“What we need,” Lev tells him, “is more freedom to express opinions. Then things like this wouldn’t happen.”
Cavenaugh is genuinely insulted. “You talk like this is a harvest camp. Everyone’s free to express themselves here.”
“Well, I guess not everyone feels that way.”
26 - Miracolina
After a day of being cold-shouldered by every living thing in the mansion, there’s a knock on her door. She doesn’t say anything, because whoever it is will just come in anyway; the bedrooms here have no locks.
The door opens slowly, and Lev steps in. There’s a quickening of her heart when she sees him. She tells herself it’s anger.
“If you’re here to accuse me of vandalizing your portrait, I confess. I can’t hide the truth anymore. I did it. Now punish me by taking away all my inspirational movies. Please.”
Lev just keeps his arms limply by his side. “Stop it. I know you didn’t do it.”
“Oh—so you finally caught the naughty tithe?”
“Not exactly. I just know it wasn’t you.”
It’s a bit of a relief to be vindicated, although she did take some guilty pleasure in being a prime suspect. “So what do you want?”
“I’ve been meaning to apologize for the way you were brought here. Tranq’d and blindfolded and all. I mean, what they’re doing here is important, but I don’t always agree with how they do it.”
Miracolina notes that this is the first time she’s heard him say “they” instead of “we.”
“I’ve been here for weeks,” she says. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Lev reaches up and flips his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know. It was just bothering me.”
“Soooo . . . you’re going around apologizing to every kid here?”
“No,” Lev admits. “Just you.”
“Why?”
He begins pacing the small room, raising his voice. “Because you’re the only one who’s still angry! Why are you so angry?”
“The only angry person in this room is you,” Miracolina says, with antagonizing calm. “And there are plenty of angry kids here. Why else would your portrait get vandalized?”
“Forget about that!” shouts Lev. “We’re talking about you!”
“If you don’t stop yelling, I’ll have to ask you to leave. In fact, I think I’ll ask you to leave anyway.” She points to the door. “Leave!”
“No.”
So she picks up a hairbrush and throws it at him. It beans him on the head and ricochets to the wall, where it wedges behind the TV.
“Ow!” He grabs his head, grimacing. “That hurt!”
“Good, it was supposed to.”
Lev clenches his fists, growls, then turns like he’s going to storm out, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns back to her, unclenching his fists and holding his palms out to her, pleading like maybe he’s showing off his stigmata. Well, there might be blood on his hands, but it sure isn’t flowing from his palms.
“So is this how it’s going to be?” he asks. “You’re just going to stew and bitch and make things miserable for everyone here? Don’t you want something more out of life?”
“No,” she tells him, “because my life ended on my thirteenth birthday. As far as I’m concerned, from that moment on I was supposed to be a part of other people’s lives. I was fine with that. It’s what I wanted. It’s what I still want. Why do you find that so hard to believe?”
He looks at her for a moment too long, and she tries to imagine him all dressed in white as a tithe. She could like that boy; still pure and untainted. But the kid before her now is a different person.