Page 9

AMITY

I follow my mother through the basement of the courthouse, my arms cuffed in the front. I never dreamed that this day would be like this. I figured I’d pledge my Oath, grab my bags, and head to the Institute to start training.

Instead, I’m dressed like an Oath Refuser. My wrists are bound like a criminal. I have a rebel haircut. I’m about to be deported.

My mom’s back straightens as another Officer passes us, barely looking up. I see my mom sigh with relief, a slight slump, and then she steels herself as the noise grows at the end of the hall.

There’s a murmur of voices, and the sound sends a shiver up my spine. I’m used to the low, soothing voices of my teachers at City College High School, and the mostly—well—partially controlled voices of my friends trying to follow the rules and speak without aggression.

This sounds nothing like that. The murmur swells, spiking with outbursts of yelling, people talking, loud and angry. There’s the high-pitched sound of a woman crying and she sounds scared, hysterical. There’s a rumble of a man talking that grows to an angry, bellowing conclusion.

My mother has slowed down, and I’ve slowed behind her. We turn a corner and there’s a wide-open area behind bars with hundreds of people. They’re sitting on benches or on the floor. Some of them are standing or slumped against the walls.

The bars go from the floor to the ceiling, cordoning off the area.

It’s a holding cell. My mother’s back straightens all the way, her face cold.

She pulls the gate open with a jerk and stands motionless, waiting.

I pause in front of her and she takes her knife out, cutting the ties off my wrists, jerking her head for me to go inside.

With wide eyes I enter the cell. No one tries to push their way out, no one interacts with my mom at all. How much time does she spend down here? Is this a regular part of her job?

I don’t know what to think about this whole other side of her I’m seeing.

I slip through the cell, trying to remember what she told me.

I’m Ami now. Sewn into my clothes are the money and phone number I’m supposed to access once we cross the border, somewhere near Scranton.

Then my mission: go to Anchorage, find Zeph, check out a group called the Forge.

I don’t know how to do any of this. It’s quite impossible. I don’t think they could have picked a worse person for this mission. Accessing the money—the very first job—I don’t have any idea how to do that. It’s sewn into my pants somehow? What do I do, rip my clothes ?

Adrenaline floods my system and I react automatically from my training—slow down my breathing, release the tension in my muscles. I turn to say goodbye, but all I see is my mother’s retreating back. So that’s how it’s going to be.

My throat feels thick and swollen. I move through the room aimlessly. It’s a large space, filled with murmurs and shouts.

There are all different kinds of people. I’m used to the long braids of my teachers and the CSOs, all women in Positions of Power. The WPA men like my dad have short hair and easy smiles.

The people here all look different. Everyone’s in street clothes like me, not a uniform in sight. A lot of them are pretty haggard. Tired looking, worn, not like the Citizens I see around my neighborhood.

My self-control spins away from me. Each time I tug my breathing and heart rate to slow down, my adrenaline spikes all over again and the panic rises.

Yes, the people are different, but it’s also super crowded.

The sound of voices rising and falling, the unexpected outbursts of anger and glee, and the arguments keep me on edge.

In the back I find an open spot at the edge of a bench. I’ll sit here and wait.

“Okay, kiddo, almost time,” says a voice next to me.

I turn. I’m not sure who’s the kid here.

The person looks no older than me, and maybe younger.

Their body is lean and lanky, and I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

Even their hair seems confused; it’s cut short to the scalp on one side and hangs in a shaggy wave on the other.

They are wearing purple overalls over a baggy shirt and a hoodie with orange flowers scattered across it.

“Get there yet?” they ask, sounding annoyed.

“What do you mean?” I respond. What is happening here?

“Did you figure me out? Which box to put me in?”

I freeze. I don’t want to offend anyone. Did I break an unspoken rule by staring? Their outfit is…striking.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry,” I stammer.

“Just kidding. Jeez, relax.” They pat my knee once, sympathetically.

“I’m not a boy or a girl,” they say, with a friendly shoulder bump. “I don’t subscribe to any of that.”

“Okay…” I trail off.

“Ren. Nice to meet you,” they say with a grin.

“I’m Ami,” I tell them. “I’m being deported.”

“Oh, are you?” Ren winks, then falters. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking.”

The ground feels like it’s shifting under me.

“I’m not,” I reassure them earnestly. “I need to get to Anchorage,” I say, lowering my voice.

Ren’s eyes grow big and dart around. “I hear you, kiddo, but let’s be careful who we say that to, okay? Jeez, you all by yourself or what?”

For some reason my throat closes at that. I push tears back.

“Aw, Ami, I’m alone too.” Ren is serious now and stares into space a second before looking back at me, shaking their head. “Stick with me, kiddo. I’m also headed,” they hesitate, “north.”

I nod, taking note, and Ren laughs. “You’re so serious. Jeez.” They glance around, craning their neck to see over everyone. People are starting to stand up, so we stand up too, but I stay near Ren.

“What’s your story, got folks in Alaska?” they ask.

I remember what my mom said. “My friend—uh—refused the Oath and left. He said that’s where he’s going. I want to find him if I can.”

Ren nods as we line up. There’s a big loading dock outside a garage door that’s open at the back of the room. Buses are pulling up to the dock and people are filing on.

“I hope you find your friend,” they say. Then we’re quiet. I’m about to find out what it’s like to be deported.

Bored-looking Officers stand at the entrance to the buses. There are metal detectors set up. A man in front of me walks through one and it beeps. The Officer holds out a small bin with a frown, and the man sighs and takes his earrings out, dropping them in.

He walks through again in silence and on the other side he turns back to the Officer but she sternly jerks her head towards the bus, shoving a bag into his hand. There’s an unspoken staring match until the man turns, boarding the bus with a muttered curse.

I think about the money sewn inside my pants and realize I’m sweating. There’s no metal in there, right? My mom wouldn’t put me in that situation. Of course, I never would have thought I’d get deported either, so I’m not a great judge of what plans my mom has in place for me.

I glance at Ren who nods with a frown.

“If you’re hiding anything it’s not too late to drop it.”

I shake my head and Ren reaches up to the ear hidden under their curtain of hair and pulls out a small hoop.

“Here you go. Enjoy!” they say to the CSO, almost a taunt, but with a winning smile. Rather than take offense, the Officer laughs and waves us through, handing the hoop back to Ren.

Despite sweating and my heart racing out of control, I walk through and there’s no beep, no red light flashing at the top. The Officer gives us each a bag, which has a sad-looking sandwich and an apple.

It’s crowded on the bus. There are a couple of families with kids.

I wonder what they’re doing here. It’s the same mix of folks from back in the holding cell.

Feeling out of my depth, I follow Ren, who scoots into a seat halfway back.

They look up at me expectantly, so I slide in beside them.

I may not know anything about Ren, but they’ve been friendly, so I’ll stick with them, at least for now, since they’re heading the same way I am.

The bus ride is super short. As we pull up to Penn Station we’re herded off the bus by Security Officers and down to a platform. It’s the same deal, metal detectors. This time it goes faster and I’m on the depo train before I know it, following Ren to a pair of seats once again.

Ren slides down, bracing their knees against the back of the seat in front of us. They pull open the bag from the Officer and take a couple bites of their sandwich.

“So how’d they pick you up?” Their eyes sweep me. “Were you fighting?” they ask, their eyes lingering on the logo of my T-shirt. I wonder what the logo means.

“No,” I laugh reflexively. It reminds me of being in school. The teacher would hear raised voices and come over with that same question, “Were you fighting?” It was never me. But if someone got caught they could be in mandatory therapy for the rest of the week .

“Definitely not,” I add. “But I Refused my Oath.”

Ren stares at me, then lowers their voice. “Ami, we’re going for tough here. Let me help you with that answer,” they whisper. “I’ll say, ‘Were you fighting?’ You say, ‘Yeah.’”

They sit up straight. “Were you fighting?” they ask again, their voice raised.

Every bone in my body is telling me to deny, deny, deny.

“Yeah,” I say. It comes out of my mouth with difficulty.

“What about you?” I ask, not sure what the polite response is in this situation.

Ren shrugs. “I’m a writer. I wrote something that was kinda violent.”

“How did the Peaceful Society find out?” I ask.

“The PS? Well, it was really good, kiddo. A lot of people read it. I write a lot, and most of it isn’t about the joys of maidenhood, chastity, and dumb men. It’s about violence,” they say in a stage whisper. “And fighting.” They laugh as I barely suppress a shudder.

“Oh, Ami, so green. Ren will protect you.” With that their grin slips and Ren looks upset. Then they straighten, smiling with their mouth but not their eyes. “Maybe you’ll star in one of my stories one day.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“I’m taking a nap. Wake me up when we hit the border,” Ren announces, bunching up their hoodie and slumping against the window.

I’m on my own. I find myself sitting rigidly and force myself to relax, sag a little, act like I belong here. I try to get into the mindset of Ami, but the best I can do is watch out the window in silence and hope no one says anything to me.