THE WALL’S BLUE LIGHT GIVES Milo’s silhouette an eerie halo. Though his face is shadowed, I know it’s him. Not only because he’s at our agreed-upon meeting place, but because I’ve known him so long, I’d recognize him anywhere.
I wave. “Milo!”
Milo walks toward me. “What took you so long?”
“I’m only a little bit late!”
“That’s like being a little bit pregnant.”
I smack his arm, and he laughs. We head over to West Gate, which lies on the other side of the Opera’s sector. The streetlights shed their cool, bluish light on the pavement. As we pass between the buildings, the intertwining voices of a dozen practicing singers give the night a haunting soundtrack. Soaring sopranos and commanding basses, lilting melodies and spinning arpeggios.
The memory of how little I found in the library gnaws at me. I spent two hours in there, scouring the archives for anything about Adryil technology, but turned up nothing more than I already knew.
I glance at Milo. “You were right.”
“Of course I was.” He throws me a teasing smile. “About what this time?”
“The library. I went just in case, but didn’t find anything.”
“Figures. Even if Papilio didn’t think non-Arts-related knowledge was a waste of time, the government’s pretty guarded about Adryil tech.”
I glance at the Opera’s rehearsal hall, an angular white building with arched windows. Though it looks simple, it contains all kinds of complex machinery from cleaner bots to holoprojectors. “But Papilio was built from Adryil designs.”
“That’s true.” Milo shrugs. “Well, even within the school, there’s a hierarchy. Maybe those at the top know what the rest of us aren’t allowed to.” He tilts his head. “Do you ever find it wrong that the people who do the least gain the most?”
“What do you mean?”
“This school is run by officials who live so far, they don’t even visit us in person. The Adryil buy tickets to see our shows, then pay Papilio a finder’s fee for each Artist they hire. Meanwhile, most of our earnings go to paying back tuition and everything else, whether we land a patron or not.” His expression darkens. “We work our asses off, but it’s the bosses who profit. Doesn’t seem fair.”
Recalling what he told me earlier about his family, I lay a sympathetic hand on his arm. “They’re the reason we have a chance at all. If it weren’t for them, Inna Havener—”
“Yeah, yeah, Inna Havener.” He jerks his arm free. “Most of us won’t be her. Most of us won’t be anyone.”
His words land like a punch. He’s right. Only a quarter of Papilians find patrons while everyone else ends up back where they started. Worse off, actually, since they still have to pay back their debt. Part of the contract your parents sign when you enroll states that the loan applies to your entire family, which means if you age out, the school can seize their property and earnings as well as make you hand over most of your wages. For that reason, virtually every family of aged-out Papilians disowns their children to avoid ruin. That means they’re not allowed to contact them anymore, even if they live in the same town.
If Milo doesn’t get hired, he won’t just lose his prospects. He’ll lose his family.
Violating the no-contact law means prison, and while it’s possible to meet surreptitiously, most find the risks too great. Some aged-out Papilians even request jobs in other states to avoid the possibility of running into their families, and for the most part, the school is able to accommodate them. I used to wonder if that was the reason why my father ended up in California. I’ve tried asking around Dogwood to see if anyone knew him or my mother—or their relatives—but I never found anything. In addition, student files are confidential, so the school wouldn’t let me look at my parents’. I wish I knew where they came from. If I have aunts or uncles or cousins, I’ve never heard of them. At least I don’t have to worry about anyone depending on me.
Milo rakes one hand through his short curls. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Guess I’m a bit on edge.”
“I understand.” I give him an encouraging smile. “But like I said earlier, you have nothing to worry about. You’ll find a patron for sure.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
The towering metal doors of the West Gate, flanked by two imposing security bots, open as Milo and I approach.
“Please remember that curfew is eleven p.m.,” one says in its mechanical voice. “The doors will not open past that time.”
A wide street stretches before me, lined with slender streetlamps and tight rows of concrete buildings speckled with dim windows. The colors are so dull, I feel like I’m gazing at a grayscale hologram. I spot Mistress Asif walking down one of the sidewalks and wonder where she’s heading. Home, perhaps? Does she have a family waiting for her? I know nothing about her life outside of Papilio. The same is true for every member of the school’s staff I’ve ever encountered, even Vera. Though she’s been my coach since I was seven, we’ve almost never spoken of anything other than music. I’ve tried asking her about her life, but each time, she sternly reminds me that she’s my coach, not my friend, and that the school’s policies require that we keep our relationship strictly professional. Though she did let it slip once that she’s a mother.
Mistress Asif’s gaze lands on me, and I wave hello. She frowns with disapproval, as if asking why I’m not on campus practicing or studying. I shrink a little and look away.
“Mind if we make a detour?” Milo strides forward at a brisk pace. “Won’t take long.”
“No problem.” As we approach an intersection, a rumbling sound rolls toward me. Glancing to the right, I spot a truck heading down the far street. It’s a rusted metal thing with large, dirty tires and a long flatbed in the back. Dim yellow headlights barely illuminate the ground ten feet in front of it. Several people sit in the flatbed, leaning back against the low walls. They must be laborers returning from work. I’d hate to have to ride like that for the hour or so it takes to reach the local manufacturing plant that employs most of Dogwood’s residents. Yet that’s probably what I’ll end up doing. Other than the retired Artists, most of whom now work on the school’s staff, every person in this town failed at the Arts at some point in their lives. Either they aged out of Papilio or a similar school or, like Milo’s sister, didn’t get in at all. The thought depresses me, and I try to banish it.
I wonder what it must be like to live in a place where success and failure doesn’t revolve around the Arts. Out there, in other parts of the world, people go about their lives without obsessing over a chance at glory like we do. Yet that’s because unless they’re born wealthy, they don’t have a chance. They’re trapped in an eternal cycle of labor and debt, trying to make ends meet. So are we, but at least we have the possibility of breaking out, as Inna Havener did.
Milo and I cross a wide street. Though the pale tenements before us are shaped similarly to the buildings we just passed, they appear beaten and world-weary. Weeds spring from cracks in the pavement, and ragged brown vines snake up the walls and strangle the lampposts. The forest is reclaiming this land, and it appears no one in this part of Dogwood cares enough to fight back. Only a few flickering lights illuminate the sidewalks, and the presence of so many dark corners makes me nervous.
“Awful, right?” Milo appears to have taken my anxiety for disgust. He turns toward one of the buildings. “I promised my parents I’d get them out first chance I have. I guess now I have to get Alice out too.” Bitterness clings to his tone as he approaches a row of small, metal mailboxes. “I don’t understand why she didn’t qualify. She’s a beautiful dancer… better than I was at that age. Don’t they realize what they’re wasting?” He slams the mailboxes, and the clanging noise splits the air. “Maybe if I were better, I’d have found a patron already and could pay for her to keep learning.”
My usual encouragements feel limp even in my head, so I just put my arm around him. Sometimes, there’s just nothing to say.
He retrieves a key from his pocket, then opens one of the mailbox doors. That must be his family’s.
He takes off his watch and places it inside, and I give him a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”
“My dad can pawn that for a few coins.” Milo locks the mailbox. “It’s barely anything, but maybe it’ll help.”
“But that’s school property.”
He waves dismissively. “I do this kind of thing all the time when I need quick cash. Whatever I sell or trade, Papilio just issues me a new one and adds the cost to my debt. It’s already a mountain. A few extra boulders won’t make a difference. Anyway, let’s go.”
I gesture at the building’s door. “Don’t you want to say hi?”
“Not tonight.” He walks away so quickly, I have to jog to keep up.
I follow him down a few more dark streets, wondering where he’s taking me. Ahead, the doors to a rust-stained building lie open, leading to an entryway glowing under a dim yellow light. Austere as the other tenements were, they looked like palaces compared to the chipped walls and cracked windows of the one we’re heading toward.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Milo strides up to the door. “Our future if we don’t make it.”
This must be one of the government housing projects the school sends its aged-out students to. It’s meant to be temporary, but from what I’ve heard, many ex-Papilians never earn enough to move elsewhere. This glimpse at the world I’ll face if I can’t get my ranking up makes my gut twist.
As we step through the doorway, a stench wafts toward me—a mix of sweat and decay wrapped in smoke. I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. Many of the doors to the individual units lie open with the sounds of voices drifting out. Multiple bunk beds cram each small room. Almost every person I spot has either an opaque cup or a cigarette in their hand; some have both. Their eyes are glazed over, and their movements limp. I guess when you’ve lost everything, it’s easier to just forget. Some look old and worn, but many appear only a few years older than me. I have a hard time believing that these lost-looking people were once dedicated Artists like me.
How can Papilio make us work so hard, only to throw us away when they’re done? I wish I could change things, but I guess the school doesn’t owe us anything. No one’s forced to enroll.
A boy with long, brown hair and stubble covering his jaw emerges from a room. He must have aged out pretty recently, since he still looks like a teenager. Milo quickens his step.
“Phers!” He waves.
The boy must not have heard him, because he turns back toward the doorway, laughing at someone inside.
I give Milo a funny look. “His name is Fierce?”
“MacPherson Gill—Phers for short.” Milo’s lips quirk. “Though he sometimes pretends it is Fierce. He’s one of your kind: Orchestra guy born at Papilio.”
MacPherson? As in “MacPherson’s Farewell”? I wouldn’t put it past a Papilian couple to name their son after an ancient fiddle tune. Though, on second thought, that song was supposedly played by a legendary bandit on the gallows, right before he smashed the instrument and was hanged, so maybe not.
After Milo calls the boy’s name again, Phers spins around on his heel. In his hand, he holds a slim white cigarette. The bittersweet scent of its pale gray smoke curls toward me, overwhelming my senses. Whatever is wrapped inside that paper, it’s not tobacco.
“Oh, hey, Milo!” Phers’s brown eyes shift toward me. “Who’s that lovely lady you’ve got with you?”
“Iris,” I say.
“Welcome to my domain.” Phers leans forward in a deep, exaggerated bow. “And what’s your Art?”
“Orchestra.”
“Orchestra!” Phers sweeps his arms to the side. “I was in the Orchestra too! Trombone! Got pretty good, until I figured out the school’s full of shit. I was never going to make it anyway, so I figured I might as well leave on my own terms.”
“You dropped out?” I don’t recognize him, so he must have left before I moved up from the junior string ensemble. Also, he doesn’t have the reddish marks around his mouth most brass players do; they must have faded. “But… why?”
“Saw no point in killing myself over something I could never have.” He shrugs. “Besides, that’s three years’ worth of debt I won’t have to pay back.”
I almost understand. Still, even in my most desperate hour, I could never bring myself to walk away from my instrument. Especially since dropouts are always placed in menial jobs, never good ones as coaches or anything.
“Hey, Milo, check out my latest. They call it lotus.” Phers hands Milo his cigarette—or whatever you call “lotus” wrapped in paper.
Milo puts it to his lips and inhales. My surprise must show on my face, because he throws me a smirk. “Oh, loosen up.” Smoke drifts from his lips. He hands the cigarette back to Phers. “Tastes fine, but I guess it’ll take a moment to kick in.”
Phers puts the cigarette between two fingers and offers it me. “How about you?”
“No, thanks.” The smoky atmosphere is already making my head spin, and I don’t feel like getting any dizzier.
Milo jerks his thumb at Phers. “Phers knows more about Adryil stuff than anyone I’ve ever met. He might know what that thing is.”
Phers rubs the back of his shaggy head. “What thing?”
After glancing around to make sure no one’s spying on us, I pull the Adryil device out of my pocket. Phers plucks the small machine from my fingers. “Where’d you get this?”
“Found it.” I pull my lips in, hoping he won’t ask for details.
He peers at it, examining its etchings. Lines of green light appear on his pale face from the winding patterns. “Never seen anything like it.” He points at an etching in the center, which is shaped like a swirl with angular edges. “This symbol means ‘activate,’ but that’s all I know.”
Disappointed, I take the device back. “Thanks anyway.”
Milo angles his mouth. “Sorry, Iris. Guess this whole adventure was for nothing.”
“It was worth a shot.” I drop the device back into my pocket. “Let’s go.”
“No need to run off.” Phers peers at my watch. “You’ve got a few hours before curfew. Why not stay and hang out?”
“Thanks, but I have rehearsal in the morning.” The words come out faster than I intended. They’re true, but the real reason I’m eager to leave is because the unfamiliar smells are starting to make me nauseous.
“Oh, I get it.” Phers raises his eyebrows. “You think you’re too good for this place. Let me guess—you were born at Papilio?”
I blink. “I was, but—”
“I used to think like you.” Phers cuts me off. “Then I realized how twisted that place is. You’re squeezed for every ounce of skill you’ve got, ranked and measured to please a bunch of aliens who’ll decide your fate. Papilio traps you for the entertainment of the rich, profiting off your sweat. And you’re expected to be grateful for their crumbs while they gorge themselves on cake. At least I don’t serve them anymore. I’m free.” He puts his cigarette in his mouth and inhales. “As for you”—he blows a stream of smoke into my face, and I cover my mouth—“They own you.”
“What the hell, man?” Milo steps between Phers and me. “Leave her alone.”
I smile a little, glad that Milo’s on my side.
Phers snickers. “You know I’m right.”
Milo crosses his arms. “Maybe, but you don’t have to be an ass about it.”
I knit my eyebrows. What did he mean by “maybe”? He’d never actually agree with Phers, would he?
“Didn’t mean to rile you.” Phers raises his hands as if surrendering. He looks past Milo, meeting my gaze. “Life’s about more than work. So how ’bout it? There’s fun to be had.”
Something about the way he talks says that he thinks himself better than me. What right does he have to act superior? He quit. I think about what Estelle said about her family’s sacrifice, about the look on Milo’s face when he told me about his sister. Yet here’s someone who, like me, was born into the opportunity Estelle and Milo had to fight for. At least I’m doing my best to be worthy of it. “I don’t need your kind of fun.”
“You’re delusional.”
Fury simmers within me, churning up something deeper than what Phers is provoking. “No, you are. How is this freedom?” I gesture at the smoke-filled tenement around me. “You were born with a chance others would kill for, and you threw it away. So don’t talk to me about what life’s all about, because clearly you don’t know. You’re glib about your very existence, smothering it with external pleasures because you can’t find anything inside. You’re a manifestation of hopelessness. That doesn’t make you freer than the rest of us.”
“That’s nice.” Phers leans back against the wall. “Wouldn’t expect anything different coming from a slave of their system.”
Something about his slack expression adds a new spark to the flame. “I may be part of a system, but I’m doing what I want to do. You think I haven’t gotten frustrated and wanted to quit?” My mind flashes back to the times I strove to my limits at an audition only to be rejected, the times Vera lectured me to tears, the times I attempted difficult pieces and found my feeble fingers unable to keep up.
I sense a presence near me, like someone’s watching me in anticipation of what I’ll say next. Not wanting to let that invisible audience down, I keep going. “It’s easy not to care. If you don’t believe anything, you can never be wrong. But that doesn’t make you right. As much as I want it, I’ll probably never find a patron. In five years, I might be living across the hall from you, and you can laugh at me then. But until that happens, I choose to try anyway. I choose to believe.”
“Believing isn’t the same as knowing something’s worthwhile.” Milo’s voice is quieter than usual.
I whirl toward him, surprised that he’s the one who spoke those words and not Phers. “What do you mean?”
Milo’s eyes are distant. “Phers has a point. We’re trapped. Forced into the system because it’s the only way out of something even worse.”
I bite my lip, bothered by the bitterness in his voice. “But you love dancing, don’t you?”
“Yeah, and that’s why I let Papilio swallow me.” Milo looks at the ground, his expression tight. “I just wish I had a damn choice.”
“You do.” Phers puts his hand on Milo’s shoulder. “Walk away. Isn’t this where it’s all headed anyway?”
“Of course not!” I want to slap Phers. If he were saying these things to me, he might have a point, but Milo’s good. “Milo, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Phers drops his arm and glances at me. “You’re the hopeless one. Hopelessly enslaved to Papilio.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t just play for Papilio. I play for the music. For me.”
Phers puts his cigarette to his lips and inhales slowly, keeping his eyes on me. He’s probably contemplating what else he can say to make me concede that he’s right. Well, I won’t, and I return his stare to let him know I’m not backing down.
He exhales, shaking his head, and his whole body loosens visibly. His stance becomes a slouch, and his expression loses its spark. Far from arguing back, he looks like he doesn’t care enough to respond, like he’s giving up. The sight is unnerving after the hostility he just showed, and I wonder if it’s the effects of the lotus—whatever that is.
Phers turns back to Milo, tilting his head. “I don’t get it, Milo. You come here looking for escape, but you keep going back.” He sticks out his hand, offering Milo the cigarette. “Why not stay?”
Milo’s mouth becomes a thin line, and worry creeps into my mind. The idea of Milo dropping out is ridiculous, especially when he’s flying high at the Ballet and has a family counting on him. But then I recall all the times he’s confessed to me how anxious he was about a particular audition, or how upset he was by his coach’s criticisms, or how scared he was of disappearing into mediocrity. Of not mattering. Of being forgotten, then tossed out. These are my demons too, but I’d never stop fighting them. Would he?
I peer into his face, trying to read his expression. “Milo?”
Milo glances at me, then gives Phers a dry smile. “I’m holding out, Phers. Still got a shot at Sabina, after all.”
Phers barks out a laugh. “Fair enough.”
A veil seems to have settled over his eyes, robbing them of the focus they’d held just moments ago. There’s a strange mix of emptiness and euphoria in his expression—the way his lips curve, the way his eyelids droop, the way his brows tilt—as if someone smothered a piece of his soul, and he’s glad they did. Unnerved, I turn and head down the hallway.
As Milo walks beside me, he gives me a sheepish grin. “Phers takes some getting used to. You know, he may be an ass, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”
I meet his gaze, worried. “Do you really agree with him?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.” He lifts his mouth into something of a smile. “Don’t fret, Iris. I don’t plan on dropping out. Couldn’t if I wanted to.”
Despite his casual tone, I sense something dark behind his eyes. I don’t know how to reply. After everything he’s said since I met up with him in the quad, I’m beginning to realize that there’s a whole other side to him that he’s kept hidden from me.
I continue in silence. Perhaps I am complacent, following Papilio’s system without question. None of us have a choice—Milo was right about that. We do what we do because we love our Arts, and those who run Papilio know it. Nevertheless, I won’t rebel like Phers, just for the sake of rebelling. What kind of life is that, existing without purpose? Even if I stood at the edge of the universe with only my viola and the abyss yawning before me, I’d play to oblivion.
A warm feeling glows within me, like someone’s smiling at me. I look around, but see only the empty haze of the tenement.