Under Ground (9 page)

He catches himself quickly though.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." But there is no need to
apologize, really. No one who truly meant it has ever called me
beautiful before.

Chi averts his eyes as his cheeks
turn red. I’ve never seen a boy blush. It's endearing and
confusing. I blink at him, my own cheeks on fire. After a few
minutes, he sighs and breathes as if he were inhaling
courage.

"I mean, aren’t you ever tired of
following the rules and doing what they want you to do? We aren't
even in control of our lives! I've just been thinking about it, and
if I wanna talk to you, that's my own business. I couldn't care
less what other people think!"

I look away. His subversive speech
terrifies me. But I know exactly what he means. He's given words to
thoughts I’ve had for a long time, but that I couldn’t quite
formulate.

I turn my head to find him
observing me, watching my reactions. His irises are light brown
today, with a sweet honey color as the sun reflects upon them. I
don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed before—a strange feeling to
have considering I’m breaking a lot of rules and could pay quite a
high price for being here. I hardly know him, but when he starts
talking about school, conversation flows easily, and disappointment
seizes me when he looks at his watch.

“I guess you’d better go," he
sighs. He stands up and I follow suit.

I want to stay with him longer,
but I don't speak my thoughts.

"I don’t want you to get in
trouble," he adds while facing me. "Would you be willing to meet
again some other time?” His voice drops with uncertainty, his
confidence suddenly gone.

Breaking the rules turns my
stomach to ice. I’m scared of the consequences. But as I look at
Chi, there is no doubt in my mind that I want to see him again. I
nod my consent.

“When can you come back? I guess
you can’t make it here too often without it being
obvious.”

“Well, I could be here again
tomorrow."

It shouldn’t be too hard to lie to
Mother again. I shudder at the thought of misleading her like this,
but I don't let my fears show.

“Great!" he says. "Same time, same
place!”

He smiles and takes my hands
between his. The gesture surprises me and I flinch, but his palms
are warm against mine and I don't want him to let go. He looks like
he wants to say something, but then he thinks better of it. He
turns around and walks away without looking back. He stands tall
and lean, striding confidently, with the breeze in his hair. My
heart squeezes slightly at the sight of him leaving. I don’t know
if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Chapter 9

It doesn’t take
long for me
to reach the Arch
the
next day. When I arrive, Chi isn’t there yet. My first thought is
that something has happened to him.
Why is this the first thing
occurring to me?
What kind of a world is this that we should
fear so much what may happen if we step outside the
line?

I turn around cautiously when I
hear the sounds of footsteps, and I know it’s him the second he
says my name.

“Hi, Thia!”

I quiver as butterflies take
flight in my stomach. He’s wearing his school uniform, the same as
yesterday, but his hair is disheveled as if he's been raking though
it all day. It gives him an unkempt look, so handsome that it hurts
just to glance at him. I sigh, a sudden urge pulling me to
him.

He comes closer and just stands
there, unaware of the effect he has on me as he simply takes in the
view without saying anything. After a while, he speaks, his voice
clear and calm. “You know, I never asked for your last name. I just
knew your first name 'cause I heard William saying it in
passing.”

“It’s Clay. My last name is Clay.
And you?”

He exhales deeply. “It’s a little
bit complicated.”

“Okay, Mr.
It’s-a-little-bit-complicated, what did you want to talk about
today?”

“I just thought I’d spend some
time with you, that’s all.” Chi rests his left shoulder against the
monument as his beautiful smile spreads across his face.

“How was school today?” he asks
casually, his hands slipping in his pockets.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t really
focus.”

His smile turns mischievous in an
instant. “Too busy thinking about me?”

“You're so cheeky! I never said I
liked you!”

“You don’t need to say it,” he
replies, arching his eyebrow. "Your presence here speaks for
itself."

I'm blushing again. I hate how my
cheeks always work against me. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Making me feel uncomfortable," I
reply. "Using my coming here against me."

“I’m sorry." He’s serious now,
clearly remorseful for riling me up. "I didn’t realize this made
you uncomfortable. It was just a joke, Thia.”

A flicker of pain passes behind
his pupils, subtle and quick. It was only there for a second, but
it was long enough to stab me with guilt. I want to take the words
back, but it does make me uneasy when he talks about my attraction
to him, especially if he jokes about it. His teasing me is highly
inappropriate, and I hate how it makes me flush. I don't want him
to know that he can affect me this way.

I change the subject on him
abruptly before he gets to say anything else. “Why won’t you tell
me your last name?”

“Because it’s not my real
name.”

I’m taken aback and don’t reply.
I’m not sure what he means exactly. I'm slightly annoyed at myself
now for revealing my full identity so easily when he obviously
means to keep his hidden like some national secret. My lack of
cautiousness hits me hard, accentuated by his own personal
discretion. He has managed to use his charms to turn me into some
foolish, careless girl unable to think before she speaks. I hate it
and I won't let myself slip like this again.

“Look, I wanna tell you about me,"
he says upon seeing my deepening frown, "but I’m not sure I can
trust you with that information just yet. Maybe you could talk
about yourself first.”

He sends me a quick smile, and I
squint my eyes at him. I'm not falling for that trick
twice.

“Well, you already seem to know
all about me," I retort, though not unkindly.

“Just 'cause I know of your
engagement to William doesn’t mean I know you. That union doesn't
define you as a person, Thia.”

I take a deep breath. My name on
his lips affects me more than I'd like. “Well, I’m not sure what to
say. I’m not used to talking about myself.”

“What do you do in your free
time?” he asks.

“I read, a lot. And I write, poems
mostly. I guess it’s a nice escape for me.”

“Really? What do you write
about?”

I want to tell him what my poetry
truly is about, but he won't reveal anything about himself.
Why
should I expose myself like this to him, spilling things out that
could get me in deep trouble?

"I write about my family, mostly."
That's technically not a lie. "And I describe the landscapes and
things I see." Boring things.

“Sounds interesting." There is no
sarcasm in his voice when he says it. I wonder what he would think
if he knew what I truly express in my poems.

"What else do you do?” he
asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve had to spend a
lot of time focusing on the wedding and getting ready for
it.”

“I see.” His eyes turn dark with
anger flashing on and off, gone in a heartbeat. Then he recomposes
his face quickly—but not fast enough. I blink at him.
Was that
jealousy flickering through his gaze just now?

“How about you?" I ask. "What do
you like to do? You’re not part of the team?”

“I don’t have time for sports. I
have more important things to do, like save the world.” He laughs.
I never understand his jokes, but his insouciance and humor soothe
me somehow.

He lies down on the grass and pats
the area next to him, inviting me to sit down. I join him and
sparks of electricity run all over my skin at being so close to
him. He doesn't seem to notice. He's serene as ever, and I'm
slightly annoyed at how easy this is for him. We just look at the
sky, without saying anything. There’s a light breeze in the air. I
take a few deep breaths—filling my lungs with it—and try to be in
the moment. He asks me to recite some of my poems and I get
suddenly nervous. I remember Mrs. Fox's acidic comments quite
vividly the last time I shared the one about my grandpa, but I
oblige Chi and recite my verses. I'm surprised to realize I know
them all by heart.

"It's beautiful," he says. "Just
like you." His eyes sparkle as the words come out. I blink and
flush as heat fills my entire body.

"Did you really not think about me
at all since yesterday?" he asks, as if truly worried that I might
not care about him.

I don't reply. There is nothing I
could say that wouldn't incriminate me and reveal more than I'm
willing to let on. My cheeks betray me half the time
anyway.

"For all it's worth,
I
thought about you, a
lot
." He insists on the last word and
extends his hand to caress my cheek with his thumb, his eyes
roaming my face. His irises slowly turn dark as his brow furrows.
Anguish shifts through his beautiful features, and he turns his
face away immediately. I don't understand why his mood shifted so
quickly, but whatever it was, the feeling disappeared right
away.

He holds out his hand and acts
casual as I grab it. He stands up and helps me to my feet. Time has
flown by and I find myself panting. I don't want to leave. He looks
me in the eyes and I'm mesmerized, caught in the splendor of his
face.

"Would you come here on Thursday?"
he asks, timidly, as if he expects me to deny him.

I nod and blush. His eyes twinkle.
A puckish smile appears on his lips, and he winks at me.

"I'll see you then." He leans
toward me, his mouth so close to my cheek I can feel his breath
blowing on my skin. "I'll be thinking of you." With that last
sentence, he turns around and walks away—leaving me here, winded,
unable to find my breath.
What's happening to me?

Chapter 10

When Melissa and
I enter the classroom
the next day, Mr. Johnson hardly waits
before speaking, "Take your seats. Today, we are reviewing the
fundamentals behind our breeding system."

The word "breeding" sends goose
bumps all over my skin. He makes it sound like we are animals to be
parked and controlled rather than human beings with emotions and
potential goals in our lives.

"Why is the lower class no longer
allowed to procreate?" he asks.

My face turns down in a grimace of
distaste. I try to control the anger rising inside me, but this
topic makes me sick. We've already studied this many times before,
repetition being part of the brainwashing. I cannot comprehend why
my parents insist on paying so much money for me to waste my time
learning such nonsense.

A girl raises her hand. "The
lower-class lost the right to get married or have children almost
ten years ago to help reduce the rate of poverty, Sir. Little by
little, the numbers will decrease to the point where there won’t be
any more poor people."

The very idea infuriates me. I
turn my head around to see if any of the other girls share my
thoughts, but most of them show blank faces, probably hiding how
they truly feel about the subject.

"Correct," the teacher exclaims.
"The law was passed exactly six years ago. And how did we prevent
the poor from breaking those rules?"

"Strict regulations were put in
place to ensure they wouldn't marry illegally, Sir," another girl
replies without lifting her hand. "Boys and girls from the lower
class also get sterilized at the age of eighteen to prevent them
from having children."

The whole concept makes my stomach
curl. A sound of disgust escapes my mouth, and I freeze. Mr.
Johnson casts me a sharp glance, and I lower my head
quickly.

"Please continue, Miss Wheat," he
says, with his eyes still pinned on me.

"Couples from the upper class can
have two children, and couples from the middle class can have one
child, but those from the lower class are not allowed to
reproduce," she says.

I swallow the bile rising in my
throat, and she continues to talk in that gleeful, high-pitched
voice of hers as if this subject wasn't revolting at all. "A lot of
people from the lower class rebelled because of the Sterilization
Law, but they quickly learned to stay in their rightful
place."

I huff out my anger. Mr. Johnson
sends me another sharp look.

"Is there something you wish to
share or add to this discussion, Miss Clay?" he asks with
disdain.

I know better than to share my
controversial views on the matter. I shake my head and his eyes
slant together slightly. I need to be more careful, but this
conversation exasperates me. The lower-class needs the authorities
to provide them with food. Food is so hard to find in the slums
that when the poor tried to rebel, they were quickly forced to give
in, kept in place by their need to survive. Their rations were
reduced to the point where they couldn’t complain or they would
have been forced to starve. Many of them died in the rebellion,
too. The upper class is the only one who could have tried and
changed things, but they don’t care about the fate of those
underneath them.