Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,21
I aged, when I grew into a body that is definitely older than … “Thir … teen?”
“You’ve got a high voice for a thirteen-year-old boy.”
I cringe. Mental note to self: try to sound like a boy. I clear my throat. “I have to … take a dump.” Bowen’s eyebrows rise and I look away. “The rat. It didn’t agree with me,” I say in a deep voice—a lie. My stomach is sluggishly thrilled with the meat inside it. But I’ve been holding it all day. Pee. Because, well, like I said, I can’t pee standing up.
“Dude.” Bowen sighs, shaking his head like he’s got the worst life in the world. I brace myself for a sound kick, but he doesn’t kick me this time. “Can I get an armed guard over here? The Level Ten’s got to take another dump,” he yells. The whole camp turns and stares at me, and a slow burn creeps up my neck, all the way to my hairline. I hang my head so my hair hides my entire face.
Five brown-uniformed, gun-wielding men come forward, and Bowen pushes the remote. My legs unfuse. I wobble, lose my balance, and fall on my face beside the warm fire ring, my cuffed hands pinned painfully beneath me. Men start laughing and guns dig into my back, jabbing at my ribs hard enough to make me gasp.
“Stupid Fec,” Bowen mutters, and wraps his hand in my shirt. He pulls up. The fabric strains in his hand, and I rise off the ground, hovering just above the dirt as I try to maneuver my feet below my body. My shirt pulls against my armpits, and a loud rip grates against my senses. I fall back to the ground—face-plant, really—and dirt goes into my mouth, digs into my cheek, my naked stomach, and my bare shoulders.
Oh, crap.
The fabric binding my breasts is the only thing that hides the truth about me.
A hand grabs my elbow. “Someone get his other elbow,” Bowen grumbles.
“You serious, man? You want one of us to touch it?” someone whines.
“Just hurry up,” Bowen snaps.
A warm hand clutches my other elbow, and I’m heaved to my feet. I hang my head low and hunch my shoulders forward, too scared to spit the dirt out of my mouth. Too scared to even breathe—I’m practically naked, standing in a camp filled exclusively with armed men. And then I understand Arrin’s insistence on my looking like a boy. I hunch forward even more and press my arms against my chest until my shoulders want to pop. I might be able to hide my breasts, but I can’t hide the way my hollow stomach curves outward to meet my wide hips.
“You got a broken rib?” Bowen asks, jabbing my back hard with his finger as if he hopes I do. I can’t form words—am still gasping for breath—so I shake my head.
My escort and I walk to the bathroom in silence, with only the evening darkness keeping my secret. I step into the dim bathroom, and the light automatically flickers on. The armed guard wait outside, but Bowen stands in the doorway and glares at me. I hunch even more, straining my shoulders forward, forcing my chest concave, mentally cursing my body for growing breasts and hips.
“Well?” he says, crossing his arms.
I peer at him through my hair, too scared to move.
“What’ya waiting for? Hurry up.” Without uncrossing his arms, he pushes the remote and my arms unfuse.
I am at the stall in two steps, slamming the door behind me and sliding the lock into place. And then I look down. The binding is still securely in place over my breasts, but without my oversize T-shirt, it is obvious. I am a girl. Nearly a woman. I stare down at my body and marvel at the slide of waist leading to hips, the small bulge of breasts that makes my skin crease just above the bindings. Because the body I’m looking at? It is not the body I remember belonging to my head and brain.
Where have I been that my body has grown up so fast?
“Kid. You almost done?” Bowen hollers. Men snicker. I drop my pants and sit on the toilet. When I’m done, I pull the pants back up and squeeze the waistband over my hips, barely able to button it. And that’s when the siren blares.
Without warning, electricity hums in my wrist cuffs, and my forearms fuse together. The stall door crashes open, slamming into my face and