Joan lectures us on how we have to overcome our weak minds, breaking down all barriers and learning to think like winners. She believes that we slow ourselves down merely by thinking we can’t run faster. Personally, I think her mind games are worthless. No matter what you choose to believe in, you can’t outrun your own physical limitations. Once you push yourself past your limit, you’ll cramp up, become short of breath, vomit and maybe even pass out. This happens to Dennis. He drops to his hands and knees after hard intervals, gagging and choking. His body shudders and his face becomes a ghastly greenish-white. Even Joan chooses to give him a break.
“You’ll be grateful later, boy,” she sighs. “The harder you train, the better your odds for survival.”
Back in our quarters, Amy and I continue wondering what exactly it is we’ll have to survive. We come up with the same questions over and over again. Why do we have to run from the dogs? Why do we need to know how to climb ropes, do pull-ups or crawl through the mud? And whom exactly are we going to compete against?
We have too many questions with no certain answers. Too many guesses with no real clues. Our fear of the unknown increases. I have a strong inner sense that I’m caught up in some sort of trap. A sinking feeling that I’m heading toward something horrible, with no idea when the trouble is going to start.
One day during intervals I suffer a cramp and collapse in front of everybody. Logan, the boy who earlier called me a rat, runs past.
“Loser,” he whispers. “Stinking piece of trash.”
Joan dismisses me, and I wander off, limping and fighting hard to hold back tears. Once alone, I plop down on the ground and rub my leg, sobbing. I can bear it no longer. There’s just too much pain and suffering to go with this coming mysterious Terror Race on top.
“Take it easy,” Brutus says quietly, approaching. “All racers have bad days. You shouldn’t get so upset over a little cramp.”
“It’s not about the pain,” I wipe away my tears. “I’m just… the slowest. I suck at running.”
“You’re strong and well-coordinated. It’ll help you more than just being fast.”
Help me with what? I wonder. Why do I need to have good coordination?
“Brutus, please tell me what the Terror Race is,” I plead. “You used to be a racer, didn’t you? You must know something.”
His face darkens. He nods but doesn’t explain anything.
“Please tell me,” I beg, anxious and worried. “Where are all the other racers from previous years? Are they free now? Are they still alive?”
“Pull yourself together, girl.” His voice becomes strict. “And stop asking all these questions.”
I watch as he leaves, heading back toward the track. I’d never dare to attempt a conversation like that with Joan. After the incident with the dog, she branded me a troublemaker. She warned how she was always going to be keeping an eye on me.
***
Sunday is our recovery day. We don’t have to train and are even allowed to leave our quarters. So Amy and I stroll down to the Central Settlement to gawk at all the luxurious cars, huge mansions and stylishly-dressed people.
One day we wind up on a deserted beach near our training facility. We sit on the warm golden sand, enjoying the breeze and gazing at the ocean. It’s quiet and peaceful. I smile, soaking up the sunshine and tasting the salt from the air on my lips. Amy shares stories about her village. I tell her about my mother, Augusta and Dimitri, suddenly feeling homesick.
“No way! Can you really read?” Amy’s eyes widen. “How did you learn?”
“We had school back in our village,” I explain, “although I did skip a lot of classes. It was Dimitri’s idea. He wanted his servants to have some sort of education.”
“Well, our master preferred his servants dumb,” Amy smirks. “I so wish I could go to school. Maybe I’ll do so someday, when I’m no longer a servant.”
“What else are you going to do when you’re free?” I ask. “I mean, who do you want to become?”
“I still want to catch fish,” Amy answers. “That’s who I am. I want to buy a boat and have my own fishing outfit. And take care of my family. A few of the liberated servants in our village have already done so. I could borrow the money from someone, hire some workers.” She flashes an excited smile. “I know everything about catching, storing and selling fish. And I could also do some shell diving for pearls. I love pearls, look!” She dangles her bracelet. “I made this myself. These pearls are low quality, so the master allowed me to keep them because I was one of the best workers.”
I tentatively touch the bracelet. The dark gray pearls seem perfect to me, all smooth and shiny.
“What about you?” Amy asks. “What will you do once you’re free?”
I mutter something incoherently. Any ideas about my future are vague at best.
“You know,” Amy says. “I will need somebody smart, someone who can read and write, when I open my store. Do you think you’d like to come live in my village?”
“Oh sure,” I answer. I envision myself wearing a business suit, exchanging pearls for money. The image is alluring.
“We could buy houses next door to one another and be neighbors,” she suggests. “And your mom could come live with you. I can’t wait to meet
