resists progress—resists change —the more its citizens demand it. In response, the society tightens its grip, desperate to maintain control. It’s afraid of losing its hold.”
I stiffen in my seat.
Do you know why the Archive has so many rules, Miss Bishop? Owen asked me on the roof that day. It’s because they’re afraid of us. Terrified.
“Societies are afraid of their citizens,” echoes Mr. Lowell. “The more a society tightens its grip, the more the people fight that grip.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger, going around and around, and each time he does, the circle gets smaller. “Tighter and tighter, and the resistance grows and grows until it spills over into action. That action takes one of two forms.”
He writes two words on the board: REVOLUTION and REFORM .
“The first segment of this class,” says Mr. Lowell, “will be dedicated to the language of revolution; the second segment will be dedicated to the language of reform.” He erases the word REFORM from the board.
“You’ve all heard the language of revolution. The rhetoric. For instance, a government can be called corrupt.” He writes the word corrupt on the board. “Give me some other words.”
“The government is rotten,” says a girl at the front of the class.
“The company is abusing power,” says a boy.
“The system is broken,” adds another.
“Very good, very good,” says Mr. Lowell. “Keep going.”
I cringe as Owen’s voice echoes in my head. The Archive is a prison.
“A prison,” I say, my voice carrying over the others before I even realize I’ve spoken out loud. The room quiets as the teacher considers me. Finally he nods.
“Rhetoric of imprisonment and, conversely, the call for freedom. One of the most classic examples of revolutionary thought. Well done, Miss…”
“Bishop.”
He nods again and turns his attention back to the class. “Anyone else?”
By the time school lets out, my edges are starting to fray.
The morning coffee and lunch soda can’t make up for the days—weeks, really—without sleep. And having Owen in my head for most of last period hasn’t helped my nerves. A shaky yawn escapes as I push open the outer doors of the history hall and step into the afternoon sun, abandoning the crowded path for a secluded patch of grass where I can stop and soak up the light and clear my head. I free my Keeper list from my shirt pocket and am relieved to see that there’s still only one name on the page.
“Who’s Harker?” asks Cash over my shoulder. I jump a little at the sound of his voice, then unfold the paper slowly, careful to seem unconcerned.
“Just a neighbor,” I say, tucking the paper back into my pocket. “I promised to pick up some info on the school for him. He’s thinking about it for next year.” The lie is easy, effortless, and I try not to relish it.
“Ah, well, we can swing by the office on the way to the parking lot.” He sets off down the path.
“You really don’t have to escort me,” I say, following. “I’m sure I can find my way.”
“I have no doubt, but I’d still like—”
“Look,” I cut him off. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
He frowns, but doesn’t slow his pace. “Saf tell you that?” I shrug. “Well, yes, okay. It’s my job, but I chose it. And it’s not like I was assigned to you. I could be imposing my assistance on any of the unsuspecting freshman . I’d rather be accompanying you.” He chews his lip and squints up toward the summer sun before he continues. “If you’ll let me.”
“All right,” I agree with a teasing smile. “But just to spare those other unsuspecting students.”
He laughs lightly and waves to someone across the grass.
“So,” I say, “Cassius? That’s quite a name.”
“Cassius Arthur Graham. A mouthful, isn’t it? That’s what you get when your mother’s an Italian diplomat and your father’s a British linguist.” The ivy-coated stone back of the main
I stiffen in my seat.
Do you know why the Archive has so many rules, Miss Bishop? Owen asked me on the roof that day. It’s because they’re afraid of us. Terrified.
“Societies are afraid of their citizens,” echoes Mr. Lowell. “The more a society tightens its grip, the more the people fight that grip.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger, going around and around, and each time he does, the circle gets smaller. “Tighter and tighter, and the resistance grows and grows until it spills over into action. That action takes one of two forms.”
He writes two words on the board: REVOLUTION and REFORM .
“The first segment of this class,” says Mr. Lowell, “will be dedicated to the language of revolution; the second segment will be dedicated to the language of reform.” He erases the word REFORM from the board.
“You’ve all heard the language of revolution. The rhetoric. For instance, a government can be called corrupt.” He writes the word corrupt on the board. “Give me some other words.”
“The government is rotten,” says a girl at the front of the class.
“The company is abusing power,” says a boy.
“The system is broken,” adds another.
“Very good, very good,” says Mr. Lowell. “Keep going.”
I cringe as Owen’s voice echoes in my head. The Archive is a prison.
“A prison,” I say, my voice carrying over the others before I even realize I’ve spoken out loud. The room quiets as the teacher considers me. Finally he nods.
“Rhetoric of imprisonment and, conversely, the call for freedom. One of the most classic examples of revolutionary thought. Well done, Miss…”
“Bishop.”
He nods again and turns his attention back to the class. “Anyone else?”
By the time school lets out, my edges are starting to fray.
The morning coffee and lunch soda can’t make up for the days—weeks, really—without sleep. And having Owen in my head for most of last period hasn’t helped my nerves. A shaky yawn escapes as I push open the outer doors of the history hall and step into the afternoon sun, abandoning the crowded path for a secluded patch of grass where I can stop and soak up the light and clear my head. I free my Keeper list from my shirt pocket and am relieved to see that there’s still only one name on the page.
“Who’s Harker?” asks Cash over my shoulder. I jump a little at the sound of his voice, then unfold the paper slowly, careful to seem unconcerned.
“Just a neighbor,” I say, tucking the paper back into my pocket. “I promised to pick up some info on the school for him. He’s thinking about it for next year.” The lie is easy, effortless, and I try not to relish it.
“Ah, well, we can swing by the office on the way to the parking lot.” He sets off down the path.
“You really don’t have to escort me,” I say, following. “I’m sure I can find my way.”
“I have no doubt, but I’d still like—”
“Look,” I cut him off. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
He frowns, but doesn’t slow his pace. “Saf tell you that?” I shrug. “Well, yes, okay. It’s my job, but I chose it. And it’s not like I was assigned to you. I could be imposing my assistance on any of the unsuspecting freshman . I’d rather be accompanying you.” He chews his lip and squints up toward the summer sun before he continues. “If you’ll let me.”
“All right,” I agree with a teasing smile. “But just to spare those other unsuspecting students.”
He laughs lightly and waves to someone across the grass.
“So,” I say, “Cassius? That’s quite a name.”
“Cassius Arthur Graham. A mouthful, isn’t it? That’s what you get when your mother’s an Italian diplomat and your father’s a British linguist.” The ivy-coated stone back of the main
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