The Princess Trials: A young adult dystopian romance

to use it when I was little, saying it was a useful skill to have during lean times. Now, I can tell she regrets introducing me to the weapon.
While Mom tends to the pile of dragon fruit on the kitchen counter, I sit at the bed’s low wall and give her the highlights about the guard. Throughout my tale, she scoops white, speckled flesh from the cerise-colored fruit with increasingly jerky movements.
She asks, “Was there a camera on his helmet?”
My brow furrows. “No.”
“How can you be sure?” Mom slams her spoon on the counter.
“He wouldn’t have wanted his superiors seeing what he’d come to do.”
Mom’s hand claps over her mouth, and she stares at me with wide, glistening eyes. “He was—”
“Dragging her to his jeep.” I snatch my gaze away from Mom’s. That’s the look she used to give me when I would scream awake from nightmares of the other time. The other time I hid in a tree while a different guard assaulted a Harvester girl. My throat thickens, and I let my shoulders droop. “My dart hit him before the girl got hurt.”
“Zea,” she says, her voice soft.
“It’s fine.” I stand and turn to the glass door that leads to our yard.
“You’re sixteen,” Mom says to my back. “They won’t just whip you.”
“I know.”
“Zea,” her voice sharpens.
I turn around and meet Mom’s worried, aquamarine eyes. They’re a shade lighter than mine, and it’s the only physical trait we have in common. Where Mom is short and curvy for a Harvester woman, I’m all angles and elbows with dark brown hair. She clasps her hands over the full-length, white apron that covers her beige dress, and over the long, blonde braids that frame her delicate features.
My heart softens. I wish I could tell her that we’re the ones that will cause the guards to worry. “I’ll stay low until Carolina—”
“Are you still associating with that lunatic?”
I flinch. “Mom?”
She rounds the counter, advancing on me with her eyes blazing. “The Guardians block every uprising before they even start and execute the ringleaders. I don’t see Carolina or her associates risking themselves to save the virtue of Harvester girls. Why should you?”
I press my lips together to suppress a rant. In Rugosa, words have a way of reaching the wrong ears and getting innocent people detained.
Mom disagrees because she spent her childhood in the Barrens—the buffer between the desert and our Echelon. The people who live there are Foundlings, who survived the wilderness and approached the Great Wall. They remain in the Barrens for decades, generations sometimes, until they prove themselves genetically fit to join Phangloria.
We should all be grateful, Mom always says. She doesn’t mind that the Harvesters work in harsh conditions to grow food for the other Echelons—according to her, it’s better to live at the bottom of an ordered society than in the dry wilderness.
An exasperated breath slips from my lips. “It’s not like—”
“If you want to change Phangloria, join the Princess Trials!” She balls her hands into fists. “At least then, you’ll have the opportunity to become the queen and make some changes.”
I step back, a laugh huffing from my chest. The Princess Trials is a centuries-old tradition where the king and queen of Phangloria invite girls from every Echelon to compete to marry the crown prince.
All the girls in the tomato fields won’t stop talking about the handsome Prince Kevon and their big chance to visit the palace. I can’t believe anyone would subject themselves to such scrutiny, particularly because no prince has ever chosen a Harvester to be his bride.
“That beauty pageant?” I say.
“Why not?” Mom raises her chin and levels me with her stare. “You’re healthy, beautiful, and full of ideas. Time at the Oasis with the future king might make him and the Nobles more sympathetic to your cause.”
I turn away from her determined gaze. When I go to the Oasis, it will be with the Red Runners. We’ll defeat the Guardians with our armory, tear King Arias off his throne, and make water available for everyone. Why would I want a pampered prince when I could have a revolution?
“That’s not going to happen,” I say.
“Is this about Ryce Wintergreen?” Her voice is sharp with accusation.
Ryce Wintergreen is Carolina’s son and an eighteen-year-old revolutionary who leads our cell of the Red Runners, a secret group of like-minded people who will one day overthrow the entire Echelon system.
Everybody in Phangloria belongs to an Echelon. The Royals are descendants of the country’s founders and consist of the king, queen and the prince.
Next are the Nobles, which include minor royals, distant royals, and families that were in Phangloria from the beginning. The Guardians mostly consist of the soldiers who protect Phangloria and enforce the law, and the Artisans are the creatives.
The last two Echelons are the most numerous but have the least power: the Industrials, who work in manufacturing, and the Harvesters who grow all the food and tend to the livestock.
Foundlings aren’t considered part of Phangloria until they pass a series of rigorous tests when old enough to contribute to our society.
Even though I’ve known Ryce Wintergreen for years, and he’s personally trained me in hand-to-hand combat, basic gun and knife skills, he has only ever shown me professional interest.
I open the back door, letting in a rush of hot, dry air. “Ryce is just a friend.”
Before Mom can say anything else about Ryce or Carolina, I close the door and hurry through the maze of tall cacti that fills the backyard. A human-sounding screech carries in the breeze, and warmth fills my chest. I pluck a few purple berries from a round cactus and hurry to a group of thorny succulents with arms that trail down to the dusty ground.
I kneel before a three-foot-tall barrel cactus and stare into the black eyes of my friend. “Sharqi.”
Sharqi looks like a kakapo—an owl-faced parrot with moss and lime-green feathers. She’s the size of a large cat with oversized claws that curl like fingers. Unlike kakapo, Sharqi