Flawed Page 4

  I watch the Flawed woman sitting alone on the seat, her armband with the bloodred symbol identifying her.

  I see the symbol on her temple, too, and wonder what bad judgment she made to land herself in this predicament. The scar on her temple is certainly not new. It doesn’t have the red-hot, crusted look of newly seared flesh as some Flawed have. She has been Flawed for quite some time, and I wonder if this means she’s worse now, if Flawed get more Flawed with age or if the branding, the acknowledgment of it, stops it from spreading and growing. She is texting; and when she rests the phone on her lap, I see the screen photo of her with children. For the first time I wonder what it’s like for the Flawed to live life in the same world as everybody else whom they love, but under different rules. It has never occurred to me before. I think of Angelina and her children. Angelina will have job restrictions, curfews, travel restrictions. How can she mother her children if she is living under different rules? What if there is an emergency in the middle of the night? Can she break her curfew to bring her children to the hospital? What if the Tinders go on a family holiday abroad and Angelina can’t go? What if Colleen decides to work and live abroad? Her mother won’t be able to visit her. Ever. And why have I never thought of these things before?

  Because I never cared, that’s why. Because if people have done something wrong, then I always thought they deserved their punishment. They’re not criminals, but they’re just missing being physically behind bars. If Angelina, who I believed could never hurt a fly, can so easily be considered Flawed, then perhaps this woman before me is no worse, either. I have never spoken to one before. It’s not that we’re not allowed to, it’s just that I wouldn’t know what to say. I step around them when they’re near me, I avoid their eye contact. I suppose I act like they don’t exist. They’re always in the Flawed section of the supermarket, the one that I pass through aisles to avoid, buying their grains and oats and whatever else they have to eat as part of their basic diet for their basic living. A life with no luxury is the punishment. I never thought it would be such a bad thing; it’s not like they’re behind bars. But then I never thought of having to live like that when your husband doesn’t, or your kids don’t, or the rest of society doesn’t. And then they’re not really allowed to socialize together. No more than with one other at a time. For every two Flawed, there needs to be a regular person just for numbers. I think of a Flawed wedding, a Flawed birthday party, and shudder. I wonder what they even talk about with one another. Do they swap stories of how Flawed they are? Show their brands and laugh with pride, or are they ashamed, as they should be?

  I feel Art’s lips on my earlobe. “If you don’t stop thinking, your head will explode,” he whispers. His breath is hot, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I want to stop thinking. I really do, but I can’t. For once he doesn’t have my full attention. He’s trying to bring me back to him, but I can’t go there. I’m caught in this thought, in this moment.

  The bus stops and a woman with crutches gets on. The driver helps her and guides her to the Flawed seats, which have the most legroom. The seats are deliberately set farther away so people don’t have to touch them or bump against them, reinforcing that distinction between us and them. She sits beside the Flawed woman, who smiles at her.

  The other woman throws her such a look of disgust that I’m embarrassed for the Flawed woman, who looks away, hurt visible in her eyes. She senses that I’m looking at her, and our eyes meet for a minuscule moment before I look away, heart pounding from having made contact. I hope no one has seen. I hope it doesn’t look like I’m on her side.

  “What is going on with you today?” Art asks, a slightly bewildered and amused expression on his face.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m just perfect. That’s all.”

  He smiles and rubs the palm of my hand with his thumb, and I melt.

  Juniper sits across the aisle from us, her body pushed so far up against the window she couldn’t possibly get any farther away from me and Art, or anyone else on the bus for that matter.

  I don’t know when things became like this between me and Juniper. Photos and stories prove that we were extremely tight as children. Juniper is the big sister by a small amount, but she enjoyed mollycoddling me, taking on the role of nurturing big sister. But when we began junior high, things started to change between us. Though we were in the same year, we were in different classes and made our own friends for the first time, and the divide began. I excelled in school—I adore information and am always hungry to know more. I read books, I watch documentaries, my favorite subject is math, and I hope to study it at the city university when I finish school this year. My aim is to win the Fields Medal, the International Medal for Outstanding Discoveries in Mathematics, viewed as the greatest honor a mathematician can receive, like a math Nobel Prize. You have to be under forty to win it. I’m seventeen. There’s time. Test results so far prove that I’m on course to get into my university program with ease. Juniper isn’t the jealous type, but our differences in grades were the first thing to set us apart.

  My scores were celebrated; hers weren’t. They were never bad; they just weren’t perfect. Everybody always wanted her to do better, to be better. And I understand the pressure she was under, but I could have been there to help her, not be the one she eventually blamed.

  She thinks I’m a know-it-all, which she has told me plenty of times, and I try not to be one with her. I know I have a habit of correcting people’s grammar or recounting dictionary definitions, but that’s just me. Doing it does not make me feel I am better than the person I am saying it to. It is just an expression of who I am. I try to ask her questions, the meaning of things, pretend not to know something that I do know, but she finds this patronizing. She’s right, but I don’t know what else to do. My striving for perfection includes wanting to have the ideal relationship with my sister, like in the movies I see and the books I read, the stories that tell you that sisterhood is the one real true love and relationship you will have in your life.

  Juniper is dyslexic. She sees this as another failure, another trait that has let her down, but I can see that it makes her view things in a different way. I’m a problem-solver. I read the signs, the proof that I see before me, and come to a conclusion. Juniper is cleverer than that. She has an alternate way of reading things. She reads people. I don’t know how she does it, but she watches and listens and arrives at conclusions I could never imagine, and usually she’s right. I look at things straight on; her perspective seems to curve around things, wind and twist, turn things upside down to reach the answer. I have never told her that I think this about her. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to come across as patronizing, but really I know it’s because I have a jealousy of my own.

  I think about what Mom said earlier about Jimmy Child maybe not being the only person to have been found not Flawed.

  “Did you know that there might be other people who went through the Flawed court and were found to be not Flawed?” I whisper to Art.

  I feel his grip on my hand loosen as he turns to me. He’s annoyed I won’t let go of this. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “I think there must be other people found innocent that we don’t know about. Has your dad ever said anything?”

  “Bloody hell, Celestine, drop it, will you?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “You’re not really supposed to.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Not here, anyway,” he says, looking around nervously.

  I go quiet. I can only look ahead at the Flawed woman, head swirling with unfamiliar thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

  ELEVEN

  AT THE NEXT stop, the Flawed woman gets off and a rather large lady gets on. She recognizes the woman with the crutches and sits down beside her, and they chat.

  At the next stop, an old man gets on the bus, and I almost call out to him. He looks so much like my granddad that I’m convinced it’s him, which
doesn’t make sense because my granddad lives on a farm in the country, but then I see the large F symbol on his armband and I shudder, annoyed with myself for ever thinking someone like him could possibly be related to me.

  My prejudice strikes me. I had been repulsed by the reaction of the woman with the crutches to the Flawed woman smiling at her, but I hold equal views of my own without ever realizing it.

  The man is in his seventies or eighties. I’m not sure. He’s old, and he is dressed in a smart suit and polished shoes, as if he’s on his way to work. From this angle, I can’t see any signs of branding, though it could mean it is on his chest, tongue, or foot. He looks respectable, and again I study him, surprised by his appearance. I always thought of the Flawed as less than us, and I can’t believe I have admitted that to myself. He is unable to sit, because the two Flawed seats are taken—by two women who are not Flawed but are so busy chatting that they don’t notice him. He stands near them, holding on to the pole to stay upright.

  I hope they notice him soon. He doesn’t look like he will go very far standing.

  A few minutes pass. He is still standing. I look around. There are at least a dozen free seats where he could sit, but he is not allowed to. I’m a logical person, and this does not prove logical to me.

  I look across at Juniper, who has taken off her headphones and is sitting up, poker straight, alert, and looking at the same situation that I am. Juniper has always been more emotional than I am, and I can see her on the edge of her seat, ready to pounce. Instead of fearing she will do something stupid, for once I am glad she and I feel the same.

  The old man starts coughing. And then he won’t stop.

  His breath is wheezy, barely still for a moment before he coughs again. He takes out a handkerchief and coughs into that, trying to block the germs and noise. His face goes from white to pink to purple, and I see Juniper move closer to the edge of her seat. She looks at the two women chatting, then back to the old man. Finally, he stops coughing.

  Moments later he starts again, and all heads turn away from him and look out the window. The fat lady stops talking to look at him, and I’m relieved, knowing she will finally let him sit in the seat he is entitled to. Instead, she tuts as if he’s bothering her and continues her conversation.

  Now I straighten up in my seat.

  The coughing is bothering her. It is bothering everyone on the bus. His loud gasps for breath can’t be ignored, and yet they are. Rules state that if anyone aids a Flawed, they will be imprisoned, but not in this case, surely? Are we to watch him struggling right before us?

  The coughing stops.

  My heart is pounding.

  I let go of Art’s hand. It feels clammy.

  “What’s up?”

  “Can’t you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “The coughing.”

  He looks around. “There’s no one coughing.”

  The coughing starts again, and Art doesn’t bat an eyelash when he looks at me intimately and says, “You know I can’t wait to be somewhere alone. Why don’t we miss the first class?”

  I can barely hear him over the coughing, over my pounding heart. Does nobody hear the old man? Does nobody see him? I look around, flustered. All eyes are staring out the window or on him in disgust, as if he’s about to infect us all with his flaws.

  Juniper’s eyes are filled with tears. My own flesh and blood agreeing with me is validation enough. I make a move to stand up, and Art’s hand suddenly clamps around my arm.

  “Don’t,” he says firmly.

  “Ow!” I try to move, but instead his grip feels like a red-hot iron. “You’re hurting me.”

  “And do you think when they sear your skin it won’t hurt more than this?” He squeezes tighter.

  “Art, stop! Ouch!” I feel my skin burning.

  He stops.

  “How is this fair?” I hiss.

  “He has done something wrong, Celestine.”

  “Like what? Something that’s completely legal in another country but that people are prosecuted for here anyway?”

  He looks as if I stung him.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Celestine,” he says, sensing he has lost the argument. “And don’t help him,” he adds quickly.

  “I have no intention of helping him.”

  How I walk by this coughing, wheezing, struggling-to-breathe old man is beyond me, but I do, seeing the faint F scar on his temple as though it has been there a very long time, like it’s as much a part of him as the freckles and hair alongside it. I walk straight to the two women in the Flawed seats. They are chatting about making jam, as if nothing is wrong.

  “Excuse me,” I say sweetly, offering them the most polite smile I can muster. They respond immediately with their own bright smiles. Two polite, friendly women from the suburbs willing to help me with anything. Almost anything.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Could one of you sit in any of the available seats here? Or I could offer you two seats together where my boyfriend and I are sitting so that you can continue your conversation?”

  As I look up at Art, all I can see is terror on his face. Funny, I no longer feel it. I like solutions. The problem was disturbing me, and fixing it just made sense. I’m not doing anything wrong; I’m not breaking any laws or rules. I’ve always been complimented on my timing, my perfection. I come from a good home. I have a pleasant manner. The anklet of geometric harmony proves it.

  “May I ask why?” the woman with the broken leg asks.

  “Well, this man here”—I point to the old man—“is clearly Flawed, and you are in the Flawed seats. He can’t sit down anywhere else. And he is struggling.”

  I notice a few faces turn to stare at me when I say that. I expect them to understand. I expect there to be no further conversation. I even expect the few who have overheard to step in and agree, make sense of the situation. But they don’t. They look confused, some even scared. One man looks amused. This is illogical. This is Juniper’s territory, not mine. I look at her. She has the same face of terror as Art does. She is not moving. If I ever thought she was going to back me up, I know now that she won’t.

  “But we’re talking,” the other woman says.

  “And he’s choking,” I say with the same smile on my face, which I know looks a little psychotic, because we are no longer being polite.

  “Are you trying to help him?” the woman with the crutches asks.

  “N-n-no,” I stutter. “I’m not. I’m trying to help the situation.…” I flash her a brilliant smile, but she recoils from me.

  “I want nothing to do with this,” the other woman says loudly, attracting more attention.

  “With what?” I laugh nervously. “Your leg is fine. Perhaps if you just move to another chair and your friend stays here…”

  “I’m staying right where I am,” she hollers.

  Now we have the attention of the entire bus.

  The old man, who is beside me, can barely stand. He is bent over coughing. He turns to me, face purple, and tries to talk, but he can’t catch his breath.

  I don’t know what he’s trying to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what medical help to give him. Even if I knew what medical help to provide, I wouldn’t be able to give it to him. Think, think, Celestine. I can’t help, but a doctor can.

  “Is there a doctor here?” I call down the bus, and I see Art put his face in his hands.

  There’s an audible gasp in the bus.

  I look around at everyone, the judgmental faces of surprise. I feel dizzy and confused. This man is going to collapse, maybe die. My eyes start to fill.

  “Are we going to just watch this?” I scream.

  “Stop it, dear,” a woman says to me in a hushed voice. She is clearly upset about it, too. It’s not just me, but she’s warning me. I’m going too far.

  This is completely illogical. Have we
no compassion for this human being, Flawed or not, that we won’t help?

  Heads look away. Eyes are averted.

  “Okay, okay,” I say to the old man, who by now is panicking severely. He continues to cough, and I can see the F on his tongue, which makes me recoil slightly. I can’t imagine the pain of receiving it. “It’s okay.”

  He punches his chest, starts to fall to his knees.

  I pull him up under the arms, and I bring him to the nearest open seat.

  “Stop the bus!” I yell.

  The bus stops, and I assure the old man everything will be fine.

  I look over at Juniper and see that she is crying.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her and Art. “It’s going to be fine.” My heart is still pounding. “This has all been so very ridiculous.” My voice is high-pitched and shrill; it doesn’t sound like mine. And then I hear the siren, loud, close, intense, and threatening.

  TWELVE

  EVERYBODY STAYS STILL in their seats, waiting, my heart beating loudly over the silence. Two Whistleblowers climb aboard blowing silver whistles so loudly most people block their ears. They make their way toward me and the old man.

  “See? I told you it will be fine,” I tell the man over the noise. “They’re here. Help is here.”

  He nods faintly, his eyes closed. I expect them to go to the old man, who has passed out on the seat, exhausted and taking short breaths, a fine layer of sweat covering his skin. But they don’t go to him. They come for me.