Viral Nation (Short Story): Broken Nation by Shaunta Grimes Page B

of the paper.
    “Aren’t you going to open that?”
    Clover’s heart lurched once, then settled as she took a breath out of order and it caught in her throat. She ignored the question.
    West tossed his pack to the floor and sat in a chair across from her, already dressed for the day in blue jeans and a light blue shirt that buttoned down the front. The collar of a white T-shirt peeked out at the neck.
    Every other day of the week, he wore brown. For the dirt slingers, he’d said before his first day of work at the cantaloupe farm nearly three years ago.
    She started to rock again, to bring herself back into balance, humming this time.
    “Clover,” West said. And then, when she opened her eyes, “Don’t glare at me.”
    She reached back and yanked her collar inside out, abruptly ending an angry exchange between the back of her neck and a stiff, itchy tag. “I need the scissors.”
    Who came up with the bright idea to put tags in clothing anyway? Sock seams, too. How hard could seamless socks be to make, anyway? She wiggled her toes and rocked a little faster.
    “Scissors,” she said again, holding out her other hand to her brother.
    West pushed his chair back, the metal legs scraping across the tile floor, and across her eardrums, too. She twitched against the sensation and held the tag farther from her skin as West cut it off.
    Something soft and heavy pressed itself against her shins under the table. Clover reached down to pat Mango on his cream-colored head. The bulldog rubbed his broad forehead against her jeans, and then propped his jowly chin on her knee.
    Her rocking slowed and then stopped.
    West reached for the letter. “Do you want me to read it first?”
    Clover put her palm down on it. “Not likely.”
    She lifted the envelope and tapped one end against the table, then tore away the edge and shook the letter out.
    We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Waverly-Stead Reno Academy’s fall term. We have reserved a bed for you in the Girls’ Dormitory. An orientation and registration interview are scheduled for Monday, August third, at eleven in the morning. Please attend.
    The letter was signed Adam Kingston, Head Master.
    Scrawled across the bottom was a handwritten note. Your entrance exam scores were extraordinary, Miss Donovan. I look forward to having such a bright student enrolled in the next semester. Signed with the initials A.K.
    Clover read the letter through twice. It didn’t surprise her. She graduated primary school at the top of her class. Adam Kingston would have been an idiot not to accept her.
    It was good to know he wasn’t an idiot.
    “I’m sorry, Clover,” West said.
    “Sorry about what?” She pet Mango’s head. The dog lapped his broad, slobbery tongue over the top of her hand and pressed his weight more firmly against her legs. That was part of his job. The pressure helped her focus.
    West sat in the chair next to hers. “I know how much you wanted this.”
    She handed him the letter. “I got in.”
    “Are you kidding me?” He grabbed the paper and read it. “You even got accepted into the boarding program. Come on, Clover. Smile at least!”
    “I’m happy.” She showed her teeth to prove it.
    Most everyone graduated from primary school and went to work for the government. They worked on the farms, like West, or at the Bazaar handing out rations. They preserved food for the winter, or so it could be sent to the other cities that couldn’t produce enough to feed themselves. Or they worked for the Company doing menial labor like guarding the gate or rocking babies in the Company nurseries.
    Now that the children who’d survived the virus were older, there were far more babies than there used to be.
    The academy was for people whose tests showed an aptitude for research or medicine or leadership. Engineers that worked with water treatment and electricity were academy trained. Travelers—Time Mariners and Messengers—did as well. That was the