Golden Dreg Boy, Book 1 Page 10

  Shades of brown faces swarm, all with a look of distrust in their eyes and movements. Noodle’s consistent gripe that most Dregs are not only lower class but mostly nonwhite stares me in the face. A boxy man passes me. No, that’s a woman. Asian with a short, boy-inspired haircut. She’d be pretty except for the hairstyle and unflattering clothes. Another brown face passes me. Then another.

  Shades of brown. Funny how I couldn’t or wouldn’t notice it until now. Until I was among the less fortunate.

  Other rooms line the outer perimeter of this large one, in corners and behind doors.

  A plethora of emotions rush through me, flooding my senses. A delayed reaction to everything that’s happened. Quickly, I find a chair and sit, though it’s more like a rough stool that once had a back. The achy tenseness dissipates, and I feel better almost immediately after a few calming breaths.

  You must not care. You must not care.

  For now, I must not care—about anything—if I want to stay alive. That’s going to be hard with Saya around. Everything about her pulls me in. What’s under her rough exterior and why is she the way she is?

  I must not get distracted or care about anything except getting back to my family. I study the dull, grimy linoleum as Saya’s boots come into view. Sitting straight, I look up and slowly drink her in. Why am I so attracted to her? Is it that opposites-attract thing? And why do opposites attract? A relationship between Golden and Dreg is forbidden. The first of the three common laws.

  “Make positive to get some rest because, in the morning, you meet Pike, our leader.”

  Their leader? My eyebrows knot in confusion.

  “Yes, we have a leader. The Revisionists have a leader. Every good social cause has leaders.” She shakes her head at me like I’m a doink.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You stink.” She waves a hand under her nose. “Washing quarters are over there.” She points to two rooms off to the side. In front of the doors, a single-file line of people wait on a raised platform, holding on to a peeling metal railing.

  I snort my response. If I stink, I’m not going to wait with those people. Of course, stinking is the least of my worries. I could reek like a dead skunk, but getting out of here and putting this place behind me, like a bad memory, is more important. I have to get in contact with Mom. Too risky to contact Dad.

  “You’ll only smell worse the longer you wait.” She crinkles her cute nose.

  I eye the place with repugnance, nostrils flaring, inhaling the scent of mildew, rotting wood, and dirt. Grinding my teeth becomes a reminder to fix my face so disgust won’t show. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She crosses arms over her chest.

  I’ll take that as a yes. “Why did you rescue me?”

  “Ask Pike.” She points to the large room. “That’s your bed near the brick wall.” She singles out an empty cot raised on metal legs on the far side. “It’s next to the one with the little girl in the red teddy-bear shirt.”

  Around the room, many people are already asleep. What time it is? Here, the time of day must not be marked by activities like where I’m from. Or maybe since the sun has descended from the sky and night is upon us, there are no places to be or things to do.

  Others are reading books, but not on tablets. Real books. I haven’t seen one in a long time. Real books are ancient, now only occupying space in museums.

  In a corner, a group of women sew clothing and quilts. Five others make blankets from yarn, their fingers looping and tying. Their eyes focus on everything but the growing blankets gaining length and shape in their quick hands. Blankets like those hang in the market. I’ve never seen people make handmade objects before.

  I look back at my cot. “You’ve got to be quipping me. That can’t be my bed!”

  “We sleep on portable cots. Follow me.”

  I follow as insecure thoughts and feelings overwhelm me. Reality sets in as we walk further into this unfamiliar place.

  The front door flies open and slaps against the wall. Rigo and Zee are back. Zee heads over to a little girl’s cot, while Rigo comes our way. I glance at Saya, whose smile acknowledges their return.

  My heart thumps inside my chest and only relaxes when Rigo goes to his cot.

  “Here’s yours.” Saya points to a cot covered with a gray-and-black patchwork quilt and then leaves me for hers about seven cots away. Handmade quilts cover these too.

  People’s backpacks—possibly holding all their worldly possessions?—lean against walls or are tucked under beds. Impossible. Even what I cherish most couldn’t fit into a backpack. But all these victims of circumstance, roaming with no real home, found a way to minimize. I no longer have worldly possessions.

  I call to Saya, feeling more alone than ever. “How come I can’t sleep next to you?” I point to an empty spot next to hers.

  “Fat chance.” Uninhibited laughter wraps around her words. My discomfort makes her happy. Embarrassed, my cheeks flush with heat.

  What did I do to her?

  Does she hate Goldens that much?

  “Night, night, Golden boy.” She gives me one last glance before walking off.

  “Welcome to the slums, Golden boy.”

  I turn to look for the wise-doink who has no business listening. But in this wide-open place, there are no private conversations. Nearby, Rigo plunks down on his cot, smiling.

  Biting down, I tighten my jaw, then break eye contact with him. He helped me escape, and although he’s a doink, he should get my respect. I step out of my kicks and sit on my cot. Saya lies down on hers, staring at actual pictures spread out next to her. She looks up and then stuffs the images into her backpack before turning her back to me. I haven’t seen pictures in a while since our house is full of digitals and so are the books on tablets.

  “Don’t even think about it, you Golden piece of shucky. She’d never give you the chance.” Rigo crosses his feet on his bed.

  I don’t bother looking at him.

  “Rigo!” a voice booms from across the room. He immediately kicks his feet off his cot and sits erect like he’s in trouble. By the terse sound of the voice, he might be.

  Everyone quiets and stops what they’re doing to look across the room. I can’t discern the yelling guy’s features, but his blond beard makes him look about my dad’s age, mid-forties.

  “Yes, Pike?” Rigo’s voice cracks as he straightens.

  That’s what a leader should look like: tall, muscular, and looming. Someone you don’t want to zard with. “Come see me in my quarters.”

  Rigo stands, throws me a narrowed glance, and jogs toward Pike. They disappear around a corner. What does their leader have in store for me?

  Chapter Seventeen

  My stomach growls. I doubt they have anything edible in this place, so I switch mental gears.

  I look at Saya one last time. Her back is still turned to me, but now her quilt is hiked up over her shoulders and only her hair sticks out. I’d like to run my hands through it. I shake the thought from my head. I must not care.

  Next to me, the little girl in the teddy bear shirt stares. With tears in her eyes, she cuddles a dirty doll to her chest that’s torn all over and missing an eye and a leg. The girl’s oval face and greasy, black, matted hair needs washing. Her dimples give her face an older look, but she’s probably a year or two older than my sister, maybe seven or eight. Zee hugs the little girl and gives me a head nod before walking away.

  “I met you in the market.” Her clothing is cleaner this time, though it’s the same outfit—or I’m getting used to dirt.

  She smiles. “You like Saya, don’t you?”

  I pull the quilt up to my chest. I’m sticky and need a shower but refuse to take one. Their public bath is probably nothing like automatic showers. A few days without washing won’t be so bad. This doesn’t seem like the kind of place you get comfortable in anyway. Considering the backpacks and portable cots, being ready to go at a moment’s notice is importan
t.

  “You’re pretty smart, little girl.”

  She frowns. “Name’s Cricket.”

  “That’s your real name?”

  “Is Kade your real name?”

  I chuckle. “Feisty little girl.”

  “Don’t call me little. I’m seven.” She crosses her arms. “Just small for my age.”

  The defiance reminds me of Emmaline and brings a smile to my face. She hates it when I call her little too. Calling kids little or a baby when they want to be a teenager or a grownup gets them pouty and pissed off. Cricket’s face holds an unpleasant expression: creased nose, furrowed brow, and pushed-out lips. So cute. Makes me want to pinch her little cheeks.

  “Do you like Saya or not?” Her face returns to a normal expression.

  At first, taking Cricket seriously isn’t an option. But engaging in conversation will keep me busy, and she wants to talk about the only person I want to know about.

  “What? Are you a matchmaker? You tell me. Does she like me?”

  “Never answer a question with a question. It’s rude.” She wags a finger.

  “Where are your parents? Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?” I look around the room for adult versions of Cricket.

  “There’s no bedtime here, silly.” She laughs, and then her face falls. “And I only have my brother Cress.”

  Her brother who bled to death in Saya’s arms? Cress? Zee must’ve only just told her. She’s a tough cookie. Saya-in-training.

  “You have no one now?” The sadness in her eyes pushes me to the edge. No little girl should be broken like this.

  A series of images flash in my mind: Emmaline perched on my mother’s hip, holding on to Mom’s neck tightly. Ems looking confused and crying. I can’t bear to look at her. They read the decree. My face falls in shock. Emmaline burying her face in my mother’s hair.

  “I have all of them.” Her gaze flicks toward the room. A cute gesture, her small eyes shifting side to side. “Saya’s like a sister, and I like Zee. Mrs. Shelby and Pike takes care of us, and Carson builds me things.” Her tiny voice shakes, straggling into nothingness.

  “I’m sorry about your brother.” If she knew he died because of me, she’d probably hate me. I take a breath and then blow out air. “My parents are MIA.”

  “What’s MIA?”

  “Missing in action.” I grimace. “Definitely nowhere around here.”

  Cricket smacks her lips, gaining an attitude suddenly. “So, do you like her or not?”

  She’s so like Ems. Sharp as a whip and doesn’t miss a thing. But with more attitude.

  “How can you like someone you just met? I haven’t known her for two hours.” I shrug.

  “Saya still loves Archer, but I think she likes you, too.” Cricket lowers her voice purposefully. “Rigo’s been looking at her all googly-eyed since Archer got taken.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. Night, night, Kade.” She rolls over in her cot. End of that conversation.

  Tugging my cover up further, I roll to face the far wall. With my back to the little girl and Saya, I take apart Cricket’s sentences.

  Saya still loves Archer…

  Archer must be her ex.

  Since Archer got taken.

  Got taken. What does that mean?

  Saya looked at pictures earlier. Maybe of Archer? I shake my head. They could have been pictures of anyone really: her mother, sister, or cousin. Who knows?

  I think she likes you.

  If Saya’s been showing me affection, I don’t want to see what hatred looks like.

  I don’t want to read too much into a seven-year-old’s perceptions. Cricket probably doesn’t know anything for positive except maybe that the sky is blue and eating yellow snow is a bad idea. Of course, she might not know about the second thing because we don’t get snow here and she hasn’t had as much web time as I have.

  What will meeting Pike be like? This is the guy who deemed me important enough to save, who did what my father couldn’t or wouldn’t do. He placed my importance over everyone’s by telling Cress to only use the biohealer on me. I wish I could ask someone about him so I’d know more before going into our meeting.

  Eventually, sleep claims me. Halfway through the night, someone cries, and I’m back home. Ems has always been scared of the dark. Is she having a bad dream? I jerk awake to a whimpering, sniffling, and weeping. But not my sister’s.

  I turn, kicking free my blanket-wrapped feet. Cricket’s now facing me, face smudged with tears, skin laden with dirt. She’s lost in her multicolored quilt, and her shoulders bob like she’s hyperventilating while crying.

  I want to comfort her like I’ve done with Ems so many times. But then someone calls to her.

  “Come sleep with me, sweetie.”

  Saya. Cricket doesn’t hesitate. Grabbing her raggedy doll, she cozies up on my dream girl’s cot. A tight fit, but she buries her head under Saya’s arm.

  “I don’t want to get taken,” she says, and I’m puzzled again.

  “I told you I’ll protect you.”

  There’s plenty I don’t understand and maybe never will about being Dreg. But the concept of “taken” they’ve given so much power to starts to scare me. The old Dreg man said it. And now Cricket. What does it mean? And what makes them believe people get taken?

  The little girl is fast asleep after the comforting words, long before Saya brushes her tears away.

  She looks at me, and we share a moment. Her vulnerability is palpable. She’s deflated from the heavy burden she carries and seeks solace in being the person Cricket can count on. I’ll relish that look in my dreams.

  I close my eyes to sleep. An image of a Dreg being kidnapped scampers into my mind. This is how I imagine being taken feels like. What will my world be like now that I’m alone, officially Dreg, and meeting their leader in the morning?

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the morning, we fold our cots down to the size of two-foot squares, along with the insulated quilts. People stuff them and any other loose items into their bags. They’re obviously trained to be ready to go at all times. Then tables flattened into the walls are pulled out for chow time.

  After standing in the breakfast line for a couple of minutes, a rosy-cheeked, long-haired twelve-year-old girl bumps my elbow, edging her way in line directly behind me. I move forward to make room.

  “Oh, no, you don’t! You’re always trying to jip the line,” another girl her age with braids shouts.

  I turn around. Is she talking to me?

  “Mrs. Shelby,” the girl with the braids calls, “she’s trying to—”

  “At it again,” someone says behind me.

  “Shame they don’t stick together, with their mother being taken and all,” another person offers.

  Taken? There’s that word again. Why are Dregs being taken, and who’s taking them? Who would want to take Dregs?

  Mrs. Shelby turns out to be a short, tawny, black-haired woman with a pointed chin and deep-set eyes. She marches past me from behind the serving side of the chow line.

  I ignore the excruciatingly loud arguing. A minute later, I’m handed a battered tray with a plate full of unappetizing food best described as two mountainous globs of sludge. The slopes are meant to be eggs, and the flatlands possibly cornmeal. The generous quantity is not a plus. I’m used to quality, not potentially lethal portions of mush.

  Under the dim lights of the expansive room, studying people becomes a hobby. A mini city has been created here for people who have nowhere else to go. A whole world I’ve only begun to experience.

  Unkind you-don’t-belong-here gazes follow me as I find a place to sit. People pause in conversations to whisper about me. Treading lightly on the dull floor, I’m engrossed in my walk of shame, trying not to trip over my feet. Eventually, I find an open space at one of the tables occupied by other teens. One of them is Saya, which is enough incentive for me to sit down.

  Under my hands, the table’s bump
y and weathered as if it’s been cemented to the wall for decades. Will I survive eating this shucky-colored food on a daily basis? Hunger battles my disgust. Three girls, including Saya, sit on one side of the table, and Rigo sits next to her. I park on the other side with Zee and two boys.

  “You guys don’t have prep meals here?”

  Rigo laughs. “Glad you could bless us with your presence today, Golden boy.”

  Prep meals? Really, what was I thinking? Only Golden eat chef-cooked meals!

  The others join in his laughter. Does Rigo ever take a rest from this game of intimidation? Is he playing with me on purpose? He must feel threatened. Either that, or he’s showing off for Saya. He’s starting to get under my skin.

  Several pairs of curious eyes study my every move. Am I entertaining or disgusting them?

  Knowing he’s trying to rile me, I ignore Rigo and focus on the shucky food in front of me. Moving it around on my plate only makes it look more disgusting. Not eating yesterday and going to sleep as soon as we arrived should make me thankful for anything close to food. But I’m not. I’d rather eat cardboard. I make a face at my plate.

  “Food not up to your standards?” Rigo bellows, raising his voice so the whole cafeteria crowd looks at us.

  I redirect the conversation, which could have ended with me bleeding on the floor if I had told him what’s really on my mind. I lean toward Saya. “How’s this food made, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  One of the girls at the table eyes me and answers instead. “We Dreg use self-heating biodegradable meals—micro meals.” She speaks slowly as if I’m stupid. “How come you don’t know that?”

  “This is what they normally look like?” I make another face. “How do you survive?”

  The girls giggle and give me warm smiles, flirtatious hair flips, and chest dips begging for my attention. But Saya keeps a straight face. A hard one to crack. Maybe if I get her alone again she won’t be able to resist the charming Kade Shaw. Maybe?