Leave

    I knew I couldn’t trust him. Why on earth should he help a girl he doesn’t even know?

    Without Jackson to pester me, I spend my mornings watching the sunrises, my days staring at the ceiling, and my nights watching the sunsets.

    When my tattoos finally faded–when I finally wasn’t tagged “too perfect” or “disloyal” anymore–the hospital staff gave me furtive glances as I checked out. To them, I still was a criminal; I was Bryony Glazer, the girl who posed as Kayla and tried to escape early.

    I stepped out onto the Boston sidewalk and shielded my eyes from the sun. The sun felt like silk on my clean skin; I’m free now. I’m not controlled by the mistakes of others.

    Although I had no idea where I was headed, I set off down the street, getting away from Purity Hospital as fast as I could.

    By instinct, I found my way back to the park where I first arrived. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have money. I don’t have food or shelter. But maybe, if this is where I got away from home, this is where I can find my way back, too.

    But why would I want to go back to Shatterproof?

    But why would I want to stay here?

    Collapsing under the shade of a willow tree, I hid amongst its bows along the edge of a pond and watched the ducks paddle around.

    Several hours passed, and my stomach was starting to rumble, so I decided I had to move.

    Entering the city was terrifying. The cars, up close, moved much faster than it seemed they had from my window in the hospital. Droves of people stared at my slightly bedraggled appearance with confusion, as if to say “what’s a girl your age doing out alone with nothing but the clothes on your back?”

    Then I saw her.

    Ahead of me, a girl with messy hair and a long, blonde ponytail. Underneath a layer of fine hair was a shaved portion of her head, and along the hairline, a curl of black ink. A tattoo.

    I’m going to get caught. She’s going to notice me, I think as my heart begins to race. I’m tall. I’m pale. I’m red-haired. My clothes stick out as a different fashion from everyone else’s.

    But if I don’t follow her, I’ll never get noticed by anyone. Even if I wind up dead.

    I keep my head down and follow.

    She moves quickly, but with her head held high, as if she’s daring someone to notice something different about her, like I did.

    The streets she takes us down get darker and the crows around us thin out until we’re completely alone. She whips around a corner and before I can catch up, I hear a creak and a bang of a door opening and slamming behind her.

   I round the corner and there’s no door to be found. Just a brick wall with graffiti, grease stains, and cracks in the mortar.

    Where did she go? I wonder. It wouldn’t be the first time someone disappeared on me into thin air.

    There’s another squeak, and the walk begins to move. Surprised, I jump to the opposite side of the alley and crouch against a trash bin.

    A piece of the brick swings open to reveal a dark hallway and an olive-skinned boy steps out of it, squinting to better see.

    “Bryony?” Jackson says. “You were the one following Ingrid?”

    I gasp in relief. “Jackson!” I come over to the doorframe, still in disbelief.

    He rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you made it out okay.”

    No thanks to you, I think.

    “Well, you were right to follow her. Come on inside. There’re some people who’ve been waiting to see you.” He beckoned me into the dark hallway, and I follow.

    “Who wants to see me?” I ask.

    Jackson casts a glance over his shoulder and takes a deep breath. “Ari, for one.”

    “Ari?” I echoed, nearly stumbling over a thick rug at my feet. “You found him? Has he always been here? What–?”

    “Listen,” Jackson interrupts. “He broke out of Purity Hospital, like I told you, and he was on the run for a while. He stole a car and he was driving down this alley when he saw our leader. He thought she was some boy from your Shatterproof–Hector, I think?–and he tried to run her over. Some others who live here saw and stopped him. They calmed him down and our leader agreed to let him off if he pulled himself together, returned the car, and joined our group.”

    My head is spinning.

    “He got the tattoos so he would be more reliable, and now he recruits others like us. Vigilantes, I guess. He’s wanted by the government these days, so he doesn’t go out much, but he’s good at hiding his tattoos when needed. He’s a valuable asset.” Jackson opens a door and we walk through an empty kitchen.

    “So why does he want to talk to me?” We step through a doorway and into a library, where a man reads by a fire with his back to us.

    “To recruit you,” the man says, turning around. The light and shadows cast by the dancing flames give familiar markings to his face–ones that rather resemble the cracks that used to marr it. “It’s good to see you again, Bryony,” Ari says.

    I stand rooted to the spot, jaw dropped, eyes wide. For some reason, I hadn’t really believed Jackson when he said Ari wanted to see me–that is, not until I saw him here in the flesh.

    He’s alive.

    There’s more black on his skin than tan, although he kept his face clear. His arms are crisscrossed with markings that curl up like vines to the base of his neck. “You look different,” I stammer.

    He lifts an eyebrow and grins. “Figured you would say that.”

    “Why would you do it?” I burst out. “Why would you want to be in danger of imprisonment again?” I threw up my hands. “Wasn’t the mines enough for you? Because it sure was for me!”

    Ari slid his hands into his pockets and took a step towards me, making it harder to distinguish his expression in the dim light of the room. However, his voice was soothing in the dark. “I can’t explain it as well as our leader can. I think it’s time you meet her.” He turned to the right and gazed towards the edge of the room, which was too dark for me to make out. “You can come out, now.”

    At first, I heard nothing but muffled footsteps on the carpet. Little by little, a small figure stepped into the relief of the firelight. The face was visible first: a stern mouth, sharp blue eyes, furrowed brows, white skin, and blonde hair.

    My heart stutters to a halt against my ribs. Hector? I think wildly.

    But the closer the figure steps, the more the thought is dispelled. By the hair, bottom half shaved, top half blonde hair swept into a ponytail, I recognize the girl I’d followed here. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and the weirdest thing was, she fit my every previous definition of flawed. In Shatterproof, I was conditioned to believe that marks on the skin equalled broken, but her aura emulates strength.

    Her skin is a rainbow of tattoos–her arms are murals of broken glass and blooming flowers, a trail of flowers runs from behind her left ear, down the back of her neck, and wraps across her collarbones. Words frame her face and the sides of her legs, where blotchy red skin is visible.

    On closer inspection, her eyes are much different than Hector’s. Where his had been the blue ice of winter, hers are the fresh flowers of spring.

    “I’m Ingrid Oakley.” She extends her hand for me to shake. I accept it and her palm is rough against mine. Oakley like–? I begin to wonder.

    “Hector was my brother,” she says. “I could tell by your face. You see our resemblance, don’t you?”

    Speechless, I nodded. If Ari and Hector’s sister are here, then, is he…could he…would he…?

     Ingrid drops my hand. “I’m sure you want to know why we need to recruit you,” she says brusquely. “It’s quite simple. You’re my true co-leader.” With a tilt of her shoulder, she adds, “Call it destiny, if you want.”

     “Of a rebellion?” I asks. She nods.

     I don’t want to call it anything. All I know is, I don’t want to be a part of it.