“Digory Tycho!” Cassius announces.
But hearing it has no more impact than seeing that face plastered five-stories high on the surrounding screens. It can’t be true. I can’t let it be true.
Mrs. Bledsoe squeezes my arm. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Her voice sounds as if it’s echoing down a long tunnel.
I can only stare ahead, suddenly forgetting how to speak.
“Are you okay, Lucky?” Cole this time.
His soft voice penetrates the numbness. I have to keep calm, if only for him. “I’m fine, buddy.” I bury my chin in his hair, my eyes never leaving the image of Digory’s face.
“Digory Tycho,” Cassius repeats. “Come forward and join your comrades!”
At first, the cameras pan the crowd wildly, searching for their target but not finding it. The murmuring in the crowd builds like a simmering kettle. Where is he? Has he fled? If so, he’ll be hunted down and killed on sight, not to mention what will happen to whatever family he’s left behind. Family. Does he even have any? In that instant I realize how little I really know about Digory, and how dismal the chances are of ever learning more.
“I’m here!” a voice shouts over the buzzing of the masses swarming the plaza.
Digory.
The thumping in my chest turns to a spring, until it sinks in just what’s waiting to greet him. He’s just traded in the firing squad for a slow death of body and soul.
“It’s that boy from the Square. Is he a friend of yours?” Mrs. Bledsoe whispers.
“H-he … no … ”
“It’s better for you both.” Then she’s hacking into her rag, sounding more terrible than I’ve heard until now.
Digory reaches the podium and trots up the stairs two at a time, taking his place next to Cypress. If she looked fearless, he looks defiant. And even though his face fills the sky, it feels like he’s a million miles away.
Cassius leans forward on the railing, still giving me his back.
Why won’t he look at me?
“Excellent!” Cassius’s voice booms. “That’s the kind of spirit I’m talking about. So confident. So courageous. I’m sure I speak for the entire Establishment when I say, I can’t wait to see what you are made of, Digory Tycho!” Though the words are intended for all, they’re targeted to one.
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
Before an Imposer can stop him, Digory steps up to the microphone. “I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, Prefect Thorn, and I look forward to doing my people proud by showing you just exactly what I’m capable of!”
The crowd erupts into applause, only this time it feels natural, not coerced. Next to me, Mrs. Bledsoe is clapping, mindless of the blood-stained handkerchief smearing her hands. Even Cole joins in, not knowing why he’s clapping, I’m sure, but sensing the surge of emotion around him.
My hands burn, and I look down to see my palms colliding, over and over again.
Cassius swipes his own hands in the air as if he’s trying to erase the crowd’s existence. Eventually, it has the desired effect. The applause flows to a trickle, then to a couple of drops before fading a few uncomfortable beats later.
Cassius’s hands drop to his sides. “It is truly wonderful to behold the enthusiasm of the civic-minded. It appears we may have our first fan favorite.” He laughs. “But I caution you that stockpiling one’s faith in the guise of an individual will certainly lead to disappointment. The only entity one can truly depend on is the Establishment. To think otherwise, well … is not very prudent.”
His words cast a pall over the spark Digory had ignited. On the monitors, shoulders that only moments ago stood tall and proud return to their ingrained slouches. Faces turn toward the ground, feet take a few steps back. Cassius’s time away from the Parish has served him well. He knows how to play the game, preserve the status quo.
But Cass, my wonderful Cass, surely he still occupies a room inside this stranger’s body? It’s all for show. Remember what he said. He wants to change things. I have faith that he’ll do the right thing.
“And now,” he continues, “I present to you the final plebe on this year’s Recruitment Day!”
For the last time, the displays come alive with sounds and color. My muscles tense. I find Mrs. Bledsoe’s hand and entwine my fingers with hers, squeezing so hard I’m afraid I’m going to crack some bone. My forehead slumps into Cole’s.
He smiles. “Maybe they’ll pick you to win this time, ’cause you’re so lucky !”
“Maybe.” My voice is hoarse; my stomach muscles twist.
I have faith in Cass. I have faith in Cass. I have faith in Cass.
I’m not sure if it’s on purpose, but this time the shuffling of faces on the screens seems to go on forever. I can’t stand it anymore. All I want to do is grab Cole and Mrs. Bledsoe, bolt out of this room, and forget this place, forget this day …
But I can’t get Digory’s face out of my mind, and I feel ashamed. He’s standing on that platform probably more frightened than he’s ever been, but you’d never tell by looking at him. And here I am, being a coward when I have Cole and Mrs. Bledsoe depending on me.
The flashing stops and a face appears. I shut my eyes before I can make out who it is, holding on to normalcy for one more desperate moment. My teeth dig into my lower lip.
I pry my eyelids open to face my worst fears.
Ten
My captive breath bursts free. The face that fills the square isn’t mine. It’s not even male.
“Desiree Morningside!” Cassius’s voice echoes through the square. “You have been chosen! Join your fellow Recruits on the podium!”
It takes a few moments for the words to sink in. Then relief washes over me like the first spring shower, whisking away the anxiety that racks my body. My knees buckle and I lean into Mrs. Bledsoe to steady myself.
“They couldn’t have you, too,” she says. Her eyes mist over and she clutches me.
Cole nudges my cheek with his nose. “Don’t be sad you didn’t get picked,” he whispers in my ear.
I choke back my emotions and squeeze them both.
A live shot of the faces of the first four Recruits to be selected occupies the four corners of one of the screens. Ophelia, twisting her head to and fro as if she’s still not sure where she is. Gideon, stern, his eyes shifting around him as if he’s studying every minute detail and committing it to memory. Cypress, looking bored, as if she has more important things she’d rather be doing with her time. And finally, Digory, his mouth curved into a huge, dimpled grin, his eyes staring right at me, through me.
I guess it’s just the front he’s putting up, the bravado in standing up to Cassius and the Establishment.
Because otherwise I can’t think why this last selection would make him so happy.
And then the stream of relief I’ve been feeling is contaminated by the dread of what I know lies before him, emphasizing how fleeting true bliss is in the Parish. I look at the empty space in the center of the screen where the live shot of the fifth and final Recruit should be plastered. It seems what little happiness one can wring free of life always comes at someone else’s expense.
“Desiree Morningside.” Cassius’s voice knifes through my brain. “Come forward and take your place at once.”
I set Cole on the ground. My eyes connect with Mrs. Bledsoe’s, now drained of any traces of joy.
“What’s going on? Where is she?” Mrs. Bledsoe asks.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
The cameras swoosh through the square and the restless crowd in search of a live shot of Desiree. But she eludes the spotlight. Her still image is superimposed on the lower right corner of the jumbotrons’ live feed. I stare at the short banged hair, sad brown eyes, thin lips-it’s hard to picture her as a deserter, on the lam for openly defying the draft. My chest tightens. What’s happened to her? And what effect will her absence have on this ceremony?