I don’t.

I crash into the back of Looper, who feels more like a boulder’n a Youngling boy, my nose crunching off his iron-like elbow, which fires backwards, knocking me off my feet. I’m in a pile in the dust, covered in blaze and durt and a bit of warm blood that trickles from my nose and onto my lips and from the scrape that I feel on my knee.

“Stupid, Runt,” Hawk says, looming over me, his shadow providing a much needed reprieve from the relentless sun. “You two ain’t even worth the blaze you’ve been shoveling.” He kicks me once in the stomach and I groan, clutching my ribs, which feel like they’ve cracked in half.

With my cheek against the dust, I see Circ struggling against the boys, bucking and twisting, but they’re strong, too, and they have the advantage in numbers and energy. Hawk laughs and saunters back over to Circ. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your girlfriend anymore. She practically knocked herself out anyway.” Violence spreads across his face and he slams his fist into Circ’s stomach twice, and then, winding up, whips a wild haymaker that glances off Circ’s jaw with a vicious thud. Drag and Looper throw him to the ground, where he slumps, unmoving.

All I can think is:

My fault.

Chapter Three

Winter is approaching, and with it, the dust storms. Already I can feel a change in the wind, as if it’s grown arms and legs and a face with a mouth that howls and cries as it approaches. Every few seconds it reaches its boiling point and sweeps a cloud of dust into the air and into my face. I close my eyes, cover my face with my hands, wait for the tiny pricks of sand to cease. Then I soldier on toward the village watering hole.

It’s getting late, the sun having sunk deep on the horizon, where the thickest yellow clouds swirl like a toxic soup, turning the sky darker’n darker brown with each passing moment. Soon the sun goddess’s eye’ll wink shut completely as she passes into sleep.

I’m glad it’s getting late for two reasons: if I run into anyone, it’ll be harder for them to see my blaze-, durt-, and blood-covered skin; and it’s less likely anyone’ll still be at the watering hole. Circ went to his family tent to get cleaned up, but I’m too scared to face my father looking like this. I didn’t tell Circ I wasn’t going home right away, and he didn’t ask, which I’m glad about, ’cause he probably woulda wanted to come with me, which I really can’t handle right now.

I’m still muddling through everything that happened. Circ apologized about a thousand times on the way back toward the village, until I finally told him to “Shut it!” He has nothing to apologize about—it’s me who messed everything up.

When I reach the watering hole, no one’s there.

I sit on the edge and look at the murky brown face in the water. I’m just plain ol’ Scrawny again. I been called it a thousand times, probably more times’n Siena, so why shouldn’t it be my name? Add it to the number of times I been called Runt, Stickgirl, and Skeleton, and you’ll have a number greater’n the total people in the entire village.

Rippling Scrawny looks back at me, Real Scrawny. Her long, black hair is stringy with sweat and durt. Her thin face is dark brown from the sun but featureless, muddled, with chestnut eyes that almost disappear beside her skin. The dress she wears is frayed and torn, soiled from a day spent shoveling crap and scrabbling in the dust. Her bone-thin arms are like the weakest, topmost branches of the trees she’s seen sketched by village artists, good for nothing but swaying in the wind. And…

—she’s got legs that are wobblier than a newborn tug’s—

—and her chest is flatter than the Cotee Plains.

I close my eyes, hating Hawk’s words ’cause they’re true.

When my bleeding time first arrived I was scared, but also excited. Bleeding meant becoming a woman, finally finding my place in the world. But it never really materialized. I didn’t become a woman, just stayed a scrawny girl, the bumps on my chest no more’n mosquito bites, my hips remaining as flat and straight as a pointer shot from a Hunter’s bow. The only thing that identifies me as a girl is my long hair. My reflection shatters when the tears drip off my chin.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” a voice says from behind, startling me. I go to turn but then remember my tear-streaked face. Cupping a hand in the water, I splash a bit onto my cheeks and then turn around, rivulets of tear-hiding water streaming down my cheeks, neck, and beneath my dress.

Lara. With her scalp-short haircut, she looks more like a boy’n ever under the darkening evening sky. Even more like a boy’n me—but at least she looks like a strong boy, her arms tanned and toned, her jaw sticking out a little. Solid—that’s the word for her.

“Like what?” I say, remembering what she said.

“Crying because you don’t think you’re pretty, shoveling other people’s blaze, being forced to breed when you turn sixteen. The Call. All of it can be avoided.”

“I wasn’t crying,” I say. “And it’s not breeding.” She makes it sound like we’re animals, hunks of meat. Look at me—do I look like meat?

She offers a wry smile, her lips barely parted. “Mm-huh. They pick a guy, they pick a girl, stick you together, and nine full moons later out pops a kid. Sounds like breeding to me.”

When she says it that way, it almost does sound like breeding. My throat is dry. I haven’t had a drink in ages and I really don’t have time for no conversating. “Whatever, Lara. Look, thanks for coming by to try to…”—Cheer me up? Be my friend? Scare me?—“…do whatever it is you’re doing, but I really need to get cleaned up and get home.” I try to stand, but my legs really are as wobbly as a baby tug’s, and I put a hand down to steady myself, settling for a crouch.

Lara raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve said something unexpected. “Just let me know if you want to hear more,” she says, and then whirls around and stalks off toward the village.

I watch her go. Weird. I’m not sure what that was all about, but at least it stopped my steep dive into a pit filled with stuff far worse’n blaze. Self-pity.

When I turn back to the watering hole, its face is glassy again, and there I am.

I swipe a hand through the water so I don’t hafta look at myself.

~~~

My skin is clean again, free of blood and durt and worse things. The water even seemed to wash away the self-pity, at least temporarily. I almost feel refreshed.

My dress, however, is a different story. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get all the stains out, and now it looks even worse ’cause it’s sopping wet, dragging along below me like a wet blanket.

The moon goddess is out tonight, her eye bright orange in the dark, cloudless sky. Her godlings are scattered all around her, filling the firmament with twinkling red, orange, and yellow lights. I find myself wishing I were one of them.

The watering hole is a short walk to the village, but tonight I wish it was longer. I dread facing my father.

My father ain’t Head Greynote, but he’s searin’ close. At thirty two years old, he’s already beaten his average life expectancy, and if it wasn’t for Greynote Shiva, who’s thirty five, he’d be at the top. Most men die within a year of turning thirty. Shiva hasn’t come out of his tent in a few quarter full moons, and rumor has it he’s got a bad case of the Fire, and he’ll be dead within the full moon. My father’ll take his place.

I pass the first of the border tents, which are inhabited by the village watchmen and their families. The guard ignores me, continues to scan the area beyond the village, his bow tightly strung and in his hand. The attack from three full moons ago has left everyone tense.