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CHAPTER TWO

  For the next few hours, I wander around Sector Two, pretending to be shopping in the Farmer’s Market, or considering jewelry at my mom’s favorite jeweler, admiring the artful handiwork of some of the metal workers from Three. When I can stay out no longer, I sneak into my parents’ apartment. Because home is where you go when you have nowhere else to go. And, even at sixteen, no one knows how to make things better than Mom.

  My appointment as Miss Evelyn’s Suitor has granted me an apartment in Sector Two, despite my “inadequate” status of being the offspring of mechanical engineers. I’ll keep it for as long as I remain a Suitor. Should she not choose me, I will be remaindered back into the care of my parents. So Mother says.

  A sick feeling is eating away at my gut, and I can’t pretend not to know why. It’s not that I’m not supposed to be here—in my parents’ apartment—anymore, even though I’m not. Or that I’m worried my mother will want to know what I’m doing out so close to curfew—she already knows. It’s the thoughts I’ve been having since my tryst with Evie.

  Guilt weighs on me. I feel almost like I’m drowning in it. It was obvious she hadn’t believed me. She’s nothing if not observant and, being who she is, she can recognize a lie from a fathom a way. But she let it be. We both knew, have known for a while, that I haven’t been telling her something. But she never asks. Never pushes. Just quietly accepts that I won’t or can’t tell her.

  She’d just changed the subject, telling me about her day. Normally she’d have inquired about my day and my parents, but she must have known—or at least thought—I’d just have to lie to her about it, so she didn’t. Instead she’d chattered on and on about her flowers, what her maids were gossiping about, anything and everything she could think of. Practically babbling to fill the silence my guilt had turned from serene to a straining tenseness. Anyone overhearing her side of the conversation would have thought exactly what Mother wanted everyone to think about Evie: that she was a daft, ignorant child.

  Normally I could—and would—have done nothing but hold her hand and listen to her talk about anything. Once I listened for almost two hours while she’d talked on about a Surface artifact I’d brought her. It was the first time I’d really realized that she wasn’t what everyone, including my parents, thought of her. She was intelligent, and witty. And had a way about her that made you want to listen to what she was saying, especially when she was excited about something. And she was definitely excited about this piece.

  She explained everything there was to know about it. What it was. What it meant. Where people used it. I think I must’ve gotten an entire history lesson of the Surface and its trinkets, just from that one object. Some kind of gold cup with pictures engraved along the side. The crews from Sector Three are forever finding stuff and I’d learned early on that she adored anything to do with the Surface, from the tiniest metal objects to vases she placed all over her rooms.

  Even though they were contraband and anyone caught with stuff like that would be punished harshly, Mother didn’t seem to care that she collected any of it. In fact, she seemed glad of it. Evie had even told me that she had Surface studies that involved more than just the dire warnings we got. She’d confided in me that she thought maybe Mother was wrong and that the Surface wasn’t entirely the abhorrent place Mother had made it out to be.

  My mom had prattled on for days wondering why Evie would be allowed to study the Surface and demanded I find out what Evie knew. But almost a week later Evie came to me in our place and hadn’t remembered a word of the conversation we’d had about it. She’d merely laughed it off and told me that of course Mother was right about the Surface. Mother was always right.

  When I’d asked her why she hadn’t come to see me in more than a week, she’d looked puzzled, then mumbled something about forgetting and changed the subject. The first of her secrets. The first time I’d actually seen what my mom and dad—and Eli—had only hinted at in murmured conversations.

  Today, however, Evie’s voice hadn’t been soothing. It had been frenzied, and made my already taught nerves vibrate like the strings on her violin when she ran her bow over them. So I’d done the only thing I could think of to stop myself from spilling every secret I had.

  I’d kissed her.

  It may not have been our first kiss, but it felt like the first time, every time. Especially when she couldn’t remember that we’d kissed before. And even though I hated what that meant—her forgetting—I did like how she responded to the “first kiss” every single time.

  Unfortunately, it had done nothing to soothe my nerves. It had only made me feel even guiltier. So I’d made up some flimsy excuse about my mom needing me and taken off, leaving her behind in the darkened hallway. Like a coward.

  And now I find myself in my parents’ living room, leaning against the door, a headache pounding its way through my brain.

  My mom is in the kitchen. The clinking of utensils against porcelain and the sound of gushing water travels to my ears. As expected, I find her washing dishes. Her blond hair—almost the exact shade as mine—is pulled tight into a ponytail. She’s wearing one of her pretty flowery dresses with the big bow in the back, which only serves to remind me how tiny my mom is. And how delicate. How she shouldn’t be doing what she’s doing with the Underground. But if not her, then who?

  And, of course, without her, I’d never have met Evie.

  Mom must hear me, because she spins around, her arms covered in soap bubbles—almost the same color as her skin—to her elbows. Her face drains of blood, turning a sickly white as it fills with alarm; that instinctive look we all get when something surprises us.

  That must have been what my face looked like when Evie first came upon me tonight.

  But then my mom smiles and her whole face brightens, even though she presses a still soap-covered hand over her heart. “Timothy!” Her tone is chastising, but she’s still smiling. “You scared me.” Then she says the same thing she’s said every time I’ve startled her since I can remember. “I thought you were a rat.”

  And for the first time in hours, the guilt eases a little and I’m able to recite the part I always say. “I’m an awfully big rat.”

  “But a cute one.” She eyes me now, her mother’s gaze catching all the hidden signs of the stress tearing me apart. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s the use of having a dishwasher if you never use it?” I ask in answer, hoping to distract her. I know better, but I can hope.

  “It’s soothing. It calms my nerves.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s going on? Did Evie not come?”

  I sigh. “She did.”

  She frowns at me. “Then what’s the problem?”

  I don’t answer. In truth, I don’t know how to tell her that I almost ruined everything she and the others have worked so hard for.

  So I settle for the one thing I’ve become really good at. A half-truth. “I’m just tired. All this sneaking around and pretending is exhausting.”

  Her eyes soften before she turns back to the sink. “I know, sweetheart. But just know that you’re doing the right thing.”

  For a moment, I don’t say anything, carefully trying to figure out how to word my thoughts. “It just doesn’t feel right. Lying to her all the time. Not telling her what Mother is doing. Having to pretend that every time she ‘forgets’ something it’s just because she’s daft, when I know damned well she isn’t.”

  “Language, Timothy!” she says, but there’s no heat behind the words. Still, I apologize.

  For a second, the sounds of clinking stop, before starting up again. “I can’t pretend to know how this must make you feel. But just remember that you’re doing this for her. Remember what Mother is doing to her and what she will do to her unless she’s stopped.”

  “But that’s my point. Shouldn’t Evie know? Maybe she could help. More than I can. She’s actually right there with Mother.”

  “That’s why we can’t tell her,” my mom says qui
etly. “She could tell Mother what we’re doing.” My mom turns to me. “You know this, Timothy.”

  “I do know. But if Mother is doing to her what we think and if she is planning to do…that,” I can’t even say it, it’s just too heinous, “don’t you think Evie would want to know? That she’d side with us once she did know and that we’d actually stand a chance against Mother?”

  She stares at me as if I’ve suddenly grown a second head or lost the one I already have. “Have you forgotten what Mother is doing to her? Even if she sides with us, which she probably would, there’s no way she could keep this from Mother.” She pauses and runs a soapy hand over her head. “Even if she wanted to.”

  “We could—”

  “No, Timothy, we can’t.” She spins back around to the sink and attacks the dishes with a viciousness I’ve never seen from her before. I almost feel sorry for the plates. “We can’t risk it.” She pauses in her assault on the dishes. “I can’t risk you.” She resumes her onslaught.

  With an exasperated sigh, I run my hands through my hair and tug on the strands, then turn and step from the room.

  “Make sure your nice suit is ready for tomorrow,” my mom calls, as if we hadn’t just been discussing something important. “The Suitor tea is tomorrow. You don’t want to be late.”