Joelle Charbonneau - Disclose

Some old poem claims that patience is a virtue. I know because Dewey has quoted it to me at least three times a day for the last week and a half. Each day means another without people knowing the truth. Worse, another day of not finding those who were takenif they can still be found. Another day of planning and of realizing that despite the risks those I care about are willing to take, we still might never succeed.

How am I supposed to be patient?

One thing at a time, Dewey has stated so many times that I want to scream. Patience is necessary if we want success, he said when he handed me my new government-issued ID under a new name. Patience and careful planning, he advised when I cut and dyed my hair to change the way I looked.

Perhaps. But it isnt comfortable. It doesnt matter that I am busy training and meeting secretly with my best friend, Rose. She and her mother have agreed to take some of the biggest risks of all. We have a plan now that I hope will put people on the path to finally seeing and accepting the truth. Those meetings are why I filled out an application for Mrs. Websters companyone that she will make sure is accepted. Theyre why I sat for a phone interview for a job she and Rose coached me through. All of it is necessary if we have any chance for success, but it all means I am sitting in a house that isnt mine, reading the history of those who tried and failed in decades past to bring truth to those who werent interested in believing it, and remembering things that I wish I could forget as I count the days until finally I can try again.

Now it is nearly here, and Im not sure I am ready for the things we will do and the choices we have agreed must be made.

Golden sunlight warms the bright azure sky as I walk down the sleek concrete sidewalk. I scan every face while attempting to appear as if I belong among the dozens of people commuting to work. After all, Im one of them, walking to my new job. I roll out my aching shoulder muscles, shift the turquoise bag on my shoulder, and wince at the way the matching boots Rose gave me pinch my toes.

Suck it up, she told me after the package with the clothes she and her mother sent arrived at my door. I tried on the footwear while she waited for the verdict on the phone. If youre going to work at Gloss you have to look like you belong there.

Apparently, fitting in at Mrs. Websters fashion e-zine meant wearing skintight black clothing, a lot of eye makeup, and super-uncomfortable high-heeled footwear. What happens if the Marshals come and I have to run? It was not just possible, but probable considering what I have done and what we are about to do.

The Marshals are looking for Merriel Beckley. Thats who you used to be. Your government identification and the Gloss records show you are Merriam Adams, Rose assured me. As long as you act as different as you look, no one will question a thing.

I used to struggle with the correct meaning of the word irony. Now that my eyes have been openednow that there is zero chance of my ever returning to my high school, of resuming a normal life, of being asked to define irony againit does not escape me that it is deeply ironic that the very thing I am fighting againstpeoples willingness to accept whatever the government says as the truthis the very reason I am able to walk down the street in plain sight.

Rose is right, I tell myself. Because words like verify were removed from our language, people simply believe what they are told. No one will question that I am who my new identification claims me to be. Two months ago, I would never have thought to question it myself.

Merriam Adams. I repeat the name in my head like a mantra, hoping that doing so will help me remember thats who I am supposed to be now. Merriam for the book that contained the meaning of the words that changed my entire life and brought me to this point. Adams for a woman I read about recently. She created ammunition for soldiers who had almost no supplies left to fight.

I stop at the light at the corner of the street and shift my weight. A brown-suited gentleman with a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache smiles at me. My shoulder muscles tense. I glance down at his footwear. Just plain brown loafers. Not the military-style running boots that would have signaled for me to flee.

I let out the breath I was holding and attempt to shake off the anxiety-tying knot in my chest. If I cant handle this walk, how am I going to deal with what I will eventually have to do? Atlas insists it wont be necessary, but...

Someone bumps me. Another snaps something impatient and I look up to see the light has changed.

One step at a time, I remind myself as I make my way across the busy intersection. The glass and steel of the Chicago skyline glisten against the background of blue. Cheerful flowers of white and yellow bloom in large urns stationed along the sidewalk. Impatient car horns blare nearby, drowning out the public screens reporting news about a car that drove off Lake Shore Drive and had to be pulled out of the water. I spot the entrance of my destination in the distance, glance around for signs of anyone who might be watching me, then hitch my bag firmly onto my shoulder and approach the off-white stone and rose-gold building.

The word Gloss shines in gold letters above the door, but it is the small, colorful image painted on the glass of the entrance that causes me to hold my breath. For a heartbeat, the city around me drops away, and the anxiety gnawing at my stomach disappears. All I can see is the design in front of me. Black curved lines fan outward from a center pointcreating the image of partially opened pages of a book or magazine. Coming from the center of the pages are licks of brilliant yellow, fluorescent pink, electric blue, and bright orange.

I trace the painted lines of the wide V created by the open book with trembling fingers. Just weeks ago, this image lived only on my tabletcreated from the desperate desire to keep fighting when everyone said it was time to retreat. I only had a hint of what that fight would look like then. Only a glimpse of what I, or others, might have to do.

The inspiration behind the design was the tattoo worn by the Stewards. They were the ones who taught me the word verify and the truth behind what that word revealed.

Id drawn thousands of images over the yearshoned my skill in the hope that one day I could follow in my mothers artistic footsteps. In all those years, nothing I had created was as personal as this image. Nothing had mattered as much as the moment when I sent it to Rose and waited for her to show it to her mother, hoping she would agree it was right for Gloss.

That was weeks ago, and now here it waspaint swirled onto the glassthe new logo for the top fashion and entertainment e-zine.

And a target Mrs. Webster has knowingly placed on her back.

The Marshals will recognize the inspiration for the logo, Atlas warned on the day I explained my new plan to Rose and her mother. It took some doing to safely meet face-to-face. The Marshals search for me included watching Rose and her mother. If it werent for the network of buildings with alternate exits that Dewey and Atlas had unearthed from their work with the Stewards, we would never have managed it.

I paced the length of the room, unable to sit in the worn, mismatched orange and red armchairs the Stewards had placed in the roomas I waited for them to arrive. I worried the Marshals would stop them from coming. I was terrified to meet with Mrs. Webster after my part in her sons disappearance. If I hadnt stolen Isaacs identification to verify the information Id been given by the Stewards, Isaac would have never been taken by the Marshals. He would be safe instead of imprisonedor worse. City officials had told Rose and Mrs. Webster that he was still alivekidnapped by a fictitious criminal gang. It was a lie. And despite all of that, I needed to ask not just for forgiveness but also for their help.