The Chaperone

PART I

CHAPTER 1

I hear it while I’m in my room getting ready for Sunday Visitation.

A thump so loud it sounds like a piece of furniture falling to the floor. Did it come from the other side of my bedroom wall? Sister Helen’s room is on the other side of that wall.

In the annex.

But if the thump came from…that would mean…

I put my ear to the wall at the same time that my hand goes to the base of my neck. I’m still clutching my throat when a door slams so hard it shakes the windows.

I drop my hand and dart for the hallway.

CHAPTER 2

My mother comes out of her bedroom the same time I do. We meet on the landing above the marble staircase. I’m greeted by the smell of her vetiver perfume. She holds out her hands like she’s stopping traffic. I have no choice but to wait.

Everything about Mom is impeccable. Take away the fluffy white slippers, and she could be in an ad on the Freedom Channel. Her makeup is perfectly applied, highlighting her full lips and high cheekbones. And her golden-brown hair falls across her gray-blue eyes in the exact same way mine does when I follow her instructions. People always say we look like sisters, but I don’t see it.

Did you hear that? I ask Mom.

Stella, why aren’t you dressed? Levi will be here any minute. In Mom’s eyes, my V-neck and leggings seem messy. Unkempt. And you really should take off that necklace. It draws too much attention to your…

She doesn’t finish. But I know what she means.

Embrace purity.

Of course, Visitation is all Mom cares about. All she cares about are appearances.

Mom. I don’t hide the impatience in my voice. Did. You. Hear. It?

She nods an almost imperceptible nod at the same time Shea steps out her bedroom door, looking at us with fear in her eyes. Even at the age of seven, she’s thinking the same thing I am. Is someone in the house? Have they come for us? We live in a constant state of paranoia.

What was that? Shea says in her I’m-scared voice. I should be braver than Shea, but I’m scared too. I’m scared all the time, because every week another girl goes missing.

Go back in your room, Mom instructs Shea in a voice colder than necessary.

I put my hand on Shea’s shoulder, as tiny as a doll’s. It’ll be okay. The truth is, I’m not certain it will be.

Mom wags a finger at Shea. And lock the door.

Shea must be more frightened than normal because she doesn’t argue. She steps back and turns the lock when her door clicks shut.

Mom turns to me. Where’s your father?

In the garage?

That’s where Dad hides when he’s not at work. Mom shakes her head in frustration, a common response when Dad comes up.

We should see if—

Stella, I’m sure everything’s fine. Your father will check when he gets back.

Even though everything in me is telling me not to wait, she’s right. Dad is the only one with a gun. A Glock 9mm. It’s on his hip at all times. Women aren’t allowed to carry firearms. It’s the job of men to protect us.

Navigate the world with care.

I look her right in the eye. Mom, please.

That’s when we hear the scream.

It’s the kind of scream you hear in movies from Old America. The ones about a serial killer taking out teenagers. Before it’s all over, every single girl ends up dead.

And that scream definitely sounded female.

I start down the giant staircase, Mom right behind me. She must’ve kicked off her slippers.

Stella, wait! Mom whisper-yells as I reach the first floor, but I ignore her.

I’m at the other end of the house—through the sprawling dining room and the massive kitchen—in seconds. The first floor is dead quiet. Everything untouched. There’s no sign of anything out of place.

Mom catches me when I get to the threshold that crosses into the annex, throws an arm in front of me so I can’t start up the back stairs. She leaps past me and takes the steps two at a time. I’m right behind her, remembering what we heard.

The thump.

The door.

The scream.

Hello? Mom pushes open the half-closed door of Sister Helen’s room. That’s when I see her.

Sister Helen.

On the floor.

Clutching her neck like she’s choking.

CHAPTER 3

I rush past Mom into the room, dropping to Sister Helen’s side. Strands of white hair stick to her sweaty forehead.

Sister Helen, are you okay? Tears come to my eyes, but I fight them. She doesn’t look at me. Sister Helen, it’s me. It’s Stella.

It’s like she doesn’t even know I’m here.

I glance over my shoulder at Mom. Mom, do something!

Mom shakes her head, a hand over her mouth. I can’t, Stella.

Mom, please!

Your dad will be here soon.

I turn back to Sister Helen. "Will you look at me? Please?"

Sister Helen finally angles her head in my direction, her lavender scent washing over me. Only today it’s mixed with the unmistakable odor of urine. Has she wet her pants? In her green eyes, there’s a sadness I’ve never seen there before. Sadness and pain. For the first time I notice the many lines around her face, lines I’ve always missed because of her warm smile. But now they stand out, reminding me that, at sixty, she’s no longer young.

Sister Helen puts one hand on my face, cradling my cheek. Her other hand is balled into a fist. I choke off tears. I must stay strong. I must be brave. Sister Helen opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Sister Helen? What happened?

Her eyes stare into mine as she lifts her fist to my hand. When she finds my palm, she opens her fist and drops something inside. It’s the white quartz pendant she’s worn since the day I met her.

Why is she giving it to me?

I look to Sister Helen for an answer. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear anything. She wants to say something. She grips my arm, forcing me closer. I turn my ear to her mouth.

Ain. She croaks out one word at a time. Jell.

I glance at Mom, searching for the explanation she never has, before turning back to Sister Helen. What did you say?

She tries again. Almost no sound emerges. I read her lips. Ain. She mouths the words. Jell. She says it another time. This time faster. Ain. Jell.

Ain Jell? I ask her out loud. And then I understand. Ain Jell… Angel. Angel?

Her pupils go up and down.

I nod though I have no idea what she means.

Her eyes still, and something in them shifts. It isn’t sadness I see anymore. It’s terror.

Sister Helen, what’s happening?

Her gaze bores into mine. She’s trying to tell me something.

Sister Helen, don’t leave me!

I haven’t even gotten the words out when her eyes lose focus, moving from side to side like a metronome. A moment later, they stop and roll to the back of her head. A trickle of blood leaks out of the side of her mouth.

Now I’m the one who screams.

CHAPTER 4

Dad rushes into the room.

He doubles over, puts his hands on his knees. He’s breathing so hard his salt-and-pepper hair lifts with every breath. His shirt is soaked with sweat. I got here as soon as I could. I was all the way out in the— He pauses and looks around, as if seeing the space for the first time. The solitary wood dresser. The neat stack of books on the bedside table. The simple white quilt on the small twin bed. His gaze lands on me.

Stella, my God.

I flinch. He could get arrested for saying that word.

Are you okay?

Dad, you have to…just please…help her!

He takes in the scene. Me on the floor. Sister Helen in my arms. Blood all over her white caftan. Her head rolled back so far her body arches into a back bend. My God. What happened? He glances at Mom before moving to my side.

Mom shakes her head, completely mute.

Did she have a heart attack? Dad asks. A stroke?

I jerk my head up. What do you mean?

She was getting older, Stella.

She was in perfect health.

We don’t know that.

He’s right. Sister Helen seemed healthy—she did crow pose with me every afternoon at yoga, and we often hiked fifteen miles on weekends like it was nothing—but what if it wasn’t nothing? What if she was struggling, and I didn’t know it?

But, Dad, I plead, someone was here. A door slammed. We all heard it. I glance at Mom for support, but she doesn’t even return my gaze. Whoever it was got away.

Dad waves a hand at me. It was probably just the wind, Stella. Do you have any idea how strong the wind is today?

"I have no idea." I’m not allowed outside alone, but I don’t dare voice that frustration.

Stella, we need to get you out of here.

I’m supposed to obey him. That’s how a proper daughter acts, that’s how I act, but for some reason, I don’t move. I can’t leave her. I just can’t.

Give obedience.

Dad drops to one knee. I smell his strange mixture of aftershave and hospital. You have to leave, Stella. He puts two fingers on Sister Helen’s neck.

What is he doing?

I take a deep breath and try my best to hold in the tears. Dad, what’s happening?

I’m sorry, Stella.

This can’t happen. Sister Helen cannot be dead. Because there is no way I can live without her. My chest tightens so much I feel like I’m choking on my own lungs. I wipe tears away, but they keep coming.

I don’t even realize how hard I’m crying until Dad says, Please don’t cry, Stella. Dad lifts his hand to my back, his touch as shocking as a slap. What is he doing? He’s not supposed to touch me. Not ever. I can’t remember the last time we were this close. It’s been years.

Stella, he says, making me look into his gray eyes. You have to let her go. She’s in God’s hands now.

His voice is too calm. Doesn’t he understand what’s happening?

We have to call the constables. The police too.

The police?

Everyone knows the police don’t know what they’re doing. They haven’t solved a crime in months. The Minutemen are the ones with real power. Their party controls everything in New America. From the top branches of government liberty, purity, and security—all the way down to the military constables. Even the prime minister is a member of the Minuteman Party.

You can’t be here, he says.

I don’t care. I look directly at Dad. I’m not leaving her. I’ve never talked back to him before. Hearing my defiance out loud is terrifying.

Stella, honey. He pats my back the same way he did when I was little. I look into his face but see no sign of recognition. Does he realize what he’s doing? Ever since I became a woman, Dad hasn’t been allowed to touch me. It’s against the rules. "You feel that way now, but later…you’ll understand. You have to say goodbye."

Mom hovers in the doorway. Mouth flat, arms crossed. She doesn’t say a word. This is how it always is. Dad doing, Mom watching.

Go ahead, Stella, Dad says. Take your time. We’ll wait.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

Dad flips a crisp, white handkerchief out of his pocket. He passes it to me before returning his hand to my back.

The warmth of his touch is reassuring. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything from him besides judgment. Too long. It’s Sister Helen who holds me when I cry. Sister Helen who offers me encouragement when I need it. How can I say goodbye to the person who knows me better than anyone in the world? When we read Emily Dickinson together, Sister Helen made me memorize one line. That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet. She taught me not to fear death, but she never showed me how to let go of the dying. I got incredibly lucky when Sister Helen was assigned to me. She never wanted to control me the way some chaperones do. She wanted me to be my own person. But the truth is, I have no idea how to do that. I have no idea who I am without her by my side. How can I possibly go on alone?

That’s when it hits me.

I won’t be alone.

After Sister Helen is gone, after I sit through my Days of Grief, they’ll send another.

CHAPTER 5

Dad tells Mom to take me back to my room, and she does exactly what he says.

Shea peeks out when we pass her bedroom. Mommy?

Mom shushes her. I want to offer Shea a smile, but I can’t summon a brave face.

My room feels cavernous. Barren. Every corner reminds me of Sister Helen. Sister Helen sitting in the armchair next to my desk. Sister Helen selecting a book from the shelves on either side of my windows. Sister Helen perched on the bench at the end of my bed. She’s everywhere.

I watch for the constables out the windows.

Stella, don’t, Mom says.

I jump, forgetting she’s behind me.

Don’t what?

Don’t watch for them. She’s biting the edge of her thumb, something I haven’t seen her do in years. It will look suspicious.

What do you mean?

We don’t want them thinking…well, that we had anything to do with this.

Anything to do with what?

With Sister Helen.

They would never think that, I insist, but when I see the fear in her eyes, I understand she doesn’t believe it. Right, Mom?

She doesn’t respond, instead turning away just as Shea sneaks in the door. Mom scoops her up like a kitten. Shea has tiny tears in her eyes, and Mom pushes her head down on her shoulder. Shhh, don’t cry. My throat clenches. I’m the one who needs comfort.

Stella, Mom says, why you don’t lie down? I’ll check on you in a little bit.

She’s out the door before I can protest.

I grab the white scarf Sister Helen knitted for me last winter and climb into bed. Cold air blasts out the vents, a losing battle against the oppressive heat of August. I wrap the scarf around me, pull the quilt up to my face. I close my eyes, trying to forget. But the image of Sister Helen on the floor plays over and over inside my head. A horror movie on repeat.

I was only eleven when Sister Helen came to us. It was almost six years ago. A few months before my twelfth birthday.

Mom submitted the report to the constables when I got my first period. Adolescent girls are required to have a government-assigned chaperone. Some families can’t afford a private one. Those girls are sent to the government school, but I never worried about that. Dad is president of the largest auto manufacturer in New America. I always knew I’d get my own chaperone. I hadn’t even stopped bleeding when Sister Helen arrived on our doorstep.

Dad requested certain things. He wanted her to be educated and physically active. He wanted her to be older than thirty and a nonsmoker. But ultimately it’s the constables who decide which chaperone is right for each of us. The prime minister has bestowed that power upon them.

My first thought was that Sister Helen was beautiful. Yes, she was older than most chaperones, but the white hair that fell to her shoulders in silky wisps made her seem timeless. And her jade-colored eyes were the brightest I’d ever seen. They were alive with intelligence. She wore the white caftan required of all chaperones, but she paired it with gold drop earrings, gold and white bracelets, and the white pendant she had pressed into my hand just minutes ago.

My life was never the same. Chaperones have freedom and respect other women don’t, but they also give up their own lives to follow a higher calling. Teaching girls like me how to be respectable women is their sole purpose. I was Sister Helen’s top priority, and we bonded immediately.

The night she arrived, she told me about the day she became a woman. Back when Old America was just America, and everything was different. She started her period while her family was on vacation in Florida. Her dad made her go to the beach even though she wanted to stay in the hotel room and cry. It sounded exactly like the kind of thing my father would do. Not long after she moved in, I shared every thought with her. I’m closer to her than I am to my own mother.

Was closer. I was closer.

That’s what they want. For us to become so close to our chaperones that we trust them over everyone else, even our own family. People talk about mothers who try to drive a wedge between their daughters and their chaperones, even mothers who try to get their daughters out of the country, but those stories always end in tragedy. The family gets fined or—worse yet—shunned.

Once you’re shunned, your whole life is ruined. You can’t go to college. No boy will come to Visitation, much less marry you. If you do marry, you won’t be able to attend social events or keep your friends. Mom knew a woman who was shunned after trying to get her daughter out of a marriage arranged by the constables. She was never allowed to see Mom again, and her daughter never did marry, instead becoming a chaperone, which some people say is a way for girls of a certain class to become respectable.

I never had to worry about Mom interfering. She claimed the chaperone program was a godsend because it saved her from being responsible for my education. Like all mothers her age, Mom was raised in Old America, and that makes her nervous about following the rules here. She never talks about it, but I learned in New American History class that life was really different in Old America. People had strange ideas about freedom. They wanted everyone to be able to do whatever they wanted. But it didn’t work. People would fight about it, even getting violent.

That’s why women in Old America could do things women can’t do here—choose their husbands, have careers, drive cars, own guns, play sports, open bank accounts, even dress however they wanted. But some women didn’t want to give those things up, so they left when New America was founded. I was just three years old then, so I don’t really remember, but I guess a lot of younger women left. That’s why they want us to have babies right away.

Honestly it’s kind of confusing.

I want to have choices, but at the same time I know they can be dangerous. That’s why we were all glad when Sister Helen arrived. She learned all about how to stay safe at the conservatory.

But what about the person they send next? What if she doesn’t know how to take care of me? What if she doesn’t fit?

CHAPTER 6

I wake to the sound of sirens.

I jump out of bed, dashing to the windows at the end of my room. Two squad cars and three red SUVs sit in the circular drive, their flashing red-and-blue lights bouncing off the twelve-foot brick wall surrounding our property. One SUV is much longer than the others.

That’s where they’ll put her.

When the door of the first SUV opens, I step behind the curtain. Mom is right. Who knows what they’ll think if they see me? Constables blame girls for all kinds of things. I peek from behind the curtain, but it isn’t a constable I see. It’s Levi Edwards walking around the SUVs on his way to the front door. Levi Edwards is in my Family Development class at Bull Run Prep. He’s wearing a navy bow tie and carrying a small bunch of pink zinnias in his right hand.

Dad forgot to cancel Visitation.

This is the third time the constables have granted Levi a Sunday visit. He’s nice enough, but he tends to say the same thing. You look so pretty, Stella. You’re so nice, Stella. You’re sweet, Stella. Talking to Levi is like talking to a toddler. I like boys who surprise me. There’s one in my Musical Expression class who says the craziest things.

Mateo de Velasco.

Even his name makes me catch my breath. It’s like a poem.

But Mateo’s never been to Visitation. And I’m afraid if Levi keeps coming to visit, he’ll be expected to bring up the subject of marriage. I don’t want to get married. Not yet. I want to go to college. At least a few years. Then I’ll be ready to marry, have kids. All that. But it doesn’t matter what I want. Visitation is mandatory for girls my age.

The whole thing is totally artificial. Sitting with some boy I barely know. Making small talk. Acting like we don’t know why we’re there. I do it because I have no choice. Sister Helen says I have to choose my battles, and Visitation is not something worth fighting.

The doorbell rings, and I sneak to the top of the stairs. But I’m too far away to make out what they’re saying. As soon as the front door closes, I dart back to my room. I get to the window just in time to see Levi throw the flowers in the bushes and skulk away. A few stray petals color the pavement pink. Levi stops when he gets to the gate and turns back, studying the full driveway, his face filled with longing. His gaze floats up to me, and our eyes meet. He puts his hand to his mouth and blows me a kiss. I don’t acknowledge him in any way.

Deflect attention.

People gawk on the sidewalk out front, but the brick wall is too high to see over. Two constables emerge from the front door rolling a stretcher between them. A long black bag rests on top.

It’s her. It’s Sister Helen.

When I pull my eyes from her body, I see a constable staring up at me. He has pale splotchy skin and hair so blond it’s almost colorless. He doesn’t look old enough to be a constable, but he wears their uniform—gray pants, gray button-down shirt, gray tie, red armband, and an automatic rifle slung across his back the same way I carry my yoga mat. I throw the curtain across the windows and step back. But it’s too late.

He’s seen me.

CHAPTER 7

It’s the morning of my first Day of Grief.

Girls who lose a chaperone are required to spend five days mourning before returning to the real world.

When Mom knocks on the door a half hour after I wake, I know it’s her because Shea never bothers to knock. Stella? Are you going to get out of bed?

Why? I say through the closed door.

Mom pushes the door open just enough to see me. Don’t you want breakfast? You need to come to the table.

I have no desire to eat, but I do as she says. When I pull my shirt over my head, goose bumps alight on both of my arms. Something isn’t right. I go to the windows and throw open the curtains.

A red SUV is parked in the driveway.

Again.

Shea sits at the giant kitchen island, a stack of fluffy pancakes in front of her. The smell of frying oil is nauseating. Mom hovers over the stove with a spatula in her hand. It’s only seven o’clock in the morning, but she’s already camera-ready. Tiffany, our housekeeper, stands behind her at the sink, washing last night’s dishes.

Pancakes? Mom’s voice is annoyingly cheerful.

I’m not hungry. I pull my scarf around me. Even though it will be nearly 100 degrees outside today, the kitchen is freezing.

Tiffany turns off the faucet and looks over her shoulder at me. I’m so sorry, Stella. I know you meant the world to Sister Helen.

A wave of emotion rushes through me, but I hold it in. Thank you.

Tiffany stares at me like she wants to say more.

What is it?

It’s just…well…maybe she spent time with the wrong people.

What do you mean?

Mom wheels on Tiffany, her spatula a weapon. Tiffany!

I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham, but—

Get back to work.

Tiffany’s eyes meet mine for only a second before she returns to the dishes. Maybe she spent time with the wrong people. What does that mean?

I study Mom while she flips pancakes. Is that why they’re here?

What are you talking about, Stella?

The constables? Are they here because Sister Helen knew people she shouldn’t?

Mom lets out a long sigh before scowling at Tiffany over her shoulder. I have no idea what Sister Helen did in her free time, Stella. She certainly never confided in me. As for the constables, they’re here to make sure we’re safe.

Safe? I ask as Shea lifts her head from her pancakes.

Mom shakes her head. I don’t mean it like that, Stella. I just mean…well, you know.

I know exactly what she’s trying to say. What I’ve known since I was young enough to read. Girls get attacked and kidnapped every day, and if we aren’t vigilant—about how we act, how we dress, where we go, who we’re with—we put ourselves in danger.

I walk toward the annex. Dad’s office is on the first floor, under Sister Helen’s room.

Stella Ann. Mom uses her most serious tone. Don’t even think about going back there.

I know, Mom.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the door of Dad’s office creaks open. I back away.

Dad appears in the kitchen minutes later. Sister Helen is dead, but for some reason he’s whistling. And dressed as if he’s going to work. Dark gray suit, striped shirt, matching tie, onyx cufflinks. Even the silver streaks in his chestnut hair are combed perfectly in place. His eyes go to Mom, staring at her from across the room as if she’s as bright as the moon. He takes off his jacket, revealing the pistol on his hip. The sight of it makes my chest hurt.

Mom slides a plate of pancakes across the island, and Dad takes the stool next to Shea.

Are you going to join us, Stella? Dad asks over his shoulder as he lops a giant pat of butter on his pancakes.

I can’t remember the last time I had butter or syrup. Pancakes, Mom insists, are a treat all by themselves.

Mom isn’t eating either. She’s still at the stove, pouring batter onto the griddle. It’s not unusual for her to cook while the rest of us eat.

No, thank you. My stomach tumbles as he swirls syrup