He occupied himself in juggling the ball, right foot, left foot, and it was good that he did, that it gave him somewhere to put his attention that wasn't on her, gave him some focus for the constant restless energy of his starved and misused body lest it sag in sudden hopeful shaken relief.
"For what it's worth," he said finally, "I think it's pretty shitty that you had to grow up as early and as sudden as you did."
He was thinking of America in tears, too late in realizing what exactly she'd given up, forced to grow up into that place faster than she should have, turning back towards the teeth of the dreams she couldn't have, doing her job. Of Peyton, turning back towards the teeth of fear and unknowable anger, doing her job. Of Bix, pushing the pendant back into Taym's hands with a nerdy little grin and a stupid joke, turning back towards the teeth of pain and deprivation and an unknown end, doing his job.
And he was thinking of Maebe, shepherding a trio of girls barely younger than she was, turning back towards the teeth of unknown horrible danger with a defiant smile on her face, doing her job. And all of them, every single one of them (America sleeping curled into the chair next to the infirmary bed; Peyton pensive and worried at the sight of Astrid behind the glassy pod doors; Bix and his sheepish late-night confessions about Ceres and the life they craved and could never have; Maebe, here and now, trying to do what he'd always wanted to do and be a different person and doing it better than he'd ever managed) growing up too fast and too hard.
He bounced the ball too aggressively against his knee and nearly missed retrieving it, his fingertips barely knocking it back. "******** this place," he said viciously.
