Page 68 of The Art of Exiley

“If the provincial world starts crumbling to the ground, you think your hidden communities will remain safe? If you ignore their problems, they’ll become your problems.”

“You think we don’t know that?” Michael responds, his voice rising. “You think more knowledgeable minds than yours haven’t been debating these very issues for decades? You think we haven’t tried sharing information about sustainability, medication, vaccinations? It doesn’t make anything better. Giving the provincial world quick fixes won’t change anything until they deal with inequality and corruption.”

“You have solutions for that, too!” I shout at him.

“Not ones they are willing to implement!” he shouts back.

Kaylie puts up her hands and tries to interject. “Why don’t we relax—” But we both ignore her. I’d practically forgotten she was here, my entire world shrinking down to just Michael and me, standing too close together. Yet there is a chasm between us that may be too wide to ever bridge.

Michael tries a little more calmly. “If you would let me explain—”

“There’s no explanation for selfishness.” I turn away from him. Before I had doubts that maybe the Makers didn’t actually know how bad it was. But they’ve known all along, and they’re still not willing to help.

Kaylie says to Michael, “Maybe she should meet Hilde.”

“I guess, maybe,” he says, exasperated.

She looks to me. “Hilde is a friend of ours who… feels similarly to you. She’s devoted her life to helping those suffering in the provincial world. Last I heard, she was at a refugee camp with an outbreak of—” She turns to Michael and asks, “Malaria?”

“Cholera, I think,” he says with a sigh.

“Why aren’t more Makers doing what she’s doing?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

“Well, her methods aren’t very practical—” Kaylie starts.

“She’s foolish and reckless,” Michael interjects.

“That’s not how I would put it,” Kaylie says.

“She was perfectly fine, then one day went completely out of tune.” He shakes his head. “But I do think it could be good for you to meet her, to help you understand.” He looks pained. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“I’ll gather some supplies to send with you,” Kaylie says, heading toward the door.

When the door closes behind her, Michael says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” When I say nothing, he steps closer. “Ada, I don’t want to fight with you.”

I don’t want to fight with him either, with this man who has always felt like an ally, who had faith in me even when I didn’t have faith in myself. But I’ve built him up in my head as something he’s not. He may be handsome and generous and kind, but he’s no paradigm of idealism. He’s just as hypocritical as everyone else here. And he’s definitely not on my side.

I meet his eyes. “This is not a fight, Michael. This is me getting a reality check. You’ve spent so much time trying to prove to me how special, how superior the Makers are for their dedication to making a difference. But that idealism is nothing if it ignores the majority of the world.”

“Ada, my entire job as liaison is to make inroads to eventual change in our relationship with the provincial world. I’m not ignoring anyone. Improving this situation is what I’ve dedicated my life to.”

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better,” I respond. Michael flinches. I shouldn’t let my true feelings show like this. I need him to trust me. But as usual, Michael draws the raw truth from me, even as I lie my ass off to everyone else. “You may have a little more respect formy peoplethan other Makers. You may be more willing to bring in strays to join you in keeping your secrets. But that’s not real change.”

“It’s not up to me, Ada.” He sounds tired, resigned. “I’m limited by the permission of the Council—”

“No. Don’t shift the blame. I don’t care about the Council. They’re just waiting for some prophesied baby to be born instead of making anything happen themselves.” I walk over to his shelf of provincial records and run my hands along the sleeves. Elvis, the Beatles, Nirvana. In Florence, Michael had confessed to being scared of letting people down by questioning what he’d been taught is right. The memory pricks at me now, surprisingly painful.

“You’re not like them,” I say. Unsure if it’s a statement or a plea. “Corrupted by Maker propaganda, fearing an overblown enemy. You know that most provincial people aren’t a threat.” He’s followed me, and when I turn, he’s so close that I have to look up to meet his gaze. “You say you’ve tried? What have you actually done?” His jaw is clenched, hands balled into fists by his sides. “Or do you just bite your nails and then keep playing the role of the headmaster’s perfect poster boy until the next time you’re inconveniently reminded that you should feel guilty?” He swallows, his eyes blazing.

Maybe it’s not fair of me to say these things to him. After all, I’m just as experienced at ignoring the pain of the world to assuage my own guilt. But I’m ready to wake up.

We stare at each other in silence. We’re standing too close. He parts his lips as if there’s something he wants to say. I feel the huff of his frustrated breath, but he swallows his words down. I watch his Adam’s apple travel the column of his throat, and even now a part of me wants to touch it. My eyes flick to his lips, and the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip makes me think he wants to touch me, too. But when I slip past him and stalk to the door, he doesn’t stop me.

I’ll meet this Hilde, but I don’t think she’ll change my mind. The Families had the right idea in sending me here, in wanting a share of the Makers’ knowledge. And I’m over my apprehension about deceiving them. They don’t deserve my guilt.

19

A couple of days later, I’m in the library car of the Atlas, exploring the stacks. Michael sits stiffly, his right knee bobbing up and down faster than a heartbeat.

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