Starglass

Benjamin might have had ideas about asking her to join up, but her father is no friend of Abel. There’s no telling if she’ll sell us out to the Council.”

“?‘No friend of Abel,’?” I echoed. “But my father believes in being a good citizen. It’s practically all he ever talks about.”

“There’s more than one way to be a good citizen,” Koen said, touching his hand to the back of his neck.

“Our leaders have demanded a tribute from you, Terra,” Van said. “Proof that you can be trusted. There’s a book in your father’s possession. We’d like you to take it.”

“A book?” As far as I knew, Abba had never been much of a reader.

“It’s a journal,” Van said. “Very ancient. It belonged to one of the original passengers. It’s long been significant to us.”

“What would my father be doing with—”

Van lifted his hand. It cut through the cool air, clean and decisive. Slicing through my words. “That doesn’t matter. Bring it to me, and we’ll know that we can trust you.”

I felt a wave of heat crest inside me. Of course I could be trusted. If I knew anything, it was how to keep silent—how to be invisible, how to be nobody. I looked at Van, my gaze hardening.

“Fine,” I said hotly. “I’ll get you your book.”

I turned to leave, gesturing for Koen to follow. After giving Van a long, baleful look, he did. But as the heavy door swung on its hinges behind us, I heard Van’s sharp tenor come calling for me.

“I’ll believe it when I see it!” he said.

The door slammed shut behind me.

* * *

The next morning I opened my bedroom door a crack to let the cat out. Then I fell back into bed, the covers pulled up to my chin.

It wasn’t unusual for my father to leave before I did. He had bells to ring, a talmid to teach. And I’d long preferred to skip breakfast, avoiding the clatter of dishes and my father’s silence and his burning gaze. He always looked at me like he expected something. Sometimes over oatmeal he’d ask me strained questions about Mara Stone. I dodged them. For sixteen years he’d ignored my life, my interests—ignored me. I had no intention of making friends now just because I was about to move out of our dreary home.

That morning I listened to him rattle around in the galley. There was the slam of the cupboards, the crash of pans, and the sound of water rushing fast. From my dark bedroom I listened to it slosh over the floor.

At last came the slam of the front door. I rose and left my unmade bed behind. The space between my bedroom and my father’s had never felt so huge before. I took a dozen silent steps, holding my breath.

As I stepped across the threshold of his room, I heard a rustle of sound behind me. I jumped, turning—but it was only Pepper, crouched at the top of the stairs with a catnip mouse held between his paws.

“Stupid cat,” I muttered, shoving the door open with both hands.

The curtains in my father’s bedroom were tightly closed, as usual. But he had left his bedside lamp on, and it bathed the room in warm light. The illumination spilled over his crisply made bed and down across the threadbare carpet. His room was the only one in our house kept clean. The sole sign of my father’s chaos was the glass that sat encrusted with wine on the floor beside his bed, a line of ants circling the rim.

I moved quickly. First I ducked my head beneath the wide double bed that he’d once shared with my mother, but all that greeted me were cobwebs, cat toys, and dust. Then I went to the dressers, opening each one. I ran my hand along the dresser bottoms, beneath the reams of folded cotton. But the drawers held no books or secrets.

Finally I stood before my father’s closet door. Down the hall my own closet vomited old toys and paper and clothing. But my father had hung up each uniform coat with care. I shoved the hangers aside, but only the wall greeted me.

Then my eyes strayed down.

There, between two pairs of leather boots, sat a wooden box. The top had a floral design carved into it. Once it held my mother’s jewelry. Now the elaborate leaves and flowers and scrollwork were edged with dust. I fell to my knees before it and lifted the lid.

I found a tangle of necklace chains, the metal dark and in desperate need of a polish. And a pressed flower—what had once been a violet but whose delicate petals were now brown and brittle and nearly destroyed. I stared at the paper-thin leaves, wondering who had picked the blossom for my mother. A silly question. It must have been my father, of course. He was always bringing home flowers for her, their stems tied up with pretty bows. I set the flower down against the box’s lid. That’s when I saw something square, wrapped up in brown paper and twine.

I sat on my heels, holding it up in both hands. Momma’s handwriting was scrawled across the paper. She’d had a sloppy, jagged script—quite a bit like mine. I ran my index finger over the long-dried ink. It read:

Arran—

Great great (etc.) grandmother’s journal. (private!!)

Please give to Terra before she leaves home, & know I always love you both.

—Alyana

He hadn’t ever opened it—that much was clear. The twine was tied in a tangle of impossible-looking knots. Holding the volume out in both hands, I carried it to the bed and sat down. I was supposed to take this book and bring it to Van. The task had sounded easy enough. But I hadn’t anticipated that the book would be Momma’s or that she had meant it to be mine. What did I have of my mother? A small handful of memories? A few sweaters? Suddenly my hands woke to life. I tugged the twine downward, tore the paper aside. At long last I undressed the book. It looked ancient—cracked leather cover, and gold-edged pages, and gold letters stamped into the front. Old American. DAY JOURNAL, it said.

I leaned back against my father’s bed, letting my hair fan out across the smooth blankets. Then I lifted the book and began to read.

At first it was difficult for me to decipher the handwriting. The writer, one of my long-dead ancestors, the matriarch of my bloodline, had written in nearly incomprehensible cursive. Zs that dropped below the line. Qs that looked like giant numeral twos. But eventually I got used to it. I don’t know what I was looking for in those pages. No, that’s not true. I knew, but I didn’t want to admit it. I was looking for some shadow of my mother in that woman, an old woman who wrote daily letters to a daughter she had also named Terra.

I didn’t find her. This woman was hard, bitter—nothing like my mother at all. She wrote all about her daily life on the ship, about how claustrophobic the light panels that lined the dome made her feel and how she didn’t like the taste, mossy and stale, of the recycled water. These things meant nothing to me—after all, I’d drunk that water all my life. I’d never tasted what she called “the crisp tap water of New York City, the best water in the world,” and I’d never experienced the wonders of getting sunburned after “sitting out all day under a hazy Manhattan Beach sky.”

She hated the ship. She would lie down beside a man she didn’t love, and her heart twisted and thundered in her chest. But she did it anyway. Over and over again she wrote about how someday, maybe, it would all be worth it—someday some descendant of hers, some distant great-great-great-great-grandchild, might have a chance to set her feet on a planet, a real planet, under a real, wide sky. And be free again. Spiritually. Emotionally. Physically.

Some of the things she wrote scared me.

and

I remember the day they took your brother away to be sterilized. Only thirteen years old. They told us to tell him that the “ceremony” would make him a man, that it was a mitzvah. . . . I may not be a good Jew myself, but it nauseates me, the way they’ve perverted religion.

I read, and read, and read, tasting my own frantic heartbeat in my mouth. It wasn’t until the clock bells rang out in the distance that I bolted upright. Ten chimes for ten o’clock. My hands shook as I smoothed down my hair, remembering Mara’s lab and the duties that still waited for me. Ducking into the closet, I shut Momma’s jewelry box and slid Abba’s suits back into place. Then I gathered the crumpled paper and twine up, and held