Girl of Glass: The Complete Collection

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When they were only a few blocks from the Charity Center, a video screen folded down from the ceiling at the front of the bus.

“Are you ready for this?” Jeremy snuck past Nola to kneel in the center of the aisle, facing the rest of the students.

Jeremy coughed as the screen blinked to life.

“Jeremy,” Mr. Pillion said in a warning tone.

“I’m word-perfect, sir,” Jeremy said. “They will receive all the dire warnings accurately.”

A man appeared on the screen, and Jeremy turned back to the class, plastering a somber look on his face to match the man in the video.

“Good morning, students,” Jeremy said with the man on the screen.

“Good morning, Jeremy,” the class echoed.

Jeremy smiled and nodded in perfect sync with the man.

“As we near the Charity Center, please take a moment to utilize your I-Vents.” The man lifted a shiny, silver tube to his mouth and took an exaggerated breath.

Sounds of squeaking seats and pockets unzipping floated through the bus as the students dug out their I-Vents to follow suit.

“Good,” Jeremy said with the man on the screen. “Remember, it only takes one day of soiled air to begin contaminating the lungs.” Jeremy faked a cough before continuing with the video. “Your work today is important. While we within the domes work hard to live a healthy life, the people in this city do not have the opportunities for safety and security that we do. Poverty is rampant, and sometimes even simple things like food are unattainable.”

Jeremy dropped face-first onto the floor as the screen switched to a video of orphans, sitting at a long table, their young faces sad and drawn. Even as they ate, hunger filled their sunken eyes.

The screen changed back to the man, and Jeremy popped up to his knees.

“Poverty can induce desperation.” Jeremy placed both pointer fingers on his chin, his hands clasped together. “To ensure your safety while helping the needy, here are a few simple rules to follow: First, do not leave the Charity Center or the perimeter secured by the guards.”

The guards at the front of the bus waved, earning a laugh from the students.

“Second, do not partake in the food we are here to provide the less fortunate. The food provided is for them, not for the people of the domes. Third, an unfortunate side effect of living in the sad conditions of the city is an insurgence of d**g use among the desperate.” A new face appeared on the screen. The man’s eyes were bloodshot almost to the point of his irises being red. Red splotches marked the pale skin of his cheeks. “Everyone who enters the Charity Center must submit to testing to ensure no drugs are present in their systems. However, should an addict—”

“Vamper!” the students shouted together, laughing at their own joke.

But the image of the woman beating on the glass flew unbidden into Nola’s mind. She dug her nails into her palms as the man on the screen, and Jeremy, kept talking.

“—attempt to enter the Charity Center, approach the bus as you enter or exit the Charity Center, or in any way harass you, alert the guards immediately. Though a user may seem normal and calm, they could become violent at any moment. While helping those who live on the outside is important, above all, we must consider—”

“The safety of the domes!” the class chanted together as the bus rumbled to a stop outside an old stone building.

The doors opened, and the eight guards piled out. The students stood, all cramming into the aisle, ready to get off the bus.

“Did you like my dramatic interpretation?” Jeremy asked.

Nola nodded, pulling on her sunhat and trying to stay in step as everyone moved off the bus.

The Charity Center was dark gray, almost black stone. But in a few places the black had been worn away in long tear-like streaks, showing the rosy brown color the building had been before years of filth had built up on it. Iron bars strong enough to keep rioters away from the charity supplies crisscrossed the closed windows.

The class filed up the chipped stone steps. The guards flanked the stairs, their gaze sweeping the streets.

How terrible was the riot to make the best of us afraid?

Jeremy leaned into Nola and whispered, “Two more.”

“What?” Nola said, trying not to gag as the smell of harsh cleaners and mass produced food flooded her nose.

“I turn eighteen in two months.” Jeremy smiled as they filed into the changing room. Aprons and gloves had been laid out for each of the students. “Eighteen means I graduate and go to trade training. Eighteen means no more Charity Days. I only have to do this two more times.”

Nola counted. Eleven months. Eleven more times she would have to look into the eyes of hungry people and know that, though she was feeding them today, tomorrow they would be hungry again. And while they suffered, she would be locked safely back in the domes. With fresh food and clean air.

Jeremy pulled on his gloves with a sharp snap. “Let’s do this.”

It took an hour to heat all the food in the giant kitchens. Old stoves and ovens lined one wall, their surfaces covered in years of built up grease and grime that refused to be cleaned. Shelves of chipped trays and bent utensils loomed over the giant sinks that hummed as the dome-made filters cleaned the water before the students were allowed to wash their hands.

Years of repetition had trained the class in how to get the work done as quickly as possible. One group prepped the giant pots and pans as another group pulled great sacks of flour and milled corn down from the shelves.

Nola and Lilly went into a hallway in the back.

Large cans of food lined the corridor. In the dim, flickering light, Nola had to squint to read the labels to find the cans they needed.

Stewed beets and black beans.

“Can you believe they think this is food?” Lilly shook her head, loading as many cans into her arms as she could carry. “How old is this stuff?”

Nola watched Lilly's silhouette waddle awkwardly down the hall before loading cans of processed fruit into her arms and following.

An iron-barred window bled light into the back of the kitchen. Nola peered through the soot-streaked glass. The line of people waiting to be fed wound around the block.

“What’s out there?” Wrinkles formed between Mr. Pillion’s white eyebrows as he squinted out the window.

“I’ve never seen that many people waiting before.” Nola tightened her grip on the cans as they slipped.

“A good number of people lost their homes last night.” Mr. Pillion shrugged before turning to the rest of the class and shouting, “We open the doors in five minutes!"

The trays and pots of food were moved to the serving room as the doors opened.

The first in line was a woman with two little boys behind her.

“Hand,” the guard said, though the woman already had her hand held up as though she were carrying a tray.

The guard held a small black rectangle over the woman’s palm. She winced as the needle pierced her skin. The device glowed green, and the woman lifted her older son, who bit his lip as the black box tested his blood, immediately flashing the green light. The smaller boy couldn’t have been more than three. He buried his face in his mother’s shoulder as the guard tested him for the drugs that ran rampant in the city. The little boy pulled his hand away and held it close to his chest as the guard waited for the light.

Nola hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until the guard said, “Enjoy your meal,” as the light flashed green, clearing the small boy.

The mother handed each of the boys a tray before picking one up for herself. Nola watched as they came down the line. Each of the ladle workers doled out portions of whatever was in their pot. Nola looked down at the green and brown slop as she scooped it onto the small boy’s plate. She didn’t even know exactly what she was serving him.

He paused in front of Nola. Purple rings marked his face under his big brown eyes. His lungs rattled as he took a breath to mutter, “Thank you.”

A fist closed around Nola’s heart. She wanted to stop the line. To find a way to help the poor boy with the bad lungs. But he had already walked away, pushed forward by his brother, and his mother, and the long line of other hungry people wanting food.

Nola worked mechanically, staring at the little boy until his mother took him out the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room, clearing seats so more could eat. But the line still hadn’t stopped. Nola’s ladle scraped the bottom of the pot.

She’d run out of food. And judging by the angry murmurs rising from the front of the line, she wasn’t the only one.

“Go get more cans,” Mr. Pillion whispered in Nola’s ear. “I don’t care what it is. Get cans, mix it together, and put it in a pot.”

A man at the back of the line shoved people out of the way, trying to get to the food before it disappeared.

With a hiss and a pop, one of the guards shot the man in the neck with a tiny needle that disappeared into his flesh, leaving only a glint of silver at the top of a trickle of red.

The crowd screamed as more people began to push.

“Go. Now.” Mr. Pillion scrambled up onto the counter. “Please remain calm! We are going to start making more food immediately. Everyone in line will be fed, but we must ask for your patience.”

Nola slipped into the kitchen as the crowd began to shout over Mr. Pillion’s voice.