UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,10
note in her performance. It’s good to know that little Miss Perfect isn’t so perfect after all.
Risa ends the piece and begins monotonous scales, and so with Brooklyn’s musical interlude over, she takes the stairwell to the staff offices. Sunday means that the headmaster isn’t in his office, and it’s a good time to snoop. Information is everything. Brooklyn learned that in her intermediate electronic warfare class. But she isn’t using electronics to gather intel now. She will go old-school. Flipping through files, searching the desk, finding information she can use.
Hearing raised voices, she stalls in the stairwell. Luckily, she hasn’t opened the stairwell door—which creaks badly and is directly across from the headmaster’s office. In small increments she cracks it open, just as she had inched open the music room door to hear Risa play. This time she won’t be hearing a sonata.
“No more delays, Marshall,” she hears Headmaster Thomas say. “Give me your preliminary metrics now. You have till four thirty for your interim assessments—and I expect a final report one hour after testing tomorrow.”
Brooklyn holds her breath. A meeting with teachers on Sunday? Even surprise government inspections happen during the week. She shivers, and not just because the stairwell is drafty. StaHo runs on rigid schedules. Departures from normal behavior scream red alert.
“Before dinner, I want the children in your charge ranked. Reports from floors four and five only. Any questions?”
Brooklyn does not wait for the questions. Any teachers leaving early will take the stairwell and see her. She eases the door closed, cutting off the voices.
Quaking, she heads upstairs and into the room of a thirteen-year-old. Even though she throws herself onto his bed, he doesn’t react. Thor leans over his keyboard, his nose almost touching the screen. His room isn’t much larger than a mop closet, but he gets his own room. The luck of being in a protected class.
Waiting till he realizes that she’s there, she stares at the bookshelf stacked with overdue library books, the laundry bag overflowing with soiled clothes, and a half-eaten sandwich on the nightstand. The only wall decoration is a rusty mallet nicked from the handyman’s tool kit. Thor’s Hammer. She has no idea who started naming all the protected-class kids after gods—but Thor always rolled with it. And besides, when you’re alone in a room in a StaHo, a hammer can ward off the worst kinds of intrusions.
Her attention drifts back to Thor. He still doesn’t seem to have sensed her presence, and she tires of waiting.
Stretching till her foot reaches the back of his chair, she gives it a good kick.
He jerks forward, and then swivels his chair. His fingers fly.
I knew you were there, B.
When he signs the letter B, his fingertips curl like a claw, his name for her. She grins. No other kid would dare give her a nickname, but she likes him making a weapon of hers.
How? she signs, and laughs when he indicates the mirror near his computer, facing the door. She laughs again when he mocks her by thumping his clawed B hand across his forearm. So he’d also felt her enter the room. Thor always knows. She would be suspicious of anyone else so observant—but there’s no one she trusts more than Thor.
You’re gonna freak when I tell you what I discovered, Brooklyn signs.
He sighs, spinning his chair closer to the bed. You can’t be in here, B. And I can’t keep wiping the demerits from your records. I told you to talk to me at dinner.
He signs with an American Sign Language abbreviated by the home dialect all the StaHo deaf kids use. They’ve been friends since she stood up for him on the playground nearly ten years ago, so Brooklyn can extrapolate what she sees into her hearing-world’s English.
She signs slower than he does, but her fingers jab the air insistently. We need to talk NOW. Teachers met in the headmaster’s office. He wants kids ranked this afternoon. On a Sunday.
His eyebrows raise. Probably the state wants more data to feed their paperwork monster.
She knows he doesn’t believe that. After all, he’s the one who suspected something was going on. For just the top two floors? she signs.
He sucks in a breath and nods. He understands as she does. Only kids thirteen and older live on the top floors.
Another harvesting so soon? . . . His fingers trail off, and his gaze meets hers.
Budget cuts? Brooklyn suggests. So StaHo sends another batch of kids to the harvest camps?