Ignore them.
I shift my focus inward, making sure my feet are centered, my weight is balanced, and my knees are slightly bent but not locked. I feel the height now, not just in my body but in my bones. The pole sways. The wind on the ground was a gentle breeze, but up this high it tears at me with greedy hands and sets me wobbling.
I’m only up for one minute when the first body flies to the ground. I whip my head just in time to see Jackson push another boy off, the kid next to him. One by one, every kid surrounding Jackson topples. Girls, boys, it doesn’t matter. They fall. Some land on their feet and scramble away. Others don’t get back up as quickly.
Henrysonis the last.
He hits the earth with a sickening crunch. A sharp crack, like a single shot fired into still air. His neck twists like a snapped stem, and his head lolls at an impossible angle. His mouth gapes open in a frozen scream. His eyes are wide, bulging, staring up at a sky he’ll never see again.
“Oh my god,” a girl close by cries out. “Is he dead? Is Henryson dead?” Her voice lifts high, wavering with horror, on the brink of hysteria.
She gasps and slams her hands over her mouth, like she wants to cram those words back inside, but it’s too late. She spoke, and we all know the consequence.
My father makes a motion to her, flicks his hand. She obeys immediately. Jumps down and lands light on her feet. In a blur, she rushes to Henryson’s side. Her scream, when she sees him up close, rips through the clearing. It pierces the air and scatters the birds. The sound echoes, high and broken, long after one of the Mothers drags her away, sobbing and thrashing. Together, they vanish into the trees and silence once again falls, thicker and heavier than before.
I stare at Henryson, too. I don’t make a sound, but internally I’m screaming as loud as she did. So many tests and trials we’ve been through that ended with us injured, bleeding, with broken bones, but never like this.
Neverdead.
I used to think we mattered to the High Council. That we were important. Precious. Carefully chosen. I had naively assumed the Fathers and Mothers would never push us this far, but that illusion shatters as I realize just how expendable we are, how little they care.
A flurry of movement breaks out across the clearing as the remaining kids follow Jackson’s lead. They turn on those closest to them. Shoving. Elbowing. Clawing at their neighbors. Kids knock each other from the poles with the kind of ruthless instinct that makes my stomach twist.
One after another, bodies hit the dirt.
There are no more deaths, but bones crack and a few kids scream as they land wrong. Arms, ankles. One girl limps away clutching her wrist, her face pale with shock.
Ten minutes in, and over 60 percent of the poles are already empty.
That’s when I understand the truth. This isn’t a game. It’s not really even a test.
It’s a culling.
I remain still. Unmoved. This is exactly why I chose this position, on the edge, surrounded by those I trust. Allies. Not friends necessarily, but boys who respect me or fear me. Either works.
None of them try to push me off.
In return, I don’t strike either. Not yet.
Sam’s ahead of me, surrounded ten deep by girls I know are her friends. I catch glimpses of sparkly bracelets, of tiny diamond earrings that wink in the sunlight. They wear hearts on their T-shirts. Glitter on their cheeks. Hairbands in every shade of pink. An unwavering fortress of pastel and chipped nail polish.
Smart.
Sam picked her spot just like I did. Chose her circle just as carefully.
I turn to Jackson, who sits alone, a solitary vulture on a bloodstained perch. No one is left within reach of his long arms. When he catches me looking, he smirks, like this is just a game, and I’m his next move.
I keep my expression blank, bored, as I reach into my pocket. My fingers close around the biggest rock I have, jagged and heavy. I hold it up so he can see, then toss it lazily into the air and catch it one-handed with practiced ease.
A boy two poles down, Nelson, someone I’ve never liked, sees what I’m doing. He lets out a low, shaky whimper, guessing correctly that one of my stones is for him. The noise is soft, but I hear it, and I must be my father’s son, because that sound, fear mixed with helplessness, fills me with a sick kind of satisfaction. It curls warm in my chest. The taste of power.
My first throw goes straight toward Jackson. A stupid, emotional shot. It misses and lands with a patheticplinkten feet away.
Jackson laughs, low and smug, just loud enough for all of us to hear.
Loser, he mouths to me.
My hate for him grows, multiplies.
