The Darkest Minds
Page 71
Chubs snorted at that, rubbing his hand over his forehead. It took some time in silence, but I felt the air between us ease from a guarded hostility to something that felt to me like acceptance. His shoulders were no longer bunched up with tension, and when he tilted his head toward me, I saw it for the subtle invitation it was. I took a step closer.
“It was bad enough he had to come back here,” Chubs mumbled, more to himself than to me. “God…”
“Liam?” I asked. “This is where he and his friend were captured, right?”
Chubs nodded. “He’s never told me the whole story, but I think what happened was that he and Felipe were traveling and ran into a tribe of Blues. Instead of recruiting them like Lee hoped, the tribe beat the hell out of them and stole everything they had—food, packs, family pictures, you name it. They came here for a few days to regroup, but they were in such bad shape that they couldn’t get away when the skip tracers finally showed up.”
Something hard settled in my throat.
“Lee thinks that that tribe probably called them in,” Chubs continued. “That they got a cut of the reward.”
I didn’t know what to say. The thought of a kid, of any of us, turning against our own kind made me want to smash the shelf we were leaning against into a heap of metal.
“I trust Liam,” I said slowly. “He’s such a good person, but he’s so easy for others to read—and they don’t have the best intentions.”
“Exactly,” Chubs said. “He’s so busy looking inside people to find the good that he misses the knife they’re holding in their hand.”
“And even then he’d probably blame himself for the person having the knife to begin with, and apologize for being such a tempting target.”
That was what troubled me the most about Liam—if he was any more trusting and good-hearted, he would have been a Boy Scout. It was either an amazing feat of stubbornness or naiveté, I thought, for someone who had seen so much death and suffering to still believe so unconditionally that everyone was as stand-up as he was. It was something that inspired both exasperation and a fierce sense of protectiveness in me—and Chubs, too, it seemed.
“I think we both know he’s far from perfect, no matter how hard he tries,” Chubs said, settling himself down on the ground and leaning back against the empty shelf. “He’s never been a big thinker, that one. Always rush, rush, rushing to do whatever his gut tells him to, and then drowning in his own self-pity and guilt when things blow up in his face.”
I nodded, absently fiddling with a tear in the sleeve of my new plaid shirt I hadn’t noticed before taking it. After hearing Liam with Zu, I knew that he felt an intense guilt over what had happened the night of their breakout, but it sounded like it might run even deeper than that.
“I can fix that for you later.” Chubs nodded toward the torn fabric. His long fingers were splayed out over his knees, tapping against the bones. “Just remind me.”
“Who taught you how to sew, anyway?” I asked. Apparently it was not the right question to ask. Chubs’s back went stiff and straight, like I had dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.
“I don’t know how to sew,” he snapped, “I know how to stitch. Sewing is for decoration; stitching is for saving lives. I don’t do this because I think it’s pretty or fun. I do it for practice.”
He stared at me over the rims of his glasses. Waiting to see if I got what he was trying to say.
“My dad taught me how to stitch before I went into hiding,” he said, finally. “In case of emergencies.”
“Is your dad a doctor?” I asked.
“He’s a trauma surgeon.” Chubs didn’t bother to hide the pride in his voice. “One of the best in the D.C. area.”
“What does your mom do?”
“She used to work for the Department of Defense, but got fired when she refused to register me in the IAAN database. I don’t know what she’s doing now.”
“They sound great,” I said.
Chubs snorted, but I could see him warm to the compliment.
The minutes dragged by, and the conversation waned. I found myself reaching for Zu’s notebook and flipping it open to the beginning. The first few pages were mostly sketches and doodles, but those gave way to page after page of math problems. Liam’s handwriting was neat and precise, and, surprisingly, so was Zu’s.
—Betty traveled 118 miles in three hours. How fast was Lee driving?
—You have five Snickers bars to share with three friends. You cut them in half. How many will each friend get? How can you make sure the leftovers get shared equally so Chubs doesn’t complain?
And then I got to a page with completely different handwriting. Messy and smeared. The letters were darker, as if the writer had been pressing down on the paper too hard.
I’m not sure what else can be said about this book that hasn’t already been said. I’m
out of clever things to say, I’m afraid. Jonathan Swift has always been a favorite, but I
can’t get over how clever his wordplay is throughout the novel. I really can’t
get over how similar it is to Robinson Crusoe at times, especially when he’s on the ship
to Lilliput. Though his interaction with the Lilliputians wasn’t the strongest section,
you would be hard pressed to find equally clever interplay of parody and originality. I
can see why the book has been studied so carefully by scholars over the years. We
“It was bad enough he had to come back here,” Chubs mumbled, more to himself than to me. “God…”
“Liam?” I asked. “This is where he and his friend were captured, right?”
Chubs nodded. “He’s never told me the whole story, but I think what happened was that he and Felipe were traveling and ran into a tribe of Blues. Instead of recruiting them like Lee hoped, the tribe beat the hell out of them and stole everything they had—food, packs, family pictures, you name it. They came here for a few days to regroup, but they were in such bad shape that they couldn’t get away when the skip tracers finally showed up.”
Something hard settled in my throat.
“Lee thinks that that tribe probably called them in,” Chubs continued. “That they got a cut of the reward.”
I didn’t know what to say. The thought of a kid, of any of us, turning against our own kind made me want to smash the shelf we were leaning against into a heap of metal.
“I trust Liam,” I said slowly. “He’s such a good person, but he’s so easy for others to read—and they don’t have the best intentions.”
“Exactly,” Chubs said. “He’s so busy looking inside people to find the good that he misses the knife they’re holding in their hand.”
“And even then he’d probably blame himself for the person having the knife to begin with, and apologize for being such a tempting target.”
That was what troubled me the most about Liam—if he was any more trusting and good-hearted, he would have been a Boy Scout. It was either an amazing feat of stubbornness or naiveté, I thought, for someone who had seen so much death and suffering to still believe so unconditionally that everyone was as stand-up as he was. It was something that inspired both exasperation and a fierce sense of protectiveness in me—and Chubs, too, it seemed.
“I think we both know he’s far from perfect, no matter how hard he tries,” Chubs said, settling himself down on the ground and leaning back against the empty shelf. “He’s never been a big thinker, that one. Always rush, rush, rushing to do whatever his gut tells him to, and then drowning in his own self-pity and guilt when things blow up in his face.”
I nodded, absently fiddling with a tear in the sleeve of my new plaid shirt I hadn’t noticed before taking it. After hearing Liam with Zu, I knew that he felt an intense guilt over what had happened the night of their breakout, but it sounded like it might run even deeper than that.
“I can fix that for you later.” Chubs nodded toward the torn fabric. His long fingers were splayed out over his knees, tapping against the bones. “Just remind me.”
“Who taught you how to sew, anyway?” I asked. Apparently it was not the right question to ask. Chubs’s back went stiff and straight, like I had dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.
“I don’t know how to sew,” he snapped, “I know how to stitch. Sewing is for decoration; stitching is for saving lives. I don’t do this because I think it’s pretty or fun. I do it for practice.”
He stared at me over the rims of his glasses. Waiting to see if I got what he was trying to say.
“My dad taught me how to stitch before I went into hiding,” he said, finally. “In case of emergencies.”
“Is your dad a doctor?” I asked.
“He’s a trauma surgeon.” Chubs didn’t bother to hide the pride in his voice. “One of the best in the D.C. area.”
“What does your mom do?”
“She used to work for the Department of Defense, but got fired when she refused to register me in the IAAN database. I don’t know what she’s doing now.”
“They sound great,” I said.
Chubs snorted, but I could see him warm to the compliment.
The minutes dragged by, and the conversation waned. I found myself reaching for Zu’s notebook and flipping it open to the beginning. The first few pages were mostly sketches and doodles, but those gave way to page after page of math problems. Liam’s handwriting was neat and precise, and, surprisingly, so was Zu’s.
—Betty traveled 118 miles in three hours. How fast was Lee driving?
—You have five Snickers bars to share with three friends. You cut them in half. How many will each friend get? How can you make sure the leftovers get shared equally so Chubs doesn’t complain?
And then I got to a page with completely different handwriting. Messy and smeared. The letters were darker, as if the writer had been pressing down on the paper too hard.
I’m not sure what else can be said about this book that hasn’t already been said. I’m
out of clever things to say, I’m afraid. Jonathan Swift has always been a favorite, but I
can’t get over how clever his wordplay is throughout the novel. I really can’t
get over how similar it is to Robinson Crusoe at times, especially when he’s on the ship
to Lilliput. Though his interaction with the Lilliputians wasn’t the strongest section,
you would be hard pressed to find equally clever interplay of parody and originality. I
can see why the book has been studied so carefully by scholars over the years. We
