Page 130 of Because I Killed Him
At first, I thought I liked the class because it made me feel close to Dad, but now there’s more to it. When I listen to the lectures, I find myself wanting more context about the hidden gears of our world. I imagine the negotiations and the impossible choices politicians like Dad often face. For the first time, I see past the abstract and picture him in motion: stepping off roaring jets, shaking hands with shot-callers whose names I’ll never know, calming an entire system with words and wit. Unlike the high-citizens, Dad doesn’t hold the world together with violence and fear; he does it through structure and diplomacy, with sheer will. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I start to wonder what that life might be like, even if the thought remains casual. I play with it like a marble I keep in my pocket, rolling it between my fingers when no one’s looking.
The idea lingers through afternoons spent studying under budding trees, through practice sessions with my fencing stick in my room, and through mornings when the wind carries the scent of wet stone and new grass ratherthan blood. The campus begins to breathe again. With it, couples dally longer in doorways, shoulders flushed pink as they steal kisses like secrets. Music drifts from open dormitory windows, and laughter spills down stairwells, mingling with the drone of security drones streaking overhead.
My life right now is an illusion. I know that. I haven’t forgotten what our world truly is. But illusions like this one don’t demand belief; they only ask permission, slipping over your shoulders like a borrowed coat that fits perfectly to the stitch. So I wear the coat. I allow myself to pretend, if only to take advantage of the temporary peace. Irene is still under house arrest, waiting for her trial, and Rosamund hasn’t shown her face in weeks. Charlotte says Rosamund is taking a break from torturing us to lick her wounds because Edmund tore into her for stealing their grandfather’s Vanguard badge and trying to pass it off as her own.
So I make the most of the time I have without them. Because at the moment, life feels close to perfect with Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie.
And with Edmund, it’s better still.
There’s no edge to the way he looks at me now, especially when it’s the five of us, tucked into the corners of velvet-rope clubs or exploring off-the-record arcades hidden from weekend crowds. In those low-lit spaces, where the hours feel borrowed and the lines between us blur, he’s not the same Blue I met on the Regal Express. This Blue—real or not—watches me with a gentle openness, like a hand offered palm-up.
One Sunday afternoon, Edmund, Dickie, and I take one of the outlier routes up the ridgeline near the northwest side of campus, a steep ascent toward one of the smaller peaks. Edmund climbs beside me, pushing through the thick undergrowth until his sports jacket is covered in leaves and dirt. I try to keep my breathing steady, not letting myself get distracted by how easily he locks into a foothold or by how his shoulders flex each time he pulls off a crimp or edges up the rock face.
A bead of sweat slides past the rim of his mountaineering sunglasses, tracing a bright line down his temple and onto his throat. The sight hits me deep in my chest. As I reach for a higher handhold, Edmund leans down toward me, his voice rising above the wind.
“You’ve been feeling generous lately.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, shifting my weight to a steadier foothold.
“Giving away civil credits.”
I squint into the sunlight reflecting off his sunglasses, doing my best to hide my surprise. Civil credit transfers are public, sure, but I never thought Edmund would track mine closely enough to notice. Yesterday’s transfer was small—a Purple from my Cloning Theory class needed the civil credits more than I did—but a part of me knew Edmund would see it. And another part knew he wouldn’t like it, because the civil credits come from him. Still, once he sends them to me, they’re mine to use as I choose.
“It was only twenty,” I say. “And I was going to lose the civil credits anyway. I break the law with you three or four times a week. I figured losing them this way might matter more than the usual method.”
Edmund hooks two fingers into a tiny divot in the rock, barely a crimp, and commits his weight to it with ridiculous confidence. “If you got arrested tomorrow,” he says, “none of your classmates would glance twice at your empty locker. And that guy you helped yesterday? He’d watch the Coppers zip you up, then go grab lunch.”
I follow Edmund higher, trying to mimic the same move, my fingers searching for the small, precarious hold his hand just left warm. “I didn’t give those civil credits away because I thought anyone would return the favor. But if none of us ever help anyone—if we all stand by and watch each other get marched off to the guillotine—then what are we? I want to treat people the way I hope they’ll treat me, even if they won’t.”
Farther up the route, Dickie has abandoned the rock face entirely and is sitting on a boulder, hunched over and panting as he orders his Pinkie to bring him his canteen.
“Need a ride on my back?” Edmund calls to him.
“The devil I do.” Dickie takes a long drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re the one slow-rolling it. If you had any more of my dust on you, you’d be part of the mountain.”
Edmund lets out a loud laugh as he pulls himself higher, then glances back at me. “The system doesn’t reward people who do what you’re doing. Keep giving away civil credits like that, and you’re not going to get anything out of it, except maybe your name on the expulsion list. Or worse.”
I squint up at him, still half-blinded by the sunlight. He’s crouched ona narrow ledge above me, one hand palming the wall for balance, the other ready to catch me if I slip. I choose not to rely on the tiny pocket he trusted with his weight. Instead, I reach sideways for a sloping jug that seems safer yet feels less stable under my fingers.
“Do you think your grandfather would agree with you?” I ask.
Edmund’s expression hardens, and a small frown forms behind his sunglasses. There’s a flash of hurt, quick and unguarded, then something darker settles over him, like a shadow passing through sunlight, vanishing as fast as it came.
“Watch that pocket, Miss Waldsten,” he says as my knuckles scrape the gritty inside of the hold. “There’s nothing to bite on.”
Then he pulls off his sunglasses and slides them over my stinging eyes, his fingers brushing my cheek, and continues upward. Regret floods in as I watch him through the dark lenses. Why the hell did I have to open my mouth so wide?
Edmund doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the climb. Instead, he banters with Dickie as he moves, always a little ahead of me, always within reach if I fall. For the rest of the route, I’m convinced he’s angry. But the next day, he shows up to drive me to the first-year Lecture Hall and opens the hovercar door for me with a smile, as if the conversation on the slope never happened.
That night, shortly past midnight, Edmund invites Charlotte and me to join him, Jack, and Dickie for surfing. It’s outside our scheduled time, but Charlotte agrees because the Jolt & Jive is overbooked. I say yes, too, even though my surfing skills aren’t anything to brag about. Mostly, I’m relieved that Edmund isn’t angry and that I get to spend time with him outside of class.
The moon hangs like a silver blade over the beach, its light smudged by wind-driven clouds. The tide looks deceptively calm as we arrive, but Edmund says the break will get heavier by one.
Jack heads straight into the water while Edmund grabs a wetsuit from his hovercar and pulls it over his swim trunks. As he turns, I catch a glimpse of his bare back. From his shoulder blades to his ribs, his skin is scored with jagged blue scratches, as if torn by fingernails.
The sight affects me differently than before. Edmund spends nearlyevery waking hour with Jack and Dickie, leaving so little time for any mistresses that the only way meetups would be possible is if he treated the women like a drive-through. So, who’s leaving those marks? I can’t imagine the answer; I only know the injuries disturb me in a way they never did before.
Edmund, meanwhile, seems to have forgotten the scratches are there. He grabs two surfboards from the sand and presses one into my arms, his eyes already lit as if he’s somewhere beyond the breakers.
