Prodigy

Wall, the Elector Primo . . . officially . . . officially . . .’”
    “‘Deemed,’” I say, helping him along.
    “‘Deemed . . . it a crime . . .’” John pauses here for a few seconds, then shakes his head and sighs.
    “‘Against,’” I say.
    John frowns at the page. “Are you sure? Can’t be the right word. Okay then. ‘Against. Against the state to enter the . . .’” John stops, leans back in his chair, and rubs at his eyes. “You’re right, Danny,” he whispers. “Maybe I should go to bed.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “The letters keep smearing on the page.” John sighs and taps a finger against the paper. “It’s making me dizzy.”
    “Come on. We’ll stop after this line.” I point to the line where he had paused, then find the word that was giving him trouble. “‘Capital,’” I say. “‘A crime against the state to enter the capital without first obtaining official military clearance.’”
    John smiles a little as I read the sentence to him without a hitch. “You’ll do just fine on your Trials,” he says when I finish. “You and Eden both. If
I
squeaked by, I know
you’ll
pass with flying colors. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid.”
    I shrug off his praise. “I’m not
that
excited about high school.”
    “You should be. At least you’ll get a chance to go. And if you do well enough, the Republic might even assign you to a college and put you in the military. That’s something to be excited about, right?”
    Suddenly there’s pounding on our front door. I jump. John pushes me behind him. “Who is it?” he calls out. The knocking gets louder until I cover my ears to block out the noise. Mom comes out into the living room, holding a sleepy Eden in her arms, and asks us what’s going on. John takes a step forward as if to open the door—but before he can, the door swings open and a patrol of armed street police barge in. Standing in front is a girl with a long dark ponytail and a gold glint in her black eyes. Her name is June.
    “You’re under arrest,” she says, “for the assassination of our glorious Elector.”
    She lifts her gun and shoots John. Then she shoots Mom. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, screaming so hard that my vocal cords snap. Everything goes black.
    A jolt of pain runs through me. Now I’m ten. I’m back in the Los Angeles Central Hospital’s lab, locked away with who knows how many others, all strapped to separate gurneys, blinded by fluorescent lights. Doctors with face masks hover over me. I squint up at them.
Why are they keeping me awake?
The lights are so bright—I feel . . . slow, my mind dragging through a sea of haze.
    I see the scalpels in their hands. A mess of mumbled words passes between them. Then I feel something cold and metallic against my knee, and the next thing I know, I arch my back and try to shriek. No sound comes out. I want to tell them to stop cutting my knee, but then something pierces the back of my head and pain explodes my thoughts away. My vision tunnels into blinding white.
    Then I’m opening my eyes and I’m lying in a dim basement that feels uncomfortably warm. I’m alive by some crazy accident. The pain in my knee makes me want to cry, but I know I have to stay silent. I can see dark shapes around me, most of them laid out on the ground and unmoving, while adults in lab coats walk around, inspecting the bundles on the floor. I wait quietly, lying there with my eyes closed into tiny slits, until those walking leave the chamber. Then I push myself up onto my feet and tear off a pant leg to tie around my bleeding knee. I stumble through the darkness and feel along the walls until I find a door that leads outside, then drag myself into a back alley. I walk out into the light, and this time June is there, composed and unafraid, holding her cool hand out to help me.
    “Come on,” she whispers, putting her arm around my waist. I hold her close. “We’re in this together, right? You and me?” We walk to the road and leave the hospital lab behind.
    But the people on the street all have Eden’s white-blond curls, each with a scarlet streak of blood cutting through the strands. Every door we pass has a large, spray-painted red
X
with a line drawn through its center. That means everybody here has the plague. A mutant plague. We wander down the streets for what seems like days, through air thick as molasses. I’m searching for my mother’s house. Far in the distance, I can