And to make it worse, at each meal he is faced by that portrait. The Lev they believe he is. He can fill that role for sure, but the eyes of that portrait, which follow him through the room, carry an accusation. You are not me, those eyes say. You never were, you never will be. But still flowers and notes and tributes appear on the mantel beneath the painting, and Lev comes to realize that it isn’t just a portrait . . . it’s an altar.
• • •
During his second week, he’s called in to greet new arrivals—the first since his own arrival. They’re fresh off the hijacked van, and all they know is that they’ve been kidnapped and tranq’d. They do not yet know by whom.
“It would be our wish,” Cavenaugh tells him, “that you be the first thing they see upon their unveiling.”
“Why? So they can imprint on me like ducklings?”
Cavenaugh exhales in mild exasperation. “Hardly. To the best of their knowledge, you are the only one who escaped being tithed. You don’t realize the visceral effect your presence has on another child slated for that same fate.”
Lev is directed to the ballroom, which remains in a sorry state and is probably beyond salvation. He is sure there is some researched psychological reason for greeting the kids here, but he doesn’t really want to ask.
When he gets there, the two new arrivals are already there. A boy and a girl. They’ve been tied to chairs and blindfolded, making it clear what Cavenaugh means by “unveiling.” The man is way too theatrical.
The boy sobs, and the girl tries to calm him. “It’s all right, Timothy,” she says. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to be okay.”
Lev sits across from them, feeling awkward and frightened by their fear. He knows he needs to put forth confidence and comfort, but facing a pair of terrified kidnap victims is different from facing adoring ex-tithes.
Cavenaugh is not present, but two adults in his employ stand at the ready. Lev swallows and tries to keep his hands from shaking by gripping the arms of his chair. “Okay, you can take off their blindfolds.”
The boy’s eyes are red from crying. The girl is already looking around, surveying the situation.
“I’m really sorry we had to do it this way,” Lev says. “We couldn’t risk you getting hurt, or figuring out where you were being taken. It was the only way to safely rescue you.”
“Rescue us?” says the girl. “Is that what you call this?”
Lev tries to deflect the accusation in her voice, but can’t. He forces himself to hold eye contact the way Cavenaugh does, hoping he can sell it as confidence.
“Well, it might not feel that way at the moment, but yeah, that’s exactly what we’ve done.”
The girl scowls in absolute defiance, but the boy gasps, and his wet eyes go wide.
“You’re him! You’re that tithe who became a clapper! You’re Levi Calder!”
Lev offers a slim, apologetic smile, not even bothering to correct the last name. “Yes, but my friends call me Lev.”
“I’m Timothy!” the boy volunteers. “Timothy Taylor Vance! Her name is Muh—Muh—I can’t quite remember, but it starts with an M, right?”
“My name is my business and will stay my business,” she says.
Lev looks at the little cheat sheet he’d been given. “Your name is Miracolina Roselli. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miracolina. Do you go by Mira?”
Her continuing glare makes it clear that she doesn’t. “All right, Miracolina then.”
“What gives you the right?” she says. It’s almost a growl.
Lev forces eye contact again. She knows who he is, but she hates him. Despises him even. He’s seen that look before, but it surprises him to see it here.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Lev says, getting a little bit angry. “We just saved you.”
“By whose definition of ‘save’?”
And for an instant, just an instant, he sees himself through this girl’s eyes, and he doesn’t like what he sees.
“I’m glad you’re both here,” he says, trying to hide the quaver in his voice. “We’ll talk again.” Then he signals for the adults to take the kids away.
Lev sits there in the ballroom alone for a good ten minutes. There is something about Miracolina’s behavior that feels disturbingly familiar. He tries to think back to when Connor pulled him from his limo on his own tithing day. Was he that belligerent? That uncooperative? There is so much from that day that he’s blocked out. At what point did he begin to realize that Connor wasn’t the enemy?
He will win her over. He has to. All the ex-tithes have been turned eventually. Un-brainwashed. Deprogrammed.
But what if this girl is the exception? What then? Suddenly this whole rescue operation, which had felt like a grand and glorious idea, feels very small. And very personal.
24 • Miracolina
Born to save her brother’s life and to be gifted back to God, Miracolina will not stand for this violation—the corruption of her sacred destiny into the profane life of a fugitive. Even her own parents became weak at the end, willing to break their pact with God and save her from her tithing. Would this please them, she wonders, for her to be captured and forced to live whole? Denied the holy mystery of the divided state?
Not only must she suffer this indignation, but she must suffer it at the hands of the boy she practically considers to be Satan incarnate. Miracolina is not a girl given to hatred and unfair judgment—but to be faced with this boy proves she is not nearly as tolerant as she had thought.
Perhaps that’s why I have been put on this path, she thinks, to humble me and make me realize that I can be a hater, just like anyone else.
On that first day, they try to trick her by putting her in a comfortable bedroom in much better condition than most of the mansion. “You can rest here until the last effects of the tranqs wear off,” says a plump, kindly woman, who also brings her a meal of corned beef and cabbage, with a tall, heady glass of root beer.
“Saint Patrick’s Day, don’tcha know,” she says. “Eat up, dearie. There’s more if you want seconds.” It’s a blatant attempt to win her over. She eats, but refuses to enjoy it.
There are videos and books in her room to entertain her, but Miracolina has to laugh, because just as the harvest camp van had only happy, family-friendly movies, the titles she has to choose from here have a clear agenda as well. They’re all about kids being mistreated, but rising above it, or kids empowering themselves in a world that doesn’t understand them. Everything from Dickens to Salinger—as if Miracolina Roselli could possibly have anything in common with Holden Caulfield.
There are also drawers filled with clothes in bright colors—all her size, and she shudders to think that they took her measurements and prepared a wardrobe while she was unconscious. Her tithing whites have become dirty, but she won’t give them the satisfaction of changing out of them.
Finally a bald middle-aged man comes in with a clipboard and a name tag that just says BOB.
“I used to be a respected psychiatrist until I spoke out against unwinding,” Bob tells her after the obligatory introductions. “Being ostracized was a blessing in disguise, though, because it allowed me to come here, where I’m truly needed.”
Miracolina keeps her arms folded, giving him nothing. She knows what this is all about. They call it “deprogramming,” which is a polite term for undoing brainwashing with more brainwashing.
“You used to be respected, which means you’re not anymore,” she tells him, “and I don’t have respect for you either.”
After a brief psych evaluation, which she refuses to take seriously, Bob sighs and clicks his pen closed. “I think you’ll find,” he says, “that our concern for you is genuine, and we want you to truly blossom.”