Mystic City

by Theo Lawrence

  Perhaps even more remarkable is the number of Aeries couples who have admitted to having their very own star-crossed romances—former Rose and Foster supporters who have joined together, putting aside their past differences to unite against the mystic threat.

  “I never thought we’d be able to marry,” says Franklin Viofre, a Rose supporter who’s been having a secret affair with Melissa Taylor, a Foster supporter. “But now that Thomas and Aria are showing everyone that this is okay, I proposed. And she said yes!”

  Not everyone is happy with the changes, of course. There have been small protests from those on both sides who seek to keep things the way they’ve always been: separate. “No good will come from this union,” says an anonymous source close to the Fosters. “Mark my words.”

  Only time will tell. But for now, let’s celebrate.

  —from the Manhattan View, an Aeries society e-column

  • IX •

  “Earth to Aria? Hello?”

  I look up from my TouchMe. Kiki and Bennie are staring at me like I’m a creature from another planet.

  “Can’t you actually break during your lunch break?” Kiki motions to her half-eaten chopped salad, then to the dining area of Paolo’s, the restaurant in the government building where I’ve been working for the past two weeks. “What’s so important that you can’t focus on us for an hour?”

  “A half hour,” I say. “Sorry. Work is just a lot more … work than I expected.”

  Filing, getting coffee, and basically being Benedict’s unpaid assistant is far from glamorous. And while it does get me out of the house every day and away from my mother’s hawk eyes, I am totally and completely bored.

  “Well, tell us about it!” Bennie says. Today she reminds me of a child—her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing a pastel blue-and-green day dress. “You basically fell off the Aeries—I have no idea what you’ve been up to, other than the pics I’ve seen of you and Thomas online. Somebody’s been getting some action! And by action I mean tongue action.”

  “Seriously,” Kiki says. “Haven’t you ever heard of getting a room?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s all for show, guys.”

  The girls exchange a confused look.

  “I mean … it’s important for us to look like we’re in love,” I clarify. “Important for the election.”

  I think back to the other night, when Thomas and I went out to dinner on the Lower East Side and had our picture taken outside the restaurant; how his arm fit snugly around my waist as he pulled me close to him, how his breath smelled like the cinnamon gum he was chewing as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. How I felt like, for a split second, maybe this was meant to be—until one of the paps yelled, “On the lips, guys!”

  “So does that mean you are in love?” Kiki takes another bite of her salad, then stares at me cryptically. “That you remember?”

  Her question makes me tense—and upset. The only possible memories I have are weird dreams where I can’t see Thomas’s face. I know Kiki wants me to confide in her. But I have nothing to say about Thomas, and with Hunter, well … I don’t think even she would understand that. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure,” Bennie says, sensing that I’m uncomfortable. “What’s your schedule like—from start to finish. Go!”

  “Well … I get up every morning—”

  “Duh!” Kiki interjects.

  “—and brush my teeth and shower—”

  “Aria! Get to the good stuff!”

  “Fine, fine,” I say, chuckling. “My dad and I ride the rail together—”

  “How’s that?”

  “We don’t talk much. Light stuff—the weather, the wedding. His office is in the same building on the top floor but I rarely see him during the day. Mostly I’m just the office bitch. I get water and coffee for people when they want it, organize some of the older filing systems, and process the mystic draining reports. It’s pretty boring, actually.”

  Bennie takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “Have you made any friends?”

  I think about the people who work on the floor with me. They’re all much older, and while everyone is pretty nice, it’s fake nice—I know it’s only because of who I am. “Not really. I miss you guys.”

  “We miss you, too!” Kiki cries. “Why don’t you just quit? Wouldn’t it be more fun to hang out with us?”

  “I am hanging out with you,” I reply, motioning to the table.

  Kiki waves her hand. “You should be hanging out with us all the time. Yesterday we got mani-pedis at that spa downtown that we love, and while the woman was painting my nails I just started crying, because all I could think was Aria loves to get her nails painted.” She sniffles. “This is our last summer before you get married, Aria, and then everything will be different.”

  I start to say that nothing will change when I’m married, but in my heart I know that isn’t true. “I can’t quit. But I’ll definitely make more time for us to hang out.”

  “Good,” Bennie says, smiling at me. “You can start this weekend.”

  “What’s this weekend?” I ask, knowing that Thomas will likely want to spend time with me.

  Kiki stares me down. “You can spend one night away from Thomas.” There’s an edge to her voice that surprises me, and I wonder if she’s still upset about the affair and the overdose. Not necessarily that they happened, but that she wasn’t privy to them before anyone else was.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I miss you,” she says. “You see him, like, practically every night. What happened to girls’ night? Gossiping, watching crappy TV, trying on each other’s bras.…”

  “We never tried on each other’s bras,” I say. “That’s weird.”

  “I don’t mean literally,” Kiki says. “It’s an expression. I think. Regardless, we used to do everything together, Aria. Now … it’s like I barely know you.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s have a girls’ night.”

  “No!” Bennie shouts. Kiki and I look at her, confused. “I mean … I’m having a little soiree. My parents are vacationing in Brazil. It’s the perfect excuse to do something fun.” Bennie immediately begins texting. “Don’t mind me. I’m just setting reminders to hire a caterer, and maybe a DJ … oh and we’ll need a few bartenders, too—”

  “Whoa there,” I say. “Why don’t we just have a small get-together? Us girls?”

  “Stop being so selfish!” Kiki’s face is getting flushed; she unbuttons one of the buttons on her blue Oxford shirt and fans herself with her napkin. “I want some action! Some romance! You’re both in relationships, and I’ve got no one,” she says, pouting. “I just want a boy to kiss me. Is that too much to ask? Kiss me with some tongue.”

  Bennie thinks for a moment. “Don’t worry, Kiks. I’ll ask Kyle to bring along some of his friends. There was this boy in his literature course last semester I always thought was sexy in a, you know, collegiate kind of way. Brown hair, brown eyes—”

  “Oh, I just love the color brown,” Kiki chimes in.

  “—and I think his name is Don Marco,” Bennie says. “Or maybe it’s Paul. I can’t remember. Anyway, this will be so much fun!” She stops texting and looks up at me. “I’m going to invite a few people from the Foster side. Is that all right?”

  I think of Gretchen Monasty, how she told me at the plummet that some things should just remain separate. Well, screw Gretchen. “Sure, Bennie. Whatever you like.”

  She grins. “It’ll be, like, the first time kids from both sides are hanging out together. The blending has got to start somehow, and a party is as good an event as any, right? Just make sure you, like, grind up on Thomas in front of everyone. Show people that true love is what it’s all about!” She glances back down. “Ugh. My to-do list is already huge. I need some major assistance.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Kiki says, looking to me as if to say, Will you?

  Before I can respond, my TouchMe b
uzzes. There’s a text on the screen from Patrick Benedict:

  YOU’RE LATE

  “Girls, I gotta go.” I motion for the waiter and ask him to put the bill on my tab.

  “Will you be there this weekend?” Bennie asks. There’s a hopefulness in her voice that I don’t want to squash, and I find myself saying yes.

  “I guess that’ll have to do …” Kiki says. It feels like her green eyes see right through me. “For now. Don’t think I’m not planning you a kick-ass bridal shower, fool.”

  The office itself is on the two hundredth floor of the Rivington building, just above Fortieth Street on the West Side, about thirty blocks from our apartment. This part of the city used to be called Hell’s Kitchen, before the Conflagration. Now it’s Rose headquarters.

  I say goodbye to Kiki and Bennie, then walk through the body scanner in the lobby and am granted access. It’s two p.m., which means that it’s time for my afternoon coffee round.

  After I take the elevator, I walk down the hallway, passing Benedict’s office and those of some of the other executives, and a stainless steel door without a keyhole or a touchpad. I’m not sure what it’s for, and nobody else seems to know, either. Then the hallway opens into a maze of cubicles, which is where I work.

  I slip off my cardigan and hang it over the side of the cube I’ve been assigned. Near me are twenty other desks, spread out evenly. The stack of manila envelopes on my desk has piled so high I fear it will topple over. Mental note: Get on those. They’re copies of the draining reports from over ten years ago, before everything was streamlined electronically. I have to transfer all the data onto the TouchMe system, but it’s taking longer than I expected.

  I hope Benedict doesn’t yell at me.

  “Eleanor, would you like any coffee?” I ask the woman at the cube next to me. She’s in her midthirties, with straight blond hair that is so glossy it hurts my eyes.

  “A mocha,” she replies, “nonfat.” She speaks to me as though I’m hard of hearing. “As in, without any fat.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “It’s just that yesterday my mocha had fat in it. As in the milk was at least two percent.”

  Despite her actual words, I’m pretty sure what she means is You’re dumb and I hate you.

  I just nod and repeat, “Nonfat.”

  “Steve,” I say, heading south, where a man with a yellow-and-pink striped tie is perched at his desk, pecking at his TouchMe and occasionally letting out a high-pitched giggle. “Coffee?”

  “Hazelnut. Iced.” His voice is monotone, almost robotic. “Large. Sugar,” he says without even looking at me.

  “Okaaay,” I say, backing up and continuing to make the rounds. I even write the requests down on a notepad to make sure I don’t forget any.

  Marlene four desks down orders an Americano, no sugar.

  Robert at the far end of the floor asks for a tea, not coffee. “My stomach can’t handle the acid,” he says.

  I take the rest of the inner office’s orders, then head back into the hallway where the private offices are. I’ll save Benedict for last, since he tends to yell rather than speak. He’s the only person here who doesn’t seem intimidated by my last name—likely because he works so closely with my father and already knows he’s on Dad’s good side.

  I jot down a few more orders—two regular coffees, one pistachio muffin, and an iced cappuccino—before I knock tentatively on Elissa Genevieve’s door.

  “Elissa?” I say.

  “Come in!”

  The door retracts and I walk into Elissa’s office, which is painted a sunny yellow. The room is free of clutter, containing only her oblong desk and a narrow bookshelf.

  “Aria,” she says, seeming genuinely happy to see me. “How are you?” She points to one of the empty chairs by her desk.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a seat.

  I like Elissa. She’s the only person in the office who seems real to me. She works with Benedict, monitoring the city’s mystic energy, but I don’t hold that against her. They’re nothing at all alike: Benedict is short-tempered and harsh, barking out orders around the office like a drill sergeant, while Elissa speaks in soothing, even tones and stops by my cubicle at least once or twice a day to see how I’m doing.

  “Good afternoon?”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “How about you?”

  Elissa shrugs. She’s wearing a smart-looking navy suit with a cream-colored blouse and strappy sandals. Her blond hair is twisted into an elegant chignon, and while her skin is as pale as any drained mystic’s, she’s somehow able to carry the look well. Looking closely, I can see concealer hiding the bruises underneath her eyes, the blush giving her cheeks a bit more life, but mostly she looks like a striking, beautiful woman—certainly one of the best-looking forty-year-olds I’ve ever seen.

  “Just monitoring the Grid.” Elissa swivels her TouchMe so that I can see it. “I’m keeping a close watch for anything strange around the old subway entrances.” She points to a few places on the screen where the subways used to be—Ninety-Sixth Street, then Seventy-Second, Forty-Second, Thirty-Fourth, and Fourteenth. “It’s rumored that the rebels are living in the old subway tunnels, but we’re still looking for a working entrance.”

  “Well, that sounds a whole lot more interesting than what I’ve been up to!” I flash my notepad. “Coffee?”

  “Everybody’s got to start somewhere, Aria.” She grins. “No thanks. I saw your friends drop you off after lunch. Did you have fun?”

  “Oh. Yeah, we did. Thanks for asking.”

  “Did you hear about the demonstration this morning?” Elissa asks.

  “No! Another one?” The ad I filmed with Thomas started airing last week. I’ve already seen it more than a dozen times on TV. It was supposed to help stop these incidents, not encourage more of them.

  “Rebels detonated more explosives, in an office building on the Lower East Side this time. Luckily, the company that used it was in the process of moving, so most of the employees were at the new location. There were only a handful of casualties. But still.”

  I gulp, immediately thinking of Hunter. Would he ever be part of such a violent act? Would Turk?

  “That’s why it’s so important we find their hideout before they can do any more harm,” Elissa says. “I admire their desire for change, but violence is never the way.”

  “I agree.” I think of how my father shot an innocent man simply to prove a point. What would Elissa say about him if she knew that? “ ‘I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.’ ” I feel a little silly to be quoting from my textbooks. “I think Gandhi said that.”

  Elissa stares right at me. “Interesting.” I cringe; something about Elissa makes me feel dumb. In her smart-looking suit, with her perfectly styled hair and flawless skin, she seems like the kind of woman who always knows just what to say.

  “You know I’m a reformed mystic, don’t you? Both Patrick and I are.”

  I nod. “You seem … healthier than most registered mystics, though.”

  She laughs. “Well, thank you. I suppose that’s one of the plusses of working for your father. Patrick and I are only drained once a year, so we’re able to keep up some of our powers and a semblance of regular life. Otherwise, we’d never function at the office.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “That stays between us, though. Okay? Don’t go texting it or tweeting or whatever it is you kids do.”

  “Okay.” Elissa is the only one here who pays me any attention. I’m not going to rat her out. “So is that why you’re working for my father?”

  “That’s just a perk. I believe in rules, Aria,” Elissa says. “There must be an order to things. It’s what keeps anarchy at bay. Your father believes that, too. He’s a great man. I promise you—Manhattan would be chaotic without men like your father and George Foster. And someday soon, women like you.”

  “Do you live in the Block?” I ask.

&
nbsp; Elissa chuckles. “Heavens, no. I live up here, on the West Side—with all the other Rose supporters.”

  It’s nice how devoted Elissa is to my family, but doesn’t she feel conflicted, knowing most of her kind are housed in ghettos in the Depths while the rest of us—including her—float free in the Aeries?

  Maybe when I get to know her better, I’ll ask her more about her choices. But for now I have to remain Johnny Rose’s naive daughter, so as not to raise suspicion.

  “What about women like Violet Brooks? She wants rules and order, too—that’s what she says, anyway.”

  Elissa takes in a sharp breath. “Violet Brooks,” she says—and I prepare for the condemnation I know is coming—“is a smart woman with good ideas.”

  “You think so?” That isn’t what I was expecting.

  “Your father wouldn’t like my saying so, but it’s true. Unfortunately, she is also a sadly deluded woman who doesn’t understand the system. The only thing a mystic mayor can promise Manhattan is misery and death. She’s a threat to the safety of the entire city.” Elissa leans forward. “That’s why we’re all so happy about you and Thomas! Once you’re married, no mystic will ever have a shot at public office.”

  “Aria!”

  I whip around and see Patrick Benedict charging right toward me. He’s a small man, as thin and pliable as a sheet of metal, his expression always sneeringly intelligent. Today he’s wearing his typical outfit—a dark suit with a light-colored tie. His thinning black hair is combed back, his thick eyebrows are raised, and the centers of his cheeks are bright red. Like Elissa, he has the pale skin of a drained mystic, only without the circles underneath his eyes or the gaunt, sickly appearance.

  “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be working, not fraternizing.” He narrows his eyes at Elissa. “You should know better, Genevieve.”

  “Calm down, Patrick,” Elissa says. “Aria is doing a good job.”

  “A good job?” His intonation lets me know he disagrees. “There’s a stack of files on her desk that was supposed to have been cleared already. Meanwhile, she’s going off to lunch with her friends and chatting with you.” Benedict zeroes in on me. “I’ve told your father about your work ethic, and he’s not happy, Aria. He wants to see you. Upstairs.”