keep.
I jerk my eyes to the rearview, but no one is behind us. I apply pressure to the accelerator, and we move forward. When we cross one street, I press my foot down a little harder. Another glance at the rearview reveals that a car is trailing me. We crossed another, and I know I’m going faster than I should. As soon as we clear the canopy of trees, my pulse drowns out the radio static. We aren’t too far from the turn that should led to us to 301. I lean in closer to the steering wheel, wringing it until the vinyl burns my palms. I turn.
The car behind me turns too and a hand slips out of driver’s side and places a flashing green light on the roof. The light swings and a siren sounds, but I keep my foot to the accelerator driving faster and faster. The road abruptly dead ends and I lose control of the car.
5
Meeting New Friends, Losing Old Ones
We fishtail as I stomp on the brake, and my front tires bump the curb roughly. Aubrey is clutching the seat and fear is prominent in her large eyes. I rest my head on the steering wheel, feeling sad, stupid and angry. I am probably going to end up back in transitional housing or worse, and Aubrey will be left in Nora’s care alone. Who knows how long it would be until I saw her again.
“Are you okay, Aubs?” I turn to look at her, and her eyes are still wild.
“Why did you do that?” she whispers.
“Out less than a day and you’re already causing trouble,” a voice says, and I register a jolt of recognition. It’s Russell Tremell. He’s dressed in a Wicker Farm security uniform with the uniform cap low on his head and sunglasses concealing most of his face.
“Get out of the car.”
I step out and follow him back to his car. There is another man behind the wheel. I realize that it’s not actually a security officer car. Russell grins at me with his arms across his chest. He lifts his sunglasses and studies me.
“I like your enthusiasm, Jackson, but this is a little premature, don’t you think?”
“This isn’t right. None of it,” I say. Warmth strengthens behind my eyes, but I have never cried in front of another person before, and I won’t do it now.
“It’s not. Marcus got word to me that you may be interested in going underground. Lots of logistics involved, my friend. You’re fresh out. They’re going to be watching you closely. Right now, I need you to be patient--”
“Patient? Not too long ago, you were trying to carjack your way out of this place. You’re supposed to be some kind of leader,” I hiss, but he is amused by my reaction.
“Lapse in judgment. Happens to the best of us. Try not to let that version of the story get out. I think I like the one I’ve crafted better where I helped you escape the security patrol. Guns blazing. You owe me that, for my gun,” he reasons.
“Why were you following me? And how did you get that uniform? Who is that in the car with you?” I ask, but he looks at his watch.
“You need to get back, but I will be in touch in a few days time. You need to keep your head down for now. For the kid. Remember, someone is usually watching. Then, we can talk about you moving and what not.”
I start to walk back to the car when he says, in a rather melodic way, “I will require some form of payment for any services I provide you.”
I spin to face him. The corners of my mouth lift into a humorless smile that I’m sure looks like a grimace. He sounds like the fine print on a contract.
“I don’t eat too well around here. I scrounge. See if you can fix that the next time we see each other, yeah?”
“You won’t help us move to The Clave otherwise?”
“Jackson, even in your world, nothing’s free,” he responds.
“Fine,” I say.
I drive Aubrey and I back to Nora’s house with lots of time to spare. The three of us have a quiet dinner, and afterward, I help Nora with the dishes. She washes, I dry.
“How was your drive?” she asks. She looks at me, but I lower my eyes, certain that she will see my guilt otherwise. She hands me a wet plate, and I nearly drop it. My vision is limited to the corners of my eyes.
“It was nice, just checking out the neighborhood…” I stop speaking when my voice frays. I pause and clear my throat. “Familiarizing myself.”
“You should stay within the designated perimeters, Jackson. Driving any further comes with certain implications…and consequences.” She is still looking at me, and she hands me another plate.
“We’re on the same page,” I explain, and when I am sure that I have complete control over my facial muscles, I drag my gaze to meet hers. I am innocence personified.
She spends the rest of the night on the couch reading a book that I don’t recognize. After both she and Aubrey fall asleep later that night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, mulling over Russell Tremell’s advice. I don’t want to go back to transitional housing, but I don’t want to be in this strange house either. I am tired, maybe too tired to even fall asleep, so I check on Aubrey. She has taken down the poster of Celia and added a new word to her shoes, “friendship.” An ode to Sasha, I guess. I walk back to my room and open my new laptop. The keyboard letters are arranged differently than I’m used to.
The light on the phone on my desk flashes. I already have two messages. One of them is an automated message from Penn Richards, the governor, Sasha’s father. When I try to delete it, I am told that the action is prohibited. The other is from Sasha. I don’t even bother listening.
Screams echo from the outside, and I whip my head to the window. It takes me a moment to realize that they are happy sounds, mischievous even. I run to the window. As I search for the source of the sounds, I notice that the Gray’s station wagon has still not returned.
My heart skips a beat when I see the people outside. If it weren’t for the moon, the figures dressed in black, darting about, would have been undetectable. Some are dancing in the empty street, performing clumsy waltzes, others turn cartwheels and flips. I hear the sound of glass bottles clinking. Then breaking. The people flee short distances and glass shards lay in the street. Laughter rises in the air. The figures disappear completely from my view, but I can still hear them, so I follow the noise. It must be The Resistance! I creep downstairs, pull the front door open, and step outside. I inch through the parking lot toward the gate, checking for security officers. There are two present at the gate and they are watching the merriment, too. One of the Resistance members approaches the gate of our community fearlessly and shakes it with drunken might.
“You there! You want to know what we did tonight? We drank and danced around a fire. We burned pictures of your leader! Some of us are burning more of your houses now!” It is a female’s taunting voice and I smile. She points through the bars at the guards. One of her companions tries fruitlessly to pull her away. “The Resistance is coming! You tell Governor BITCH-ards that! The Resistance is coming! You will beg at our feet.” She snatches a glass bottle from another of her group and hurls it over the gate. It smashes several feet away from the officers. She walks back and forth in front of the gate like she is stalking it, ready to pounce.
My stomach is a bundle of nerves, but I am transfixed, as if spellbound. I strain my eyes, but she is too far away for me to discern any distinguishing features. I desperately want to move closer.
One of the security officers touches his holster, but the other actually lifts his weapon, and my blood turns cold, but the girl is defiant. She challenges him by beckoning him forward and then she lowers all of her fingers, except one. The middle. I feel a rush of excitement, but it is suppressed by the click of the gun. I think he has released the safety.
“Shoot me,” she dares. “You think I’m afraid? You have taken everything else! You kill me, three more take my place! Three more.” She is screaming now, and the windows of a few houses across the street illuminate. The officer with his hand still on his holster lowers the arm of the other. Front doors are swinging open now. One of the officers walks back to the guard post and lifts a phone, and I move a little closer.
“We set several houses on fire tonight! Down with Bitchards! Down with Bitchards!” the girl chants, shaking the gate rhythmically. Suddenly, she goes quiet, and her stare falls on me. We lock eyes for a millisecond, but it feels like forever. I curse quietly and duck out of view. She begins to chant again.
“Charlie, we have to go,” a voice carries. Charlie. I have a name! I run to Nora’s house. I turn back just in time to see another of Charlie’s cloaked cohorts yank her away. Nora’s house is still dark when I reach it, and I exhale with relief, but the rush from what I have just seen makes my knees feel a little shaky. Before going to my room, I check on Aubrey one last time. I fall into my bed and force myself to sleep.
I am startled awake by an alarm and the smell of breakfast. I hear the shower running, and I know that Aubrey is already awake. I wonder whether the events of the night before actually occurred. When I dash to the window and look out, the glass shards are gone. I hear Aubrey walking to her room, and I greet her before going into the bathroom. After showering and getting dressed, I lie back down and stare up at the ceiling. There is some anxiety about going to another new school, especially here, so soon after starting at the one in Wynn, and I wonder if Charlie goes to my school. Marcus did say Resistance members masquerade as everyday citizens.
Our documents indicate that Aubrey will attend the Wicker Farm Children’s School. I am free to drop her off even though there is a bus. However, she has to be there on time everyday, and her performance will reflect on her caretakers. I will be at the high school, although, there is a note in my packet, and I am told to see Director Harrington once I arrive. Aubrey is downstairs eating with Nora, who has prepared a huge breakfast, (according to our specifications, of course): scrambled eggs, piles of toast and sausages. Our mother never actually made breakfast, so this was one of my lies on the form at The Institute. After breakfast, I say goodbye to Nora and nudge Aubrey, who parrots my statement. As we drive out of the gate, I notice that the glass near the post has been cleaned up as well. Due to force of habit, I plug my cell phone into the car charger. Of course, there is no signal.
