Chapter Two

Sahara

There is something exhilarating about this place, though Mother insists it is not the place but the business behind it. I sit beside her in the company car, staring at the newly dawned subdivision, and know she is wrong. The magic behind Weston has nothing to do with our order of business and everything to do with the way the towering pines overshadow the lazy neighborhood. I have never seen so many trees in my life, nor have I seen a mountain plastered right before my eyes. It's more than beautiful, it's alluring and mysterious, so much that an instantaneous bolt of curiosity rings through my bones

"If I were a Brute, this is where I would want to live," I say before I can think better of it.

Of course, Mother is quick to correct me, "Brutes don't want anything. They are controlled by blood thirst, Sahara. They do not think nor want—"

This goes on for a while, but luckily, I have other things on which to focus. The neighborhood of Weston is broken into four sectors, identical layouts with identical houses. It is far different than our previous territory in the Capitol, which is composed solely of beautiful estates and unique landmarks. Weston is attractively dull with its plain white houses and symmetrical lawns.

Our home is in the fourth sector, the final area located nearest the forest. It is more secluded than the others—which is why Mother assumes the Brute rumors have surfaced in the first place—and neighbors the dense forest. Nielle awakens from the back seat just as we pull into our new driveway. She remains silent and leans toward her window, wordlessly taking in the scene. I try to watch her face, to see if she notices the same magic that I have, but her expression doesn't chance in the least.

"Luckily," says Mother, and I can't help but wonder if she noticed my disinterest in her conversation, "There's only nine houses in the fourth sector. We should be able to make our rounds before noon."

With that, she promptly steps from the car. Nielle and I are quick to follow, knowing better than to test Mother's patience with our leisure. She is already unlocking the front door by the time Nielle and I collect the bags from the trunk. A delivery truck dropped off the majority of our boxes yesterday evening, but there are some things Mother would not allow 'dirty delivery women' to contaminate. And by things, I mean her endless supply of electronics and hairspray.

"Oh how repulsive," says Mother as she crosses the threshold.

I'd like to say she is exaggerating with her cry of disgust, but I am, for once, on the same page as she. This place is repulsive. Sure, the department informed us of the drastic downsize, but they somehow forgot to mention we'd be living in a trashy two-story home. The walls are streaked and opaque, the floors are covered in dark carpet, and the furniture is mismatched. Mismatched in a hideous array of blues and greens and yellows.

"They can't honestly expect us to live here," she says. Her manicured thumb presses against one of the walls, and when she pulls back, a distinct fingerprint resides in the grease.

"Did we bring cleaning supplies?" I ask. It isn't until I speak that I realize I am still outside, balanced precariously on the cobbled porch. The tips of my black-and-white heels just touch the carpet, and I can almost feel the grime latching onto the soles.

"Shut the door," says Mother. Her eyes flicker toward the empty street and then back to me. "Don't just stand there, Sahara. Move."

I drag Mother's bags into the room, cringing when a bout of dust puffs into the air. I cough, even though the dust doesn't reach my mouth.

"I'm going to call the department," she says, snatching one of the bags from my grasp. Her blue eyes, which look far too much like mine for my comfort, glare at me. "Clean the walls, just in case."

I nod at her, though only for the second part. I want to tell her that calling the department will be a waste of time, both for her and her superiors. It's too late to switch homes (we already evacuated the last family for 'disclosed' reasons); we can't do it again without seeming suspicious. The same goes for a random cleaning company—people in Weston can't afford luxuries such as that. Still, doubting Mother's judgment is always dangerous territory.

"Mother?" asks Nielle. She stands just behind me with her hands clasped behind her back. Unlike me, Nielle looks far more like her donor than Mother. She has dark skin, black hair, and wide brown eyes. The only resemblance she holds to Mother is that, despite being nine years old, Nielle has the disposition of a grown woman.

"Practice ballet," says Mother as she disappears into one of the back rooms.

Nielle and I go our separate ways, she to one of the vacated rooms and I to the array of boxes. Before long, a dim melody floats from her new bedroom, and I can just barely see the outline of her thimble body twirling through the wall. I can't help but crinkle my nose at the filth of this place. I've had the occasional poor friend, and their walls were always scrubbed clean. I don't know how a family could survive in a place like this, never being able to keep an eye on one another. Mother would go insane.

The cleaning supplies are in an upside down box. I line them across a striped couch, making sure not to let them spill. There's already a stain or two on the carpet, but that's beside the point. I pause to straighten out the living room's clutter. Some of the boxes are supposed to be in Nielle's room or the kitchen or Mother's office, but apparently the moving women could not discern my impeccable handwriting.

"Sahara, are you cleaning?" Mother asks. Her voice comes from the opposite side of the house, but the opaque walls make it impossible to know where.

"Yes, Mother!"

I temporarily abandon my organization—even though seeing the scrambled boxes is about to give me an aneurism. I borrow a rag from a KITCHEN box and get to work.

Eighty minutes later, I can finally comprehend the house's layout. I want to call up the old landlords and say, see that wasn't hard, was it? Instead, I grab a new cloth and start the process over: Nielle's walls, my walls, the kitchen walls, Mother's walls. It isn't until I have washed them three or four times that I begin to appreciate the smallness of our new home. This project would've taken three times as long at the estate. Instead, I can reach each new room within a matter of steps.

I shake the empty bottle of wall spray before deciding to get a new one. I barely crouch down when Mother's voice materializes from nowhere.

"I should've known you'd be slacking," she says, her thin shadow falling over me.

"Sorry Mother," I say, scrambling back to my feet. A protest is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold back.

"The upstairs still needs washing, and you're sitting around playing with boxes," she says.

Now, it should be noted that my mother is a small woman, no more than five foot three. It should also be noted that she's among the most terrifying women in the world. Orange hair, pale face, sharp tongue. You'd be a fool to defy my mother, which is why I try to avoid that as much as possible. Besides, she may be a bit cruel at times, but she's smart, too. You can tell just by looking at her: crisp white dress, slight heels, mobile Orator in hand.

"I'll do it right now," I tell her, but she's already shaking her head at me.

"It's time to meet the neighbors." She glances down at the Orator and clicks a few buttons. A deep voice protrudes from the machine, ten thirty-five. "We're already behind schedule."

"I'll get Nielle then," I say.

"You can't go looking like that," she says, glancing over my outfit. Her voice slips into that condescending mockery. "Do you want the neighbors to think you're homeless?"

"No Mother," I say, even though I think my appearance fits perfectly with this type of lifestyle. Wrinkled car clothes seem more adaptable than a pleated dress.

It only takes the first set of neighbors to realize I'm correct. The two elderly women are dressed in white jumpers, looking like they've just rolled out of bed, and not even a nice bed like the one I have back at the estate.

Mother does her whole spiel while Nielle and I stand by, doing our best to look pretty and shy. This first conversation is nothing too intricate. Mother does most of the talking, demonstrating how to casually gain insight from the locals. I do my best to listen, but after about the fifth house, I start to lose interest. What's worse, whenever Mother asks about the subdivision's safety, not a single person brings up the Brute reports.

Obviously, we already know which houses filed reports. There are two of them, both which lie parallel to the forest. They just nod and smile and say they've never for a second felt unsafe.

"So, what can you tell me?" asks Mother as we leave the porch.

"I don't know," I say. "They all keep saying the same things."

"Of course they do," says Mother dismissively. "They don't want us to look down upon their scummy neighborhood. They're lying, Sahara. These poor folk always do."

The way she says it infers that we rich people are far above lying, like we've never uttered an untrue thing in our lives. The funny thing is, I can't remember the last time I said something that is true.

"I just don't understand what I'm looking for," I say under my breath.

"Don't mumble. It's extremely unbecoming," says Mother. She tugs at Nielle's wrist and forces her to keep up.

"Sorry Mother," I say, holding back a sigh.

"Now, as I've said before," says Mother, "These skills are important. It isn't about what the people say or if there are any obvious clues. This is about getting hours for training. You do want to pass the academy, don't you?"

My fingers clench against my ironed skirt.

"All right," says Mother, clearing her throat. "I'm going to let you do the talking on this one. Try not to screw up."

This house could be ours, if not for the last digit of the address number. Same dull white color, same trimmed grass. A woman answers by my second knock.

She has dark hair, eyes that match the forest pines, and an angular face. Her mouth puckers at the sight of me, and I already know she's going to be different from the previous homes.

"May I help you?" she asks, but it sounds more like a demand than a polite question.

"Hello," I say, rocking back on my heels slightly. "My name is Sahara Joensen. This is my mother and my little sister, Nielle. We're new to the neighborhood."

"Naskia Mortera. Nice to meet you," she says, but her gruff voice suggests otherwise. It's more of a get off my porch before I grab a kitchen knife.

"You as well," I say, nodding. I casually tilt my chin to the woods behind her house. "Nice view. Any wildlife?"

By this, of course, I mean see any Brutes lately? But I can't ask that or Mother would smack me and this lady would never talk to me again. Which wouldn't be that big of a deal, aside from the fact that I need at least thirty documented inquiries before beginning Level Two at the academy.

"No," she says. Somehow, her voice is both dull and gruff, and the combination is terribly unflattering. It sounds like she has something in the back of her throat, but instead of clearing it, she just keeps talking.

"That's good," I say and smile. "City folk like us don't get along with animals particularly well."

"You got any kids?" asks Nielle. Her outburst causes me to flinch. She's not a rude, outgoing little kid, no, she's trained. If she's talking, it's because Mother is getting pissed at my progress—which until that moment, I thought had been fairly good—and Nielle is trying to save my butt from getting kicked at home.

"No," says Ms. Mortera. Gruff, monotone, boring.

"Right, well we best be going." I don't know why I say it. I know Mother wants me to chat for at least fifteen minutes while she records the inquiry on her Oculator. But I can't take it. I'm failing and my nine-year old sister is trying to save my bones and Mother is angry and I may as well end this now before I fail even harder.

"Welcome to Weston," says Ms. Mortera, and she closes the door.

I squeeze Nielle's shoulder as we walk down the front porch, my way of thanking her since I'll never be able to do it out loud. She doesn't look at me, but her lips edge into a sympathetic smile.

Mother doesn't say anything to me, which is how I know it's bad. She leads the remaining introductions, and occasionally gives me pointers on how to improve my interrogations. I nod and yes mother at all the right places, but in the back of my mind I know she's angry. She's angry and I will be punished.