Catching Ivy

by Eliza Tilton

  That would be Buzz, the high-tech king of Disturbia and the City. Some cities have gang lords, but here, it’s all about tech, and Buzz has it all.

  I pass the network of halls, ignoring the groans and screams pouring from the rooms, to a third staircase guarded by a bouncer triple my size.

  “I’m here to see Jims,” I tell him, standing straighter.

  The bouncer steps aside without question, letting me up the black staircase and onto the VIP floor. Red velvet couches, black headless sculptures, and mirrors crowd the room. There’s a DJ playing a wild beat to the left of another bar.

  I head to the far-right corner, where a cluster of club-goers sits around a steel table. Jims is there, smoking from a blood-red hookah, sandwiched between two voluptious beauties. For once, he’s clean shaven and wearing clothes that aren’t wrinkled and covered in filth. His hair is slicked back in an attempt to appear sophisticated, but instead, it makes him look like he hasn’t showered in weeks. I’ve always been baffled by the fact he can pull in some of the hottest chicks I’ve seen.

  Apple-scented tobacco permeates the air around him. He glances my way and raises a hand as he takes another pull, blowing smoke rings as he exhales and sits back against the faux leather seat.

  The smell of real tobacco is too pungent for my taste, and the smoke burns my eyes. I slip a hand into my coat for my vape, only to remember I quit.

  “Glad you could make it.” Jims smirks as he slips an arm around each of the girls.

  “I’m sure you are,” I reply dryly and sit in the plush chair across from him. A curvaceous, brown-haired Latina with breasts busting out of her tight top slides next to me, a sultry smile curving her lips.

  “Can I get you anything?” she whispers in my ear.

  I fight the urge to tell her what I really want, and inch forward in my seat. “I’m not here to socialize. Jims and I have business.”

  Jims takes the hint and nods his head at the girls. They leave with pouts marring their otherwise perfect completions.

  Once we’re alone, I slip an untraceable chip card from the inside pocket of my coat and hand it to him. Nowadays, money flows on chip cards that connect to your bank, which makes it hard to do anything illegal unless you know someone who can flash cards, making their point of origin vanish.

  “How is it?” Jims asks before putting the pipe piece back into his mouth.

  “You didn’t try it?” I inquired, surprised he didn’t view it first.

  He shakes his head as he hits the hookah, inhaling the sickly-sweet smoke.

  “How come?”

  Blowing out another series of perfectly formed smoke rings, he answers, “The tech said it would only allow one user. Something about the apps in it. Apparently, the sensory function won’t work on anyone else once it implants. Genetic marker thing. I don’t know. I didn’t ask for all the techy details.”

  Strange. I still can’t wrap my mind around some of the more technical aspects, although I know the vids are always being improved. As a matter of fact, in a few weeks, the next wave of BORAS visors will be released; promising a whole new immersive world to lose yourself in, making meshing even more interactive. BORAS has been promoting a new vid called LUCID, which they say contains a virtual environment you can interact with. Vids wouldn’t just be a story you watched, but one you could participate in like a virtual game, except the choices would branch off into different storylines. I, along with the rest of the world, can’t wait. It promises to be a real virtual experience guaranteed to rock your meshing to new heights.

  So many times during a mesh, I wished I could have changed the images or scenes I saw. Now, BORAS is about to make that a reality. I pre-ordered my copy of LUCID the minute it became available.

  Jims’ gaze seems fixed on me, his eyes glassy. I glance over my shoulder and realize he’s watching the girls from earlier dance. Their arms are looped around each other as they sway, the flashing lights on their sleeves creating a hypnotic blue swirl, showcasing their bodies in an erotic dance.

  “So?” Jim inquires again, snapping back to the conversation and eyeing me in between smoke rings.

  “It’s good,” I stammer. “Really good. Maybe the best sensory vid I’ve tried.” Ready to get moving, I place my hands on the table and start to stand.

  Jims turns to me. “Keep me updated. If it’s that good, I’ll try and get another copy.”

  I nod my head, but his attention is already focused onto the dancing girls. I shuffle wy way downstairs and leave Disturbia, before the urge to enter a room takes over and I disappear into the halls for the rest of the night.

  NINE

  ~Damion~

  From outside, the orphanage doesn’t outwardly display the rampant destruction caused by the fire. It’s been almost ten years since the accident. Most of the damage happened in the back of the building where the sleeping quarters used to be. The stony gray exterior has a grim appearance; its massive, black iron gate guarding the entrance giving it a thoroughly gothic feel. A dark, cold place. How could this have ever been an orphanage? There was nothing child-friendly or warm about it.

  As I approach the building, the contractor we typically use for these renovation projects is standing by the steps holding two paper cups, steam rising into the morning air.

  “Morning, Randy,” I offer pleasantly.

  He hands me a coffee from the shop down the street. “You ready to go inside and review the plans?” Randy asks, taking a swig from his cup.

  “Yes, sir.”

  One of the reasons Dad agreed to let me lead this project is because of my architectural vision. Not only can I draw blueprints, but I can see everything from the concrete slab to the cream-colored walls. We accelerated my schooling after Dad saw a blueprint I drew for Melanie. My sister had always talked about leaving the city and living in a large, open house with a view of the mountains.

  I drew her one.

  At the time, I didn’t understand all the technical aspects and metrics that go into a real blueprint, but I saw the design she wanted and made it real.

  It was the first time I saw real pride in my Dad’s eyes.

  I open the gate and unlock the front doors. Randy’s job is to take my vision and make it a reality. At first, the city fought us on the permits, claiming the building should be condemned, but Randy did a thorough inspection and put that claim to rest. Foundation is still solid.

  Randy heads down the patterned linoleum hall and I follow, his boots echoing in the dim corridors. Today, we’ll walk the property and identify how much needs to be ripped out versus what can be salvaged. From his first inspection, it appears the water used to put out the fire damaged almost everything in the living quarters. We’ll have to gut it all and redo.

  If my dad was smart, he would’ve given me a smaller budget for the Crux Project. Times are tough, even for Scole Towers, but Dad can be a bit of a big-hearted philanthropist. It’s one of the few things we have in common.

  The place smells like a dead rat. Not that I expected it to smell like roses, but I held out the dim hope it wouldn’t make me want to vomit.

  We turn to the left and into another corridor. Instead of dissipating, the foul air gets stronger, coating my throat and clogging my lungs. We come up to the first set of living quarters on our right, the room empty except for a few iron bed frames. Mangled, singed threads are all that’s left to hold together the few mattresses.

  I try to visualize this place before the fire. Children running around, nurses chasing after them. And then I imagine what I will turn it into. High, large windows will splash sunshine on girls dressing their dolls. Boys, sword fighting in the corridors, will be silhouetted against ochre walls with a chestnut crown molding. The beds will be bunks, but instead of another bed underneath, there will be a desk. Every kid will have their own space. If the orphanage were big enough, I think wistfully, I wo
uld build small rooms so each orphan could have a private area to call their own. But it’s not, so bunk areas will have to do.

  “Where did the fire start?” I ask.

  Randy turns from the wall he’s inspecting. “If my memory is right, from the offices. Started there and spread through here.”

  “Can we start there?” I request, feeling a strange urge to see where the destruction began.

  He shrugs and turns on his heel, and I follow him out of the living quarters and down the corridor that leads to the office section. The popcorn ceilings are high and yellow, stained from smoke and the subsequent havoc of mildew trapped in non-ventilated spaces.

  “Down here,” Randy instructs, and we take a right, directly into the wake of destruction.

  The damage is immense. Black soot and scorch marks cover every square inch of space. Charred remains of furniture are scattered, blown around by time. The news said the fire was caused by someone tossing a lit cigarette into a wastebasket—an all too common occurrence. The worst part about the incident was what happened to all the children. Three kids didn’t make it out, as well as one of the nurses. The kids who did manage to escape the fire were split up. Roughly a third went to foster care, while the others were shipped upstate to another orphanage. The memory of the buses pulling away with crying faces is something you don’t forget.

  Randy continues to ramble on about metal studs, updating the wiring, and replacing sheetrock, but my mind is still focused on the fire. I picture one of the secretaries sneaking a cigarette and knocking gray ashes into the wastebasket. Distracted, she doesn’t notice the swirling vapors combusting in the trash can and leaves for lunch. Suddenly the fire ignites, consuming everything in its path, destroying walls, furniture, and life.

  But that was all just a supposition from the fire chief. No one knew what caused the fire. My father had always suspected foul play, but that didn’t make any sense to me. Why would someone burn down an orphanage?

  The buzzing of my watch breaks me out of my morbid thoughts. I look down to see Dad’s work number flashing across the screen. “Hello?”

  “Damion, I need you back at the hotel,” he begins without preamble. “Mrs. Kreylis in room two-oh-two is refusing to take that mutt out of the lobby. Handle it.”

  Mrs. Kreylis is a harmless old lady with a big dog. Anyone else could handle this.

  Letting the slightest bit of irritation seep into my voice, I sigh. “Isn’t that why we hired a hotel manager?”

  “You know how she is. She listens to you. Look … I have two big clients coming in tonight. I need you there.”

  I pause, not wanting to give in right away. He always has clients.

  “Fine.” I hang up, resentful I have to leave. “Sorry, Randy, but I’m needed at the hotel.”

  Randy nods understandingly, having heard both sides of the conversation over the tinny phone speaker. “We’re good here. We can start demolition tomorrow.”

  “Great. Keep me updated.” I leave Randy behind and head out to try and talk the old lady back into her room.

  Mitchell, the squeaky hotel manager, talks quietly to Mrs. Kreylis, who is sitting in the lobby near the entrance, perched next to the angel fountain. Her one-hundred and ninety-pound Saint Bernard is drooling on the marble, mosaic tile.

  “Please, Mrs. Kreylis, if you’ll just go to your room.” Mitchell pleads with his palms pressed together in a desperate prayer.

  Indignant, Mrs. Kreylis puffs out her chest and points an accusing finger in Mitchell’s direction. “I have every right to sit here!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kreylis,” he beseeches, “but your dog.”

  “Peter has just as much right to be here as I do,” she sniffs, crossing her arms and looking off to the side at her beloved pooch.

  Watching Mitchell squirm is fun, but I figure he’s already been at this for a long time.

  “Mrs. Kreylis!” I exclaim in a booming voice as I step into the foyer with widespread arms, eliciting a blissful smile from the otherwise grumpy woman.

  Delight crinkles her eyes as she dismisses Mitchell in favor of bestowing me with all the charm she possesses. “Damion, you sweet boy. How are you?” She stands.

  I slip an arm around her waist and plant a chaste kiss on her withered cheek. “I’m wonderful,” I gush. “It’s an exquisite day, made more so by your presence. Would you and Peter care to join me for a walk?”

  “We would love to,” she chirps. With a light tug on Peter’s leash, the mammoth hound stands and stretches out his long haunches. A long trail of drool strings from his massive jowls all the way to the floor. When he shakes his head back and forth, a gelatinous puddle lands on Mitchell’s pants. The uptight manager squeaks and scurries away.

  I manage to maintain a straight face as I take the well-worn leash from her and we walk outside, arm-in-arm. Mrs. Kreylis is old and a bit grouchy, but actually very sweet. Interestingly enough, she’s been living at this hotel for five years. She first became a temporary tenant when her apartment had to be re-carpeted after she forgot to turn the bath water off. She came here during the repairs, and never left. I was certain she had to be the mother of one of my father’s colleagues. Our hotel was far too expensive for little old ladies with no discernible income to afford, even if they were sweet.

  “Let’s go by the pond,” she suggests. “Peter loves to watch the ducks.”

  Technically, Peter loves any place where he can lay down. “Pond, it is,” I agree easily.

  As we walk toward the pond, I take a minute to observe my companion. Mrs. Kreylis’ short gray hair is curled in several uneven layers, the longest of which ends just below her chin. She tries to keep up with her appearance, but her eyesight must be failing. Her sweater is a soft mint green with a bit of drape in the middle, which clashes alarmingly against the orange-checkered pants she wears.

  “How is your mother, dear?” she asks kindly.

  Images fill my mind of my mother sitting alone at night while Dad works. “She’s good.”

  “Such a sweet woman. Do you know that last Christmas she brought Peter and me such a nice dinner, with butter biscuits?”

  I’ve heard this story a thousand times, but I know Mrs. Kreylis loves to tell it, so I oblige by affecting a surprised face and remarking, “Did she?”

  “Yes!” she exclaims, warming to her story. “And do you know what she brought for dessert?

  Apple turnovers with vanilla ice cream.

  Without waiting for me to answer, she triumphantly announces, “Apple turnovers and the most delicious vanilla ice cream I’ve ever eaten. I think she bought it from that ritzy place on the corner.”

  Arriving at the pond, the brightness of the water dazzles under the sunlight. I let go of Peter’s leash and he trots to the edge of the pond and plops down on the grass, tongue lolling to the side. There’s an unoccupied bench nearby, and Mrs. Kreylis and I sit.

  Comfortably settled, she launches into a topic she loves to bring up each time we have one of our chats. “When are you going to find a nice girl?”

  I thread my fingers behind my neck and lean back, smiling. “I don’t know. You know any?”

  Mrs. Kreylis pushes her ancient glasses back onto her nose, the round rims too big for her delicate face. “The girl who brings my laundry is very sweet,” she launches automatically. “Now, what’s her name . . . .”

  “Alia?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Such a sweet girl.”

  “I think she’s married,” I remark solemnly, fighting to keep from laughing. She really does mean well.

  “Oh, well. We’ll find you someone else,” she replies, undeterred.

  A girl with long, blonde hair walks past. Her tanned legs seem to go on forever, disappearing beneath the fabric of her impossibly short skirt. She senses me watching and turns her head slightly right, just enough to meet my eyes. For a sec
ond, I picture her: eyes, a hypnotic honey brown, and her skin a pale peach, but the image in my mind isn’t the girl in front of me. The girl I’m thinking of doesn’t exist.

  Meshing can play tricks on you. Mesh too long, and the line between reality and fiction blurs. When I mesh, it’s because I’m seeking a thrill. Even if you’re engrossed in a story, thinking what you’re seeing is really happening, it’s not. But when my mind thinks of the girl in this latest vid, her face drawn in the mirror, pain etched across her delicate features, it’s too close to reality.

  I don’t mesh to feel. I mesh to escape.

  Even though my eyes are open and I continue to offer murmurs in response to half-asked questions and indignant remarks, my thoughts are far away as Mrs. Kreylis rambles about Mitchell and his insolent attitude.

  Instead, I think of Ivy.

  I need to get back to her.

  TEN

  ~Damion~

  All I see is black. Nothing is happening on the screen. The last bookmark should show Ivy sitting in the living room watching the news, but I see nothing.

  “Stop.”

  The vid flashes to the menu screen. Vicki smiles obligingly from behind her desk. “Your command, Mr. Scole?”

  “Current page number.”

  “Unavailable.”

  What? “Last page read.”

  “Unavailable.”

  “How?”

  Vicki taps her manicured fingernails across the desk’s screen. After a few moments, “I can see no technical failure. The vid is running, though no picture is available. This page is simply blank.”

  Jims. “Shut down,” I bark, ripping the visor off. “Thirty-five hundred for a busted vid.”

  I drag a hand down my face, beginning to feel the effects of a full day that has just begun to creep into the early hours of the next one. I stare at the visor, pissed and sad. Pissed, obviously, because I feel like I was ripped off. But more than that, I’m sad because I can’t see her, feel her. The sensory app in this vid puts my emotions into overdrive. Every sensation she experiences, I do too, more than any vid I’ve ever meshed. The people in vids are all avatars; actors who play out the scenes while in a green screen. Graphics on a good vid are just like real life; sweat, blood, all of it. But this is different. Somehow, I’m connected in a way that makes me lose control.