Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

Juniper has provided me with a cap, and I keep it low over my head and let my hair down to cover my branded temple. We wear F armbands that we were given at Enya’s office, to make sure we don’t stand out. A Flawed person on a Flawed bus without an armband would cause alarm bells to ring. It has been weeks since I’ve worn the armband, and sliding it up my arm feels like a weight being added to my body. I can tell Carrick is feeling the same, as his demeanor completely changes once it’s on. But I suppose that is the entire point, for us to feel harassed, humiliated, and isolated from society.

At least Carrick was spared having to reveal his scar every day, though when it seemed the brandings were unfair to those whose brands could be seen, the F armbands were brought in to eliminate that little loophole.

We join the crowded curfew bus stop, filled with Flawed. Our own people. Carrick wears a cap low and stays close to me, head down. I keep my back to everybody.

Once on the bus, each Flawed swipes his or her identity card and takes a seat.

“We don’t have identity cards,” Carrick whispers.

“Yes, we do,” I say, reaching into my backpack and handing him the two cards I borrowed from Enya’s team. If she does care about them so much, she can help them get new identity cards.

Carrick looks down at them with surprise, and laughs with admiration at my resourcefulness. Though I am Harlan Murphy, thirty-year-old computer analyst, and he is Trina Overbye, a fortysomething-year-old librarian.

When we get on the bus we keep our eyes down and sit in the back row. I don’t know if anybody is looking at me because I’m not looking at them.

I should feel safe in a bus full of Flawed, these are my people, but I’m afraid. A message appears on the screen at the head of the bus. It’s a Guild-sponsored piece, as all the pieces are on Flawed transport. It’s a photo of Carrick. My heart drums and I elbow him roughly to get his attention.

The photograph was taken at Highland Castle when he was brought in by the Whistleblowers. I recognize the backdrop, like a mug shot. He stares down the lens with pure hatred and venom, looking like a total badass, his neck thick, the muscles in his shoulders all pumped up.

Beneath the photo is the word EVADER.

And the voice-over, Pia Wang’s perky replacement.

“Carrick Vane is on the run with Celestine North. He is her accomplice. If anybody finds them, call this number and you will be rewarded .”

For a Flawed, to be offered a reward is like letting a child loose in a candy shop.

“Juniper,” I say to Carrick. “They know she’s not me. We’re out of time.”

“No, it doesn’t mention you,” he says. “Look.”

And he’s right. This piece is just about Carrick. Crevan still thinks that he has me in the hospital, and now he needs to silence Carrick. In the morning my mom and her team will swoop in on Crevan’s hospital and he’ll know that I have escaped him again. He’ll want my head on a plate.

The woman in the seat in front of us turns around to stare at us. I look up and see a few more heads turn.

“It’s okay,” Carrick says, keeping his head down.

But it’s not okay, at some point every single person on the bus has turned around to look at us. I see some tapping on their phones.

Suddenly the bus pulls over to the side of the road and my heart thuds. Carrick and I are holding hands—I’m at the window; he’s at the aisle—his thumb circles the brand on my palm. I don’t know if he even notices that he’s doing it. It’s like he’s guarding my wounds, like whatever the world thinks is ugly, he cherishes.

The driver stands and leaves the wheel. He addresses us all. “I’ll need everybody to get off the bus for a moment. Go shelter in the café, have a coffee, take a pee break, whatever you want.”

There are groans, some worried faces.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

Carrick shrugs.

“No, no, no, I will not accept this,” a man stands up and shouts. “This is the third time this week that my bus has been delayed. I won’t hear of it. We get off the bus, we suddenly can’t get back on. Problem with the engine, problem with the tires. And then what? I miss the curfew again, another punishment. I’m not getting off this bus.” He folds his arms.

Some others cheer him on.

“This is a setup,” somebody else shouts, and there are louder cheers.

Most people don’t want any trouble at all and just get straight off the bus. A half-dozen people remain.

“Look.” The driver sighs. “I’m under orders. They just radioed it in. I have to pull the bus over and wait for a mechanic. I’m just doing what I’m told.”

The passengers all shout at him, waving their hands dismissively. Nobody moves from their seats.

“We should get off,” Carrick says, making a move, but I pull him back down.

“Wait.”

The problem for the Guild is that with a Flawed bus, everyone on it is Flawed. For people who are not usually allowed to gather in more than twos, there was no getting around the rule when they created the curfew bus. At the beginning there was a Whistleblower on each bus, but then it proved too costly, so it was a Whistleblower as the driver. But then leading up to an election campaign, the bus drivers went on strike, said their jobs were being taken from them. The government wanted to create new employment and opened the bus jobs back up to civilians. Surveillance cameras were installed in the buses instead to make sure of no uprising plans.

An old woman turns around and addresses me and Carrick. “Can’t you two do something about this?”

Everyone twists around to look at us. The driver included.

“Shit,” Carrick whispers.

“What are you two up to?” the driver asks, recognizing us immediately.

“As if they’re going to tell you,” the old woman barks at him. “They’re young; they’ve time on their side; they’re doing exactly what the rest of us should have done from the beginning.”

I smile at her gratefully.

“Look.” The driver holds his hands up. “I got a grandson who’s Flawed. Couldn’t stand the sight of you all until that happened to him. Guess you could say it opened my eyes.”

Silence.

“I don’t want to be on this bus with these two,” another woman shouts. “I’ll get into trouble for just having seen you. You’ve made us suffer enough. Why don’t you just keep your head down and do what you’re told, Celestine North? Stop getting the rest of us into trouble.”

I stand up and address the bus, my legs shaky.

“I’m on your side, remember? I’m trying to prove that we’re not Flawed. Or if we are, that there’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve made our mistakes, we’ve learned from them. I just need some time to make it all come together.”

“She’s the only one who’s speaking up for us,” one woman says. “The only person who’s not using violence, at least. Those hooligans behind the riots aren’t doing anything to help our cause, at least Celestine is doing it peacefully.”

“Yes, she’s right. The people like her, you know, I’ve overheard them talking. They’re confused about it, but they like her. They’re talking about whether she had a fair trial. Can you believe they’re talking about a Flawed like that?”

“Nothing will come of it,” a man says. “It will die down like talk always has.”

“What talk?” the old woman snaps. “There’s never been this amount of support for Flawed. We need to help it grow.”

“The support won’t die down,” I say firmly to the man. “I won’t let it.”

The bus driver seems to take all this in, considers the arguments thoughtfully, as though he’s judge and jury on his own bus.