Marigold by Heather Manheim (best books for 8th graders .TXT) 📕

his waist, a slim-legged brown khaki pant, and brown boots, the laced-up tops covering his pants’ cuff. Namaguchi was part of President Everett’s team and, being so, already had ten wives. Quinn would never trust him with anything. Since she had to attend the dance, she secretly hoped that she would find a suitable and nice husband—or did she? She was never quite sure what she wanted on that front. It was fun to think that there might be a husband of her dreams out there. But she also felt like she wasn’t quite ready to get married and start having babies. Quinn tried to stuff it in the back of her mind. Typically, she would socialize with girls around her age at any event or gathering. But, considering what was expected of her tonight, she was in a sour mood, feeling tired and overwhelmed. For some reason, she felt a deep sense of foreboding. So, when she entered the dance floor’s central area, she quickly surveyed the room and saw a black and gold decorative curtain held out about five feet from the back wall. Quinn went behind the curtain with a chair that she found on the way, putting it back there as quickly as possible, and then lowered herself into it, making herself as little as she possibly could.

Quinn was deep in thought, so deep that she didn’t see the shadow that lurked behind her. She didn’t notice until the body moved directly behind her into the little available light that was there and a weathered, veiny hand with knobby knuckles was on her shoulder.

Oh no, she thought, how could I be so stupid!

Looking back at her was Namaguchi. Quickly, he pulled his hand back from her shoulder. In his other hand, he was holding out a cup of the so-called “party punch” served at these events. It wasn’t like the punch in the history of food books she had read in school. That history told of all the evil things President Everett had removed from the world. One improvement President Everett touted he had made was eliminating almost all artificial ingredients, refined sugars and carbohydrates, and excessive salt from the food supply. Artificial flavorings and colors, along with tons of sugar, no longer tainted all the food. The “party punch” was water with fruit in it, the only fruit you could consume in the United State. And, there Namaguchi was with the cup. Quinn took the cup and focused on the punch for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and find a way to escape. It was too late, though. The next thing she heard was Namaguchi in his croaky, old-man voice saying, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

August 18, 2056 – Quinn

Oh damn, thought Quinn, not again; she felt herself rising in the air about three inches, and she moved her fingers slowly before they became immobilized. The soft tingling of the pale blue light beams she was in gave her goosebumps, but that was the only sensation she had. Quinn immediately cleared her mind of her original thoughts. She had become an expert at thinking of nothing in particular, exactly what one had to do when being scanned. It didn’t matter what she replaced her hatred of President Everett with; it only mattered that she got rid of those thoughts. The Drone Scanner held her in its beam, checking her for negative thoughts on President Everett. Reading her brain, taking her pulse—was she lying? Its job was to discover anything that might be something. She decided to think about the President Everett museum, a Palace dedicated to teaching people how amazing their President was—yes, that was an excellent thought to sink into her mind. The outstanding accomplishments of President Everett. Luckily it worked, and next, she was slowly being lowered to the ground, the beam loosening its grip. Her state-issued brown slip-on canvas shoes she wore touched the ground. Taking a deep breath, she slowly stood up as the scanner moved on. Running her fingers through her short brown hair and straightening out her brown tunic that went to her mid-thigh, Quinn could not believe it was five years since she had been in the city and slept in a Pod. She took it in. Everything was brown or gray. Plain. Modest. Government-issued. She looked around for a minute. Everything was drab. Even the trees looked brown and dry. She shook her head, then started to move; she had to get to a Pod before they closed.

There were Pods spaced evenly over the county. Placed every hundred miles or so, they were large gray buildings that held thousands; in the front, large iron doors slammed shut precisely at nine in the evening to secure the inhabitants. The drawback was it also kept everyone out, whether they were a legitimate resident or not. You could take the transport busses that ran from workplaces to the Pods, but if someone was close to being late, there was no way a bus could get there on time. You just had to hope you were close enough to a Pod to run if need be or be prepared to spend the night outside. Usually, it was not too bad in what was previously known as California; it was often warm enough depending on your exact location. But, finding a secure place, away from wild animals and roaming Security Patrols, was another obstacle all together.

Security Patrols were groups of three to six men. Quinn once read a book about twentieth-century entertainment. People used to watch something called wrestling, and wrestlers, that’s what the Security Patrols looked like to her. Large, brawny men with tall and broad shoulders and big meaty hands that looked like they could rip right through your chest, pulling the beating heart from your chest. That was from a movie she remembered reading about from that same book. The only thing different from wrestlers was the outfits. The Security Patrols, of course, did