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evidence of
their generosity of spirit, but that’s pure bull. Everyone knows it’s only
because they need to cultivate a new generation within the lower classes to
ensure they have a steady stream of future workers. While it’s totally
deplorable, and goes against everything I believe to be ethical and fair, it’s
my back-up plan if impressing the powers-that-be backfires during the next six
months.
    If that doesn’t work out, and I end up
back at home, caged within the reality of my so-called life, then all I’m
permitted are casual hook-ups. While we are allowed to date, we can’t date the
same boy for more than three months, in case we form any serious attachment. My
brother, Daveed, says the only reason we’re permitted to date at all is because
sexual frustration doesn’t engender happy, productive workers.
    So, casual sex with numerous rotating
boyfriends is totally acceptable, but a loving, stable relationship with the
same partner for life is forbidden. As if we need any further proof of how
fucked up our society is.
    Of course, bullions and coins don’t have
to succumb to anything so demeaning. Coins, the middle classes—those who live
in the Midi Circle Sectors—are allowed to marry the partner of their choosing
and start a family, provided they don’t produce more than three children. The
upper class, or bullions as we call them, reside in Sectors one through
four—otherwise known as the Core Circle—are not restricted in any way. They can
choose to live their life exactly as they please.
    We’re the only ones who are treated as
subhuman. Nonetheless, we’re supposed to be grateful for all the government is
doing for us. What a joke. I’m seething inside. Someday, all this pent-up rage
is going to explode with disastrous consequence.
    “Ready?” Jenna asks, pushing her plate
away.
    “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.” I purposely
avert my gaze as we walk the length of the cafeteria. While one part of me
desperately wants to steal another peek at the hottie, another part of me begs
to run and hide. Forever. I know I’ll be totally embarrassed if I bump into him
again.
    I think my chances of keeping a safe
distance are decent if the throngs of people swarming the cafeteria are any
indication. The government never announced how many volunteers they were
seeking, but there are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of people here.
    It shouldn’t be too difficult for one
small, inconsequential girl to hide in the crowd.
    “So, come on,” Jenna says, once we’re back
in our dorm, sitting side by side on my bunk, “What’s the dealio with you and
boys?”
    “I told you, I’ve been with guys. Well,
one guy,” I begrudgingly admit.
    I’m not much of a liar. A hoarder, a
hider: most definitely, yes, and sometimes I’m dishonest by default because I
find it difficult to share that innermost part of myself with others. But never
a conscious liar. I don’t think I have it within me to deliberately mislead
anyone.
    “Ah.” Her tone and look soften. I wish she
wouldn’t look at me like that, as if I’m something to be pitied.
    I want no one’s pity.
    “And this guy … did you, you know, have
sex?” She shoots a lopsided grin at me as her question hangs in the air.
    God, she’s forward. I’m a total novice at
this stuff, and I’m not sure I want to share my minimal experience with someone
who is basically a virtual stranger. I’m getting ready to deflect her when I
stop myself.
    I’m not doing that here. I’m committed to
opening up more.
    “No,” I admit. “It was more of a grope and
run type of thing.”
    “So, you’re still rocking the V-card?” She
says it like it’s a terminal illness and then looks at me in the same pitying
way.
    I flinch. “Don’t do that.”
    She looks at me questioningly.
    “Stop looking at me like I’m to be pitied.
It’s by choice, okay? I resent that I’m not allowed to form a lasting
relationship, so I’d rather not put myself through that in