Victria’s eyes dart around the common room, lingering on the nurses gathered around Doc by the door. One of the first things we learned was not to ask too many questions or draw attention to ourselves, and Kayleigh’s words are incendiary.
“ No, ” I say. “We’re the freaks. ”
And we are. Everyone else on the spaceship Godspeed doesn’t stay up late at night, worrying about whether or not the ship will ever land. They don’t spend their time doing useless things like singing songs or drawing pictures. They never worry about whether Bartie will be able to rip his gaze off Victria long enough to notice anyone else. . . .
“ We’re not that freakish,” Victria says. “I heard Elder takes the mental meds too. ”
I gasp in surprise. Elder, our future leader, is on mental meds like us? He’s still young— living in the City now, awaiting the time until he comes of age and joins Eldest on the Keeper Level of the ship—but even the hint of madness in our leader disturbs me. “Will he come to live at the Hospital?”
Victria nods. “I heard Doc talking to Eldest about it. Elder will be moving here in a few months, after going to one of the farms for a bit. ”
I want to know more, but Kayleigh interrupts us.
“It’s better. Being on the mental meds. I hated it before I started taking them,” Kayleigh says. Her voice is clear and slow, as if she’s measured the weight of each word and determined its worth before speaking it.
“You don’t remember what it was like before. None of us do. ”
“I remember,” she insists.
“Yeah?” My voice is a challenge. “What was it like?”
“ Nothing. ”
“Tell us,” I demand.
“ Nothing. It was like nothing. It was like being empty inside. ”
Victria and I exchange a look.
“ Sometimes . . . ” Kayleigh sighs. “There’s a lot about this ship that doesn’t make sense. ”
“Liiiike,” a voice calls out from the other side of the room, “how you won’t let me kiss you! ”
Kayleigh picks up a pillow from the sofa and throws it at Harley—not too hard, but hard enough. Harley tosses it aside easily, laughing. If I had to describe Harley as nothing but a sound, that would be it: laughter. He’s always smiling, his white teeth unable to bite back the sound. He sees the world in shades of joy. Harley picks the pillow up from the ground, and I notice paint is caked under his nails, leaking out onto his fingertips.
“ We were having,” Kayleigh says, her voice punctuating each word, “a private conversation. ”
“Yeah, yeah, and meanwhile the rest of us are going to lessons. ”
“ Going to lessons? ” I ask, leaning forward. “But the lessons have always been here before. ” I don’t know if there’s much of a point in teaching crazy people things, but Doc insists that it’s our duty to “hone our inherent talents. ” Every day, he or the nurses leads a discussion on topics relevant to studies: art, math, science. Things like that. And they’re usually done here, in the common room, where there are enough seats for everyone and nothing to distract us from learning beyond the perfectly symmetrical and evenly spaced green fields outside the window. “ We’re going to the Recorder Hall,” Harley says, a mischievous light in his eyes. Kayleigh rolls her eyes. “You made it sound like we were doing something important today,” she says. “We’ve been to the Recorder Hall before. ”
“Yeah,” Harley says. “But Doc’s not doing the lesson there. The Recorder is. ”
My eyes grow round at this. The Recorder is going to teach us from now on? But . . .
“ Why? ” I ask.
Harley shrugs. A moment later, Doc starts calling out names. Harley was partially wrong:
most of the other residents of the Hospital are going to lessons on the Shipper Level. Doc tells them they’re being apprenticed. It’s people like Buck and Britne and Tailor—the ones good at the science and math lessons. People like me and Kayleigh and Harley—the ones who like art—are being sent to the Recorder Hall.
By the time Doc’s done announcing our new roles and sending the studious ones to the Shipper Level, only a handful of us remain to go to the Recorder Hall.
“This should be fun,” Bartie, Harley’s best friend, tells me as we enter the elevator. I grin at him, hoping the heat I feel rising up in me isn’t reflected in my cheeks. I can’t rip my eyes from him until he turns to Harley and says something that makes him laugh, the sound of his voice jolting me out of my reverie. Victria shoots me a look, and my eyes drop to the metal floor of the elevator. I don’t want her to know how I feel about Bartie. I don’t want anyone to know. I want to keep it in the secret place of my heart, the part of me that still clings to hope.
3.
The Recorder Hall is dark and musty, like always. We’ve only been here a few times, to be honest.