To get to class on time, I have to jog down the hallway of the school, even though that's not allowed. My shoes skid on the tiles; the floor has just been shined by some teenaged econos, young Marthas in training. Why they let girls be inside a Prussian school, I'm not quite sure. It's probably either to tempt the boys with lustful thoughts or to see which of us treat the lower-class with kindness. Both of these behaviors are inappropriate.
I'm two minutes late for class. Damnit. I'm going to get a demerit, the second of the month. No dinner for me tonight. I start running rather than jogging, turn a corner, slip, and fall heavily onto my hip. The floor is still wet. Now my uniform is stained: another demerit. To make matters worse, the girls scrubbing on their hands and knees are biting their lips to keep from laughing at me. I scowl at them, and they immediately bend their heads down in respect.
"Blessed day, Marthas," I say frostily, emphasizing their title, although technically they aren't Marthas yet. The girls don't answer; they aren't allowed to speak to future Commanders without an important reason. Rank is established early in Gilead, and every child knows the rules. I get up and resume running down the hall, favoring my left leg. The fall has twisted my right ankle. PE is going to be damned rough for the next few days.
Scripture class has already begun, of course, when I enter. Doctor Wolf—we call all the teachers Doctor, whether or not they actually have a doctorate—is lecturing, the students all silently taking notes. They sneak glances at me as I enter.
"Mister Miller," the teacher says, "is there any particular reason for your tardiness?" That's me. Samuel Miller.
No sense offering an excuse. "No, sir."
Doctor Wolf frowns at my damp trousers. "Did you wet your pants?" My classmates scoff; the teacher silences them with a look.
"No, sir. I slipped on the wet floor." I'm panting lightly; if you're going to be late, you'd better be out of breath when you get there.
The teacher doesn't say anything else. Instead, he resumes his analysis of the passage of the day. 1 Chronicles 28, in which King David passes Israel's leadership to his son Solomon and bids him to build a great temple. "So David told his son," Dr. Wolf reads, "serve God with a whole heart and with a willing mind, for the Lord searches all hearts, and understands every plan and thought. If you seek Him, He will be found by you; but if you forsake Him, he will cast you off forever." He looks up from the Bible, and stares hard at us. "Are you listening, boys?"
"Yes, sir," comes the reply in unison.
"The founders of Gilead are like David, establishing a mighty kingdom of God on Earth and vanquishing our enemies," he explains. "But soon, that first generation will be passing leadership to you. You must be ready! David said to his people, 'my son is young and inexperienced, and the work is great, but the officers and all the people will be wholly at his command.' All of Gilead will obey you when you are Commanders. Wholly at your command. That is your God-given right, but it's also a heavy burden. For if you forsake the Lord, He will leave us, and Gilead will collapse…because of you." I swallow quietly, unsure whether I can rise to that sort of challenge.
God understands every plan and thought.
I'm screwed.
After Scripture comes Military Tactics, my favorite class. At the moment, we're looking at various strategies to pacify rebels and round up human resources. I submitted my paper on the topic a week early, because I love this class (and also because I want a letter of recommendation from Dr. Andrews, so I brown-nose a little). My paper compares the effectiveness of two field commanders, Commander Guthrie in New York City and Commander Blaine in Chicago. Guthrie's scorched-earth approach was quicker—the city fell within four months, while Chicago is still not fully pacified—but the majority of New York residents, over thirteen million souls, were killed. So many resources lost: fertile women, God-fearing men, strong people to serve in the Colonies, and of course all those children.
I prefer Blaine's slow and steady approach, taking pockets of the city a little at a time and arresting the rebels rather than killing them all. I argued in the paper that Blaine's way saves valuable human resources, but honestly, I also think it's more ethical. These rebels are Gilead subjects, former Americans like all of us. Same background, same language, just misguided. If they stopped listening to rebel propaganda and learned the truth about Gilead, they'd lay down their weapons and join. And as Commanders, we should always look for the most Christian solution, keeping casualties to a minimum.
Practical Math follows Tactics, then a twenty-minute silent prayer and finally lunch. We have three academic classes each morning, then physical education all afternoon. Before, in the United States, my school ran from eight to three o'clock, and PE was just one of ten subjects, no more important than computer solutions or art or Spanish. Even as a fourth grader in Atlanta, I got more academics than I do nowadays. Guardian Preparatory Academy (informally known as the Prussian School because of the Prussian-blue uniforms as well as the militaristic bent to the training) focuses only on what a Commander needs to know. Physical rigor is more important than a well-rounded education. Slogans reminding us of our duty are hung in the hallways and classrooms:
Your body belongs to the State.
Hard bodies, clean faces, pure hearts: that is our Gilead youth.
Every citizen has a duty to be healthy and strong.
Obedience and discipline, strength and sacrifice: the path of every soldier.
To be born healthy is a gift from God—cherish His blessing by keeping yourself fit.
Gilead has no need for the weak.
Healthy bodies make healthy children.
God loves us for our labors.
You were born to die for God and Country.
I agree with these ideals so I work really hard in all my PE classes. Praise be, I'm blessed with a healthy body, thin but wiry. I wish I were taller, but I'm not quite sixteen yet, so I'm still hoping for a growth spurt. I'm five foot nine, not great. Dr. Morgenstern joked they'll have to find me a twelve year-old bride, so that I'll be taller than she on our wedding day. I don't find that funny.
Each day after lunch, we have two 120-minute PE classes, including team building, weightlifting, shooting, obstacle courses, boxing, that sort of thing. On Tuesdays, we have track and field, then family life education. Today's a special day in FLE. Our third of such days this year. I hate this part.
All of the senior boys are standing around outside the Large Lecture Hall, which is used for this kind of event. Most of us are happy, even wolfish. It's a rare chance for us. I know that, but I just consider Ceremony prep…awkward. More than awkward. I just don't know the right word for it.
Inside the Large Lecture Hall, Aunts are arranging the girls on portable cots, reviewing the instructions and matching up the Plums with econogirls, who are playing the role of the handmaid. It's an honor for the econos to be chosen for this duty: it's one of their only ways of moving up into a higher social class. If they get pregnant today, they'll switch from a Grey to a Plum school for the next eight months, to learn how to be a proper Wife. And the lucky boy will graduate next spring with a wife already landed and a baby on the way, praise be.
The Aunts have matched us all by blood type; RH negative girls can only have RH negative partners, to minimize the danger of miscarriage. Rumor is that the Aunts also do a deep dive into our genetics. They supposedly have this book, the Bloodlines Genealogical Archive, which has everybody's DNA and family tree in it, so that we're never matched with someone who's actually related to us. Most of my generation, at least the Commanders' kids, don't live with our biological parents; we were rehomed after the Revolution. So our family names don't really explain who we are. I'm not really a Miller.
"How long is this gonna take?" my friend Nathan mutters next to me.
I smile and shrug. It'll take as long as it takes.
When we're finally ushered in, we walk single file to our assigned cot. Sitting upright on 'my' cot is a Plum, big blue saucer eyes and buck teeth. In her lap is the head of the econo girl, lying flat on her back, hands entwined with the Plum's, her legs hanging off of the side of the bed. She doesn't look at me, doesn't even blink. Just stares at the ceiling. I respect that, actually. She doesn't want to be here and neither do I. Neither does the Plum, from the looks of it, because her lip is trembling.
"Blessed be the fruit," I say by rote to the econo. My only line.
She doesn't answer. Her expression looks more like fuck the fruit than anything else. Wow. I kind of like her. Her shiny dark hair reminds me suddenly, unexpectedly, of my mother. My bio mother. I shut my brain off; this is really, really not the time for thoughts like that. I mean, let's be practical.
"May the Lord open," the Plum answers quietly, covering for the other girl. That's nice of her. She could have called the Aunt over and snitched on the econo for not saying the correct response. I nod at her and offer a tiny smile.
"Gentlemen, you may begin," Dr. Morgenstern announces to us all.
A couple of the boys near me attack their prey like rabid opossums. The FLE teachers quickly come over to admonish them: slow your tempo, control yourselves. The Aunts start circulating too, complimenting or correcting the girls.
With a sigh, I lift the econo's grey dress above her knees, careful not to offend her by looking down there. I look at my zipper instead. Using one hand to cover my actions in false modesty, I stroke myself a few times with the other hand, hoping desperately I can rise to the occasion today. I couldn't do it the first time we had this lesson, and the econo got zapped by the Aunt's prod for failing me. (The Plum that day had been a real bitch, whispering to the econo the whole time about being a useless whore. But she didn't unclasp the econo's hands before the Aunt zapped her, so the electricity shot right into the Plum as well as the other girl. That is what finally got me hard—God's swift punishment to the Plum, and the fear of what He might to do to me if I failed.)
This time, though, I'm better prepared. Our squad leader, Peter, gave us some tips about fantasizing, which means imagining you're somewhere else with someone else, no matter if it's realistic. Every floor in the dorm has a squad leader, a boy three to five years older than we are, who lives in the 20-person room with us. Peter's nineteen. He's less of a 'leader' and more of a 'counselor,' like the teenage assistants I had at summer camp when I was little. He explains the rules in ways we understand, and comforts us after beatings or verbal punishments or hurt feelings. We've been in this boarding school for four years; he's the only parental figure we see consistently.
I want to stare at the ceiling like the girl is, but I can't, since I'm leaning forward towards the cot. I just shut my eyes instead. I fantasize about Peter. His gentle smile, his muscled back, his arms around me saying everything's okay.
There is absolutely no way I will ever tell anybody this daydream, realistic or not. I know they're unnatural, unholy thoughts, but they're the only ones I can ever come up with at times like these.
After a minute or two, I finish with a gasp. I withdraw, turn away, re-zip. I feel like I owe the girl something, so I murmur "thank you" at her. I'm not supposed to speak, but…well, a little politeness goes a long way, as my bio dad used to say. The girl actually looks at me when I say that. I can't identify the expression on her face. It sure isn't 'you're welcome.'
At least she's not crying like the first two girls did.
On my way back to the dorm, I avoid my classmates and walk alone. Because of my demerits, I can't eat dinner tonight anyway, so there's no sense hurrying. I walk around the Lawn instead, past the Rotunda, looking at all the pretty architecture. My school is in Charlottesville, about an hour away from my Richmond home. It used to be the University of Virginia. The campus is gorgeous. I often feel like I'm in a scene from a Hollywood film, set in the 1700s. When I first got here, I imagined white-wigged men strolling around, talking about the Declaration of Independence or something.
Thomas Jefferson built this campus. We've learned about him in history class as a rare American worthy of admiration. Jefferson was a deeply religious man who tried to make the USA a godly nation but who was voted down by the atheists who ruined everything. He had both a wife and a handmaid who bore him lots of children, as well as hundreds of slaves, offering us a blueprint for a proper household. He was an expansionist; as president, he bought a huge piece of land for his country and killed all the primitive savages who were living there. Or maybe he moved them to Colonies? I can't remember.
I did a report on President Jefferson when I was in third or fourth grade. It focused on very different aspects of his life, like his views on democracy, diplomacy, humanism. Either I was being lied to in Atlanta, or I'm being lied to now. I suspect the latter is true.
Like these FLE lessons. This isn't how marriage is supposed to be. I know you're not supposed to think about the time Before, everyone says it's just easier not to, but I remember what a normal, happy family looks like. I don't think there's anything wrong with me keeping that vision in my head, so that when I have my own family someday, I can imitate it.
I'm not talking about my adopted parents, the Millers. They're not happy. My father is a tyrant. Mean to his wife, just plain cruel to the handmaids and Martha. I got spanked or whipped about once a week until I was twelve. Then with God's mercy I came to this school and got away from my father. My siblings—not really my siblings, not by blood, but my father's children by his handmaids—they get spanked too, even though they're just two and four. But not as badly as I; Henry Miller has always liked me the least, maybe because I'm not his. When I first entered his household, he said my bio parents had been very bad people who worked for the government. (Not for Gilead: he meant the American government.) So he tried to "beat the Fed out of me." Then later, "beat the faggot out of me." I don't even know what that last term means, but I think it means I'm not aggressive enough for him. Or mean enough.
Whatever. I'm almost sixteen. By His hand, I'll get an assignment in some far-off city and will never have to see him again. I'll accept any posting outside of Virginia.
When I have a family, I'm going to be like my real parents were with each other. My mom, Melissa, used to be a lawyer for Fulton County, Georgia. She put criminals in prison. My dad—as Henry Miller correctly noted—worked for the FBI. I don't know what those initials stood for, but dad said it was like being a police officer for all of America. Mom worked downtown Atlanta while dad worked at the FBI field office north-east of the city, which is where we lived. A comfy old house in Brookhaven.
For one week per month, my dad went to Washington DC to meet with the High Commanders, or whatever they used to be called. On the evening he'd come home, my mom would leave work early in order to prepare. She'd get her hair done, wearing perfume and pretty clothes. She'd cook one of his favorite dishes, either a roast chicken or ropa vieja (a Cuban specialty—my mom's parents were from Cuba). Dad would take a taxi home from the airport, and when he burst through the door, my parents just melted into each other's arms like they hadn't seen each other in seven years instead of seven days. When I was a little kid, I used to scream 'daddy daddy!' and demand to be picked up and played with. My dad gave great bear hugs. By the time I turned six or so, I knew to hang back and let my mom greet him first. Then we'd sit around the dinner table and swap stories for hours. Later, though, I tried to find excuses to leave the house all evening—a kickball game outside, a sleepover at a friend's house—so I didn't have to hear my parents in their bedroom. His moans and sighs, her chants of Mark, Mark, mi amor.
At the time, I found them embarrassing. Now, I'm grateful to have had such loving role models.
On the day after the Revolution, our front door was broken down by Guardians. My mom got dragged out of our living room, right in front of me, and thrown into a black van. I remember crying and screaming for her, even though nine was too old to be carrying on like that. I was left alone for two days, waiting in vain for my dad to come back from Washington or my mom to be released from wherever she was. But the only person who showed up was an Aunt who put me in the Pink and Blue Center for adoption. I was hard to place, because nobody wanted a Fed's child, so they moved me from Georgia to Virginia, then assigned me to the Millers. I guess people thought the FBI agents might invade Gilead and reclaim all their children. I spent the first year hoping that was true. But my dad never returned for me.
Now I know my parents were almost certainly killed seven years ago. Government workers, unless they were in the Sons of Jacob beforehand, were not invited to join the new Republic. They were purged. So I have stopped waiting.
But if I ever meet an American, I will say: my name is Riley Manuel Tuello, son of Mark and Melissa.