“Where would we go?” Gabe asked.
“Everywhere. Places on public transit, so people who can’t drive out to a factory in the suburbs can come to the protests, too. I don’t know. Places people can see us. Schools? Government buildings? Balkenhol makes the Pilot, but they’re making it because schools buy into it and the military buys into it and the government encourages it and bosses pressure their staff to get it. They all need to hear us, too.”
Gabe and his father both stared at Sophie.
“What?” Sophie asked after a second. “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Mr. Clary frowned. “Have you been saving all that up to say?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Why?”
Sophie lowered her eyes. “Sorry. I thought it might help.”
“No, silly!” Gabe grinned. “Why save it up when you could have been helping this whole time?”
“You don’t think it’s stupid?”
Mr. Clary tilted his water glass in her direction. “Stupid? Those were great observations. Your opinions are welcome anytime.”
Sophie felt herself flush again, but this time it was pride. She could get used to this.
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SOPHIE
The key to storming out, in Sophie’s opinion, was to put all the information into the closing door. Nineteen years of life had taught her that entire wars had been lost and won in this precise and undiplomatic language. How much time passed between the final exchange and the walkout? How long did the door linger open? Did it swing shut or was it pulled? Did the walker pause on the stoop or stride off with purpose?
She slammed the door behind herself, making sure her mothers knew she was leaving and they had caused it. She’d grabbed her boots without putting them on, and she took each step faster than the last, to put as much space as possible between herself and the house.
Once around the corner, she paused to pull her boots over now-muddy socks and peek back. It didn’t look like either mom had followed; her slam had done its job. They didn’t have the power to ground her at this point, but they could still make her life miserable. Nineteen was a crap age. Old enough to make decisions for yourself, but not old enough to be trusted or taken seriously.
The neighborhood smelled like fresh laundry. There were still more leaves on the trees than on the ground, but here and there a maple or an oak leaf had left its shadow on the pavement. She didn’t know how they did that. David would know, she thought, as she always did when a question came to mind. He was due home soon, at last, maybe.
She refused to let anyone tell her exactly when he was expected. Counting led to bad things. She had seen war movies: the tearful wife, the confused children. He only had two more weeks. I can’t believe he’s gone. Call her superstitious; she didn’t care. She’d arrive for dinner one night to find him sitting at the table and she’d be surprised and overjoyed. She’d believe it when she saw him.
Her bus idled at the red light, giving her time to get down the hill. A couple of late-shift commuters stood at the corner and she lined up behind them, balancing her pack with one hand as she dug in her pocket. She could ride for half price if she swiped her disability ID card, but when the bus pulled over she deposited the full fare in change. That much harder to track her. That much harder, also, for the people staring at her to vindicate their stares.
She knew she made them uncomfortable. First there was her clothing: the torn jeans, one of David’s old Army jackets restitched to say y arm? Bright blue hair, shaved close on the sides to make sure nobody missed that she wasn’t Piloted. Their eyes always strayed to her hair, then her jacket, and only then did they notice she didn’t have a Pilot. They inched away. Who didn’t have a Pilot? Nobody normal.
Javon drove the four forty-five bus, as usual. He gave Sophie a long-suffering look as the coins jammed his fare box then sorted themselves. She saluted him with the crisp gesture she’d learned from David. It always surprised people more than if she gave them the finger. She liked to confound expectations.
The bus lurched and Sophie shuffled toward the back. She was heading downtown at the end of the day, the opposite of most people, so there were more than enough seats. She shrugged her bag off and rested it on her feet, one arm looped through the strap to keep it steady, then glanced at the other passengers, most of whom studiously ignored her. One little boy, on his mother’s lap, stared. She smiled at him and waved. His eyes widened and he ducked his head into his mother’s armpit.
A few more seats filled at the next stops. Not enough to crowd the bus, but the riders no longer enjoyed the luxury of sitting in every other seat. Sophie scooted over to accommodate two elderly women who were clearly traveling together. The one closer to her thanked her. She didn’t even shift toward her companion, the way so many people did when they saw Sophie. Score one for cool grannies.
“My goodness, it’s hot in here,” one of the old women said. Sophie hadn’t noticed, but now that it had been pointed out, she realized the woman was right. Even her seat felt heated. Others fanned themselves and tried to force the windows open. The cool autumn air would be welcome, but only one window actually slid the way it was supposed to.
“Driver, you got the heat on or something?” somebody called from behind Sophie.
“It’s September, you can turn off the seat warmers!” shouted the mother with the little boy.
A block later, Javon pulled to the curb.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the PA crackled. “The engine is overheating. I’ve called my supervisor and we’ll get on
