by Eliza Tilton
My gaze is willfully fixed on the plate in front of me, as if the vegetables are the most interesting things in the world. Appetite suddenly gone, I pick at the rest of the food. I know what’s coming. My pulse quickens at the thought.
“Who were those men? And why were they after you?”
In the facility, our teachers were tasked with keeping us informed on current events, both local and international. Hopefully, the story I reated will make sense.
“Last week, I was expelled from City University,” I begin shakily, infusing all the teenage angst I can muster. “I knew my parents would be furious when they found out, so I needed a place to stay for a few nights. There was a boy at school who told me I could stay at his uncle’s, that no one would mind. His uncle was only supposed to use it during the summer, but he showed up. Those men were there . . . because he’s part of the Movement.”
With those words, both of their expressions are a mix of surprise and fear.
“I didn’t want any part of what his uncle was involved in, so as soon as I found out, I planned to leave. That’s when the police came.”
The facility’s teachers told us the Movement was an underground resistance group dedicated to overthrowing the healthcare act. Over the past several months, the police had been systematically seeking out their hideouts and arresting anyone involved.
“You were smart to leave,” Sally offers and pours me a glass of milk. “Those Movement people are only making things worse. If you think about it, our society has almost come full circle.” She glances over at Rob with a smile. “I’m sure our grandparents could talk of a time when people farmed and handled everything on their own. I think it’s good we learn how to care for ourselves.”
Rob takes a spoonful of potatoes, staring contemplatively before eating. “Being expelled is one thing, but you should let your parents know you’re all right. We can take you to them.” He ignores Sally’s comment and her smile fades.
Do they disagree on this? How do two people love each other but disagree on important topics? I’ve never been around a couple before, and I want to ask them a hundred questions, but each question would only raise another. How can a girl my age know nothing about relationships?
“Thank you,” I insist, uncomfortable with the thought of lying to them, but knowing there is no other option. “It’s just, well, I know they’ll be furious. It’s better if I go alone.”
“Do they live in the city?” Rob probes, his eyes never leaving mine.
“No, they’re Upstate.”
I wait for them to ask me to leave now. How can I possibly expect a couple of strangers to allow me to stay at their home?
Rob nods.
“That settles it,” Sally decides, smacking her hand on the table. “You can stay here for the next few days, and on Saturday, we’ll drive you home.”
Relief floods my features and I gape. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” Rob says. “You remind us of someone, and she would be very upset if we didn’t help out a girl in trouble.”
I want to ask who, but the shine in Sally’s eyes warns me not to.
The rest of dinner goes by in a flurry of stories, told mostly by Sally. I feel fortunate to have found such a sweet couple. I find the courage to ask how they met, and she described a wonderful tale of how a very preoccupied Robert nearly knocked her over while running to class. I think back to his sporty car and the story suits him.
Rob’s shoulders relax, and he shares another story of them, this one about their wedding day.
“She was a beautiful bride. Brought a tear straight to my eyes when we met by the park to wed.” Rob grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles.
“Robert insisted we have an outdoor ceremony with a real priest. The one thing we always agreed on was how technology changed too many good things. We didn’t want one of those fancy virtual weddings you can have anywhere in the world. We wanted it to be here, at our home.”
My chest warms as I listen to them. Longing and sadness mingle inside. I don’t see a future for me, much less love. I’ve never even kissed a boy. I’ve never had one tell me I’m beautiful or look at me the way Rob does Sally.
A part of me aches with the realization that I’ll never know love.
I help Sally with the dishes, and then follow them into the den to watch the news. I try and hold in my excitement at watching TV. To this point, I’ve only watched boring, facility-run channels, most of which were made for children, not a girl of eighteen.
The cozy room is decorated in tones of sumptuous, warm browns and beiges, with splashes of sunny yellow interspersed on the throw pillows. Part of me feels strange as I step into the room, as if I’m interrupting a nightly moment they often share alone. Sally notices my hesitation and waves me over.
I walk to a loveseat off to the side of the larger couch and gingerly sit down. Rob clicks a button on the end table and a large screen on the wall turns on, pictures flickering on the monitor.
“Anyone want tea?” Sally asks before sitting.
“Yes, please,” I respond, settling in to watch the news.
My first non-facility program begins with a reporter talking about the latest headlines. “Last night, Mayor Rinaldi met with the city council to discuss the much-needed repairs on the subways downtown. With the increasing water levels, city officials are concerned that the subways will soon be deemed unsafe. For now, the pumps are working, but soon . . .”
Seven
~Damion~
“Stop.”
The vid pauses and flashes to the menu screen, which features Vicki sitting behind a desk, awaiting further instructions.
“Off,” I command.
I take the VRR visor off and put it on the table next to my bed, grabbing my view pad instead. I touch the screen to turn the device on, and select the news app. Current headlines splash the screen, and I scroll through them until I see it.
Water Levels Threaten City’s Downtown Subways
It’s strange to see a current headline in a vid. Whomever wrote the story certainly had an imaginative mind. It’s no surprise, though. Each year the water levels rise just a fraction of an inch more, and after the hurricane season, they rise again. Meteorologists claim that one day, half the city will be submerged. Maybe not tomorrow, or in the next ten years, but it will happen. It’s a bigger problem than most people realize, considering a storm surge is what destroyed the city once before.
The itch to mesh crawls from my fingers to my chest, compelling me to pick up the visor again.
Imagine traveling to a different world or city, where you can pretend to be someone else. If things start to get out of control, you stop, pause the vid, go grab a sandwich, and come back when you’re ready. There’s no permanent harm, because none of it’s real. It’s nothing more than an elaborate fantasy that does nothing but make money for BORAS. Do you have the desire to be a detective? Go mesh a mystery. Ever wish you were alive during the gold rush? Jump into a western and shoot some bad guys with a Colt forty-five. How about an erotica? Have trouble with the ladies? No problem, check out a black-market vid that promises to make you king of the night.
No matter the want or need, BORAS has found a way for us suckers to buy in to whatever they’re selling.
None of the vids are real. They’re just a story; a one-on-one experience unlike any other. Why bother fitting in with society and all the drama that goes with it, when you can slip away into another world with a fraction of the effort?
Meshing is far easier than living, but I find that every time I mesh, it becomes harder and less appealing to pull myself back to reality. The real world is a darker, grittier, far more dangerous place.
I slide the visor back in its case and back under my bed.
Even though it’s late, the hotel is buzzing with guests and workers. Soft, downtempo music floats from the bar, and I loc
k gazes with the bartender, Joe, as I pass. He flicks me a wave and I nod back. During school, my friends thought living in a hotel was the coolest thing in the world, especially with a bar on site. Dad designed the building for Mom after they got married. I’d lived in the hotel since my first memories. The grand view overlooks the inner Court’s main square gardens, where exotic birds trill and soothing winds whistle through the expensive topiaries. It’s the best view in the city, which makes Hotel Le-Grande the slammest and most expensive place to stay.
I’ve seen old pictures of the city before the storm surge caused widespread destruction. There used to be a vibrant community park in the center, with trendy restaurants and boutique shopping from here all the way downtown, until you hit the water’s edge. The streets were constantly filled with barking vendors, tantalizing food, and scores of people from every part of the city. During the superstorm, the entire lower half of the city was overrun with torrential flooding, massive waves destroying everything in their path. It took almost thirty years to rebuild the lower tip of the city, and now, people beg to live here. However, unless you’re richer than God himself, it’s not happening. Every apartment and penthouse in the Court is high priced. Top dollar for prime location. Dad said the Garden Court project was the most expensive project Scole Industries acquired, as well as its finest.
The bellhop, Charlie, opens the door. “Have a nice night, Mr. Scole,” he says pleasantly.
“You too, Charlie, and it’s Damion. My father is Mr. Scole.”
“Right, sorry, sir.”
I shake my head, smiling. Charlie is the newest bellhop. He’s a good guy, but way too formal for my taste.
As I step out into the cool night air, I’m reminded that Fall has arrived, shaking her trees and changing our Court to a hue of flaming reds and riotous oranges. When I was younger, my parents would use these nights as an opportunity to whisk me and my sister to the family lake house, which promised quiet serenity near a town of quaint folk. In those days, we ate dinner together as a family, every night.
“Damion?” a female voice chirps.
I turn and see Shelly Davies, always impeccably dressed, with her arm linked possessively around her long-time boyfriend, Roger, my best friend, though I haven’t hung out with him for the past six months.
“It is you!” she squeals and rushes over in four-inch stilettos to kiss me on the cheek. Shelly has been dating Roger since we were in the ninth grade, and she still looks the same. Short, straight blonde hair, with dark green eyes covered in black liner. She’s one of the few girls I can actually stand.
“Hey, Shelly,” I greet her warmly. “How are you?”
“Good.”
A beat of silence, and then Roger sticks out his hand and I shake it, placing my other hand on top of his while he pulls me in for a hug. The tip of his baseball hat bounces off my face. He’s one of the only friends I have who’s the same height as me.
“Man, we haven’t seen you in months,” he chides good-naturedly. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Busy with work,” I answer sheepishly, not wanting to delve into the myriad of reasons why I haven’t shown my face in our old haunts.
Roger accepts my answer without further comment, but by his furrowed brow, I can tell he doesn’t believe it. After Gia died, I pulled away from everyone. We talked after the accident, and he messages me every few weeks, but I know he’s upset. We went from hanging out almost every day, to barely seeing each other once a month.
I’ve been hiding from him, Shelly, and the rest of our crew for months. I can’t help it. Every time I’m around them, Gia’s death flashes in my mind—that awful day when I failed the most important person in my life.
Breaking me out of my morbid thoughts, Roger suggests, “I’m having a party tomorrow night at my place. Why don’t you come by? I got a bottle of Jack with your name on it.” Roger pauses and waggles his eyebrows, reminding me of those countless nights filled with games and Jack, back when it was just us guys.
It’s good to see his cheeky smile, but it’s been long since I’ve hung out with them, it’s almost awkward. It shouldn’t be. Roger and I have been best friends since our parents enrolled us in our first Judo class.
“Astrid won’t be there,” Shelly inserts, and Roger elbows her.
“What?” she maintains innocently. “Look, Damion. We miss you, and we all feel just terrible about what happened. Astrid is an idiot. Don’t stop hanging out with us because of her.”
We were a crew before Gia. At the time, Astrid was my girl, and we did everything with Roger and Shelly, until I met Gia. She changed me. I wasn’t looking for another girl when Gia started volunteering at the soup kitchen. My mom made me work there once a week. I hated it. But after a few late nights cleaning out soup buckets with Gia, I was hooked on her. She didn’t care I was a Court kid, and she didn’t treat me any different when I didn’t do my share of the work.
But Gia wasn’t from the Court. Even worse, she lived in Midtown.
I mentioned her once to Roger, and he laughed at the idea. It was the last time I said anything about her.
The memory of Astrid’s twisted smile and Gia’s broken heart tug at my mind, but I resolutely push it away.
“Please . . . ?” Shelly bats her artificial, long lashes at me, breaking me out of my reverie.
“What time?” I ask, not believing the words coming out of my mouth.
She claps her hands triumphantly and Roger smiles. “Nine P.M.,” he announces. “See you there.”
Before I have time to change my mind, they give one last wave and continue walking down the street. I owe it to them to show my face. Neither one did anything wrong. Yeah, they were pissed about Gia and argued for me to stay with Astrid, but after Astrid went all psychopath, Roger and Shelly never stopped apologizing.
Gia . . . I don’t think I’ll ever be able to redeem myself for what happened to her, accident or not. I hunch down into my coat and stick out a thumb to hail a cabbie to Midtown.
I remember the heartbreak in Gia’s mahogany eyes during her last breaths.
She left this world without ever knowing I loved her.
Eight
~Damion~
Knock, knock.
Knock, knock . . . knock.
Putting my ear to the door, I listen for any sounds of movement from inside the room. “Jims,” I call out.
I knock again.
“He’s not home,” a hoarse voice snips from behind me.
I turn around and see Jims’ neighbor standing in her doorway across the hall. Dark circles surround her eyes and her sharp collarbones poke out of her slinky, hot pink top. The emaciated look is heightened with stringy blonde hair that hangs in a limp curtain around her thin face. I’ve met Candy a few times before, but each time I see her, she’s thinner.
“Do you know where he is?” I ask politely.
She shakes her head, staring at me with a desperate, hungry look. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“Well, if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”
When she nods, I head to the stairs and toward the exit.
“Text Jims,” I instruct my watch, turning on the talk-to-text function. Where are you?
Jims makes a living off selling vids, and he’s never missed a credit drop before.
When I reach the first floor of the complex, my watch beeps and a message flashes.
Disturbia - back room.
I should have known he’d be there. I won’t get in wearing these rags, no matter how much I pay the bouncer.
Have to change. b there in 30
Outside, I flag a cabbie and head home to change.
Disturbia, located in Midtown, is the hottest club in the city with the strictest door policy. You can only get in if you’re on the list, have a ton of credits, or are a really slamming girl, a
lthough occasionally, if it’s a slow night, the bouncers will let non-listers in. I’m usually on the list, as well as almost anyone who lives in the Court. Just another one of the privileges us Court kids have.
By the time I arrive after changing into gray slacks and a crisp button-up shirt, the line outside Disturbia has already reached the end of the block, where it usually goes on for the length of two more. The night air is brisk and windy, and instead of heading to the front of the line, I decide I’d rather enjoy it for a bit more. Inside Disturbia, time doesn’t exist, and if you’re not careful, the music and rooms will suck you in until dawn.
A group of giggling girls stands in front of me. Their skirts barely cover anything, and one of the girls has on a pair of blood-red, leather boots that go over her knees, almost touching the hem of her black mini. The bouncer takes one look at their perfect bodies and lets them in, but not me.
Finally, the bouncer checks my ID with IC, denoting ‘Inner Court’ to prove my living status—and lets me inside. I walk up the crumbling brick steps and into the murky building, which is already thumping and pulsing with activity.
Bass vibrates against the wall as red and green lights flicker frenetically over the crowd. Black iron cages dangle over the main floor, containing dancing girls wearing thigh high boots, skimpy lingerie, and gaudy masquerade masks.
The DJ switches the song to a tantric beat with a girl singing the hook, as bodies continue to grind against each other. I push my way through the sweaty mob to the curving stairs that lead to the second floor. The second floor contains a smaller, more intimate dance floor that plays fast techno beats, and past that area are the halls.
Each door in the hall has a specific symbol painted on it. Most people think they’re nothing more than sex rooms, and while I’m sure people have sex in them, it’s not their main function.
The rooms take meshing to a whole new level. If you have the money, you can slip into a room and use one of the exotic vids—black market and almost as intense as the real thing—but you’re only getting in if you know who to talk to.
