UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,2
not a gang,” Raf says. “We are an association.”
“A limited partnership,” says someone else. And that makes a few others snicker.
“Very limited,” Alph finally says. “And we don’t have room for schoolies. Got that?”
Jasper knows this is all a show. He knows that Alph likes him. But Jasper has to prove himself, that’s all. He’s got to show his value. So he goes out on a limb. He knows it might get him beaten up or worse, but it will definitely get Alph’s attention.
He turns to the cavernous space of the old theater and says as loudly as he can, “How many of you can read?”
That brings absolute silence. He knew it would. Mentioning one of the three Rs can be a call to battle. There are some things you don’t say to ferals.
Nobody answers him. Even if some of them can read, he knew they wouldn’t answer. Answering gives him power, and none of them want to do that. Not without permission from Alph. Jasper turns to Alph. “You need me. I can tell you what’s going on out there—the stuff you don’t see on TV.”
“Why the hell should ‘out there’ matter to me?” Alph says, his voice more threatening than Jasper has ever heard it.
“Because there’s this new thing I read about. It’s called unwiring, or something. They say it’s going to end the Heartland War, and it’s also going to solve the problem of ferals.”
Alph crosses his arms in defiance. “This war ain’t never gonna end. And we are not a problem. Ferals are the future. Got that?”
Jasper holds his gaze. Alph’s hard exterior shows no signs of cracking. No indication that he’s going to give Jasper the slightest break. Jasper sighs. “Yeah, I got it, Kevin.”
The fury that comes to Alph’s face makes it clear that Jasper has made a critical error.
“Don’t you ever call me that.”
Jasper looks down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. . . .”
Then Alph picks up something that’s on the table next to the tangle of jewelry. A snow globe—one of the many weird knickknacks salvaged from the world that existed before the Heartland War. This one shows a little gingerbread cottage magnified and distorted, submerged in water, and surrounded by swirls of fake snow.
“Tell you what, Nelson,” Alph says. “I’ll give you until the count of ten. You make it to the door by ten, I won’t smash your skull with this thing.”
“Alph, I—”
“One.”
“Just hear me out!”
“Two.”
Raf gets between them. “Better start running, dude.”
“Three.”
And so with no choice, Jasper turns to run.
“Four.”
The others laugh. One kid tries to trip him, but Jasper jumps over his extended foot.
“Five.”
He’s almost to the door. The door guards don’t try to stop him. They part to let him go, but then Alph does something unexpected.
“Six-seven-eight-nine-ten!”
With the countdown sped up, Jasper doesn’t stand a chance. Just before he reaches the door he feels the snow globe connect with his back, striking a middle vertebra. He goes down. The snow globe smashes on the concrete floor.
“Man, what an arm!” one of the guards says. “Alph oughta play baseball or something.”
Still in pain, Jasper gets to his feet. He’s going to have a major bruise on his back—but he’ll tell no one. “He could have killed me,” Jasper realizes out loud. “He could have hit me in the head and killed me.”
One of the door guards scoffs. “If Alph wanted to hit you in the head, he would have.” Then he pushes Jasper out the door.
• • •
“You’re late again,” his mother says, the casualness in her tone forced, the suspicion in her voice poorly veiled. She used to manage a restaurant until either the Lifers or the Choicers inadvertently blew it up. Now all she does is micromanage Jasper.
He drops his book bag on the couch and answers just as casually. His tone isn’t forced, however. He’s a much better actor than his mother. “There was a meeting about school clubs. I wanted to check some out.”
“What club are you interested in?”
“Fencing,” he answers without the slightest hesitation.
“So violent.”
He passes her on the way to the fridge. “You don’t really stab people, Mom.”
“Before you commit to anything, you should run it past your father, Jasper.”
He stiffens, feeling the chill from the open refrigerator on his arm hairs. “I told you to call me Jazz.”
“That’s not a name,” his mother says. “Take what you want and close the door. You’ll let all the cold out.”
He spends the rest of the afternoon doing his homework at the dining room