Chapter 7

Author's notes: going by the page reads that anyone is actually reading this (well besides my two friends who have reached out to me.  Thanks you guys!)  Hoping you are all enjoying.

Chapter 7

I thought I hated my classed before. I really hate them now.  Not only is the content absurdly biased and incorrect, but also the student body is completely indoctrinated.  Just being around them puts me on edge

A note drops on my desk.  I look up to see Sandy watching me expectantly.  I sigh, not really feeling like playing this game, but doing so anyway.  I unfold the note and hold me breath.

So what’s going on with you and Mason???

I read it twice before I realize she means Sam.  Most people called him by his last name.  I thought it was a sports thing, but who knows.

Nothing

I feel juvenile as I write back and toss it to her desk.  As stupid as it sound and as much as I hate everyone here, the simple act of note passing reminds me of high school and simpler times.  Back before assassination assignments and imprisonment in enemy camps.  What I wouldn’t give to be worried about 12^th grade Elemental History again.

He carried you out of class on Friday! Very romantic.

I did remember that, vaguely.  Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone else had noticed.

I was sick.  It wasn’t romantic at all.

That was the story we’d given everyone anyway.  And it was true about the romance part as well.  If only Sandy knew that more than a week ago I’d tried to cut open Sam’s heart.  She wouldn’t think that was romantic at all.

You pissed off a lot of girls!

What?  What is she talking about?  Who would be jealous of passing out from inhibitor injections? I look quizzically over at Sandy.  She reaches over to my desk and grabs the note back.

Mason is the most eligible bachelor at Cambridge.  Since Emma he hasn’t really dated.  Not for a lack of trying on the part of the female population.  Everyone is wondering how you got his attention. 

The last thing I need is love drama.  I should have seen this coming.  Sam guards me all day everyday.  Of course people were going to think we were together.  I just hadn’t really thought about it.  Not that it matters what anyone at this lame ass school thinks.  There is nothing romantic between Sam and me.  I tried to kill him and failed—end of story.

I quickly jot down a reply.

Like I said, nothing happened.

I toss the note back to her, hoping that would be the end of it.  When it lands back on my desk a few moment later I groan outwardly.

Tell all the ladies that. 

I crumple the note up and toss it in the trash.  Sandy smirks at me and shakes her head.  I am amusing her somehow.  That just makes me more upset.

When class ends, I jump out of my seat.

“I see you’re feeling better,” Sam smiles as he catches up with me.

“Yeah, just peachy,” I snap.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Sleepy?”

“No.” Yes.

“Hazy at all?”

“No.” Yes.

“Liar.  Glad you’re feeling better though.”

I turn on him at that.  My rage boiling out of nowhere.  “Why would you care?”

“What?” he asks, startled.

“Why would you care if I’m feeling fine or not?  Why do you care if I’m so fucked up I can hardly see straight?  Why does this matter to you?”  I try to keep my voice low, but I can see we were attracting an audience.  Part of me doesn’t care.  Part of me just wants to scream from the mountaintop who I am and how much I hate them all. 

“Calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!  You don’t know me, Sam.  You don’t know a thing about me.  And I don’t want you to know me.  I want you to leave me the hell alone.  I want you to go away or better yet, to just die because maybe then my life would go back to normal and I could go home and be with my mother again instead of stuck here with you!”

My breath is coming out ragged as I finish my rant.  A few students stand around us; waiting to see what their precious Mason will say back to me.  Maybe hoping he will put me in my place.  A part of me hopes the same thing.  I am tired of this good guy act.  I am tired of him pretending like he doesn’t wish I would fall into a pit and die too.  I tried to kill him.  Nearly took him away from his sister.  How could he forgive that?  Why would he try?

“Delilah…”

He reaches his hand toward me but I pull away.

“Don’t.”

“Lets go somewhere and talk.”

“Just leave me alone,” I say, and stalked off.  He follows behind me because what else can he do?  I ignore him.  Choosing to ditch my last class of the day and head for the infirmary.

If I had any say in my life I would ask for someone else to escort me around campus.  Or better yet, not go to classes at all.  Professor Anders is having none of it, though.  She heard the rumors about Sam and me and chalked it up to a misunderstanding because we were seen together a lot.   She ignores my protests for anyone else to watch me.  Something along the lines of: “Sam Mason is the strongest fire wielder on campus and his ability to read your emotions makes him uniquely gifted in dealing with you.”

I think she just likes to see me sweat.

The rest of the week is spent in a Mexican Stand-off between me, Sam and Professor Anders.  I don’t want Sam as my guard, Anders doesn’t care what I want, and Sam seems quieter than a church mouse on the subject—which is annoying.  Perhaps if he said he didn’t want to guard me either I’d get someone new to escort me around campus lickedy-split.  No such luck.

Saturday comes though, and with it a break from classes.  Not a break from the professor however.  I am trading Sam for Professor Ander and I’m really unsure who is the lesser of two evils.  The boy I tried to kill or the professor who thinks she can save me?

“I have some thing I want to show you, Delilah,” Anders says quietly as she takes a seat next to me on the couch in my little space in the infirmary.  She is wearing another one of her librarian dresses I hate so much.  The hemline stops at the ankles and the fabric is plain cotton covered in an eyesore of a floral pattern.  She even has a little shrug to cover her bare shoulders.  Anders tries to look so matronly, but I know better.

“I don’t want to see your lies.”

“You can make whatever decision you’d like about these pictures, but I’d like you to at least look at them.  If you do, we can perhaps work out some time for you to visit the library and get some books for you to read besides your schoolbooks.  I know you’ve been very bored here by yourself with nothing to do besides homework and staring at a wall.  We’ve got a great reading selection.  Your file says you like to read.”

First of all, what file was she talking about?  How would anyone know I liked to read?  And what else was on it?  Second, damn, the witch had me.  I spend most days in classes, but those only last until three in the afternoon at the latest.  At which point I spend from three until lights out doing exactly what she said—homework and staring.  On the plus side I think I’m getting straight A’s.  But perhaps keeping a TV out of my room is part of their ploy.  Boredom must be a new form of torture.   

“Whatever,” I say, taking the photo album and opening it up. Photos won’t change my mind and I’m not giving up state secrets.  I will get a few books out of the deal and perhaps earn some goodwill to exploit later on.

What I find as I flip through the pages shocks me.  How did Professor Anders have this?  I reach the end then come back to the first page again, baffled.  The entire album is a series of pictures all featuring my mother.  She is young, around my age, but I could pick her out of a Where’s Waldo book.  I run my fingers down a close up of her face.  She’d been at the head of a rally being held outside of this very campus. 

“Are these real?”

“Very,” Anders replies. 

Of course she would say that. Why would I ask such a stupid question?  I refrain from rolling my eyes at myself and continue to stare down at the picture.  “She’s beautiful.”  I always wished I looked like my mother.  She has such beautiful brown hair that always behaves perfectly.  It was curly when she wanted it to be curly and straight when she wanted it to be straight.  I always envied that about her.  And her face is just so…I don’t know, symmetrical?  Pretty?  Anyone who met her wouldn’t guess she is in her forties.  Having a child never ruined her body like it did some women.  I can only hope that even though we look nothing alike, I will inherit that wonderful ability to age with grace.

“She is outwardly a very attractive woman,” Professor Anders agrees.  Her voice sounds a little funny when she says that though.  Almost like there is more she wants to say.  Not that I care what she has to say about my mother.

I turn the page.  There are more pictures of rallies and demonstrations, and then the pictures change.  My mom is older in these ones.  Maybe ten years older than I am now.  She is dressed like a soldier—black fatigues and hair pulled back tight.  It’s a look I am very familiar with.  What I’m not familiar with are the people she is standing with.  In each photo, there is a person bound and gagged with a newspaper in their hand, proclaiming the date.

“What are these?”

“Hostage photos.”

“We don’t take hostages.”

“You were sent on a mission to kill someone, Delilah.  I want you to really think about this.  Is it really impossible to think that Sam Mason is the first victim of the resistance?”

“Sam Mason is a danger to the resistance.  His strength and ability threaten our rights.”  The words came out robotically.  It feels funny to say them now.

I stare long and hard at the pictures.  There are some men who look like they make up the Authority or military perhaps.  There are more, however, filled with crying women and even a few children.  These, I decide, were faked—they had to be.  I am not in the mood for propaganda.  I get that all day long in class.  Saturday is supposed to be the day of rest.  I move to close the album, but Anders stops me.

“Think Delilah.  Think about how much you actually know about the resistance and what you mother does.  Think about Sam.  You were going to kill him.”

“He’s training to be a solider,” I reason.  “That makes him a target!”  I hold tightly to this belief.  I can’t think about what it means if I’m wrong.

“What about Annabelle Frank?” Anders says, pointing to one of the pictures of a little girl being held hostage.  “Was she training to be a solider?”

She couldn’t have been more than eight years old.  Ten tops.  I stare down at her face for a long moment.

“She died three years ago at your mother’s hands.  I have the newspaper articles and video feed to prove it.  She would have been twelve this year.”

“Why would she…” my voice grows hoarse as I try to make sense of this.  “It’s fake.”

“It’s not.  Annabelle was the niece to Councilman James Frank.  He was the swing vote on the Elemental User Rights Bill three years ago.  Annabelle was insurance that he would vote the way your mother wanted him to vote.  And he did—it worked.”

“You said she was dead though,” I whisper, hiccupping.

“Your mother killed her anyway.”

I shake my head.  Anders is trying too hard now.  My mother is determined, but she isn’t cruel.  She wouldn’t just kill a little kid for no reason.  I close the book.

“Stop.”

“You know the truth, Delilah.  Inside here.”  She points to my chest before standing up and leaving the room. Leaving me with the album.  I want to throw it at her.

Instead I sat in silence for several moment, trying to sort through my feelings.  Who is the woman in these photos and can she really be my mother?  Veronica Savage is a determined woman.  Some might say she is cold, but I disagree.  She is made of steel.  She lets nothing come between her and her mission.  But that isn’t because she is empty inside.  It is because she had so much passion for her undertaking.  Passion that is infectious.  All I have ever wanted is to be as formidable and fiery as she is—to put my mission above all else.

But I failed her.  If she could see me now, see how I doubted her; she would never want me in her life again. 

I set the album aside and walk the length of the room.  Annabelle Frank’s name echoes through my head like a skipping CD. I think about what Anders said: that I know the truth inside me.  What does that mean?  Of course I know the truth.  I know my mother.  I know she is capable of a lot, but she is a good person.  Even if she did any of these things, they had to have been taken out of context.  It is the only explanation.

When I grow tired of pacing, I lay down.  It is earlier than usual, but my head is pounding suddenly and all I want to do is sleep this whole nightmare away.  When I close my eyes I try to think of Jason.  It has been so long since I’ve seen him.  I miss him.  I hold onto the picture of him in my head.  Tall, build like a soldier, light blonde hair that matches my mothers, the serious expression he almost always wears, even his slightly crooked teeth as he gives me that half smile—I hold onto it like a life preserver.  I think of Jason and pray for good dreams.

“It’s a simple task, Jason!”  My mother’s voice has a serious edge to it, but she is doing her best to keep it as quiet as possible.  Unfortunately for her, I have excellent hearing.

“I tried.”

“Don’t tell me that!” mom hisses.

“She didn’t see a thing.”

“How can you know that?”

“If she saw, don’t you think she would have freaked out?  I kept her away.”

“She shouldn’t have been anywhere near that block.”

“I know.”

“It was your job.” 

“I know.”

“Fix this, Jason.  And make sure it never happens again.”

“I will.”

I wake up with a start, my dream forcing to me to the surface.  No, not dream—a memory.  It is from two years ago.  Jason and I had been walking around DC when there had been an explosion of violence.  The Council had attacked a peaceful activist rally.  Fifteen people had died.  We’d been nearby and my mom had been so upset that I was that close to the violence.  I could have been hurt. 

Something about the memory rankles me now.  Why had it been Jason’s job to keep my away from a peaceful demonstration?  I attend rallies all the time.  He couldn’t have known the Council would attack a peaceful demonstration.  Right?  At the time, I’d been so distraught at the loss of life I hadn’t thought to question a thing.  Now I couldn’t help but suddenly be suspicious.

I groggily slide off my bed and head over to the album Professor Anders had left me.  I pick it up and began to slowly flip through the pages again.  I looked at each picture carefully; trying to reconcile the woman I see here to the woman I grew up knowing.  It is a difficult task.  A few pages in I pause on an article.  It is dated from two years ago.  The headline read: Abusers Attack Council Meeting in Broad Daylight.  15 Dead.

I feel my stomach drop as I read the article, each word sending a spike of fear through me.  That isn’t right.  The Council had attacked the demonstrators, not the other way around.  Was the article faked?  Or a lie? I run my fingers down the aged newsprint.  It had to be propaganda.  Right? 

Could they really take an attack on a peaceful demonstration and spin it so badly? 

Could my mother take a military advancement and make it sound like innocents being killed?

I shove the album away from me.  I am not any closer to the truth than I was when I woke up.  Something is very wrong here and for the first time in my life, I wonder if I am that wrongness.

#

The next morning when Professor Anders returns, I give her the album back.

“I don’t ever want to see this again,” I say forcefully.  Because of that book, I can no longer tell right from wrong so easily.  I need it as far away from me as possible.

“Of course,” Anders says. 

She knows she’s gotten to me and I hate her for that.