The Woodlands

I looked back at our dreary accommodation. The grey-green render was peeling around the doorway. The low roof hung out over the window of our modest lounge, the gutter sagging at one end. Every house looked the same. The only difference between the neighbors’ and ours was the painfully cheery curtains Mother had sewn out of scraps from her workplace. The patchwork of yellow and purple looked ridiculously out of place amid all the grey.

My steps took me past three rows of houses, each a carbon copy of the next. Nervous faces peered out of windows, or over letterboxes. People stalking the morning, seeing whether the coast was clear to go for a walk without bumping into police. They needn’t have worried so much. I knew police would be packing the shopping district this morning; that’s where most citizens were and more people meant more chances for catching someone out.

I slapped the letterboxes as I went, chalky green residue coming off on my fingers. Inspecting them, I rubbed the wearing paint between my fingers. I could leave this green-grey world behind but for what? I was sixteen and would be two years younger than everyone else. I wasn’t as prepared. And the next intake was only a few weeks away. It was so soon. I think I always thought I would straighten up as I got older and then I’d have a chance at a good Allocation. I snorted to myself. These things didn’t just happen on their own and I was about as crooked and curly as could be. Maybe there was no straightening out for me. Chances are I would tangle back up again anyway.

The Superiors assessed you for your natural skill and allocated your Class based on that. I wondered if there was a Class for being a smart mouth. Probably not. They probably had a special Class for people like me. I shuddered.

I imagined a Class of troublemakers. All I could picture was a room with a man at the front pointing to the blackboard saying, ‘Now what you need to do is rub the pencil all along the edges of the binoculars then get them to press it to their eyes…’

I was looking down at my feet, shaking my head at my own silliness, a prank class, yeah, that would be the dream, when I slammed straight into the gate of Ring Three, a metallic vibration pulsing through the air. Rust stains rubbed off onto my grey, wool jacket.

“Watch it! You’ll break it and then we’ll all be in trouble,” someone shouted. I looked up to see a smirking face staring down at me. He was sitting on one of the concrete posts that supported the gates, legs dangling casually.

I tried to dust the stains off my jacket, only managing to rub them in further. I sighed. I would be in more trouble when I returned home.

I stood at the gate for a good two minutes, staring blankly, rubbing my elbows, lost in thought. I held out my wrist to scan my tattoo so the gate would open, but the rusty piece of junk didn’t budge. Had I been denied access? I should be able to get all the way through to Ring Six without too much trouble. I realized that if I left at sixteen, I would never be granted access through gate Seven or Eight.

“Allow me,” the smirking boy said, as he jumped agilely from the concrete post, landing with a thump. He sidled up to me, a big smile on his face. He rattled the sca

“Rosa Bianca,” the electronic voice spoke.

“Um, thanks,” I said. His warm hand was still clutched around my ski

“Sure,” he said as he shook my stiff hand enthusiastically. I pulled back my arm sharply and pushed through the gate. I was not in the mood for company. I had a lot of searching through pointless options to do before I slunk home, just after di

“Joseph Sulle,” the voice a

“Bianca? I know that name. Where are you from?” he asked, catching up to me with Big, thumping strides.

“Same as you, same as everyone,” I snarled, “Ring Three, Pau Brasil.” As I walked, I tied my hair back from my face, pulling it into a low ponytail.

“No, what’s your family background?” he laughed, infuriatingly. He didn’t seem to be getting my tone or he was ignoring it. This boy seemed glib and I didn’t appreciate his condescending question. I understood what he meant—I just didn’t want to talk to him.

“I don’t have a family,” I lied unconvincingly, quickening my pace. What did he care?

He matched my steps.

I spun around to look at him, my ponytail whipping me in the face, a mouthful of hair momentarily derailing my anger. I took his large frame in. He seemed much taller and broader than most of the boys in Ring Three. He stood a good foot and a half over me and he was big. Not fat, just tall and well-muscled. His face was strong and older looking, with a sharp, chiseled jaw and a slightly crooked nose. His long, light eyelashes framed green, staring eyes that had no compunction about continuing to stare.

His hair and skin was lighter than most people in Pau. He didn’t even have a hint of a tan and his hair, which was falling in his eyes, was blonde and curly. Not tight, ringlet curls, just a gentle, golden wave of thick shiny hair that made its way over his ears, and stopped above his neck. When he looked up, the curls linked into each other, like the weave of a basket across his brows. When he disturbed those gentle links, loose curls would fall in his eyes. He probably attracted a lot of attention, with his pretty eyes and incessant smiling. He was handsome, but irritatingly so, and I wished he would divert his attention away from me.

“You mean, you don’t have a family anymore,” he said in a more serious tone. “I’m sure you had one, maybe you just lost it.” His eyes showed a winking concern. Or maybe pity? This made me even more furious. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that—I knew where my family was. I hadn’t lost them like a misplaced library book. I just knew I needed to start letting them go and also, it was none of his business.

“What’s your father’s name?”

I looked at him suspiciously, narrowing my eyes, wishing I had a weapon of some kind. Why was he asking me so many questions?

“Whoa!” He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t worry, Miss, I am not the secret police or anything, just curious. You look very familiar to me. Something about those beautiful eyes…”

Ugh! My eyes. The topic of much discussion. The source of much unwanted attention. I hated them. My mother had brown eyes, brown hair, and dark skin. I looked just like her, dark and slight, but with different eyes. They were my father’s eyes. Every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of the man who left us. The man I had few memories of, but who was kind enough to leave his eyes. A genetic oddity I could never escape. I hated my father and I hated my eyes. He was to blame for bringing Paulo into our lives. He was to blame for what was happening to me now. I could feel tears rising. I wiped my face with my sleeve, tasting rust, and glared at the boy.

“Look, leave me alone, I’m not who you think I am. I am…” And that was it. I ran a few meters away from the confused boy and collapsed on the ground. Who cared if he saw me crying? I had every right to be upset. But I was ashamed at myself for being so emotional. My mother would never behave like this, which only made it worse. My life was about to change forever and this boy was harassing me about my eyes. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. I could barely breathe for how hard I was crying. My whole body shook in jerky movements, like I couldn’t calm my limbs down or make them do what I wanted them to do.