I hesitated, regretting my curiosity. I surveyed the circle around me. Except for Jetson, what did I know about them? From class, I knew they were well-read. From private conversation, I knew they were vain and sometimes cruel. I didn’t trust them, and they certainly didn’t trust me.

My eyes settled on Covington, the ringleader. Her face hadn’t changed much in ten years. When I bounded onto her desk that first day of school, her close-set eyes were the only pair to spark as I called out—Hurrah! A fire lit behind them only to extinguish when she looked around and saw she was the only one poised to follow.

“Make a decision Arika, are you with us?” Covington snapped. She crossed her arms and lifted her stork-like nose.

Hurrah! Comrades, to me!

Slowly, I shook my head. I had no proof with which to corroborate their story. If Hasting was in danger, surely Jones would have told us. Knowing Covington, this could all be a ruse to distract me from the Final Exam. “No, I’m not with you,” I said, finally.

“Why not?!” Covington demanded. “Are we breaking too many rules for little Ms. Perfect?”

I bristled. “Yes, you are. You’re way past the line and tampering with policies you can’t understand. All you have is gossip and political rumors, both of which are forbidden to students.”

She crossed her arms. “At least we’re doing something for the workers. They work too hard. As First Brothers, we’re supposed to take care of them.”

I pushed away from the wall. “I’m doing my part by fulfilling my role under the Compromise!”

“Arika!” Jetson said.

I avoided his gaze. “If I don’t make the meeting tomorrow night, Jetson, you can be my proxy.” I turned on my heel, my reader clutched to my chest.

The Kitchen Maid

THE KITCHEN MAID

That evening in my room, I stared at the colored ink I used to cross-reference my notes, counting the seven pots again and again. Colored ink was precious. Yet, it sat open on my desk, drying in the Kongo heat. I looked down at my notebook. Between counting, I’d read and reread the first page of my notes a dozen times.

Forcing a burst of energy, I sat straighter and dipped my quill in a bright violet color. I wrote the date in the upper right-hand margin—then stalled. I bit my lip and looked at the ink jars. One two three four five six seven. I glanced at the clock, another minute had passed.

My gaze shifted to the to-do list I made that morning. There were tiny, black checkmarks beside every task except the third: Reconsider friendship with Jetson. A trickle of sweat rolled from my hairline. I slapped it away. Reconsider friendship with Jetson. He was frightfully mischievous, but—