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

Davis fumed. She felt tired and overwhelmed, and so over the nonsense. Her dress and corset were hot and uncomfortable. It throbbed where she had stubbed her toe, and she was sure she was bleeding. It infuriated her Everett most likely talked to her mom in this rude, disgusting way, as well as all the other wives.

Davis walked over and put her hands on the marble wall encircling the small but beautiful balcony. The creamy pink color and the shape of the balcony made her think of an open clamshell. As she took in the garden’s green shrubs and the beautiful stone tiled labyrinth beneath her, she started feeling unbelievable anger. For the first time in a long time, and the first time ever that it had nothing to do with her dream, she clenched her fists so hard her nails caused bloody crescents in her palms. All at once, she felt like she was a volcano bubbling over and Venus in Botticelli’s painting. Davis was emerging into the open, newly born but fully grown. Standing in her perfect shell, she finally felt something settling in her mind, a round drop of clarity, pure and perfect as a pearl amid the grains of sand that coated her mind. But she had made a vow to Everett. She had to remind herself, though, that a vow was nothing more than a promise. And she had also made a vow to herself, to Ringo and Quinn, everybody at the bunker. And her mom, her mom, most of all.

Davis was finished getting pushed, so she pushed back. Literally. Everything happened so quickly; she didn’t even realize what she’d done yet. From the look on Everett’s face as he fell, he didn’t understand what happened either. All Davis knew was that when she looked over the edge, there was a large pool of blood under his head, his face frozen in shock. And there was the horrified look on the faces of everyone below who witnessed what she’d done. There was that, too.

October 10–22, 2056 – Davis

Brookshire roughly escorted Davis to a cell in the basement of the Palace. “You foolish, foolish girl,” he sneered as he threw her in.

It was cold and damp and had none of the color and luxury the rest of the Palace had. Not that she expected that, but the cold hard gray stones that lined the walls, floor, and ceiling made the comparison between the two all the more depressing.

Nobody came to talk to her, and there was no way to keep track of the time. Davis had been in the cell a while when she found little pebbles in a crack between stones. But she didn’t know how long she had been in there when she’d discovered the rocks, and as there was no view of the sun or moon, she had no real way to know how much time had passed. Davis tried to base it off the one nutrition biscuit she received a day, shoved through a small slot in the door by an unseen guard.

After Davis had moved two pebbles into the pile, guessing she had been there between three and four days, she realized she didn’t even know if Everett had survived the attack or not. She knew nothing, and it put her into the depths of sorrow to grasp he might have been recovering nicely in the hospital, probably being tended to nonstop by her friends Duffy and Hernandez. Of course, he would have the best medical care! The flipside of the coin was, though, she could be a murderess. Although it was spontaneous, even the fact she attempted to kill someone was disgusting to her. No matter how she sliced it, it was an unsavory, regrettable thing to have in her soul. This was the mantra she beat herself over the head with, feeling defeated. Would she have felt that way if she’d poisoned Everett? she asked herself. She pondered over the fact that while poisoning was cleaner and less obvious than shoving someone off a balcony, it didn’t matter at the end of the day; she had murdered, and she had to find a way to live with her sin. The price she was paying now in this cell felt like a small penance for her actions.

At one point, Davis felt foolish for another reason. She could not believe she had not thought it before, but how did she know she could trust Ringo, Namaguchi, et al.? What proof did she have that they were honest? How did Davis know they were not just in a power grab for themselves? Even if they were honorable, they never disclosed to her what the plan was for after Everett fell. Did they even have a plan? Were their motives any better than Brookshire’s? She thought with shock. Even if they had a great idea, Brookshire, the turncoat, was still well, good, and off scot-free, as far as Davis knew.

After four pebbles, she stopped eating the one nutrition biscuit she was being given. She felt dirty and disgusting; her hair was oily and in mattes. She had not been allowed to shower and was even still in her wedding dress. Davis always felt cold and dirty; her hurt toe had not been tended to. She had torn off a few layers of the skirt and used the crinoline to make a bed and pillow of some sort, as the cell was without one.

There was a tear in her dress sleeve. Davis hadn’t realized it at the time, but Everett must have pulled at the lace overlay as he went over, ripping the fabric. It bothered her emotionally, this reminder of her sin, of her ferocious attack. A jagged chasm between cloth and skin; she looked at it daily, and it settled into her soul. She had been able to clean her hands, arms, and face a little bit; her