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  Everyone watching at home will want us to be segregated, they’ll fear us and agree with his plans. Mona finally sees what I see. She taps Fergus. Then she kicks him when he doesn’t respond.

  “What?” he replies, annoyed.

  As she relays my words I leave their side and stand with the small group of people who are the calm in the center of the storm. I take the old woman’s hand. I grip it tight. She’s trembling.

  “Everyone,” I say, loud but not shouting. “Everyone hold hands.”

  “What the hell is she doing?” I hear Lennox ask.

  “Carrick would want us to follow her lead. Enya would, too.”

  They make their way over to us. Mona holds my hand, and Lennox holds hers on the other side. Fergus and Lorcan wrap their arms across one another’s shoulders, like brothers-in-arms. More people join us. It doesn’t take long, but soon we all stand in rows in the courtyard hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, united.

  We are all silent. And yet I feel a power build inside me that I’ve never felt before, a sense of place stronger than anything. I cling to the old woman’s and Mona’s hands even tighter. I see the tears glistening in everybody’s eyes and the way Fergus’s jaw hardens as he struggles to compose himself.

  The TV cameras capture it all, while the Whistleblowers look to one another, confused, waiting for something to happen. They were prepared for a riot. We won’t give them one. I study them. I want to take their power away from them. I feel so strong, stronger than ever before. I don’t know how I think about it, it just comes, but I start to whistle. A long, high-pitched whistle as close to their sound as I can make it. Mona catches on immediately and does the same. It spreads. Then three thousand people join in. Three thousand voices, three thousand whistles. The Whistleblowers are confused, how could they ever stop this when it’s not violent? We’re standing peacefully, mimicking their sound but making it our own.

  A Whistleblower removes his shield, takes off his helmet and drops it to the ground.

  “I can’t,” he says, looking dizzy, as though he’s about to faint.

  “Riley,” one says. “Get back in line!”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t,” he repeats.

  “It’s working,” the old lady says joyously beside me. I feel her stand taller beside me. “They were right about you.”

  The whistling intensifies as another Whistleblower drops out. A woman. It’s Kate. She drops her shield, takes off her helmet, and walks away from the line of Whistleblowers standing guard, to join us. She stands between me and the old lady and takes my hand. She blows her whistle from our side, and we all erupt in cheers.

  From a window beside the Clock Tower I see Art watching me. He looks worried.

  Good.

  Because I’m just getting started.

  SIXTY-ONE

  “SAY SOMETHING,” Kate says to me. Her hand is clammy, and I can smell her nervous sweat. I can tell she is terrified by the move she has made but is sticking with it, such is the strength of her conviction.

  “What?”

  “You should say something, address the people.”

  “Yes, do it.” Mona overhears and lets go of my hand. She shoves me gently out of line.

  I’m standing alone, the broken link in the chain.

  “No,” I protest, my stomach filling with butterflies and my throat tightening at the very thought. I try to step back in line, but they push me forward again. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I think back to weeks ago in Alpha and Professor Lambert’s house, when Alpha invited me up to the stage to speak. All the eager faces looking at me expectantly, hoping for something great to come out of my mouth after their rapturous applause. I had their complete attention, they were on my side, and I couldn’t think of one thing to say. The Whistleblowers, ironically, saved me that day by breaking up the event.

  “Go on,” Mona says, shoving me forward again.

  I try to get back in line, but Kate and Mona are holding hands. I feel the television cameras on us and don’t want to make a scene. It looks like I’ve been pushed out of the crowd.

  I hear somebody say, “It’s Celestine.”

  I have one of those names that’s easy to hear when others mention it, even behind my back, or quietly, thinking I can’t hear. With its s sounds, I hear it move like a wave over the crowd until finally the whistling is more like hissing, and then there’s silence.

  I take a few steps more and face them. “My name is Celestine,” I say, and my voice is so quiet Lennox starts shouting.

  “Can’t hear you, Celestine. Get up on the stage.”

  I throw him an angry look but everyone else backs him up. I expect the Whistleblowers to stop me but they’re unsure what to do at this point and nobody seems to be in control, considering some of their own people have just joined ours and their leader has retreated to the castle. They just watch as I climb up to the podium. I clear my throat.

  It feels like a nightmare: my facing thousands of people, wearing nothing but a tight slip—my body, my shape, all my flaws revealed. It should be demeaning, but it’s not. What’s that thing they tell people who are afraid of public speaking to do? Imagine that everybody is naked, or in their underwear. Well, they are. Everybody’s flaws are revealed. Nobody before me is Perfect. I don’t feel judged. If anything, I feel so empowered looking at these humans who are all so self-aware that the panic disappears immediately.

  “My name is Celestine North,” I say loudly, my voice traveling over the vast crowd.

  What follows is a huge cheer that surprises me. It surprises the Whistleblowers, too, and they straighten their backs and ready themselves for whatever will come.

  “I watched Judge Crevan’s interview last night, and we’ve all heard what he had to say, now I hope he hears me. Now it’s my turn.”

  A Whistleblower steps forward to stop me. “My right to freedom of speech has not been removed,” I say. He looks to his superior, who gives him a nod, so he steps down.

  I don’t know where it comes from, but everything I felt while watching Crevan on TV last night slowly bubbles to the surface.

  “Arrogance, greed, impatience, stubbornness, martyrdom, self-deprecation, self-destruction. These are the seven character flaws Judge Crevan placed on us. But Judge Crevan, there are two sides to every story. When you tell me that I have greed, I call it desire. Desire for a fair and equal society. When you call me arrogant, I call it pride, because my beliefs make me stand above those who oppress me.

  “When you say I am impatient, I say that I am daring to question your judgments, which are not law but mere morality courts. You call me stubborn; I say I’m determined. You say I want to make myself a martyr; I say I’m showing selflessness. Self-deprecation? Humility. Self-destruction? What I did for Clayton Byrne on the bus was not a deliberate act to ruin my life but a decision based on the belief that what was happening was inhumane. What you see as flaws, Judge Crevan, I see as strengths.

  “Mistakes are nothing to be ashamed of. Mistakes teach us to take responsibility. They teach us what works and what doesn’t. We learn what we would do differently the next time, how we will be different, better, and wiser in the future. We are not just walking mistakes, we are human.” My voice cracks and the crowd erupts into joyous applause.

  “To err is human. You learn from your mistakes,” I say to the hushed crowd. “The rest of the world uses these phrases. If this is true, and Judge Crevan and our current leaders have never made mistakes, then it is us who can teach them a thing or two, because I stand before you the most branded, the most Flawed person in the world. Today we drift away from the shadow of the Guild, this morality court, and we emerge as the leaders of the future.”

  Mona punches the air and lets out a roar, and the rest of the crowd quickly follows. I see Professor Lambert clapping his hands proudly. Lorcan and Fergus are high-fiving others.

  It was worth it. It really was. Despite what happens next.

  SIXTY-TWO


  I DON’T FEEL any fear as the Whistleblowers take me away. Right now, I’m on a high after my speech. I don’t know where the words came from, they all just came tumbling out when I needed them most. I just hope that my family heard them, and Carrick, wherever he is.

  The Whistleblowers aren’t gentle with me, either. As soon as we’re out of the TV cameras’ views, the Whistleblowers tighten their grips on my arms, pull me along as they quicken their pace. This isn’t Tina anymore. I’m not some misunderstood seventeen-year-old, but that’s okay—I don’t feel like the same girl who passed through these halls five weeks ago, terrified, clinging to my relationship with Crevan as my way of getting out of here. Every sound scared me, the guards scared me; I was always looking around, always afraid.

  I’m not afraid anymore. This time I know that I am right and they are wrong.

  I’m taken through the castle, down the elevator to the basement. I’m processed through reception, and each guard who sees me lets me know what they think of me. When we enter the holding cells, the first person I see in a cell of his own is Raphael Angelo. He’s sitting on a chair, feet up, crossed at the ankles, watching Flawed TV, his back to me.

  I smile at his casualness. On TV is an image of the crowd-filled courtyard outside. The Flawed have all sat down on the cobblestones and are whistling. A sit-down protest. Members of the public are visible at the gates, whistling, too; the crowds have grown since Crevan announced the Reduction of the Flawed plan. Whistleblowers surround the Flawed with their riot gear, but the Flawed aren’t giving them any trouble.

  Raphael Angelo turns around, probably seeing our reflections in his glass cage. He smiles when he sees me, offers me a thumbs-up. I go to return the gesture, but the Whistleblowers act like I’m about to throw a grenade. They grab my hands and twist them behind my back. I shout out in pain, bend over as they contort my body into an unnatural position.

  “Home, sweet home,” one of the guards says as we stop before my old cell. It hasn’t changed at all since the last time I was here. Apart from one thing. I step inside and see Granddad.

  “Granddad!” I say, running into his open arms and hugging him tightly, as though my life depends on it. “Are you okay?” I pull away quickly and examine him, my hands on his face, turning his cheeks this way and that to get a good look at him, to make sure they haven’t harmed him.

  “I’m all right, I’m all right,” he says, pulling me into a hug again, and I see tears in his eyes. “I thought I burned you alive,” he says, whispering fearfully. “As long as I live I’ll never forgive myself for what I did.”

  “You didn’t burn me, though, did you?” I hold him tight. “I’m here.”

  “But I didn’t know until the next day. I couldn’t be sure … I keep seeing myself drop the flame on top of you. At night when I’m sleeping here, I hear your screams.” He hugs me tighter.

  “Granddad, I’m here. You didn’t hurt me.” I lower my voice so that the guards don’t hear. “You saved me. Remember that. I wouldn’t have escaped if it weren’t for you.”

  He kisses me on the head, and I feel his body trembling.

  “Tell me what’s been going on,” I say, trying to get him to focus. “Why have they kept you here? They can’t hold you here without any reasons.”

  “Ah,” he says tiredly. “Every day there is a new reason they’re looking into.”

  “That’s enough,” the guard says roughly. “Time’s up.”

  Granddad is immediately resigned to the order. He’s been here four days, he knows it’s not worth the fight.

  “I want more time with my granddad,” I say, but they ignore me.

  The guards hold him firmly and take him to the cell beside Raphael’s, diagonal to mine. Despite his defeated air, something I have never seen in him before, Granddad looks good, clean-shaven, healthy. The facilities here are excellent—he has been well cared for, just confined for longer than necessary. He has had too long with his thoughts, and my heart breaks at his broken spirit.

  I finally look to the cell adjoining mine, having a sudden ridiculous romantic pining for the man I’ve fallen in love with. I know it’s ridiculous to want Carrick to be here in captivity with me, because he’s out in the real world, in relative freedom, but this is where we met, and I’ve never been in this room without him.

  I blink, thinking my eyes are deceiving me. Showing me what I want instead of the reality. But the vision doesn’t change.

  Carrick is there. Standing at the glass, looking at me.

  There’s bruising around his right eye. I freeze, unable to believe it. Is it my imagination or is he really here?

  “Sorry,” he mouths, looking defeated.

  “Took your boyfriend in this morning. Just like old times now, isn’t it?” The guards laugh as they leave me and lock the door behind me.

  I rush to the glass and put my hand on the pane.

  We’re back to where we started, only it’s not good enough now. I know what his touch feels like, I know what his voice sounds like, I know how he smells. And this thing between us that separated us but linked us before is not good enough now.

  He was supposed to be safe. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  I kick the glass and scream.

  SIXTY-THREE

  I’M NOT ALONE in my cell for long. Judge Crevan, Judge Sanchez, and Judge Jackson and a man in a crumpled white linen suit, with a gray goatee and a bad sunburn, enter. The judges are in their red cloaks, the Guild crests on their chests. The Purveyors of Perfection have all graced me with their presence.

  They march toward me in single file, on a mission, like a little army, their folders under their arms. Judge Sanchez looks like she’s going to be ill and looks at me with wide, alarmed eyes.

  This should be interesting.

  Immediately Carrick, Granddad, and Raphael all stand to watch. My backup even if they’re separated by glass, but their presence guides me. The guard unlocks the door for the judges, they stream in, and then the guard stands in the corner.

  “You can leave,” Crevan instructs the guard, who looks a little put out at being dismissed.

  “Sit, Celestine,” Crevan says. He looks tired. Older. I’ve aged him and I’m glad.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Jesus, Celestine.” He slams his hand down, which makes the man with the bad tan jump.

  I smile.

  “Can you just do one thing you’re told?”

  “‘Stubbornness. Resisting change,’” I quote him.

  He’s so clearly on the edge, I’m enjoying this. Judge Sanchez looks at him nervously, at me nervously. Am I going to tell on her? She’s probably wondering.

  “I heard what you did to my sister, Juniper.” I look him dead in the eye, both of us knowing it was me he captured on the top of the summit. “Do the other judges know, too?”

  Jackson is clearly aware of this and looks at Crevan with annoyance. “It was an unfortunate misunderstanding, though I understand you and your sister have been mistaken for each other before.”

  “And what about Logan, Colleen, Gavin, and Natasha? Who did you mistake them for?”

  Jackson looks at Crevan; maybe it’s an answer he’d like to hear for himself.

  Crevan is cool as anything. “They, and the guards, were helping me and a special team of Whistleblowers with my investigation into your whereabouts. We take evaders seriously in the Guild.”

  His coolness makes me fear he’ll get away with what he’s done, despite Mom arriving with a police officer, a lawyer, and a newspaper editor, despite them finding missing teenagers, my innocent sister, drugged guards, a journalist, and a lawyer. He could get away with it all over again.

  “Perhaps I could speak with Celestine on my own for a moment,” Sanchez says suddenly.

  “Why?” Jackson asks.

  “Woman-to-woman. I know that Judge Crevan and Celestine have a personal history that makes their communication difficult.”

  “All the same, I’d rather stay
in the meeting,” Jackson says. “And I’m sure Judge Crevan would, too. Perhaps if we agree to do the talking and, Judge, you can take a backseat on this one.”

  This request angers Crevan.

  Judge Sanchez looks at me. “There are things that Celestine and I had the opportunity to talk about before, shortly after her branding, that I’m hoping still stand.”

  Our deal is back on? Me and her versus Crevan? But Sanchez double-crossed me once already—can I trust her, and do I want to try?

  Granddad, Carrick, and Raphael are all pressed up against the glass of their cells, trying to decipher what’s going on. Carrick is so close to us it’s as though he’s in the cell with me, but he can’t hear a word of what is going on. Raphael motions at me. He wants to come in here.

  My head pounds. I love mathematics because a problem always has a solution. Follow the theorem and you can always find the answer. Lately, I’m confused, there are no theorems, just people playing games with one another, changing the rules as they go along. But just because they change the rules doesn’t mean that I have to.

  “Who are you?” I ask the linen-suit man with the tan.

  “This is Richard Willingham,” Crevan replies, even though I didn’t ask him. “He’s here to discuss your case. You’re legally required by Flawed rules to have a representative.”

  “I already have a representative.”

  Crevan puts his pen down. “Mr. Willingham has flown in from abroad, last-minute, to assist me here today.”

  “Sorry I disturbed your golf holiday,” I say to the lawyer. “Seeing as my previous representative, Mr. Berry, is in a drug-induced state, I request to use my new counsel. We don’t need any private jets to get him here. He’s right over there. I won’t talk to you a second longer until you bring him in.”

  They all look at Raphael. He waves.

  “Him?” Willingham asks.