Blemished, The (3 page)

R
unning felt good.

I longed for Area 10
. There my house backed onto a small forest – a place I could disappear into and be myself. There I ran through the trees, feeling the tightness in my legs, feeling the cool air sharp in my lungs. Here my feet pounded the pavement, brick dust and grit in the air, rusting tin cans to hurdle.

I ran through dirty streets with cracks in the tarmac; past the run-down houses where paint peels from doors; past blank stares from Blemished people, going about their day. I ran on the outskirts of the ghetto because that is where our house sits. On the day we moved I tentatively explored the inner areas, where the blank stares became harsher and murals of the Resistance looked down from the bricks with guilt inducing accusations. Why aren’t you fighting back?

I thought about Angela’s words.
You can trust us
. Why didn’t she run from me screaming? Why did she figure everything out so quickly?
You should meet Daniel.
What did she mean by that? Could it be possible that Daniel was like me? The questions kept on coming until I had to shake my head to make them stop. No matter what Angela said I was still a freak. When people discovered what I was they would stay away from me. Yet for the first time there was the tiniest speck of hope that someone in this unfamiliar place might understand what I was and not be afraid.

When I came to the yellow door of our house I stopped and tried to catch my breath before facing my dad. The colour seemed out of place in this neighbourhood
. It was too cheerful and bright. My dad always did see the bright side of things – hence the door. When I stepped into the kitchen he was cooking and singing.

“Mina! How was your first day at school?” Dad turned from the stove with open arms, wooden spoon in hand. The kitchen was filled with the scent of his tomato sauce, rich and sweet. Familiar. “Ah. I see from your expression that it did not go well?”

I sighed and removed my headscarf, flattening it out on the kitchen table to show Dad the tears in the fabric. “The GEMs here are pretty rough.”

Dad sat down at the table, his fingers moving slowly over the scarf. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I gestured to the cooker. “Spaghetti?”

He smiled. It was a tired smile. One with regret. “Am I that predictable?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” I replied. “You’re still here.”

It was meant to be light-hearted but then I knew we were both thinking of Mum. I realised then that we still hadn’t talked about her since she died.

“I must stir.” Dad rose stiffly to his feet. “The secret in the sauce––”

“––is to never let it boil,” I finished.

“Well,” Dad said with a laugh. “I suppose I really am that predictable.”

I found myself smiling, really smiling
, for the first time since we’d moved. And it was all because of him. “Dad?”

“Yes, Minnie?”

I ignored the nickname, just this once, not wanting to rock the simplicity of us together in the kitchen: a simple scene of father and daughter, cooking together, eating together. “It’s a really good sauce.”

He laughed and it came up from his belly like it always does when he laughs with his whole heart. It was a large belly, grown larger from the fit and healthy man I remembered as a child. But he was still handsome. Dad always told me about how Mum would get jealous of the way his students flirted with him. According to him he was a “cool” Professor that the kids “related to”, but I could never imagine him like that. He hummed as he stirred; the tune from some old music he remembered – now illegal. Someone knocked at the door and he stopped humming abruptly.

“Why don’t you go freshen up before tea?” Dad said to me while wiping his hands with a tea-towel.

I glanced hesitantly at the door
. Had Angela come over to tell my dad about the gate? Maybe she still wanted me to go to her house? I moved away from the table and left the kitchen. But then I waited outside the door between our kitchen and the tiny lounge. The TV screen was on, as it always is, and the prattle of another GEM beauty contest distracted me. I pressed my ear right up to the wood.

It wasn’t Angela. I heard two male voices, one of whom was my dad, but the other I had never heard before. They talked in hushed tones as though hiding a secret. I strained to hear, catching only words and bits of sentences. It sounded as though the two of them were trying to agree over a date. The words “months” and “weeks” kept cropping up but I struggled with the specifics. Finally the two men ended the conversation with goodbyes. There was familiarity between them, they said goodbye like old friends. I wondered who my dad knew in Area 14. But it was no time for speculation. I quietly sprinted across the lounge and into the hallway. Trying to avoid any creaky stairs
, I headed up to the bathroom.

He sent me out on purpose, I thought. Whoever the man was, he didn’t want me to meet him. I frowned into the bathroom mirror, wondering what my dad would want to keep from me and why. Since Mum left for London he’d promised, promised firmly, to never keep secrets from each other and to stay safe above everything else.

With a sigh I pulled at the tangles in my hair. Like most Blemished girls I kept my hair long. I guess because we have to keep it all covered up we like to make the most of what we do have. My hair comes almost to my waist and is a dark brown. When it catches the light it shines and I like to brush it every night before I sleep. It is a little too dark for my pale skin which never tans and only pinkens slightly in the summer. I’m tall and gangly, with long arms and legs which took me years to learn to negotiate, but I have muscle tone thanks to the martial arts my dad taught me in the basement of our home in Area 10.

“Mina, your tea is ready,” he called up the stairs.

“Okay, just a sec,” I replied before hastily splashing water on my face and rubbing some soap into my palms. I quickly changed into jeans and a t-shirt, hoping that we didn’t have any more visitors. It would be a pain to have to run upstairs and change back into a tunic and headscarf.

“Ah,” Dad said as I come down the stairs. “I do like to see you out of that dreadful uniform.”

“It’s not so bad.” It wasn’t a lie. I truly had become accustomed to the Blemished uniform. At least it marked us as separate from the GEMs and their tiny, immodest outfits.

“You should be allowed to wear whatever you like,” Dad said softly. “I only wish you were born before all this happened, or better yet, that it never happened in the first place.”

We walked through the lounge and into the kitchen together. Dad tended to say this a lot, and I understood why. But couldn’t help thinking that just saying it wasn’t going to change anything. We sat down together, the food already on the table. The aroma of tomato and basil whetted my appetite and I tucked straight in.

He laughed. “Don’t they feed you at this school?”

My head was down close to the bowl and I paused, spaghetti sauce on my chin. “Sorry!”

He waved his hand. “Don’t be sorry. I like to see you like this.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Happy.”

I put my fork down and thought for a moment. Was I happy? GEM bullies wanted to flush my head down the toilet and I had a secret that I couldn’t tell anyone. But then I had a great dad who cooked for me, a house which could one day be a home, and on my first day at school I made a new friend – a friend who, in time, might be able to accept me for who I am. “Yeah, I guess I could get used to it here.”

“Well, that’s great,” Dad said, chewing food. He swallowed and continued. “Because there is something I want you to do.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to train to use your gift.”

“Y
ou want me to train?” I stared at my dad incredulously with a forkful of spaghetti frozen in front of my nose. “But you said––”

“I know what I said.” Dad idly turned his fork in the spaghetti, his eyes down to the plate of food. With his head bent I noticed the lines on his forehead. The clothes he wore, a plain shirt – the Symbol of the Blemished stitched on the pocket – and corduroy trousers, had not changed for over a decade but his hair sprouted more greys every day. Dad didn’t work. My grandparents left Dad enough money for us to be comfortable, a small fortune that Blemished families should not own – another reason to avoid attention. “You’re old enough to master it now. It was harder when you were a child.”

I nodded. The gift first manifested shortly after my twelfth birthday. Mum had left me and my dad for the Resistance long before. I barely remembered her. He was burdened with a daughter on the cusp of pubescence, which is bad enough, but coupled with a superhuman power, it’s even worse. I couldn’t be around people; I was too much of a liability. But I had to go to school because it was the law. I spent the hours at school trying desperately not to think, not to feel and especially not to get emotional.

“You’re old enough now and I believe that if you try to use it in private then it won’t be so bad for you in public.” Dad reached across the table and took my hand. “Maybe then you can have a normal life.”

“But where can I practice?” I put my spaghetti down, suddenly losing my appetite. “You said that…” I trailed off and glanced around us, “…that they… watch us. Through the screens.” My head indicated the direction of the lounge where the dull chitter-chatter of evening programmes could be heard. Dad’s eyes followed.

Most families spent their time together in front of the screens hooked on reality shows. But we never watched. Despite all the bubbly presenters and beautiful girls with their bright friendly smiles
, there was a more sinister side to the TVs – according to my dad anyway. The Ministry controlled everything on the screens and Dad always said that he didn’t trust anything we weren’t in control of. He believed the Ministry used it to track us and could even
see
us through the screens. I wasn’t so sure but I still heeded the warning.

“There’s a reason why I bought this house, Mina,” Dad said. He commenced eating again.

“The yellow door?” I asked with a smirk.

He glowered at me. “No. The basement. I’m going to have it renovated and turned into a room where you can train.”

“Oh,” I said. Then I had a thought. “Are you employing someone to do that?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I’ve contacted a lad who is good at woodwork.”

I exhaled, relieved. That would clear up the mystery of the guest in our kitchen.

“I’ve contacted a local builder and he’s going to spare this lad for a few days. His name i
s Daniel. He’s local and lives in the ghettos. Had quite a tragic life by the sounds of it. His father ended up executed by the Ministry and his mother ran off. A local woman and her daughter took him in.” Dad continued.

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Did you say his name is Daniel?”

“Yes,” he replied. “What’s the matter? Do you know him?”

“No,” I said. We finished our food in silence.

*

“Mashed potato bunny?” said Angela, pointing to the huge tray of lumpy potato. She’d shaped it into an uneven rabbit. It was the kind of resemblance where you had to squint and poke yourself in the eye to see it.

“I wouldn’t call it a bunny,” I said with a laugh. “Maybe a sheep, or a cow, but definitely
not
a bunny.”

“Huh!” she replied. “I spent ages making that.”

“You should be proud,” I said with over the top sarcasm.

Along with the rest of the Blemished girls
, we were lined up beside the serving aisle of the canteen waiting for the GEMs to arrive. It was lunchtime the next day and I was finally beginning to fit in. I’d successfully avoided any toilet incidents and the GEMs had left me alone. But as I thought about facing Elena and her friends again, my forehead felt hot underneath my headscarf and I swallowed dryly.

Angela stood to my right with her mashed potato. Despite spending the morning together we still hadn’t talked about our walk home from school. I’d been nervous, imagining various conversations in my head, but she just started acting like nothing had happened and I followed suit.  

“Oi, Dixon,” Billie said harshly to Angela. “Mush that thing down, they’ll be here soon.”

“All right, keep your hair on. I was just trying to have a laugh,” said Angela
, with a roll of her eyes. “Things are so morbid around here.”

Billie glanced at her sister, Emily, who nervously stirred a huge pot of gravy. I’d found myself watching Emily all morning. The girl tended to stay silent and frequently disappeared to the toilet. She moved in an odd way, almost like a waddle.

“What are you looking at?” Billie said to me.

“Nothing,” I murmured
, before turning back to my job – arranging the pork chops under the lights on the serving aisle.

High-heels tapped on the floor-boards. The GEMs approached. Clicking shoes were followed by perfectly manicured toes peeking from around the canteen wall. Slender calves led to smooth, hairless thighs and a tribe of miniscule skirts of all colours. Oh, they were colourful all right – it made up for their lack of personality. Red hair, blonde curls, yellow jumpers, pink cheeks, gold shoes, all shining like a sequined rainbow, made their way into the narrow food hall. White teeth on show. Laughter, smiles and inane chatter. I fiddled with my headscarf, the sight of their flesh making me feel frumpy and uncomfortable.

“Right then,” Billie said behind me. “Play nice and serve.”

I straightened. My muscles tensed. There was something about serving the GEMs at lunch time which made my skin crawl. Everything else I could cope with: the uniform, the classes, and the way they looked at us. But to stand and serve them the food I had prepared always seemed the lowest of the low. I thought about the way Dad cooks for me
and the intimate feeling you get from sharing food. It should be personal, and with love. Not forced.

“Ew, mash? Calorific. Gimme an apple,” said the one in front, her voice too soft and drawling, soaked in honey. The tone of her voice did not match the attitude of her words.

As I handed her the apple I couldn’t stop myself staring, I never could. There was a perfect symmetry to her face and flawlessness to her skin that seemed so unnatural. She had large blue eyes and thick eyelashes. Our hands touched briefly and she recoiled.  

“She’s tipped for London,” Angela whispered into my ear as she walked away. “She’s gorgeous. I think she can make it.”

“Why do you care?” I responded. “What does it have to do with us?”

She looked shocked. “Area 14 hasn’t had anyone accepted for years. We’d get extra food. And better TV.”

“Yeah, of course.” I frowned, wondering if Angela really believed that.

I kept my promise to Billie, dishing out soggy vegetables and pork chops to the GEMs with a frigid smile on my imperfect face. I stayed polite and subservient just like a good Blemished girl should.

“Elena’s coming,” Angela said in a hushed tone. “Don’t worry, she won’t do anything here.”

“Are you sure?” I said. My palms itched and I longed to be anywhere but there, anywhere but about to go face to face with the bullies who almost drowned me.

Elena approached. Around her huddled the other girls – the girls who had just stood there and watched. Elena fronted them, their ring leader and tallest by several inches. She had dark hair which rippled in luxurious waves to her slender shoulders. She pouted with down-turned, full lips. She glared at me with oval eyes, an icy shade of blue.

“Rumour is her genes are based on an old film-star,” Angela whispered in my ear.

“Hey, it’s the new girl. Did you enjoy your shower, Blem?” Elena said to me, her mouth twisting into a cruel smile. The girls behind her laughed. To her right stood a curvaceous blonde, to her left a caramel skinned girl with red hair and behind her a tall and very skinny girl with black hair.

I swallowed. “What would you like to eat? Pork chops? Mashed potato? The vegetarian option––”

“Screw the vegetarian option.” Elena leaned forward so that our faces were close – between us the food, lights and mantel. “I don’t know…What would you eat?”

“Well, maybe the pork-chop.”

She turned to her friends, acting up to an audience and loving every second. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Maybe the… potato? But, you know, I really can’t decide. Maybe if you tried it first?”

“Me?” I fiddled with my headscarf, wanting to back away.

“Yeah, you!”

“I can’t e-eat the food.” I stuttered.

“Then smell it,” she replied. “Get right down there and smell the potato.”

“I-I don’t want to do that.”

Elena’s face turned rigid. “If you don’t do it I’ll tell Murgatroyd that you hit me.”

“What?” I said, aghast. “Why would you do that? I’d be arrested.”

She said nothing, only stared me down. Behind her the girl with caramel skin clapped her hands in delight. Abject humiliation for me turned into great entertainment for them.

Tears pricked my eyes but I held them back. Heat tingled in my cheeks. Next to me Angela stiffened but like the other Blemished girls
– she didn’t speak up. I didn’t blame them. I leaned over, moving my face closer and closer to the potato.

“This is amazing,” Elena said to her friends, “she’ll do anything I tell her!”

The familiar sensation prickled at my finger tips and I knew this time I couldn’t hold it back. My mind focussed into one singular thought which ripped through my anger. Just as my nose reached the potato her food tray flipped, slapping her straight in the face.