Meredith McCardle - The Eighth Guardian

I rip off the sweatshirt and throw it on top of the corset. I sink down to the ground as it lands and place both hands on top of my heart. My chest aches as if my heart is really breaking. I always thought that was just an expression, but now I know it’s not. I want to scream, cry, throw things; but I won’t. I refuse to let myself sink into a deep, cavernous well of depression because, God knows, mental illness runs in my family, and I will not be her. I won’t.

An image of my mom sitting curled up in a chair, motionless for hours, floats into my head, immediately followed by one of her rushing around the house, throwing paint at canvas and singing at the top of her lungs to the radio, not concerned that she hasn’t slept in two days.

I grimace. This day sucks. This whole week sucks. I push myself up, grab a hoodie from the drawer, and stomp down the stairs.

Breakfast is over, and there isn’t a soul in sight. Good. I don’t feel like seeing anyone today. I take a breath before I open the doors to the library, praying it’s empty.

It is. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the perimeter of three of the walls, but I head straight to the computer on the fourth wall. It’s set out of the way, behind two oversize red velvet armchairs, as if they don’t want us to know it’s there. I guess that makes sense, what with the living history and all. Computers are a reminder that we actually live in the present.

I turn on the computer, and a box pops up asking for my user name and password. I type IRIS as my user name and then hesitate. What are the chances my password is going to be something simple that I already know? I shrug and type IRIS into the password box, then hit ENTER.

The screen goes black and ACCESS DENIED pops up on the screen in huge white letters. And then the computer beeps. Over and over and over again.

I scramble and nearly fall out of the chair as I bend down to shut it off. The beeping stops, but I hold my breath, waiting for someone to barge into the room and yell at me.

But the room stays still. I exhale.

Books it is. I tuck the chair into the desk and walk the room, scanning the titles of the books as I go. History books. They’re all history books. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Great Britain and Her Queen. A People’s History of the United States. There are a few that look like they might be fun to flip through for the pictures. A Brief History of Italian Renaissance Architecture. Early Colonial Costume. Okay, strike what I said about pictures. I know what early colonial costume looks like, and it’s terrible. Constricting and terrible.

I grab a book on the Civil War and flip through a few pages. It’s talking about Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. Whatever . That’ll do.

According to the book, the Emancipation Proclamation didn’t actually free a single slave since the South had already seceded from the Union, so the Union technically didn’t govern the South at the time the proclamation was issued. The whole thing was just one giant political move. Huh. One more thing they didn’t exactly teach us in school. I distinctly remember learning in the eighth grade that the Emancipation Proclamation freed all the slaves, and, hallelujah, ain’t Lincoln great? First the Boston Massacre, now the Emancipation Proclamation. What else is a lie?

Hell if I know how I’d alter this or enhance it.

I decide I’ll focus on the timing. Let Lincoln actually free the slaves by issuing the proclamation before the South secedes. I pick up a pen and start scratching on the paper. I write that I’d alter the past if I went back in time, broke into the White House, held a gun to Lincoln’s head, and made him issue the proclamation before the South seceded. Then I write that I’d enhance the past if I sent an anonymous letter warning Lincoln that the South was about to secede and that maybe he’d want to issue a proclamation or something freeing all the slaves.

I set down my pen and look over what I wrote. I squint and hope it’s at least legible. Dainty, neat handwriting has never been my strong suit.

Now to find Zeta. It would have been nice for someone to tell me where Zeta’s office is. Hell, it would have been nice for someone to tell me Zeta had an office.

Indigo’s in the living room. He’s sitting on the brocade velvet sofa wearing a gray uniform of some sort. Two heavy black boots are propped up on the coffee table. There’s a rifle resting on the floor. Indigo’s popped off the bayonet and is polishing it with a rag. He stops and looks up at me.

“Hey,” he says, as if it’s totally natural that he’s sitting there in a uniform that belongs in a museum, polishing a rifle.

“What are you, headed out for a Civil War reenactment?”

Indigo flashes a coy smile. “Minus the reenactment part, yes. Where are you off to?”

I hold up my essay and wave it around for show. “I have to drop this off at Zeta’s office, but I have no idea where that is.”

Indigo smiles wider and turns his neck around. He points the bayonet toward the hallway just past the staircase. “Through there. Second door on the right. Don’t go in the first. That’s a bathroom.” He winks at me, and I stand up straight as a flutter of electricity jolts down my body. Really? Just because an attractive boy winks at me doesn’t mean my body needs to respond.

And then I feel a pang of guilt as the image of Abe clutching his chest at the graduation banquet fills my mind.

“Good luck,” Indigo says. “With Zeta, I mean.”

I scowl and pick at one of the calluses on my hand. “That guy’s a dick.”

Indigo rears back his head and laughs. Hard. Genuinely. He sighs with an amused grin and plops the bayonet onto the sofa next to him. “Boy, they sure haven’t told you a whole lot about how this place runs, have they?”

Somewhere deep inside of me a little rumbling of anger erupts, but I keep my face neutral. Just like they taught us at Peel. Never show emotion when in stressful situations. Emotions are a road map to your weaknesses.

“Nope, they sure haven’t,” I say.

Indigo drops his feet from the edge of the coffee table and stands up. He’s not that much taller than me. “No worries, kid.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll tell you eventually, just as soon as they make you a permanent operative.” Indigo leans down so that his mouth rests right beside my ear. I feel his breath on my skin, and no amount of willpower in the world can stop the chills from racing up my arms.

“And don’t worry,” he whispers. “When you do have it all figured out, I won’t hold it against you.”

Huh? Hold what against me?

Indigo stands up, grabs his rifle, and hooks the bayonet to the front. He slides the gun over his shoulder, gives me a salute, and heads toward the underground stairs.

What in the world was that about? I shake my head and amble down the hallway. First door. Bathroom. Second door. The door is shut, but there’s a bronze plaque just to the right of it that reads ZETA. Right below the plaque is a keypad. I look across the hallway, where there’s a plaque that reads ALPHA, along with another keypad. There’s another office to the right of Alpha’s door with a plaque that says RED. Red has his own office? Does everyone have an office but me?

Well, here goes nothing. I raise a hand and rap my knuckles on the door.

“Come in,” a voice calls from the other side.

I take a breath and turn the knob. The office is small. Maybe ten-by-ten. There’s a desk set in the middle of the room, and Zeta sits behind it. He sets down the file he’d been reading. He’s wearing normal clothing today: a pair of tan pants and a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Even though all that’s peeking out are his forearms, my guesses about him the day before are confirmed. Zeta works out. A lot. His forearms are freaking sculpted.