Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians

the hopes that it wouldn’t remind my body of any duties that needed to be done.
    Yet as I sat and thought, some very strange things were happening to me. I’d always kind of thought of myself as a defiant rebel against the system. However, the truth was that I was just a whiny kid who threw tantrums and broke things because he wanted to make certain that he hurt others before they hurt him. It was that dreaded humility again, and it was having a very odd effect on me. It should have made me feel like a worm, crushing me down with shame. Yet for some reason, it didn’t do that.
    Realizing my faults didn’t make my head bow but made me look up instead. Realizing how stupid I had been didn’t cause me grief but made me smile at my own foolishness. Losing my identity didn’t make me feel paranoid or worthless.
    The truth was, I’d secretly felt all of those things – shame, grief, paranoia, insecurity – for most of my life. Now that I wasn’t covering them up, I could begin to let go of them. It didn’t make me a perfect person, and it didn’t change what I’d done. However, it did let me stand up and face my situation with a little more determination.
    I was a Smedry. And while I wasn’t quite certain of all that meant, I was beginning to have a better idea. I crossed the room, passing Sing, and crouched down by Bastille.
    “Bastille,” I whispered. “We’ve waited long enough. We have to figure a way to get out of here.”
    She glanced up at me, and I could see that her face was streaked with tears. I blinked in surprise. Why has she been crying?
    “Get out?” she said. “We can’t get out! This cell was built to hold people like you and me.”
    “There has to be a way.”
    “I’ve failed,” Bastille said quietly, as if she hadn’t heard me.
    “ Bastille, ” I said. “We don’t have time for this.”
    “What do you know?” she snapped. “You’ve been an Oculator all of your life, and have you done anything with it? Never! You didn’t even know. How is that fair?”
    I paused, then reached up to touch my face. I hadn’t even noticed – my glasses were gone.
    Of course they are, I thought. They took my jacket with the Tracker’s Lenses and the Firebringer’s Lenses in the pocket. They took Bastille’s and Sing’s Warrior Lenses. They would have taken my Oculator’s Lenses.
    “You didn’t even notice, did you?” Bastille asked bitterly. “They took your most powerful possession, and you didn’t even notice.”
    “I haven’t been wearing them for long,” I said. “Only a few hours, really. I guess it felt natural to me for them to not be there when I woke up.”
    “Natural for them to not be there,” Bastille said, shaking her head. “Why do you get to be an Oculator, Smedry? Why you?”
    “Aren’t all Smedrys Oculators?” I asked. “Or, at least, all of those in the pure line?”
    “Most of them are,” she said. “But not all of them. And there are plenty of Oculators who aren’t Smedrys.”
    “Obviously,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, toward the room where Blackburn and Ms. Fletcher supposedly were.
    Then I glanced back at Bastille, cocking my head. She stared at me defiantly. That’s it. That’s what I’ve been missing. “You wanted to be one, didn’t you?” I asked. “An Oculator.”
    “It’s none of your business, Smedry.”
    But it made too much sense to ignore. “That’s why you know so much about Oculator auras. And you were the one who identified the Lenses that Blackburn used on us. You must have studied a whole lot to learn so many things.”
    “For all the good it did,” she said with a quiet snort. “I learned that studying can’t change a person, Smedry. I’ve always wanted to be something I wasn’t – and the thing is, everyone supported me. ‘You can be anything you want, if you try hard enough!’ they said.
    “Well, you know what, Smedry? They lied. There are some things that you just can’t change.”
    I stood silently.
    Bastille shook her head. “You can’t study yourself into being something you aren’t. I won’t ever be an Oculator. I’ll have to settle for being what my mother always told me I should be. The thing I’m apparently ‘gifted’ in.”
    “And that is?” I asked.
    “Being a warrior,” she said with a sigh. “But I guess I’m not too good at that either.”
    Now, you’re probably expecting poor Bastille to “learn something” by the end of this book. You probably expect to see her