Enemy of Gideon (5 page)

Arkin shakes his head and smiles. “You two sound like siblings.”

I shift my backpack, trying to relax my stride. I don’t want to seem uptight or uneasy around Arkin. Ogden definitely helps me act more like myself.
That’s the answer
.
Be myself. He has to like me for me, … right?

“Hey, you know what? My dad arrested three enemies yesterday,” Og says. “They were working in the ID department. Can you believe it? They’re actually starting to live in Gideon and pretend to be citizens.”

“Scary,” I say.

I glance at Arkin beside me. He stares at the ground with a somber look.

“What will they do with the enemies?” Arkin asks.

Og shrugs. “My dad doesn’t talk about that.”

►▼◄

We study in Arkin’s living room for an hour. Then his father, a stout, balding man with a light brown mustache, arrives. I can’t see the resemblance at all.

“This must be the famous Raissa Santos,” he says with a smile.

I jump up from the couch and o
ffer my hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

He shakes my hand firmly. “Arkin has told us a lot about you.”

Arkin’s cheeks glow, and my heart flutters.

“Dad,” he groans.

“My wife should be home any minute now. She teaches at the elementary school up the street. I work for the sanitation department,” Mr. Pettigrew says.

“My mother works at the soup factory,” I say, surprised at how my tone lacks the usual hint of shame.

“Arkin mentioned that.”

When did I tell him where Mom works?
I nod anyway.

The apartment door opens, and Arkin’s mother, a full-figured, brunette, enters.

Maybe Arkin is adopted
.

Mrs. Pettigrew greets me, and my shaky hands steady. The whole atmosphere of the apartment reflects Arkin and his parents: light and cheerful. The walls are a pale yellow, and tapestries of colorful gardens hang on them. Glass figurines of frogs and birds decorate wooden shelves.

“You two should get back to your studies,” Mr. Pettigrew says. “We need to get on that pot roast if we expect it to be done by dinnertime. Raissa, you’re able to stay for dinner, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would your mother like to join us?” Mrs. Pettigrew asks from the kitchen.

“She works the evening shift this week,” I say.

“That’s a shame. Sometimes I have to work that shift too,” Mr. Pettigrew says, heading into the kitchen.

“Your parents are nice,” I whisper to Arkin.

A sly smile curls his lips, giving me goose bumps. “We need a study break. Come and see my room.”

I follow him out of the living room and into a room at the end of the hallway. His barren, clean-swept bedroom surprises me. I expected the walls to be covered in sports posters or painted some boy color. He hasn’t been in the apartment very long, yet his room holds no unpacked boxes. In one corner, a single-sized bed sits covered in brown blankets. A wooden desk stands in the adjacent corner with school textbooks stacked on it. There’s a wicker laundry hamper beside a closed closet door.

As soon as he walks into the room, Arkin crosses to the window and closes the plaid curtains. Then he opens his arms out and takes an exaggerated bow. “Welcome to my home!”

I laugh.

“What? You don’t like it?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s decent.”

“I don’t have a lot of stuff,” he says, dropping down on the edge of the bed, “so this is the best I can do.”

“What part of Gideon did you move from?”

He looks at the floor as if searching for the right words. “Not far from here.”

“East Gideon?” I ask.

“I’d rather not talk about it. The past is in the past. It’s best to look toward the future.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s what my mom says.”

“Want to see one of the coolest things I have?”

Before I can respond, he crosses to his closet and steps in for a few seconds. He slips back out with what appears to be a blue photo album. Such items still exist, but most citizens store their photos on their wristbands to be viewed digitally.

He sits on the bed and pats the spot beside him, signaling me to sit. I mosey over, glancing into the hallway. His parents aren’t in sight, so I drop down beside him, taking care to leave a full foot of bedspread between us.

Inside the album, I view photos of a family of four: two daughters, a mother, and a father. They smile in every photograph. Some pictures are of one of them or two together at a playground, in a house, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. They look happy.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“My ancestors.”

“Today we will be discussing the Code,” my citizenship teacher lectured once, “which our ancestors prepared for us in order to …”

I never embraced the idea of these ancestors being typical humans with smiles and hugs, laughing in photos with closed eyes.

“They made the Code?” I ask.

“Hardly,” he says. “They’ve never even heard of the Code.”

“Did they live in another land?”

He closes the album. “Kind of. They lived over one hundred years ago. I promise someday I’ll explain it, but not here. I promise.”

And somehow I know he doesn’t break his promises.

CHAPTER FIVE

“
H
is parents are nice,” I tell Mom, “and they want me to bring you over for dinner sometime.”

“A friend
your age? This is good news.” It’s after eleven o’clock, and Mom just dragged her weary body into the apartment. Wired from dinner with the Pettigrews, I can’t sleep, so I’m talking her head off, something I haven’t done since before Petra went to college.

“He showed me pictures of his ancestors from one hundred years ago,” I say, following her into her bedroom.

She drops on to the bed and pulls her hair out of its ponytail. It’s dark like mine but finer and silkier, something to be envied. Her brow wrinkles at me. “One hundred years ago? He must’ve been exaggerating.”

“Why?”

Mom shakes her head. “No one has photographs that old.”

I tell Mom good night and head to bed. I toss from side to side, still hyped from my dinner with Arkin.
Was he exaggerating about the age of the photos?
Exaggeration doesn’t match his mysterious edge. His promise rings in my mind. I want to know everything he knows. He guards a piece of knowledge that holds the key to his peaceful demeanor. He doesn’t appear so weighed down with questions like I am.

My mind floats and floats, the string of thoughts coming undone bead by bead. Before I know it, I’m flying like a bird, light as a cloud and drifting through the city on a cool morning. I coast past buildings and over cobblestone streets. Then I reach greater heights as I leave the city and enter the wooded outskirts. I brush the pine treetops with my fingertips. A gentle voice calls out to me. Arkin waves from the top of an oak. Then his beckoning morphs into a heavy knock.
I sit up in the darkness of my bedroom, the image of Arkin clinging to an oak branch burns into my conscience. He fades away when the second knock comes. I pounce to my feet.

My wristband reads 2:13.
The quiet of night spins out of the apartment. Loud voices and footsteps burst through the living room. I bolt into the hall. Three CE officers in their distinctive black coveralls charge toward me. One pushes me aside, forcing me against the cold wall.

“Stop this! She’s not here!” Mom shouts from the living room.

I press my back against the wall as the officers split up to enter each door along the hallway. Lights flip on all around. An officer digs through my closet, tossing my old art easel to the floor, along with boxes of Petra’s forgotten belongings.

“Mom! What are they doing?” I call out to her, but my voice is low and raspy from sleep.

“Petra is not here!” Mom yells.

I rush to the living room where a CE officer has her pinned against the wall, holding the end of a taser wand against her throat.

“Stop!” I scream, running to them.

“Back off!” the officer yells, pointing the wand at me. His accusing eyes jab at me through the helmet’s shield.

“Tell us where your other daughter is!” he yells in Mom’s face, placing a gloved hand on her throat.

“I don’t know,” she says, tears filling her wide eyes.

“Officer, stand down!” a booming voice yells from the apartment door.

It’s Chief Penski. As he approaches us, the officer releases Mom and backs away, dropping his arms to his side. “Yes, sir!”

“I’ll handle interrogation,” Penski says.

The officer retreats from the living room as I embrace Mom. She wraps her arm around me, like I’m a nervous preschooler again.

“When was the last time you saw Petra?” Penski asks, shifting his attention between us.

This isn’t Og’s friendly dad having a spur-of-the-moment chat. He’s in full chief mode, looking at us with accusing eyes I don’t recognize.

“Weeks ago. What is this? What’s going on?” Mom asks.

“She’s has been involved in illegal activity,” he says.

“That’s impossible! Petra is a loyal citizen.”

“We’ve been hunting her for two weeks,” he says. “We almost apprehended her one hour ago on the university campus, but she managed to escape.”

“She’s not here!” I shout, hoping all the other officers will hear me and stop their chaotic search. They press on, undisturbed by my cry.

“You know this offense is serious, Mrs. Santos,” the chief says. “We have—”

The sudden beeping of the officer’s wristband interrupts his words. He presses the screen.

“Penski here.”

“Chief, we have Santos in custody,” a female voice says from his wrist.

Mom puts a hand to her mouth, and her knees buckle. I hold her up with all of my strength. She leans against the wall to steady herself and releases a quivering cry like a wounded animal.

“Not again,” she mumbles between sobs.

For a moment, the effort to keep Mom up distracts me from my own reaction to the news.
Petra is going to prison,
I thought, my knees shaking. My thoughts dart in every direction like houseflies in search of food.
What does she mean, ‘not again’?

The other officers hear the news from the hall and head out of the apartment, leaving behind scattered papers and overturned furniture.

“You can come to headquarters and speak to her if you choose to,” Chief Penski says, following the other officers to the apartment door.

Still in her slippers and bathrobe, Mom grabs her wool coat beside the door and flings it on. I follow, stopping to slip my boots on bare feet. She turns to me with that look I know all too well.

“Stay here and wait for me,” she says, her face red and tear-stained.

“Mom
!”

“I don’t want you to go! Stay here!”

She closes the door. I drop down on the sofa with the room spinning.

This can’t be happening.

►▼◄

“Arrested,” a voice echoes through my mind in a whisper. The word repeats like a gliche on the school intercom.

Petra sits beside me, eight years old, skinny and frail with a wide-eyed stare. Mom cries on the other side of me, her tears splashing. Then rain pounds all over us, soaking the apartment—the old apartment from my childhood. The three of us sit on the leather sofa in chilly water up to our knees.

“Where’s Daddy?” I ask. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s been arrested,” Petra whispers. “They took him away.”

Young Petra’s words vibrate across the water as Mom sobs. The water crawls up my body, cold and suffocating. I try to get up, but my arms and legs are frozen in place. My heart thuds in my ears. The water climbs higher and higher, reaching my chest, my neck, my chin.

“Mom!” I scream.

I sit up from the sofa with a jolt, the scream still fresh on my lips.

“Bug, are you okay?”

The chill of the water fades, and the tender warmth of Mom’s arm encircles my shoulders. She stares at me with red-rimmed eyes.
What’s going on? Why am I sleeping on the living room sofa?

“I had a bad dream,” I say, blinking hard.

A bad dream
.
Dad being arrested. Petra being arrested. A bad dream.

“I just got back,” Mom says.

It wasn’t a bad dream. Petra
was
arrested last night. They took her away, and Mom rushed off to her aid. The noise, the voices, the chaos of the night fill my head.

“Why did they take her?” I ask. “What are they going to do to her?”

“It was a mistake,” Mom says. “Don’t worry. She has a very clean record, and they’ll give her a second chance. I know they will.”

Her expression tells me otherwise.

“Did you talk to Petra? What did she say?” I ask.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I stare hard at her, willing her to say more.

She releases a shaky sigh. “She got involved with the wrong people, bad people. It’s a mistake.”

She stands from the sofa and removes her coat. “Time for school. Go get dressed.”

As much as I want to debate the order, I know I can’t get anything more out of my shell-shocked mother. But who
will
tell me the truth?

Ogden pops into my mind.
Dinner at the citizenship center. Questions about Petra.
It makes perfect sense. Chief Penski was suspicious of Petra even then. I rush to get dressed.

Outside in the chilly air, I interrogate Ogden on the way to school.

“She was arrested for distributing EP,” Og says. It took me five minutes of badgering to get him to utter this. The news hits me like a brick to the chest.

“EP,” I say. “Petra? There’s no way!”

A fire rises up inside of me, and I grab him by the shoulders in the middle of the sidewalk. His eyes grow wide.

“I swear it’s the truth!” he squeals. “My dad was ranting about it this morning to my mom. I heard all of it! Your sister’s in with the enemies!”

Citizens ahead of us on the street look back at our commotion. I release his shoulders, his words sucking the breath from my body.
How could this be happening? My sister, an enemy? How?

“They must have brain-washed her or something,” I say. “That’s the only explanation. Petra is a loyal citizen. She’s …”

A wave of nausea passes over me, along with a surge of memories. The nightmare from earlier in the morning repeats in my mind.
Arrested.

Mom told me nothing helpful, trying to hide the truth from me. How much of the truth about Dad has she hidden away? In my dream, Petra said Dad had been arrested.
What if he hadn’t abandoned us? What if CE arrested him too? Was my father an enemy?

The questions swirl around in my brain as we walk on. I have to know. But who could tell me about the enemies?

Ahead of us, Arkin walks along with a classmate, and my hope flickers.

Arkin, of course. He’ll have the answers.

I break into a sprint.

“Where are you going?” Og shouts.

I ignore him and charge ahead, dodging adults walking to work and other students heading to school.

Arkin turns to me. He tells the other guy to go on without him.

“Raissa,” he says with weary, sad eyes.

He knows
.
How could he know? Had it been on the newsfeed this morning?

“My sister’s been arrested,” I say, panting. “They took her for EP. I don’t understand. She’s not an enemy.”

Nodding, he puts his hands on my shoulders and brings me into his arms. My heart nearly jumps out of my throat at this unexpected gesture. It’s a hug, but not one without a specific purpose. His warm breath brushes over my ear with each whispered word.

“I have answers. Meet me behind Building A15 on Street H-31 at six o’clock tonight. Come alone.”

►▼◄

Mom’s on a double shift today. Even though she hates her job, she immerses herself in her work as a distraction from stress at home. Usually, I cause her to take on double shifts. I slack off at school, argue with her, and avoid my chores.
How can it be Petra this time?
She’s the perfect daughter who never stresses Mom out. She did her chores, respected Mom, completed her school work, and even gave us credits from her part-time job to help make ends meet.

Now I live in a topsy-turvy world. If the sun shines tonight, it would fit right into my mindset. But the moon sends its light across the evening sky as usual. Traces of orange and pink from the sun’s rays fade on the horizon. I pace on foot toward Street H-31. Darkness covers Gideon, and the bitter cold settles in for another winter night. I have one hour before curfew, plenty of time to talk and then hurry back home.

I’ve never been ten blocks north of my apartment, where abandoned buildings and construction sites line the streets. The city-state workers are rebuilding and renovating for a new phase in that area, so citizens on waiting lists will have better places to live.

Streetlights become fewer and fewer in this district, making me uneasy. I’ve seen no CE officers for several blocks, but the cameras are still on some corners. This, for once, brings me comfort. I don’t know what thieves or other criminals might be lurking around some corner, so I keep my pace quick and my toboggan-covered head down, trying to look like one who should be feared rather than one who should be afraid.

The sign for Street H-31 comes into view under a dim street lamp, and the sign below it posts the building numbers and a right arrow. I turn right to follow the street toward Building A15.

Questions for Arkin nagged at me all day, but he avoided me after his instructions this morning. Even in science class, he dodged my glances and busied himself with the class work.
Was he trying to protect himself?
Perhaps suspicion could be aroused by simply knowing the relative of an enemy.

Early in the day, the newsfeed on my wristband mentioned Petra’s arrest but without her name. Arkin somehow knew before I told him. He had a look in his eyes—one of sorrow, of understanding.