UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,24
the lottery, and then everyone offers ideas on how Samson should spend his winnings.
Samson only grins, the loser that he is, enjoying his rare moment in the spotlight. Brooklyn says nothing, her gaze roaming through the crowd of kids.
Near the swing set, Risa stands encircled by some other arts kids. She stares at the note in one hand, with her ice-cream cone forgotten, dripping on her other hand.
The smile from before is now gone from her face. Robbed from her. Soon she will be gone, and no one will tell the story of what happened when they were seven. Because no one talks about harvested kids.
Brooklyn’s gaze passes over Risa to where the deaf kids sit beneath the playground’s one tree. She catches Thor’s eye. His leg shields his left hand from the other deaf kids, and he signs, Okay?
Instead of signing back, she just gives him a small nod.
Leaning against Logan’s brawny arm, Brooklyn lets her gaze sift through the crowd. After the twenty-one are taken, her rank will leave her deep in the red for harvesting. Not a problem—she has six months to improve her rating. That should be easy. Once she’s taken care of that plebe who switched her rifle. Once she digs up some nice blackmail dirt she can use against someone who can secure her safety.
As for Risa Ward, she will disappear, as if she had never been born. And no great loss. It’s not like she would have changed the world.
As Brooklyn looks over the kids in the yard, she wonders who will be on the next list. Or who she might put there in order to save herself. In a world where kids like her have no power, it’s nice to know there are still some things she can control.
Who will she switch next time?
UnDevoured
Co-authored with Jarrod Shusterman
1 • Seventeen
When Roland Taggart steps on the wrestling mat, he feels like an animal. It’s something about the way his adrenaline pumps through his veins, the bitter sting of cleaning chemicals that fills his nostrils, the way cold sweat sticks to his skin after a match—it’s stimulating. It makes him feel alive.
Roland stares into his opponent’s eyes for any sign of fear but finds none, only a deep hue of red with flecks of purple—pigment injections are a common fad for students these days at Continental High School. As if bleeding your school colors wasn’t enough. Roland has always scoffed at the fanatic face-painting type. Today the gym bleachers are packed full of them, cheering, waving pom-poms, their screams echoing in the shells of his ear guards. And he knows his mother’s voice isn’t one of them, not that he cares. Lately it seems like the only extracurricular she’s interested in is fighting with Roland’s stepfather.
People told Roland he was in over his head, challenging a state-qualifying wrestler. Sure, beating superstar Zane Durbin means taking his spot on the team, but to Roland it means much more. It means respect. It means power.
The whistle is blown, and Zane extends his hand for the prematch handshake. He notices the shark tattoo on Roland’s right forearm and smirks.
“Nice fish,” he snorts.
Roland keeps his cool, offers a cordial smile, and grips Zane’s hand, commencing the match. Roland moves first and grapples, eventually positioning himself for his signature move—the body lock. He uses his raw strength to squeeze Zane’s torso, compressing his spine, forcing him to fold backward and collapse to the mat. Roland pounces and pins him down. But despite Roland’s muscle, his opponent surges forward, tearing free from Roland’s grasp and avoiding what felt like a sure win.
Roland curses himself—not just for having let Zane escape, but because he lost control. He shakes it off, gets back into his stance, and begins circling methodically. Roland steps left, forcing Zane to shift his weight right. Roland moves in a rhythm so calculated it’s almost hypnotizing, and he can feel himself gaining control of the match. Roland very suddenly lowers his center of gravity all in one motion, exploding into Zane—but his opponent slips off with ease, and Roland stumbles to the ground. It seems as if every ounce of energy that Roland exerts, Zane gains in power—and now Zane is dancing around, taunting him.
He can see the amusement in Zane’s gaze, and it reminds Roland of the way his stepfather would look into his eyes after a big fight with his mother. She’d be crying on the cold kitchen floor, then Roland and his stepfather would find themselves