Burn Read Free Page B

what, isn’t he? Partridge hates how the emotions come upon him so fast—guilt, fear of being exposed, sadness.
    Purdy checks a planner on his handheld.
    For someone who lives in the Dome, Foresteed is very tan. His teeth are so shiny they look polished. His hair is stiff as if it’s been misted with hair spray. He says, “The people are still in need of public mourning.”
    “How about some private mourning?” Partridge says. “Culturally speaking, I think we’re pretty good at bottling our emotions.”
    “Your father wanted a public mourning period,” Foresteed says. Sometimes Partridge thinks Foresteed might have hated his father. Always the second in line, he had to be jealous of the power.
    “But this service is different,” Purdy says.
    “How?”
    “I mentioned it in my last report,” Foresteed says. He gives Partridge reports all the time—fat stacks of papers filled with bureaucratic policy updates written in dense, senseless language (“Heretofore the forewith will be presumed to forbear and withstand the aforementioned duties…”). He can’t stand reading them.
    “Ah, right,” Partridge says. “I must have missed that part. Can someone fill me in?”
    Purdy looks at Foresteed. “We’ve got all the dignitaries and socialites coming in this time,” Foresteed says. “It’s closed to the public. We’ll be broadcasting it, however. Live streaming. We want this one to have the feel of magnitude. The moment when the people truly recognize the leaders of tomorrow, moving into this new phase.”
    Partridge sits back and sighs. He’ll recognize these people from political functions, parties, those who live in the apartment building where he grew up, the parents of his friends from the academy. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to sit next to Iralene this time. Don’t get me wrong. I like Iralene. I respect her. But they’ve got to get used to the idea that we’re not going to get married. Every time they see me with her, it’s going to be harder to explain that I’m with Lyda.” On Christmas Eve, Partridge and Lyda kissed a little. He put his hand on the soft skin of her stomach where the baby is just starting to grow. “I’m going to be a father. Lyda and I are going to get married. We have to introduce this idea and undo my father’s lies.”
    Hoppes shakes his head and his fatty jowls wag. He’s taken over managing Partridge’s image. “We’re working on a story that will set this all right. We’ve got a plan. But it’s just too soon. My staff is working diligently. Trust me.”
    “How about the truth?” Partridge feels a surge of heat run through him. Lies were how his father operated. He told the people fairy tales so they could sleep at night—tales of a world divided into Pures and wretches. “How about the goddamn truth for once?”
    Foresteed sets his fists on the table and stands up, leaning over Partridge. “The truth is that you knocked someone up and you’re engaged to someone else. Your concubine’s set up in a nice place to keep her quiet—like father, like son.”
    “I’m not anything like my father.” Partridge stares at Foresteed, waiting for him to back down but Foresteed doesn’t. He glares at Partridge as if he’s begging him to take a swing.
    Purdy breaks the silence. Scratching the back of his head, he says, “I just don’t get why you wouldn’t be interested in a girl like Iralene. She was made for you.”
    “Literally,” Partridge says.
    “Well, she’s a real catch,” Purdy says. “Sometimes you’ve got to rely on someone else to hold up a mirror. Am I right, fellas?”
    Hoppes says, “Yes, of course.”
    Foresteed nods.
    Partridge feels tight pressure in his chest. “I’m in love with Lyda. I’m not going to be peer pressured into falling out of love, okay? So why don’t you keep your goddamn opinions to yourself?”
    Purdy raises his hands in the air. “We’re going to work this out. It’s going to be okay!”
    He hates