UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,16

and sixth shots. She clears it each time, but now she’s rattled. She misses all but four shots.

In the third position she kneels in a make-believe foxhole, but now it feels like she really is in a foxhole, fighting for her life. It’s nearly noon and the sun is high, beating down. The rifle jams on the first shot, and she’s tempted to throw it as far as she can and then stomp on it. Though the only thing she can see are the single and pop-up targets downrange, she knows her squad is watching every shot.

Five minutes later she still can’t clear the malfunction. She admits defeat.

As she surrenders her weapon, she sees her score. Twelve. Miserable. Lowest score in her squad.

Logan is waiting by the gate, but before he can say anything to her, the lieutenant orders him away. The sarge takes her back to the main StaHo building alone on the army cart. He drives, and she sits on the seat next to him, the lockers and ammo boxes jouncing in the back.

Not once does he speak on the entire return trip.

• • •

Back at the StaHo she expects Sarge to escort her straight to the headmaster’s office. Instead he marches her to a classroom where the rest of the squad is waiting for their written test. She slips into a seat next to Logan. Every eye is on her. Logan is frowning, puzzled and worried at the same time.

The proctor watches the clock so they can start the test on the hour. Five agonizing minutes to listen to a fly buzzing at the window.

On her other side Kip’s bandaged ankle is propped on the chair in front of him. Pecs is conspicuously absent.

Then, too low for Logan to hear, Kip says, “Guess who’s in the infirmary because of you?”

She refuses to look at him, keeping her eyes on the proctor.

He sings softly, “Someone’s in trouble.”

As the proctor sets the tests facedown on their desks, Brooklyn takes one last look at the other members of her squad. Maybe some of the girls and younger guys are looking at her with admiration for having stood up for herself. Maybe one of the older ones gives her a small nod of approval. Most are disgusted with her, though.

Her skin crawls. This is Risa’s fault. If she hadn’t been in the stands, Brooklyn wouldn’t have pushed herself so hard. She would have realized the diplomatic benefit of taking third place in the race and not challenging Kip’s asinine pride. At the thought, someone in a practice room upstairs starts playing arpeggios. Brooklyn hopes Risa’s fingers malfunction during her recital. And that the whole audience spits at her.

• • •

After the written test Brooklyn only wants to scour the sweat, gunpowder, and spit off her skin. But even before she can strip down in her dorm, someone raps at the door. She thinks it might be one of the DormGuardians to hurry her along, since she’s the last one out. It would mean she’d have to go to lunch reeking and take her shower later.

But no—it’s just another ward. The absolute last one Brooklyn cares to see.

“Can I come in?” Risa asks.

“What, are you lost?” Brooklyn says. “Isn’t your room in the south wing?”

“North,” Risa says.

“Good, I’m glad you’re not lost,” Brooklyn tells her. “Now get lost.”

Instead, Risa steps in, moving closer to Brooklyn. “I know it was you yesterday.”

Brooklyn won’t look at her. She grabs her soap and a towel for the shower. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw your reflection in the dance mirror. I thought you might turn me in for being there on a Sunday.”

“Who says I still won’t?” She tries to push past Risa, but unlike most of the other girls, Risa’s more of an obstacle than a turnstile. When Risa’s shoulder doesn’t give, Brooklyn stumbles, dropping the soap. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” She’s about to order Risa to pick it up, but Risa does so of her own volition, holding it out to Brooklyn.

Brooklyn takes it reluctantly. “What is it you want from me?”

“Just to thank you for listening,” Risa says. “None of the other kids care enough to listen. Half the time the teachers don’t care enough.”

Brooklyn shrugs. “You’re good at something,” she admits. “And maybe I got some culture. Maybe I’m not the bonehead boeuf you think I am.”

“I don’t think that,” Risa says, then grins. “Well, maybe a little.”

Brooklyn finds herself fighting her own grin. “And maybe you’re