Kristen Simmons - Article 5

BETH and Ryan were holding hands. It was enough to risk a formal citation for indecency, and they knew better, but I didnt say anything. Curfew rounds wouldnt begin for another two hours, and freedom was stolen in moments like these.

Slow down, Ember, Ryan called.

Instead I walked faster, pulling away from our pack.

Leave her alone, I heard Beth whisper. My face heated as I realized how I must look: not like a conscientious friend who was minding her own business, but like a bitter third wheel who couldnt stand seeing other couples happy. Which wasnt truemostly.

Sheepishly, I fell into step beside Beth.

My best friend was tall for a girl, with an explosion of dark freckles centered at her nose and a cap of squiggly red hair that was untamable on chilly days like this one. She traded Ryans arm for minewhich, if I was honest, did make me feel a little saferand without a word, we danced on our tiptoes around the massive cracks in the sidewalk, just like wed done since the fourth grade.

When the concrete path succumbed to gravel, I raised the front of my too-long khaki skirt so the hem didnt drag in the dust. I hated this skirt. The matching button-up top was so boxy and stiff that it made even busty Beth look flat as an ironing board. School uniforms were part of President Scarboros new Moral Statuteone of many that had taken effect after the Warmandating that appearances comply with gender roles. I didnt know what gender theyd been aiming for with this outfit. Clearly it wasnt female.

We stopped at the gas station on the corner out of habit. Though it was the only one in the county still open, the lot was empty. Not many people could afford cars anymore.

We never went inside. There would be snacks and candy bars on the racks, all priced ten times higher than theyd been last year, and we didnt have any money. We stayed where we were welcomeon the outside. Three feet removed from the hundreds of tiny faces imprisoned behind the tinted glass. The board read:

Silently, we scanned the photographs of the foster-care runaways and escaped criminals for anyone we might know, checking for one picture in particular. Katelyn Meadows. A girl with auburn hair and a perky smile, whod been in my junior history class last year. Mrs. Matthews had just told her shed gotten the highest grade in the class on her midterm when the soldiers had arrived to take her to trial. Article 1 violation, theyd said. Noncompliance with the national religion. It wasnt as if shed been caught worshipping the devil; shed missed school for Passover, and it had gone on to the school board as an unauthorized absence.

That was the last time anyone had seen her.

The next week Mrs. Matthews had been forced to take the Bill of Rights out of the curriculum. There was no discussion permitted on the topic. The soldiers posted at the door and at the recruiting table in the cafeteria made sure of that.

Two months after Katelyns trial, her family had moved away. Her phone number had been disconnected. It was as if shed never existed.

Katelyn and I hadnt been friends. It wasnt that I didnt like her; I thought she was all right, actually. We always said hi, if not much more. But since her sudden disappearance, something dark had kindled inside of me. Id been more on guard. As compliant with the Statutes as possible. I didnt like to sit in the front row of class anymore, and I never walked home from school alone.

I couldnt be taken. I had to look out for my mother.

I finished my review. No Katelyn Meadows. Not this week.

Did you hear about Mary Whats-her-name? Beth asked as we resumed our walk to my house. Shes a sophomore I think.

Lets see, Mary Whats-her-name, said Ryan pensively, pushing the glasses up his sharp nose. His uniform jacket made him look studious, whereas the other guys at school always looked like their mothers had dressed them up for Easter Sunday.

No. What happened to her? A chill tickled my skin.

Same thing as Katelyn. Moral Militia came to take her to trial, and no ones seen her in a week. Beths voice lowered, as it did when she suspected someone might be listening.

My stomach sank. They werent actually called the Moral Militia, but they might as well have been. The uniformed soldiers actually belonged to the Federal Bureau of Reformationthe branch of the military the president had created at the end of the War three years ago. Their purpose was to enforce compliance with the Moral Statutes, to halt the chaos that had reigned during the five years that America had been mercilessly attacked. The hammer had come down hard: Any violation against the Statutes led to a citation, and in the worst cases, resulted in a trial before the FBR Board. People who went to triallike Katelyndidnt usually come back.

There were all sorts of theories. Prison. Deportation. A few months ago Id heard a crazy homeless man spouting off about mass executions, before hed been carted away. Regardless of the rumors, reality was bleak. With each new Statute issued, the MM became more powerful, more self-righteous. Hence the nickname.

They took a freshman from gym, too, said Ryan soberly. I heard they didnt even let him change back into his uniform.

First Katelyn Meadows, now Mary Something and another boy. And Mary and the boy within the last two weeks. I remembered when school had been safethe only place we didnt have to think about the War. Now kids never ditched. There werent any fights. People even turned in their homework on time. Everyone was scared their teacher would report them to the MM.

As we turned up my empty driveway, I glanced next door. The boxy houses white paneling was stained by dust and rain. The bushes had overgrown so much that they connected over the concrete steps. Long, fragile cobwebs sagged from the overhang. It looked haunted. In a way, it was.

That had been his house. The house of the boy I loved.

Deliberately, I looked away and climbed our front porch stairs to let my friends inside.

My mother was sitting on the couch. She had at least four too many clips in her hair and was wearing a shirt that shed stolen from my closet. I didnt mind. The truth was I wasnt much into clothes. Sorting through a collection of worn hand-me-downs at a donation center hadnt exactly cultivated my desire to shop.

What I did mind was that she was reading a paperback with a half-naked pirate on the cover. That stuff was illegal now. Shed probably gotten it from someone she volunteered with at the soup kitchen. The place was chock-full of unemployed women spreading their passive-aggressive contraband beneath the Moral Militias nose.

Hi, baby. Hi, kids, my mother said, hardly moving. She didnt look up until she finished reading her page, then she jammed a bookmark in place and stood. I kept my mouth shut about the book, even though I probably should have told her not to bring that stuff home. It obviously made her happy, and it was better than her reading it on the porch, like she sometimes did when feeling particularly mutinous.

Hi, Mom.

She kissed me noisily on the cheek, then hugged my friends at the same time before releasing us to our homework.

We pulled out our big heavy books and began deciphering the mechanical world of precalculus. It was horrid workI detested mathbut Beth and I had made a pact not to drop. Rumor was, next year, girls werent even going to be able to take math anymore, so we suffered through in silent rebellion.

Smiling sympathetically at my expression, my mother patted my head and offered to make us all hot chocolate. After a few minutes of frustration, I followed her into the kitchen. Shed forgotten to water her ficus plant again, and it drooped pitifully. I filled a glass from the sink and poured it into the pot.