Defy the Dark (3 page)

It's satisfying work that, surprisingly, helps me understand Laborers more than I ever thought I would. Do they feel the same satisfaction in creating something with their own hands? In putting forth physical effort—even to the point of making their muscles ache—to be rewarded by everything turning out just so? The Laborers I oversee seem to.

Except that when their shift is finished, they go home. I stay with Marie and learn the management of the bakery. I don't mind that, either. It adds variety.

Nonetheless, at the close of my third day I'm tired, and when the bones in my spine crack as I stand, Marie reminds me that I don't have to work so hard on the bakery floor—that I can leave the mixing and kneading to the others.

To the Laborers.

“It's important that you learn not to overtax yourself,” she says. “When you're carrying a little one, you'll have to listen to your body and know when to stop.” With a smile she adds, “Your role as a child-bearer is much more important than your career. Don't forget that.”

Like I could. It's in my face every day.

Our government would never force anyone to have a child. Or to have sexual relations. But their
encouragement
is everywhere, reminding us not only about the biology but also that New Horizon is counting on us, that we are the guardians against another Great Collapse. Already my shock is fading and I'm growing numb to the encouragement of “coupling” in the Nature Building.

Nothing is segregated by gender, and while changing stalls are available—and you can practically gauge how long a new member has been living there by whether or not they still use them; I still do—you can't expect everyone
else
to use them. Each night and morning I am surrounded by beautiful, virile bodies in various stages of undress. There's nothing sexual about it, for the most part, but it's so
different
.

Just as the strength of males makes them ideal Laborers, resulting in more male Laborers than female, the birthing capability of females is needed among the Natures, so every year there are far more girls than guys. And because that ratio isn't conducive to strict pairings, promiscuity is also encouraged.

It's still hard to accept.

I wouldn't call myself a prude, but, if nothing else, finding that one perfect someone has always been a dream of mine—a dream much better suited to a Nurture, where the ratio of males to females is a nearly even split.

But even with their sometimes carnal encouragement, the governors have tried to be sympathetic to people like me, and there is a long wing full of more private rooms where . . . well, where anything can be done. I like to take some snacks from the large gathering room and get some quiet time.

Alone.

I'm balancing a bottle of apple juice and some soft snickerdoodles (the eggs are the secret to perfect cookies) on a plate when I reach the end of the hallway. Even in this quiet, private area, I try to get as far away as possible.

I reach out a pinkie and manage to push the door handle down and kick it open.

Too hard.

It hits the wall behind it and I bite off a shriek when someone stands up from a pile of pillows on the bed.

“I'm so sorry,” I apologize, throwing my arm up over my eyes.

The arm holding the plate of cookies.

They hit the floor with dull thuds, crumbling to pieces around my feet.

“My fault,” a deep voice says. “I guess I didn't throw the lock all the way.”

I chance a peek and the first thing I see is a completely clothed torso.

Thank goodness.

I peer behind him and don't see anyone on the bed. There's a rather high pile of pillows, but not big enough to hide a tryst partner.

My breath escapes from my lungs in a loud sigh before I realize it and I blush at the sensitivity that marks me a newbie.

I look up at him, daring to meet his eyes for the first time.

It's him—the guy from the first night—the one with his glass raised high as though he hadn't a care in the world. As if being a Nature was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. I look away as if his gaze might burn my eyes. Maybe it would. It practically shines with life and vitality.

Or it did—right now he looks almost as nervous as I do.

I drop to my knees and start picking up pieces of cookie. “I'm so sorry. I was just looking for a quiet room to read and . . . and the lock, well, obviously—” I'm rambling. “I'll get out of your way. Right now.” I look at the floor, my long brown hair falling around my face as I try not to look at him, red heat creeping up my neck. Maybe I can get away before it reaches my face.

“It's okay.”

His voice is butterscotch.

“I was doing the same thing.”

I pause and look up at him skeptically. “Reading?” The adrenaline pumping through me makes the question pop out with more disbelief than I intended.

I hear him swallow hard, and he looks away toward the window, where I can see the inky black sky and pinpricks of starlight. “Don't sound so surprised,” he says, and there's a quiver at the edge of his voice.

Guilt surges through me and I mutter what's supposed to be an apology but is really only a mishmash of random syllables. The pieces of snickerdoodles are back on my plate and there's nothing I can do about the crumbs, much less the oily butter stains. “I'll go now,” I murmur, my head still down. At the last second I say again, “I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay!” the boy snaps, then sighs and runs his fingers through his honey-colored curls, which bounce back like feather-soft springs. “
I'm
sorry,” he says, the toe of one foot blocking the door. “You're new. I'm Jeremy.”

He lets the introduction hang, an unspoken invitation.

My heart is beating wildly and I can't say exactly why. After a moment Jeremy reaches out his hand, palm down. I have to tuck my bottle of juice under my arm to free up my hand, but years of social niceties, honed to instinct, have me doing just that before I can even think. My cold hand slides into his warm one.

“Kylie,” I whisper before I flee.

 

J
eremy is everywhere.

Raising his glass in toast after toast, walking trays of food around to all of the near-due mothers to make sure they're “getting enough for you both,” flirting in the hallways.

Flirting in the bedrooms.

Flirting in the cafeteria, on the streets, in front of the Nature Building.

For two weeks I stand in the shadows and watch. Everyone knows him. Everyone likes him.

Everyone
wants
him.

Not me.

Not me.

I slap down the bread dough.

Not me. He disgusts me.

Slap
.

The chime above the front door rings, and I lock gazes with a set of equally shocked blue eyes.

They remind me of a swimming pool. So light they're almost clear, but still with that aqua hue that makes them unmistakably blue. They're wide in surprise, mirroring my own but, unlike mine, are lined with light lashes—almost blond—that curl ever so slightly at the ends.

Something is warm on my feet, and every inch of my skin flushes red when I realize I've dropped an entire pile of half-kneaded dough onto my shoes. I crouch so quickly, I suspect it looks like I fell. Because the klutz who just dropped eight pounds of bread dough would, obviously, also trip on it.

“Marie!” My voice is shaking; I shouldn't be so embarrassed—it's just bread dough—but the moment feels oddly tragic.

Marie hurries forward, giving me a brief questioning glance, but not stopping to speak to me.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I slip out of my shoes and try to get as much of the dough off as possible. I don't think they're a completely lost cause. But I'm glad I'm due for a new pair next month.

“Kylie,” Marie says, lowering her body so we're eye to eye. I want to look up and see if Jeremy is still there, but I don't dare. “This young man is here to speak to you. I'll take care of this.”

Me?

Oh no.

Not only am I going to have to look at him, I'm going to have to try to create coherent sentences.

I pad over to the counter in my stocking feet. In his defense, Jeremy isn't smiling. Not that he's scowling. I guess there's a pleasant sort of turning up at the edges of his mouth, but he's not smiling in the way that really means laughing. At me.

I don't move. I don't look at him. I say nothing.

“Kylie?”

He says my name like a question; I have to look up at him. I would rather heft a full-stuffed sheet cake from the hot ovens than lift my chin three inches.

But I do. I have to.

“There you are.” And now he smiles.

My face flushes even hotter and I try to look down again, but a finger on my chin stops me. “Don't—”

It seems like the move should be seductive, a calculated finger on my face meant to flutter and excite. But something about the way his voice cuts off makes me think, somehow, that he's feeling as awkward as I am. The curiosity of that thought makes my eyelids rise—my eyes peer up to meet his.

And I see fear.

Why fear? I'm not someone to be afraid of.

“I—I have to admit I didn't expect to find you here.”

“I work here,” I say flatly. He flinches as though I've struck him and I don't know why that was the wrong thing to say. But it was.

He laughs with a nervous, tinny tone and runs his fingers through his hair. He's had a trim since I last watched him do that, but the curls are still silky, and instead of frizzing like most people's curls, they simply fall back against his head, soft and bouncy. “Yes, but—I didn't know,” he says as if that were some kind of an answer.

Silence.

It stretches between us like sticky taffy, equally fragile, and I wait for it to break.

“I came to buy you something.”

“At my job?”

“I didn't
know
—” That snappy tone again. Like there's a hot temper always bubbling just beneath a thin glass exterior. “I didn't know it was your job. I wanted to get you some kind of dessert. Something special. Since I made you break your snickerdoodles,” he says, and by the time he reaches the last word I can barely hear him, his voice has grown so soft.

The taffy silence again, and dimly I realize Marie has gone to the back room and Jeremy and I are alone.

My turn.

But my mouth refuses to speak. It's dry and crumbly, like the flour.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Jeremy says, and glances at me.

It wasn't a statement, but a question.
Is this a bad idea?

Is it?
“Butterscotch,” I blurt, way too loud. My voice fills the small space, echoing off the walls.

“Butterscotch?” he echoes.

“Butterscotch cookies. The ones with butterscotch chips, I mean—the big ones dipped halfway into white chocolate,” I say, inclining my head to the case full of delicate pastries. “They're my favorite.”

He drifts over to the case. As if in a mirror, I scoot as well, matching him on the other side of the counter.

“These ones?” He points.

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.

“I'll take one,” he says, digging into his pocket. “Gift-wrapped, please. With a ribbon, if I could.”

“Of course,” I say in my cheeriest we-have-a-customer voice. This is definitely the strangest thing I've ever done. When I'm finished wrapping the box with a ruby-red ribbon—also my favorite—I set it on the counter.

“How much?” he asks, digging into his pocket.

I'm not sure. He insinuated it was for me. Is he expecting it for free? I'm not allowed to do that. “Four credits,” I whisper.

We're not a strictly socialistic society. Yes, the government provides for our needs—and then some. And no, we don't get paid for our jobs. But there are numerous ways to earn individual credits that you can spend on anything you want. All of them involve going above and beyond your everyday requirements.

I'm not sure I want to know what Jeremy did that was considered “above and beyond.”

He hands me his card and I run it through my scanner, deducting the four credits. It doesn't tell me what the remaining balance is. I'm dying to know and I'm not even sure why.

The box sits there like a flashing light between us.

“Meet me tonight?” Jeremy asks, and for a few seconds he doesn't look at me. When he does, I almost take a step back.

He wants this.

So much.

Not
me
.
This
. Wants me to meet him.

I'm not sure I should do something Jeremy wants so badly.

He must see the hesitation in my face. He leans forward, so close I imagine I can feel his breath on my face. “I heard you hoped to be a Nurture. That you almost were.”

I say nothing but can feel the blood draining from my face.

“Meet me?” he asks again, his voice full of pressure. Temptation. “That same room. I'll make sure it's free.”

The world stops. There is only me. There is only him. There is only now.

“Yes,” I breathe.

Sound returns, the world presses
PLAY
. Did I win?

Jeremy wants to smile, to grin. Maybe to laugh. I can tell. But he simply reaches out and slides the box off the counter.

“I'll see you at nine,” he says without looking back.

He is gone for at least a minute before I pull my aching fingers away from the smudged glass.

 

I
don't know what to expect. Have I read him completely wrong? Did he say that Nurture thing just to get me to come? Bait to draw me in only to seduce me the way he probably has a dozen others?

But . . .

I can always leave if I don't like what I hear.

See.