Note for the book club members: Try to leave authentic comments. Just...be honest. Thank you and happy reading!

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IF THERE IS A GOD, I want Him to know I hate my life.

Staring at my packed suitcase, I contemplate one more time if I could convince Mum to let me stay here in Zone 3. There's no way I'll fly twelve or more hours and live in Zone 1 for a whole year!

I want to unzip my suitcase and tear all of my clothes. If only that could deter my mother. Knowing her, she'd nag me for a full five minutes and then brush it off and say, 'You're still a little boy, aren't you?'

I will not give her a chance to use that sentence against me ever again. Although, I do have a reason to throw a tantrum.

I don't hate Zone 1. I don't think I've got any reasons to. I just can't see myself living there and leaving my mates and my new girlfriend, Jessica. Try to imagine the hottest person you've ever met, and I'm sure they are ugly compared to her. Ever since Jessica agreed to be mine, my popularity has doubled. Even those who initially did not like me are now all smiling at me. I know it's all fake, but I don't care.

If I moved to another country, would I have another Jessica? I hope the ladies in that Zone can match her. But I've seen how they look like, at least on the internet—where else? They don't go on holiday here for some reason—and they look like they haven't graduated primary school yet. My mum didn't raise me to be a paedophile.

'Mum, do I have to do this?' I know I sound like whinging—well, I am whinging—but I tried everything to stop her craziness and yet here we are.

Her brown eyes widen, warning me to behave. Her lips form into a thin line as she leans her back on my doorway, which has a non-existing door. I used to have privacy, but ever since Mum had found me lying down on the floor with a weak pulse, she had removed it the next day. To this day, she has refused to bring it back.

That was two years ago. We don't touch that subject.

'Yes. We've already discussed this,' my mum says, pushing herself off the doorway as she stands up straight. She must have also remembered about that day as her eyes glide to the claw marks on the floor. 'It's for your own good,' she finishes.

For my own good. Mum always says that whenever we're arguing. It simply means I can't do anything.

'Imagine spending your last secondary school year in a Zone you're not even familiar with. Do you hear me, Mum?'

'So, what now? What's your point?'

'My point? Come on...'

She shakes her head. God, I love her, but sometimes she gets on my nerves. 'You'll be spending your uni years there too, so what's the fuss?'

'Whoa, whoa, wait, what? You've never said anything about that! Do you want me to rot in hell?'

'You're overreacting, my dear. And don't use that word. You know I hate it.' She means 'hell'. Her hand hovers on her forehead, but she then drops it. Mum has always been an Evangelical Christian, but she used to practice the sign of the cross when my father was still around. Dad has been gone for nine years now. I guess some old habits do die hard.

'Besides,' she continues, 'it's your fault. Well, mine too, since I don't have time to dote on you more. But it's going to be fine now. Your uncle and Haru will make sure to look after you. Now, stop whining and let's head over to the airport. We don't want to be late.'

'Pants...' I hoist my suitcase and glare at Mum, who's now smiling. I know what that smile means. Please be good. I'm begging you.

I don't want to admit it, but she's right. It's my fault. I've been a truant for as long as I can remember. No, I don't have any boohoo stories. I simply hate school, that's it. What could it offer me? Knowledge? There's the internet. You don't need to spend eight hours learning that mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cell. And I certainly don't need a dull teacher to tell me why there are countries that are yet to open their borders—basically, nobody outside their territories has seen them for years, no thanks to the stupid war.

Speaking of the stupid war, there's a 24/7 live coverage of the White House, located in Zone 2. It's a useless programme, anyway. The White House began live broadcasting everything inside to reassure the world that they are not up to something. Their meetings are held there and only there. As I've said, it's useless since nothing ever happens, apart from the occasional bants and awkwardness, which can be entertaining.

Degree? For what? A lousy job? I can't see myself examining people's teeth as my mother does.

I could be a dropout and still survive. You see, I'm a model. No, I'm not bragging; it's just how it is. (Cheers, Dad, even though you suck). I earn more than my mum, so I can't understand why she's worrying this much. I've also received an offer to be an actor, which is a big deal! I've been dreaming of buying my own house. Sure, I have to be at least eighteen to own one, but whatever.

And now my mum has snatched my ticket to a luxurious life. Maybe I can still be a model in Zone 1. Start from scratch, as they say. Why not? As long as I look like my dad, no one can stop me.

Every protest I could've thought of has been done in the past weeks. I even wore a ridiculous outfit. What kind of a sane man supports brown ankle-length corduroys? That's not bad, I hear you say, so here it is: it was the yellow padded socks and currant loafers that almost made my mum faint. Because, like me, she has a thing for fashion. The only thing that saved me from being a total clown was my refined blazer. Maybe I shouldn't have worn it.

Once we're outside our humble abode, I open my mouth to whine again, but Mum shoves her forefinger against my lips and says, 'Ssh! I don't wanna hear it!'

She runs towards her car, opens the door, gets inside and barks at me. 'What are you waiting for? Come on!' she says, rapping her knuckles against the steering wheel. Bark, bark, bark. That's all she does.

* * * *

'Fasten your seatbelt!' Mum says. I roll my eyes as I follow her order. I then slap on my cap and duck my head. If I had a choice, I wouldn't be sitting beside her. But she's insisted on sitting next to me. She's too melodramatic, when living with Ally and his wife, was her idea. Again, I know it's my fault, but still...

I sag my head to my knee, pretending to sleep so that none of my friends would notice. I've never learnt how to drive. It's Hermes. There's no need for a car when you have an underground, but that's not why I'm embarrassed. The last time she had driven me somewhere, was when I was twelve. That was four years ago. It feels like I'm with a stranger.

'You'll have a great time there. You'll make friends, good friends. I've heard Zone 1 schools are strict when it comes to discipline. They take it seriously.' Blah blah blah. I tune her out as I watch our gaff get smaller and smaller as we drive farther away from it.

Do you know those scenes in films? Where the main characters leave their home and then memories suddenly flash in, and they cry sentimentally? It doesn't happen to me. I didn't grow up there. In fact, we'd moved from flat to flat, never staying in one for more than two years, even though her job pays her enough. Or at least that's what she says.

Something tells me she's keeping a secret. I may not be academically gifted, and I may not have spent much time with her in the last two years, but she's my mother.

Once, when I asked her why we couldn't stay in one place, she laughed at me as though I'd asked a ridiculous question. Jokingly, she said, 'Maybe because we're running away?'

* * * * * *

'You should try to be nicer to your mum,' Ally says as soon as I answer his call. He's always been like this. He never greets, never asks about your condition. He says he gets it from Zone 1. I doubt it. I'm no expert, but I don't think those people are as blunt as he is. He's not even your average Hermes citizen with how frank he is.

'Hello to you as well,' I say. I glance at Mum. She doesn't return my gaze. What a horse. She reminds me of the mare that almost got me killed. My mum is too focused on the road, not because she's a good driver. She's way too focused because she's a terrible driver. We both know that, but we don't discuss it. Mothers are sensitive; they feel like they're always being personally attacked.

'She's a woman. Women are naturally more sensitive,' he says as though he knows I'm fighting with Mum. Then again, my mum and I are always arguing. 'I believe that's one of the reasons why when they fall in love, they give their all.'

'Look, if you're gonna tell me why your wife is a wonderful person, then forget it! Cut the crap.' I hear him laugh. He doesn't act like an adult, so I don't treat him like one.

Again, I glance at Mum, expecting her to demand me to apologise to Ally. She glances at the mirror and the side mirrors. Her knuckles turn white as she swerves our car. I brace myself for an impact. There is none. Thank God. 'If I'm still alive by then,' I whisper.

'Oh no, is she hammered?'

'Nah.' Just as I say this, the wind shrieks in my ears, and for a moment, I think I've left the door unlocked, and it popped open. But no. Mum is going too fast that I'm afraid a copper might spot us.

'I don't think this is the perfect time to talk to you. Give me a bell once you get to the airport, yeah? And Jaxon?'

'Yeah?' My knees bump into my head as the car curves. Hissing through my teeth, I finally sit down like a sane person. I thumb the affected area on my forehead. It's not that bad. I just wish Mum would at least try to remember she has a passenger. 'What?'

'I wish you luck,' he says, and then cuts off the connection. What an arse.

* * * * *

My mum is composed. I expected her to blow off her nose—she always brings a hanky—or change her mind, but she looks me in the eye and says, 'Be good.'

'That's it? No stupid, unnecessary, emotional goodbye message?' I'm fibbing. I'm trying to sound like I don't care.

She pinches my nose with a chuckle. In a snap, I'm seven years old again, crying and pleading with her to believe me that I didn't burn the pond. I shake the memory off.

Mum used to pinch my nose whenever I was sad. Then she'd tell me to talk, and when I did, I sounded funny. It always made me laugh, and then I'd forget what I was even crying for.

'I'm not sad,' I say. Of course, Mum doesn't believe me but chooses not to point it out.

'I'm gonna miss you. Please don't forget to call.' I want to remind her that she can change her mind. But knowing her, she won't let her money go to waste. Plane tickets may be cheaper nowadays due to the closed borders, but still, for Mum, money is money.

'Sure,' I say, although I want to tell her I'll miss her too. Call it teenage pride, if you will.

She holds my hands, squeezes them three times. I smile. We had this "secret code" back in preschool. Three squeezes mean, "I love you", two squeezes mean, "I'm scared", five squeezes mean, "I'll always be with you."

As I blink, I hear the announcement for my flight.

'So...I better get going.'

'OK.'

I also say, 'OK.' I have no idea what I'm doing, but all I know is that I'm quite afraid. I don't know what's in there. Yeah, I said everything's on the internet, but experiencing life in another Zone is still different. And because of this uncertainty, I squeeze her hands twice.

She squeezes mine five times.