Xvi by Julia Karr Page A

their way. The air fairly crackled with tension. Several people cast furtive glances over their shoulders, and no one made eye contact with anyone else—as if fearing their private thoughts would be discovered.
    “NonCons. Wow! And that was the Eliminator.” Admiration coated Derek’s words like chocolate. “I think—”
    “Derek��not now.” I gripped his arm, pointing upward. It was certain that the audio surveillance cops would be monitoring downtown following that broadcast. It was definitely not a good time for Derek to voice any pro-Resistance views, which I hadn’t been aware he’d had. We were lucky the Governing Council hadn’t perfected thought surveillance. Although there were rumors about B.O.S.S. testing prototypes in New York and Los Angeles.
    I’d heard about the Eliminator, but I never actually heard one of his broadcasts. I didn’t know much about him, just what I’d heard from Media reports. He was the main NonCon leader of the Resistance, and Ginnie’d thought of him as a hero, though she could never say as much out loud.
    “I wonder if Sal heard it?” Derek said.
    I thought of Sal’s sudden departure. Unbidden, my brain drew a line from the homeless guy sneaking down the alley after the vert interruption the day Ginnie’d been killed. I shook it off. It was coincidence, that was all.

    At TJ’s, I knew everyone’s mind was on the NonCon broadcast, but no one dared talk about it. We ordered food, and the guys chattered on about verts and trannies. I just ignored them.
    Supposedly there was so little to worry about in the world—at least according to the Governing Council. No hunger, no unemployment, a roof over everyone’s head ... at least for anyone who wanted one. So why was my whole life was lived on constant high-anxiety alert?
    For years, I’d tried to ignore the way Ginnie was abused, kept out of Ed’s way, and dreaded turning sixteen, and everything that entailed. I knew that I’d never get those images from Ed’s porn vids out of my head. Now I had to keep Dee safe, find my father ... and I had to do it all without my mom. It was almost too much.
    Maybe I was too sensitive to things. Most girls my age worried about unimportant stuff—what to wear, hanging out with the right tier, using the right slang, and guys. They didn’t think turning sixteen was something to worry about—not the way I did. Of course, everyone had their dread about the tattoos, although most girls I knew wouldn’t admit it. They said they were afraid of needles or that it would hurt. But they never said that they didn’t feel ready to have sex, or that it scared them to be so vulnerable to the advances from guys. Maybe they weren’t afraid, but it terrified me.
    Then there was the whole FeLS application and the Choosing. At least with Ginnie having bought out my contract, I could cross that off my worry list. Still, Sandy was stressing to the edge of the universe about getting chosen. Her best chance to get out of low tiers was FeLS. I had art and my Creatives, but Sandy wasn’t smart enough to get a scholarship and she certainly wasn’t interested in anything creative. There was the possibility that she’d meet some higher-tier guy, but every low-tier girl hoped for that. It didn’t mean it ever happened. Maybe I should be a better friend and call Ed—but how could I bring him into our lives when it was everything I could do to keep him away from Dee? Who knew what he’d want in return for a favor? I shuddered.
    I’d resigned myself to either staying a low-tier, or maybe getting a scholarship. My grades were good, and with the Creative designation, I’d have a chance to get into the Art Institute. Creatives who came from lower tiers were usually serious about their art, whether it was music, painting, acting, or writing, and the GC left them alone, unless their work crossed some aribitrary line and became über-political. Those Creatives just disappeared. No one ever talked about what