Breathe by Sarah Crossan Read Free Book Online

want Bea to be his enemy. I nod. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.” He points his two index fingers, like guns, at my father.
    My parents send him off and I’m alone in the living room, still holding the glass of whiskey. I sip some more, then set the glass on the coffee table, hoping to make it up to my bedroom before my parents get back from the front doors. But when I look up, they’re both standing there, and they’re both scowling.
    “He got fat,” I say. It’s obviously a joke, but it’s not funny and pretty much irrelevant. My father settles himself into an armchair and gestures for me to sit down, too. I collapse onto the couch.
    “You don’t seem happy,” my father says.
    My mother balances herself on the arm of my father’s chair. “He doesn’t seem grateful, either,” she says. Why should I be grateful? If anything, I should be furious. I only passed because my father is a director at Breathe. Bea needed this. She deserved it. Yet her failure and my success were both fixed. As usual, I can’t be allowed to achieve anything on my own.
    My father is scrutinizing me, and when I look directly at him he smiles and dips his head, ever so slightly, as though to say You’re welcome . “I don’t want this. I want to pass because I’m good enough, not because you threatened some examiner.” And I wanted to attend the Scholastic Institute with Bea, I think, but I don’t say it.
    “Oh, grow up, Quinn. I watched the footage. That friend of yours completely thrashed you,” my father says. He seems mildly jubilant, as though my inadequacies are cause for celebration.
    “So why would the Pod Minister want me to train with the leaders? Why would you want me to do that?” I never know what my father wants from me. Sometimes he ignores me completely, so I assume he doesn’t care what I do, and at other times he won’t get off my case. I think what he really wants is to create a miniature, muffled version of himself.
    “Oh, my lovely boy,” my mother says, and comes to sit next to me on the couch. I hate the feel of her dry hand against my face. I brush her away. I’m not a child anymore. She can save the stroking for the baby.
    My father continues. “You are my son and connections matter. This is life, Quinn. You can’t help it that your father knows the Pod Minister, and Bea can’t help it that her parents are subs.”
    “Father!” I shout. I’ve never heard him use this slur before. I shake my head and jump to my feet.
    “Don’t be so dramatic, son.”
    “Sir, I—”
    “You may go,” he says, and abruptly stands up. So I leave the room, bumping him with my shoulder as I storm out. Lennon and Keane are sitting cross-legged at the foot of the stone staircase. They aren’t drunk, but they’re not what you’d call sober either.
    “Poor Bea,” Lennon says.
    “I love Bea,” Keane adds. This is true. Keane’s loved Bea since he was a toddler. And she loves him. “What are you gonna say to her?” he wants to know. I shrug. “She’ll cry,” he says.
    “For certain, she’ll cry,” Lennon agrees. I imagine Bea as they do: her lips pinched together, her nostrils twitching as she listens, too proud to cry in front of me.
    I don’t even need to make the Leadership Program; whether or not I succeed in politics or business or anything else doesn’t affect anyone, whereas Bea’s success could save her whole family. I’m ashamed. I pat the tops of my brothers’ heads, warn them to go easy on the whiskey, and head upstairs to my room.
    I lie on my bed, turn on my pad, and flick to the tracking menu. Bea’s active and I can see that she’s at home. I want to call her, tell her everything and tell her I’m sorry. Instead, I lie awake worrying about it.
    On cue, a message comes through from her: You heard from the professor yet? I lie staring at my pad, wondering how to respond. After several minutes, I tap out the words No, not yet . This is the truth: I haven’t heard from the