“He’s more than fine, you softy. He just saw the benefit in helping my little girl make a name for herself.”
“This has nothing to do with my name! These people need a place to live!”
“I know. And now, thanks to me, they have one.”
He hangs up, and all I can see on Arlanna’s face is rage.
Going Public
Arlanna
I’m not ready for this. I mean, any of it. But I know from experience that details like that hardly matter when there’s work to be done. It’s rare I step foot outside of our property, because truthfully, I’m a little afraid of the risk. Most of the public has warmed to the side of overthrowing the Sins of the Father bill and exonerating us all. However, I’m still an ex-con, so the armored car I bounce along in is more than just a formality.
Sloan keeps his voice light and conversational, as if he’s unaware of the tension buzzing about the black leather interior of the family car. “Do you have your talking points memorized?”
I hold up my notecards so he can see them in the rearview mirror. “Memorized, and with everything written down, in case I get flustered.”
“You’re going to do great. No one’s going to stand for things continuing on like this after they hear your speech.”
“I still think we should have had the reporters come to the camp. This whole thing is more risk than necessary.”
Father reaches for the cigar in his pocket, but then puts it back. An armored car does no good if he has the windows rolled down, all so he can indulge in his filthy habit. “It’s important we give the illusion that we’ve done nothing wrong. If you’re afraid to step a toe out of your property, it sends the message that you’re living as a criminal on the run, which is the image we want to steer away from. You should never have been incarcerated to begin with. Stick to your speech.”
Unspoken arguments roil and wrestle, wanting to blast out at him.
I wouldn’t have been in Prigham’s in the first place, were it not for my father sending me there to serve time for his crimes. If he would clean up his act and stop trying to orchestrate the world to bend to his crooked will, then I wouldn’t be memorizing a speech on social justice, and striving beyond reason to institute change.
If Father would have seen me as a person, rather than a commodity, I wouldn’t be in this car, hoping to convince the world that yes, in fact, I am a person who deserves basic human rights.
Because of him, I’ve lost my right to vote. I’ve lost my right to travel between territories. I can no longer own a firearm. I’ve never lived in a home without a gun, and I’m not about to start now.
We’ve been set free, yes, but we’ll still be subjected to regular drug tests and sobriety screenings. We’re treated as ex-cons, rather than the scarred offspring of the criminal element.
Not to mention the wounded people in my commune who have children out there, whose families won’t let them back in because now we’re all labeled as dangerous. Many have lost parenting rights, which is a hardship I don’t wish on anyone.
Of course, I don’t give voice to any of that as we jostle along in the car, mainly because there’s no point. Father will do as he does, because he will always be who he is.
But that doesn’t have to stop me from being who I am. Hence, using my celebrity status to instigate a step—maybe even a leap—toward social change.
I pull out my tablet and flip to the section where I’ve got my never-ending to-do list.
Sloan gives me a wary glance in the rearview mirror. “What are you adding, Arly? I thought we had a rule about that thing. You can’t add more items until you cross something off.”
“I’m about to cross off meeting with the press and the king, so I’m preemptively adding. It’s important that I don’t forget.”
Sloan’s chuckle calms my nerves. “I have no doubt. But you’re one person. This is a marathon, not a sprint.”
I bristle, pulling out the spoiled princess vibe I was born wearing like a crown. “It’s whatever I say it is.”
Only Sloan grins when I sound like a brat. “And what is the thing you need to add to your list?”
“I need to ask the census people at the camp if there are any therapists. The people who are losing their parenting rights because of being wrongfully locked up need someone to help them through the transition.”
“Wouldn’t that fall under the medical team Jennifer is putting together?”
I shrug. “It hasn’t yet. Jen is great because she understands that some ailments need medicine, while others just need kindness and time. But not everyone on her team is going to hold to that same philosophy. I need the census people to comb their surveys for therapists. In fact…” I pull out my phone and text Jen my instructions. She’s the only other person in the camp with a cell phone.
Camp, not commune. I don’t care what everyone’s calling it.
Once that’s properly delegated, I switch that item from “to-do” to the “check on” column. That one is also growing at too rapid a rate, though I’m sure soon enough that will get delegated. It’s hard for me to know which campers to trust, other than the four with whom I’ve shared a cell.
Charlotte keeps urging me to hand off some of the responsibility, but I’m not ready. Everyone hated me before. If I screw up and they go back to loathing me, I can accept that. I’ve got thick skin. But I couldn’t stomach putting a random camper I haven’t vetted through such scrutiny. I mean, I haven’t even given Gray a job yet.
Gray’s spirit is still on the mend, as Charlotte put it last night at dinner. He doesn’t need a job at the camp—not when he’s got one foot out the door.
When we turn down the street toward the palace, I’m struck by how stately and massive the whole thing is. I want so badly to go back to the safe haven of our camp. My suggestion for Paxton to deliver this speech was overruled. Apparently, there’s been a wave of sympathy for me that started when Officer Johnson took the photo of me covered in blood and vomit, beaten and lain out across the warden’s desk.
I’ve seen the picture, and I have to admit, I didn’t realize how bad off I was. I’d assumed I would never get out alive back then, when I was being poisoned by the substitute nurse at the prison.
The number of people protesting the Sins of the Father bill has grown exponentially, and I’m the beacon they’re to rally around.
But I think the main reason I was picked to address the public is because Father’s afraid Regis will suck Paxton back into his web.
That’s not a risk any of us are willing to take.
My heart leaps into my chest as I take in the swarm of not just reporters, but protestors and throngs of people that far outnumber the dozens I was expecting. “There must be hundreds.”
“More than that.” Sloan points ahead. “Check up the street. They’re stretched down the entire block.”
My throat dries, and every inch of self-doubt I’ve ever entertained creeps into my brain.
What do I know about any of this? I have firsthand experience with the prison system, sure, but what does that do, other than make me sound like a disgruntled teenager? I’m ornamental. That’s always been my role.