Before the Devil Breaks You by Libba Bray
It wasn’t Sam at the door but a kid. His fingernails and shirt were stained with shoe polish. “Miss O’Neill?”
The boy looked scared, Evie noticed. “Yes. That’s me.”
“Lefty Cunningham. I come about a friend of yours, Sam Lloyd.” The boy reached behind him and brought out Sam’s hat. “He’s in some trouble, Miss. Bad trouble.”
Lefty told Evie about the men who’d come and taken Sam away in the brown sedan. By the time he’d finished, Evie was more frightened than ever. She gave Lefty a dollar and asked him to keep what he knew quiet for his own protection.
Sam’s hat sat in her hands. She could feel it wanting to whisper its messages to her.
“Show me where you are, Sam,” she said, and pressed into its secrets for all she was worth.
Mabel examined Anna Provenza’s drawings. What was it Maria had said? That Mabel would help people. Not guns. Not violence. Her stomach hurt. What would her parents say when they found out? All her life, her parents had advocated for change without violence. I trust you to make the right choices, shayna.
She sank to the floor and pressed her palms against the sides of her head.
Arthur and the Six were going to kill Jake Marlowe. And if she knew about it and did nothing, she had blood on her hands. Jake Marlowe was the emblem of everything Mabel and her parents fought against. He was an arrogant genius whose wealth had protected him from life’s pain and unfairness, a man whose ignorance made him careless with other people. He was ruthless and self-centered and callous. He still didn’t deserve to die.
Mabel had always trusted she would do the right thing. It was her greatest vanity, her belief in her own goodness. She was as blindly arrogant as Marlowe.
“What have I become?”
There was still time to fix it. Mabel grabbed her coat and raced toward the door.
“Mabel! Where are you going?” her father called.
“To fix something, Papa,” Mabel said. “I love you.”
She kissed him quickly on the cheek and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
She just hoped she wasn’t too late.
By noon, thousands waited outside the gates, and more streamed across the flat land. Cars were parked wherever they could find a spot. As they waited, the people were full of good cheer. They basked in the day’s warmth and stunning beauty—“Have there ever been such blue skies? Why, that Marlowe can even arrange fine weather!” At last, the gates were opened and the people poured in, pushing toward the many wonders wrought by Jake Marlowe. The fairgrounds were awash in music. On a bandstand to the left, a sign proclaimed, THE DONNER FAMILY—a mother and father and their three daughters, singing old-fashioned, gospel-tinged American folk songs. A little farther on, the Goodrich Zippers, a banjo ensemble, performed an athletic jazz tune: “Everything’s JAKE—now-a-daaaays!” Children ate popcorn from red-striped paper cones or chased after adventurous balloons they’d accidentally let slip. Isaiah gawped, wide-eyed, at everything. His smile was so big Memphis and Theta couldn’t help smiling, too.
“Memphis! Can we have popcorn?” Isaiah asked.
“’Course we can,” Memphis answered.
“You want popcorn, Theta?” Isaiah asked.
“I never say no to popcorn.”
“Looks like quite a line. Go on with Theta. I’ll find you,” Memphis said, peeling off.
“Where should we go first?” Isaiah asked.
They were passing by a Fitter Families for Future Firesides tent. A nurse with a clipboard called to passersby, “Do you have a goodly heritage? Come and find out! You there! Wouldn’t you like a shiny medal, hmmm?”
Isaiah’s eyes lit up. “I surely would!”
The nurse’s smile wavered. She’d clearly been angling to get a young, fair-haired couple inside, not Isaiah.
Theta glared at the nurse. “C’mon, Isaiah. Looks dull in there.”
“But I want a medal,” Isaiah said.
“He wants a medal,” Theta said to the nurse. She put a hand on her hip and stared the woman down.
The nurse nodded tightly, resigned. “Very well, then.”
It was warm inside. Several desks lined each side of the tent. White-capped nurses bustled about with medical forms while a doctor peeked his head out of a curtained area in the back that had clearly been set up for physical examinations.
“Wait here. We’ll be right with you,” the nurse said.
Theta took a seat beside a family of four. The mother bounced a baby gently on her knee.
“Can I look around, Theta?” Isaiah asked.
“Sure. Just be careful.”
A moment later, a nurse handed Theta a form.
“Oh, it’s not for me,” Theta said.
“It won’t take a minute. What is your name?”
“Theta. Theta Knight.”
The nurse’s head shot up. “Say, aren’t you with the Follies?
“Was,” Theta said sadly.
“Why, I remember now—you’re friends with Evie O’Neill and those Diviners. Oh, I’m sure Dr. Simpson would like to talk to you personally. He’s in the back. Now, you wait right here. I won’t be a moment.”
The nurse walked briskly toward the curtained-off area. At the desk next to her, Theta overheard a nurse interviewing a girl about Theta’s age. “And have you ever experienced any unusual gifts, like premonitions or feeling awake inside a dream?”
“Gee, sometimes I know when the telephone’s about to ring.”
The nurse smiled. “And have you ever seen in your mind or dreams a vision of a man in a tall hat?”
The question made Theta’s stomach tighten. At the back of the tent, the nurse was speaking with a bespectacled doctor and nodding toward Theta. Theta’s fingers began to tingle, a warning. They needed to leave. Now.
But where was Isaiah?
In the middle of the long tent was a roped-off area with a big sign with a picture of Uncle Sam. The sign read, AMERICAN EUGENICS SOCIETY: THE SCIENCE OF HUMAN BETTERMENT. Underneath, there were all sorts of exhibits. One drew Isaiah’s attention. It was a board called INHERITANCE OF COLOR, and it had a bunch of dead mice pinned to it by their tails. There were formulas, like in math: PURE WHITE + PURE WHITE = PURE WHITE. Apparently, the worst thing was mixing white and black or normal with abnormal. Then you got what the board called “tainted.” It said that tainted was very bad. Tainted and abnormal were what the eugenics people wanted to breed out. People who were feebleminded or prom-i-scuous, whatever that meant, or who were like Conor Flynn. People who had fits, like Isaiah had.
Isaiah began to sweat.
That was why they were passing laws to keep white and black from mixing, the board explained, why they wanted to ster-i-lize “tainted” people. Isaiah didn’t know what sterilize meant, but it didn’t sound good.
The exhibits said America needed to fix this problem. They called fixing it “selection.” “Selected” and “pure” people were the goal of eugenics. “Selected” people made civilization. “Tainted” people ruined it. The board said that if people were careful about breeding for their pigs and cows, why wouldn’t they be careful about breeding in Americans?
Isaiah thought of Memphis in love with Theta and Theta in love with Memphis, and he understood for the first time just how dangerous their love was for them. Even though they were supposed to be free, they weren’t.
His stomach hurt all of a sudden like he’d eaten too much candy, and he wished he could throw it up. Isaiah glanced furtively at all the people in the tent: white mothers, white fathers, white nurses, white doctors. When they looked his way, he saw the hare-quick downturn of their mouths before they corrected it. He felt it before he saw it. The way you could smell rain before the first drop hit your skin. He shoved his own deep, dark brown hands into his pockets, as if by hiding some part of his body, he could hide all of himself.
In the next second, he felt Theta’s hands on his shoulders, turning him away from the exhibit. He could sense her feelings.
“Hey, Isaiah, let’s get outta here. These people are all chumps.”
Isaiah was angry and hurt. These people were mean. They would never give him one of those pretty medals. He’d just have to give himself one, then. Isaiah swiped a brass medal and shoved it into his pocket. He tightened his fingers around the edges, and the future jolted through Isaiah like a fast fever. His body shook with horrors. Camps and barbed wire and golden stars on striped pajamas, bones and shoes and teeth. He didn’t know where this future was, how long from now, only that it was more horror than he could imagine. Foam bubbled up at the corners of his mouth.
“Isaiah!” Theta shouted. “Isaiah!”
As Henry and Ling approached the ticket booth, he smiled at her.
“What?” Ling asked, suspicious.
“Miss Chan, why, I do believe you are the belle of this ball.”
Ling made a face. “Why would I want to be a bell?”
“It’s an expression. You look beautiful.”
“I do not,” Ling said, blushing.
“I’m sorry. I meant to say, who is that hideous beast in drag?”
“Now you’re just trying to annoy me.”
They’d reached the ticket booth. Ling handed over Marlowe’s handwritten IOU. It was creased from constant handling.
“What is this?” the ticket taker said, scoffing at the flimsy paper.
“It’s from Jake Marlowe himself. He signed it. See?” Ling said.
The ticket man shook his head. “Not to me, it’s not. Tickets are two dollars and fifty cents. Each.”
Ling’s mouth hung open. “But… but that’s a fortune!”
“There must be some mistake, sir. Miss Chan was promised a ticket,” Henry said.
Behind them, the others in line grew restless: “Get out of line!” “Step aside—let the paying customers through!” “What’s the trouble? Oh, just someone wanting to come in for free.” “Oh, look! There’s Mr. Marlowe!”
On the other side of the gates, a determined-looking Jake Marlowe cut a striking figure walking through the crowd, shaking people’s hands, welcoming them to his great vision of the future.
“Just a minute!” Henry said, and raced toward the gates. “Mr. Marlowe! Mr. Marlowe!” he called. “Mr. Marlowe!”
Jake Marlowe peered through the golden bars at Henry, his smile faltering. “Mr. Marlowe, it’s me, Henry DuBois? I’m here with Ling—Miss Chan. Sir, they won’t honor your IOU. They say we need a ticket.”
Marlowe stood for a second more, then walked away, glad-handing his way through the crowd.
There were few feelings that Ling hated more than shame, and now her face burned with it.
“Told you,” the ticket man said. “Everybody needs a ticket. Two dollars and fifty cents. Each. Next!”
“I shall write to the mayor!” Henry said to the gawkers and gossipers. “Let’s go. Heads high,” he murmured low into Ling’s ear, and they retreated to a bench a safe distance from the colorful swirl of the exhibition. Ling’s eyes were blurred with angry tears as she stared across the bustling fairground at the pavilions and booths on the other side of Marlowe’s gates, and at the white-domed Hall of the Future, where the glories of science would thrill other people. Where it was all happening. Without her. She’d given Marlowe the benefit of the doubt. She’d defended him to Mabel and the others, and he had looked right at her and denied her. Shamed her.
Henry handed over his handkerchief. “I’m sorry.”
Ling blew her nose. “I knew. That’s the awful part. I knew. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“To hell with Marlowe. I’ll buy you a ticket. Why, I’ll buy you four tickets, and you can go four days in a row and stick your tongue out at that pompous fool every time!”
Ling snorted through her tears. “You don’t have enough money for one ticket, much less four.”
“That’s true. But it felt like the time for gallant speechifying. I rose to the moment rather well, I think.”
Ling was overcome by her love for Henry, jokes and all. It was funny how that could happen, how something strong and good could rise up from under the pain. Henry was her friend. She wished she could say something, I love you or You are the best friend I’ve ever had; I hope I’m a good friend to you, too. She hoped he could feel all that was unsaid between them. Somehow, she thought he would.
Ling handed back Henry’s handkerchief. “Thank you.”
Henry grimaced and held the snotty cloth by a corner before tucking it into his pocket. “Don’t mention it.”
The two of them watched the streams of people entering the gates of the fairgrounds. The children waved little American flags.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Henry said. “I’ll get a little money from David and Theta, enough to buy you a ticket. They’ll let you in.”
Ling stood up, balancing her weight on her crutches. “No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want in anymore. Not to that club. We’ll make our own exhibitions.”
She gave Jake Marlowe’s sprawling vision of America’s future a last backward glance.
“To hell with Marlowe,” she said.
Mabel threaded through the crowds at the exhibition, her heart beating wildly. Jake Marlowe would take the stage at the Grand Pavilion at one o’clock. It was now twelve forty-five. She had to move fast. She tried to remember what she’d seen when Arthur had shown them the blueprints. The Hall of Wonders was in the center of the fairgrounds. Inside was a custodians’ room. That was where Arthur was supposed to go to pick up the rifle Gloria would bring hidden inside a baby carriage. Aron would help put the rifle together. Luis would toss a tear gas grenade to provide cover for Arthur’s escape. Mabel’s job had been to buy the bullets and provide an alibi, if it came to that. Her stomach hurt anew at the thought of what she’d done. Almost done—there was still time.
It was Gloria she spied first, standing off to the side in the Hall of Wonders with the baby carriage, just another spectator. Mabel marched up to Gloria and grabbed her shoulder.
Gloria’s smile was a second too late. Her eyes showed panic. “Golly, Mabel! This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”
“I won’t let you assassinate Marlowe,” Mabel said.
“Keep your voice down,” Gloria hissed. “Do you want to draw the attention of every cop in this place?”
“Maybe I do.”
Gloria narrowed her eyes. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted. And anyway, you’re too late. The plan’s in motion.”
“I’ll go straight to Mr. Marlowe. I won’t let Arthur shoot him.”
“Shoot him?” Gloria let out a small laugh. “Still the Girl Scout. Do you think we’re just taking out Marlowe?”
“Aren’t you?”
“He’ll be onstage with Mr. Rockefeller and the mayor. We can take them all out. We’ll send a message they can’t ignore—that they don’t own us. This is a new American revolution!”
Gloria’s words fought to make sense inside Mabel’s brain. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need a gun when you can use a bomb.”
Mabel felt dizzy and hot. “But… the Grand Pavilion will be full of people,” Mabel said, and her voice sounded like it belonged to someone in another room. “Innocent people.”
“No one’s innocent,” Gloria said.
“I have to talk to Arthur.”
“It was Arthur’s idea, you little fool!”
“I won’t let you do this.”
Mabel turned to go. Gloria pulled her close. Mabel felt the gun in her side.
“Move,” Gloria said. “Now.”
Gloria forced Mabel into the custodians’ room. Aron and Luis were there. Seeing Mabel, they jumped up from their seats.
“What’s she doing here?” Aron asked.
“She came to stop us.”
“Please. Please don’t do this,” Mabel pleaded.
Aro
“There’s no such thing as the only way. You’re not advocating for reform. You’re promoting nihilism. There are children out there!” Mabel pleaded.
“They kill children all the time. How many children did they kill in the tents? How many do they let die in poverty every day? Whose children matter?” Aron said.
“Listen to yourselves!” Mabel shouted. “Do you want to be known as murderers?”
“Quiet!” Gloria said. “When Marlowe takes the stage, the bomb will go off. Keep talking and we’ll shoot you here and now.”
Mabel had watched her mother give speeches and wished that she could be like her—beautiful and charismatic, a force of nature. But she wasn’t her mother. She was only herself. Her one weapon was her fierce belief that ordinary people could come together and make a better world. “Please,” she said, choking on the word through tears. “I’m only asking you to listen to me for one minute. If you do this, you’re saying that we don’t believe in our own people! That we have no faith they’ll do what’s right.”
“Maybe the people are terrible,” Gloria said.
“Not all of them. Not even most of them. I won’t believe that. I won’t.” Mabel took a shuddering breath and pressed a steadying hand to her stomach. “What you’re doing isn’t change. Not the kind that matters. It’s anarchy. It’s terror. I don’t know everything, but I know that this—bombs and guns and threats—won’t make for a better world. Just a more frightened and angry one.”
Mabel looked at all of their faces. They were her friends. They might shoot her for an idea.
“Arthur’s under the stage,” Luis said.
Aron grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”
Luis shook off Aron’s hand and opened the door. “Go now. While you still can.”
“Now, wait just a minute!” Gloria gripped Mabel’s sleeve.
In a flash, Mabel slipped free, leaving Gloria holding her empty coat.
Mabel ran quickly through the fairgrounds, weaving her way through the crowds eating popcorn and hot dogs, past the people who’d stopped to admire the architectural splendor of a fountain spraying into the clean, crisp air. They had no idea of the danger they were in. It was up to Mabel to save them.