Joan the Made (Throwbacks Series, Book 1)

Chapter 11

When Crew dismisses us from "Remedial Acting," we all shuffle out the door slowly, as if the ground beneath our feet has fundamentally shifted and we're not sure where to step. The other students must feel the same because everyone is very quiet, even Elizabeth and her pals.

We had to leave our copies of The Art of War behind in the classroom because our dorms could be raided by police at any time, and our belongings must always be above reproach.

But the words float behind my eyes, and all I want to do is keep analyzing the text we were debating when our time was up.

"Want to go somewhere and talk?" I ask Harriet. "When Crew recruited me, I thought he was probably a crackpot. But this is a legitimate campaign. We could make real change for Throwbacks in our country."

"I need time to process all this information, and I have to do that alone," she says.

"I understand."

But I don't. How can Harriet be still? I want to yell, rant, think out loud. But since my only friend needs me-time, I decide to go for a run instead. I return to my room to grab my sneakers and see Sparkle changing outfits.

"Where are you off to?" she asks, eyeing my sneakers.

"Oh, we're talking now?" I ask, cringing at the bitter undertone in my voice.

It hurt when Sparkle laughed at me along with the rest of our class.

"Be back by ten. It's curfew, and Throwbacks are only allowed out with a work order," she says, ignoring my question.

"These rules are ridiculous."

Sparkle pauses, as though it's the first time she's considered that idea. "If you want to get worked up over Throwback injustice, that's about the last thing you should waste your energy on."

She leaves, effectively ending the conversation. Time to relieve my manic energy by pounding the pavement.

Aimless jogging around Seattle does nothing to settle my mind. Returning to the dorm, I pause at the Little Theater. It's dark, and the front door is locked. My fists clench. I have to talk to Crew again, to demand answers to questions that won't wait another minute.

The theater doors are locked, and attempting to jimmy the lock with my hair clip doesn't get me anywhere.

"That's a hard way to get in," a child's voice says.

Watching me is a boy around eight years old in wrinkled, dirty clothes that are typical of Throwback kids. His brown eyes are round and curious.

"But you know how to get inside, right?"

I love kids, and this one has an open, friendly face.

He cocks his head to the side and matches my smile. "Yeah. Come on."

He takes off down the street, and I have to run to keep up with him. He stops at the end of a dirty alley and lifts a grate, like Harriet did when she took me to the Lab.

He disappears into the hole with me right behind him.

"Sure you know where you're going, kid?" I ask, dropping to the ground beside him and turning the torch app on my phone on to provide some light.

"I'm Maverick, not kid," he informs me. "And I know where to go."

Trusting the confidence in his voice, I follow.

"I'm Joan."

His eyes go to my wrist, taking in my lavaliere. "You're a student at Seattle Secondary?"