“You’re going to a nail party?” As the only boy in our class, he generally avoided them.

“It’s not a party!” East Keep said, flapping the invite. Cloying waves of perfume advanced against me.

Taking it from her, Jetson set it on top of my books. His buffed nails gleamed. “At least read it before you say no. We called a preliminary Planning Committee meeting. All you have to do is show up.”

“And don’t wear that blouse,” Covington said, arching a brow.

I looked down at my dress to see a large dark blotch across the front. My notebook, cradled with my reader against my chest, was also smeared with ink.

East Keep took a step back, covering the rest of her invites protectively. “Obi, Arika! Did your ink explode or something?”

In my haste to make the door after class, I had forgotten about the cracked ink container. I dabbed anxiously at the blotch with a handkerchief—Jones had a keen eye for messiness.

“Or maybe you’re trading fashion advice with the new kid,” Covington said, jerking her chin back toward the Vine Keeper. He was ambling our way, deep in thought.

“Obi, look at him. Straight from an old-world jungle,” East Keep said.

Everyone laughed, except me. I frowned sympathetically. Toward the end of class, Jones asked him to comment on a simple issue. In response, he’d sat silent as a mute as we all drew the same conclusion—he was even dumber than he looked. It wasn’t his fault. The Rebirth pills were known to backfire sporadically. Instead of scrambling memories as intended, they made lesions in the brain, causing terrible mental side effects.

“He’s twenty at least,” East Keep said. “That’s old enough for thirteen Rebirths, and thirteen misfires. He must be completely feral.”

“All that bulk and a spoiled mind,” Jetson added, shrugging. “If he can follow simple orders, he’d make a fine Guardsman.”

My eyes roved over the boy’s taut muscles. Every year, the most robust male workers were selected for specialized erasures and trained to police the three territories. Jetson was right. Ferals made excellent Guardsmen, but terrible students. He was no competition for Senator.

Covington grimaced. “Don’t be cruel, Jetson. Only field hands have to protect their feet. The Captain of the Guard is an English gentleman. He wouldn’t stomach those shoes. I bet the Supply Room Merchants won’t even sell them.”

They laughed again as Jetson struck a gentlemanly pose, showing off his belted tunic. His leather sandals laced up his ankles and legs.

I shifted my books to cover the stain on my shirt. The Vine Keeper had a silver medallion around his neck, but it was dull and needed polishing. If he entered the Main Hall like that, he would be done for—socially crucified.