His voice echoes in my head: You didn’t ask.
We reach the Physiology room and snag two seats side by side as the bell rings. A surprisingly young woman named Ms. Hill walks us through our syllabus, and I spend the next few minutes flipping through the textbook, trying to figure out which bones Owen snapped inside my wrist. It’s funny—looking at the maps of bone and muscle and nerve, the diagrams of body flexion and movement and potential—how much of this I’ve learned already. More through trial and error and application than assigned reading, but it’s still nice to find that some of the knowledge translates. I run my fingertips lightly over the illustrated fingers on the page.
I make it through the lecture, and Amber points me in the direction of my last class: Government. It’s taught by Mr. Lowell, a man in his fifties with a mop of graying curls and a soft, even voice. I’m prepared to have to stab myself with my pen to stay awake, but then he starts talking.
“Everything that rises will fall,” he says. “Empires, societies, governments. None of them lasts forever. Why? Because even though they are the products of change, they become resistant to change. The longer a society survives, the more it clings to its power, and the more it resists progress. The more it resists progress—resists change—the more its citizens demand it. In response, the society tightens its grip, desperate to maintain control. It’s afraid of losing its hold.”
I stiffen in my seat.
Do you know why the Archive has so many rules, Miss Bishop? Owen asked me on the roof that day. It’s because they’re afraid of us. Terrified.
“Societies are afraid of their citizens,” echoes Mr. Lowell. “The more a society tightens its grip, the more the people fight that grip.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger, going around and around, and each time he does, the circle gets smaller. “Tighter and tighter, and the resistance grows and grows until it spills over into action. That action takes one of two forms.”
He writes two words on the board: REVOLUTION and REFORM.
“The first segment of this class,” says Mr. Lowell, “will be dedicated to the language of revolution; the second segment will be dedicated to the language of reform.” He erases the word REFORM from the board.
“You’ve all heard the language of revolution. The rhetoric. For instance, a government can be called corrupt.” He writes the word corrupt on the board. “Give me some other words.”
“The government is rotten,” says a girl at the front of the class.
“The company is abusing power,” says a boy.
“The system is broken,” adds another.
“Very good, very good,” says Mr. Lowell. “Keep going.”
I cringe as Owen’s voice echoes in my head. The Archive is a prison.
“A prison,” I say, my voice carrying over the others before I even realize I’ve spoken out loud. The room quiets as the teacher considers me. Finally he nods.
“Rhetoric of imprisonment and, conversely, the call for freedom. One of the most classic examples of revolutionary thought. Well done, Miss…”
“Bishop.”
He nods again and turns his attention back to the class. “Anyone else?”
By the time school lets out, my edges are starting to fray.
The morning coffee and lunch soda can’t make up for the days—weeks, really—without sleep. And having Owen in my head for most of last period hasn’t helped my nerves. A shaky yawn escapes as I push open the outer doors of the history hall and step into the afternoon sun, abandoning the crowded path for a secluded patch of grass where I can stop and soak up the light and clear my head. I free my Keeper list from my shirt pocket and am relieved to see that there’s still only one name on the page.
“Who’s Harker?” asks Cash over my shoulder. I jump a little at the sound of his voice, then unfold the paper slowly, careful to seem unconcerned.
“Just a neighbor,” I say, tucking the paper back into my pocket. “I promised to pick up some info on the school for him. He’s thinking about it for next year.” The lie is easy, effortless, and I try not to relish it.
“Ah, well, we can swing by the office on the way to the parking lot.” He sets off down the path.
“You really don’t have to escort me,” I say, following. “I’m sure I can find my way.”
“I have no doubt, but I’d still like—”
“Look,” I cut him off. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
He frowns, but doesn’t slow his pace. “Saf tell you that?” I shrug. “Well, yes, okay. It’s my job, but I chose it. And it’s not like I was assigned to you. I could be imposing my assistance on any of the unsuspecting freshman. I’d rather be accompanying you.” He chews his lip and squints up toward the summer sun before he continues. “If you’ll let me.”
“All right,” I agree with a teasing smile. “But just to spare those other unsuspecting students.”
He laughs lightly and waves to someone across the grass.
“So,” I say, “Cassius? That’s quite a name.”
“Cassius Arthur Graham. A mouthful, isn’t it? That’s what you get when your mother’s an Italian diplomat and your father’s a British linguist.” The ivy-coated stone back of the main building comes into sight. “But it’s not nearly as bad as Wesley’s.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Cash gives me a look, like I should know. Then, when it’s obvious I don’t, he starts to backtrack.
“Nothing. I forgot you two haven’t known each other that long.”
My steps slow on the path. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, it’s just…Wesley’s name isn’t really Wesley. That’s his middle name.”
I frown. “Then what’s his first name?”
Cash shakes his head. “Can’t say.”
“That bad?”
“He thinks so.”
“Come on, I’ve got to have some ammunition.”
“No way, he’d kill me.”
I laugh and let it drop as we reach the admin building’s doors. “You guys seem close,” I say as he holds them open for me.
“We are,” says Cash with a kind of simple certainty that makes my stomach hurt.
With Wes haunting the Coronado halls all summer, I just assumed that he lived the way I did: at a distance. But he has a life. Friends. Good friends. I have Lyndsey, but we’re close because she doesn’t make me lie. She never asks questions. But I should have asked Wes. I should have wondered.
“We grew up together,” explains Cash as we make our way toward the glass lobby. “Met him at Hartford. That’s the K-through-eight that leads into Hyde. Saf and I showed up in the fourth grade—third for her—and Wes just kind of took us in. When things started going south with his parents a few years back, we tried to return the favor. He’s not very good at taking help, though.”
I nod. “He always bounces it back.”
“Exactly,” he says, sounding genuinely frustrated. “But then his mom left and things went from bad to worse.”
“What happened?” I press.