UnWholly

“You don’t behave like a boy when he’s in love.”

“Maybe because I’m not a boy,” he tells her. “I haven’t been for a good long time now.”

She thinks about that, and quietly says, “Then show me how you feel the way a man does. And make me believe it.”

The challenge hangs heavy in the air. For a moment he imagines himself lifting her out of the chair and carrying her into his jet, all the way to his room at the back, and gently laying her down on his bed, being for her the man he claims to be.

But Risa will not be carried. Under any circumstances. Ever. And he wonders if maybe this is not entirely his fault. Maybe she’s partially to blame for this invisible rift between them.

With no other way to prove his feelings, he reaches forward with his own hand, pushes the hair back from her face, then leans in, giving her a powerful kiss. He puts the whole weight of their relationship and all their built-up frustration into that single superheroic kiss. It should be enough to say everything he can’t . . . but when he pulls away, he feels her tears on his cheek, and she says:

“If you wanted me with you, you would have built a ramp.”

•   •   •

Back inside, Co

But what if he had?

What if Risa really could be with him in every possible way—and what if the shark on his arm truly did have a mind of its own? Roland attacked her—he tried to force himself on her, and she must have been looking at that damned shark when he did it. She said it didn’t bother her, but it bothers Co

Better not to let it happen.

Better to make sure she’s never that close.

So you don’t build a ramp. You don’t visit her in her jet, and when you do have physical contact, it’s out in the open where it’s safe. And when she rolls away from you in tears, you let her go, thinking whatever she wants to think, because that’s better than admitting to her that you’re too weak to feel safe with your own arm. Then, alone in the dark of a private jet, you smash your fist furiously against a wall until your knuckles are raw and bloody, but you don’t care, because even though you can feel the pain, you know they’re not your knuckles at all.

10 • Starkey

Starkey spends his days working his particular brand of magic—and he knows that the best magic tricks take practice, patience, and very careful misdirection. Undetectable sleight of hand. For more than a month he has not betrayed his ambitions. To have done so would have made Co

Now he’s in the highest echelon of the Graveyard, and although it’s only food service, it keeps him in direct contact with all seven hundred kids. He has more power, more access, and he begins to do things that previously might be thought of as suspicious, but now come with the territory of being one of the Holy of Whollies.

One afternoon Starkey wanders i

“I’m not the tech geek everyone makes me out to be,” Hayden tells him. “I’m just very good at taking credit for other people’s work. I think I get it from my father—he was uniquely skilled at stomping on fingers as he climbed the corporate ladder.” Hayden studies Starkey for a moment, and Starkey just smiles back.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Hayden says. “I was just wondering if you’re thinking of stealing my position. Not that I care. I wouldn’t mind working food service for a while, but it would help me to know what your intentions are.”

“I just want to know how stuff works around here, that’s all.”

“Oh,” says Hayden, “you’re one of those.” Starkey doesn’t know what kind of “those” he’s talking about, but he doesn’t care as long as Hayden tells him what he wants to know.

“I have an ethnically diverse team here,” Hayden tells him proudly, going around the room. “Tad is Japanese, Hailey is umber, Jeevan is Indian—and Esme is half-Hispanic. I think her other half must be extraterrestrial, because she’s too damn smart to be all human.” Esme preens proudly for a moment, then gets back to work cracking coded communications. “We have Nasim, who’s Muslim, working side by side with Lizbeth, who’s Jewish, and guess what? They’re in love.”

“Bite me,” says Nasim, then Lizbeth punches him just hard enough to make it clear that it’s true.

Hayden points out the various monitoring consoles. “There’s a communications monitoring program ru

“So what do we do if it says things are getting dangerous?”

“Damned if I know,” Hayden says. “That’s Co

There’s a console from which Hayden creates playlists and runs interviews for his Radio Free Hayden show.

“You realize that it doesn’t broadcast any farther than you can shout,” Starkey tells him with a smirk.

“Of course not,” Hayden says. “If it did, then the Juvies could pick it up.”

“If no one is listening, then who’s it for?”

“First off,” says Hayden, “your assumption that no one is listening is incorrect. I estimate I have at least five or six listeners at any given time.”

“Yes,” says Tad. “He means us.”

“And second,” Hayden says, not denying it, “it’s preparing me for a career in broadcasting, which I plan to pursue once I turn seventeen and get out of this place.”

“Not hanging around to help Co

“My loyalty has the half-life of unpasteurized milk,” Hayden tells him. “I’d take a bullet for Co

Hayden shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. “Last year didn’t count.”

Next to Jeevan is a printout. A list of names, addresses, and dates. Starkey picks it up. “What’s this?”

“Our good man Jeeves here is responsible for getting us a list of all the kids slated for unwinding from here all the way to Phoenix.”

“These are the kids for your rescue missions?”

“Not all of them,” Hayden says. “We pick and choose. We can’t save everyone, but we do what we can.” He points out the highlighted names—the ones chosen for rescue—and as Starkey looks over the list, he starts to get angry. There’s information about each kid, including birth dates—except for the ones who don’t have a birth date. Instead a stork date is listed. None of the storked kids are highlighted.