Anya

Another dreadfully boring hour in math class. I could solve these equations with my eyes closed but that doesn’t matter to anyone. I’m not one of the Chosen and have no chance to progress to advanced mathematics or sciences next school year. As the abandoned child of two traitors, I’m destined to be part of the Necessary Support work force, the ones who work in sanitation and other cleaning fields. It doesn't matter how well I do in school. It doesn't matter that I have obeyed the Council rules completely, without fail, for as long as I can remember. My parents killed members of the Chosen families and committed treason against Arcadia.

My algebraic torture ends and I make my way to history class with my friend Emily. Emily is also living at the Home for Abandoned Children, and while her parents also were branded as traitors, they died in the Second Uprising instead of running away. As we sit down, Mr. Dunbar hands us a task description for an essay due next week. The topic - how our personal family histories contribute to the progress of Arcadia and how we will be of service in the future. I won’t be documenting family glory, how my mother and father bravely crushed the traitors, how they fought valiantly to secure our nation from outside influences and to protect our values and way of life. I won’t be writing about my future rise to prestigious positions in the Commerce, Defense, or Data departments. And certainly no one in my family will be allowed anywhere near the Council. We are damaged goods, forever.

Despite my years of compliance, of keeping my head down, my anger suddenly boils. I need air and get up too quickly, knocking over Dunbar’s precious planter box on the window sill next to my desk, sending the herbs crashing to the ground.

“Anya! Report to Janitorial Services immediately so you can clean up your mess,” says Mr. Dunbar. As I leave to go find the janitor, I hear my classmates’ stinging remarks about getting practice for my future career.

I make my way down to the basement, find the janitor’s office, and knock. The door opens to a man with a salt and pepper beard and dusty grey coveralls. His bright blue eyes show surprise and then something else...recognition? Strange, I don’t think I’ve ever met him.

“I’m here to get supplies to clean up Mr. Dunbar’s plants I knocked over,” I say. “Can I please borrow some?”

“I’m Glen. Come in. Grab what you need over there.”

He stands aside to let me in and I walk over to where his dustpans and brooms are. After a moment, “You’re Brian and Melissa’s girl, aren’t you? You look just like your mother, don’t ya?”

I freeze. No one has voiced my parents’ names in years and I can’t confirm my resemblance since I have no photos, no clear memory of her face, no tangible connection. “They weren’t traitors, you know,” Glen says quietly.

I turn slowly, wondering if this is a trap. I’ve heard about the Council’s secret operations to further flush out traitors. Was Glen attempting to get me to support my parents so he could report me to the Council?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! My parents killed people and then dumped me so they could escape.”

“Oh, child. Your parents would never willingly abandon you. Search your heart.”

Tears threaten to fall as my mind floods with all of the words I’ve heard for years...orphan, treason, lowlife, no future, murderers, damaged, dangerous, unworthy.

“I need to go back to class. Thanks for the supplies,” I say as I rush out the door.

“Search your heart, Anya,” Glen whispers.

Mr. Dunbar glares at me as I make my way over to the broken planters. At the end of class he informs me I will be meeting with the janitor after school starting tomorrow to plant and care for the new seedlings until his garden is back to its original size.

As I walk out of the room, “And don’t forget the essay on your personal family history, Anya. Perhaps you should research the names of the heroes your parents slaughtered before they ran away.”

I don’t look back.

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Emily has a school choir rehearsal after school and I’m grateful for the solitary walk back to the Home.

Search your heart Anya.

What does that even mean? I crushed my feelings down a long time ago...until today, it seems. What am I supposed to see in that heart of mine? The constant ridicule for not only being abandoned by the people who should love me the most but also for being the offspring of treacherous, hateful people? The sense of hopelessness for my future? The mind-numbing and lonely existence I have to look forward to for the rest of my life?

I’m not sure why but I start taking the wooded path that runs along a stream instead of the main road. I haven’t been down this way in years, not since my parents were still with me. I have memories of playing down here when I was four or five years old, collecting rocks, twigs, bugs, anything really that I was curious about. Flashes of memory make their way to the forefront - my mom and dad answering my questions about what I saw around me, laughter, joy, adventure. My parents talking to me about respecting nature and the human beings around us, how love was important, the most important. Their friends joining us around a campfire, hushed conversations late into the night...phrases and words floating around me as I sat in my mother’s lap, dozing by the warm fire...help those in the borderlands, wanting a better life, justice, oppression, color, uprising. My fingers tracing the damaged edges of the locket my mother always wore, the heart-shaped locket with my picture inside, while I listened to the voices of so-called traitors.

I stumble and make myself sit down on a boulder by the stream. I don’t understand. Are these memories real or just some long-forgotten fantasy of an abandoned six-year old? I close my eyes and become still, free from the sneers, free from the constant messaging from the Council. In the stillness, more memories come. Gunfire in the streets and the breaking down of our front door. My mother whispering to me to run to our neighbor’s home, that everything would be okay, just run and don’t look back.

But I did look back. My mom and dad were being dragged, limp and lifeless looking, by men in dark uniforms, Council security force patches on their sleeves. I screamed and started to run towards them until I was scooped up by one of those men. I screamed and screamed, kicked and lashed out as a woman approached us. I felt a sharp prick in my arm and then all went black. After that, all of my memories are of the Home for Abandoned Children and of school, of being indoctrinated in the belief that those who are outside, who are Other, who don’t believe are wrong. That I am wrong, wrong and dangerous. But the question is, dangerous for whom?

Your parents would never willingly abandon you. Search your heart. I need to find out what Glen knows.

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It’s getting dark and I know I’m going to be in trouble for being late back to the Home. The Caretakers know our schedules and keep things tightly controlled. Mrs. Lambeth grabs me as I walk in the door.

“Where have you been Anya?”

“I accidentally broke Mr. Dunbar’s plants when I stood up too quickly. I needed to clean up my mess and it took a while.” I look down, trying to make myself small, as I have always done. Always look people in the eye, Anya, and stand up for what’s right, memories of my dad’s voice echo. I force myself to look up.

“I’ll be checking with Mr. Dunbar about that. In the meantime, you’ve earned extra cleaning duty after dinner the rest of this week. Report to Mrs. Shelley right after you finish eating.”

I’m silent during dinner, lost in my thoughts, but Emily can sense I am agitated about something. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.

“Everything I’ve ever known.” She looks at me with surprise and then concern. I look back, suddenly realizing that to confide in her puts her in danger. I force a smile on my face and say, "I’m just being a dramatic teenager.”

I can tell Emily doesn’t buy it, so I’m relieved when Mrs. Lambeth reminds me to report to Mrs. Shelley.

Mrs. Shelley is the new kitchen attendant who started yesterday. At first, she exudes an air of no-nonsense authority, as one who will keep wayward, worthless children in line. Then she smiles and says “Hello, Anya.”

Mrs. Lambeth bustles into the kitchen. “Mrs. Shelley, this is Anya. She will be assisting you each night this week because she apparently has too much free time on her hands and needs help remembering that children in her position must obey the rules.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lambeth. I’ll be sure to help Anya understand her position in our great society.” She looks at me in a way I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. How did she know my name?

“Shall we?” she says, pointing to the stack of dirty dishes and cookware. I turn to the sink and start washing up, my mind reeling from all that has happened today. Maybe I’m just imagining things after being shaken up by the conversation with Glen and my childhood memories flooding back. It’s perfectly reasonable for a staff member to know our names. I just need some sleep.

Mrs. Shelley leans over to grab more dish soap and her necklace falls from its place beneath her shirt. As the silver pendant swings over the sink, my breath stops. I see the tarnish and the small dent outlining the edges of a heart-shaped locket. My mother’s locket. “Oh my God,” I breathe.

She looks up and I search her eyes - they're not my mother’s eyes. I know this much, even if I don’t remember all the details of her face. “What…” I stammer. Mrs. Shelley quickly tucks the locket back inside her shirt and shoots me a warning look. She’s heard Lambeth walking back in. “Later!” she whispers.

Emily jumps up from the sofa in the lounge when she sees me walk through later. I put her off, claiming a headache, and make my way to my room. I turn off the light and get in bed. But sleep doesn’t come.

What is going on? Why did she have my mother’s locket? Are my parents dead? Think...after all these years of blind compliance, think Anya. If they were dead, why wouldn’t I be told that like Emily had about her parents? Who benefits from the story and why?

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I see Mrs. Shelley in the hallway speaking to a man in a Council uniform. I search her face for some sign but she avoids my gaze. She hands him something as she furtively glances over at me. Emily starts to drag me out the door to school, but I can’t stop without telling her why.

After school, I rush down to Glen's office but he is already walking up the back stairs to the gardening shed and motions for me to follow him. I start to ask him about yesterday but he just puts a finger to his lips and starts digging in the compost until he can pull up a small metal box.

“They tried to save you. Now it’s time for you to continue the work. Trust no one. Your heart is the key.” He motions to the box before returning it to the dirt. “We’ll be waiting for you.”