My parents believe that ARC stands for Accelerated Rate Curriculum. They think I’m in a highly advanced scholastic program, but it’s a cover for the real acronym—Allied Rift Coalition. They moved to Battle Ground from Portland just so that I could be a part of the program. Even though I start my days off at Battle Ground High, I don’t even go to school. I don’t need to. When I was fourteen and my chip was activated, I had a secondary and post-secondary education downloaded straight into my brain. I still haven’t decided if this is the best or worst part of being a Citadel. ARC robbed me of the opportunity to learn like a normal person. I will never have to sit through a boring lecture or do homework or worry about getting to class. I don’t know if I got super lucky or completely cheated.
“She does all that volunteer work at the old military base,” Abel says brightly, and looks at me. God, my brother is a nice guy. He has so many reasons to be an asshole, but he’s just not wired that way. The taller Abel gets, the more protective of me he feels. It’s cute. I smile genuinely back at him.
“I just want you to find the right place, Ryn, where you can really open up and find out who you are, you know? A place that will help you come into your own. Nothing would make me happier.”
That would make me happy, too. And the fact is, I will leave Battle Ground in a couple years. My parents believe I am a junior in high school and think I will be off to college soon. In reality, though, I will be working another Rift site. I feel the dull throb of a headache emerging. I reach back with my hand and rub at an invisible scar at the base of my skull.
“I know, Dad,” I respond, but I don’t say anything else. There are a couple of seconds of silence before Abel tells me how much he likes the pasta, effectively switching the subject.
“Thanks,” I say gratefully. The talk resumes until dinner is over. I have said six words throughout the entire meal. My parents do not know me. They truly have no idea who I am. I hate that The Rift has denied them the opportunity. I excuse myself and walk upstairs to my room, grabbing my knapsack on the way. I close my door, turn some music on, and unzip my bag. I take out a binder, open it, and put it faceup on my bed. It is filled with fake assignments and handouts from nonexistent teachers. The ARC program (that is, the Accelerated Rate Curriculum) has us use an iPad instead of textbooks, and it is where all of our papers, written by God knows who, show up in the appropriate folders. I flip the iPad so the attached keyboard sits propped up beneath the screen, so if one of my parents happens to walk in, it’ll look like I’m working.
I take out a book, one of my own from the library, and lie down on the bed. I love reading, and every time I finish a book I feel both indulgent and defiant; I process information faster than a regular person. I could, in theory, read the book in my hands in about half an hour, but, through much trial and error, I have learned to slow this process down when I want. Reading should be savored. Each word should be enjoyed. I’m sure our bosses at ARC would prefer we read technical manuals, something practical on bomb making or physics. Actually, they would probably prefer that we spend our downtime doing crunches and pull-ups, which is never, ever going to happen. The reading is mine. It’s the one thing I won’t let them have.
I love the look on Applebaum’s face when I show up at work holding a romance novel.
And yet I can’t seem to enjoy reading tonight. I open the book and stare at the words. Each sentence seems to end and then double back on itself. If I truly focused I could let them settle, but I know there is no point. I keep the book cracked and bring it down over my face. Inhaling the ink and paper, I feel my tension slide just a little. This smell—of the library, of stories and childhood and oak shelves—is comforting.
I allow myself the luxury of thinking about Ezra.
I see him in the clearing near The Rift, so brave, so handsome, and so totally fucked. I throw the book across the room. It hits the wall with a thud. How can I get to him? Even if I do, what can I do? Be his friend? How can I be around him without wanting to kiss that beautiful mouth of his? I can’t. It’s impossible and then I’ll hurt him—literally. He’s been hurt enough. If I was a decent person I would just let it go, let him go. I am not a decent person, though. I am a liar and a killer. And I can’t stop thinking about him, of him being debriefed and tested back at the base. After that he’ll be sent to the Village. No one breaks out of there.
But, just maybe, someone can break in.
The next morning, I throw on some clothes and stuff my things back into my bag. It’s early. I know I am the first one awake. Since I need so little sleep, I am up at dawn or even earlier sometimes. I make a pot of tea and turn on the TV. I don’t really watch it, but the quiet always seems different first thing in the morning, more depressing somehow. The night feels like it’s full of possibilities, full of dreams and escape plans. Mornings are empty. I don’t know exactly what my day will bring, but I know that there is zero chance that I can stay home sick or skip, like I could if I was actually in school. I am needed at my post. People always say, “Oh, I have to get my hair done,” or “I have to pick up my dry cleaning.” In reality there are only a few things you absolutely have to do: eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, and, in my case, show up for my shift at work in front of an interdimensional Rift in time and space.
You know—the usual stuff.
I drink my tea and eat some toast, zoning out. My mom comes downstairs, takes her coffee with her and zooms out the door with a wave good-bye. She’s always in a hurry to get to work on time. I probably won’t see my dad this morning. He’s more of a night owl and doesn’t get out of bed till nine or ten. He’s his own boss. Must be nice.
It’s my job to get Abel out of bed. This is a Herculean effort that generally takes at least three separate wake-up calls and has involved, to a much more minor degree, some of the torture techniques I’ve been taught as a Citadel. Oddly enough, blaring death metal doesn’t work nearly as well on a teenage boy as one might think.
Eventually, after twenty highly annoying minutes (for both of us), Abel comes down dressed and ready for breakfast. He grumbles a simple “hey” in my direction as if the last half hour didn’t just happen and pours himself some juice. He then eats two bowls of cereal in under ten minutes. It’s impressive. We take turns brushing our teeth and then head out the door to my car.
Every summer I work full-time at The Rift. My parents think I’m a camp counselor. I do actually get paid pretty decently. I mean, I’m not a millionaire, but I will never have to worry about money. Once I turn eighteen and leave home I will get paid even more. In the meantime, as a minor, the majority of my money is held in trust. Isn’t that a bitch? At the end of the day, I probably have about as much money in the bank as an average teenager who only works during the summer. I was able to buy a car, though. I needed something fast because, once again, if shit goes sideways at The Rift, I might need to get everyone to safety in a hurry. A Ferrari was out of the question obviously, so I opted for a Dodge Challenger. It’s not the most comfortable ride in the world, but it’s fast, and big enough to fit my whole family. The choice absolutely baffled my parents. But since I rarely, if ever, ask them for anything, they agreed to sign the loan, especially since I put a large chunk of money down and make the payments myself.
Abel, on the other hand, thinks the car is cool, and that alone makes me happy about my choice. He slides into the passenger seat and I fire up the ignition. The engine purrs into life and I turn up the music, deliberately selecting a song I know my brother likes. I do these little things for him and I hope he’s getting old enough now to figure out that it’s my way of showing him how much I love him. Abel isn’t weak or helpless. But of course I worry about him. I might just love my brother more than anyone in the world, but I can’t get too close. The lying is always going to be a wedge, of course. But there’s more than that. As a soldier, my brain often goes to worst-case scenarios. Who knows what could happen? What if the