“Mason,” Jemma said, “you’re going to have to talk to her and look at her.”
Mason nodded his understanding. “I can do that.”
“Talk about things she’s interested in, though,” Jemma said. “Not just things you know about. And eye contact, Mason. Look at her a lot. Count to five before you look away. And let her touch you. At least three seconds before you move.”
“Three seconds.” Wait. Three seconds or five? Better go with five on everything, just to be sure.
“Brush up against her arm as you walk,” Zane said. “Make it look accidental. That’s what I do. And if you run out of things to say, compliment her.”
“Say she looks pretty,” Jemma said.
“Again and again or just once?” Mason asked.
“Send her a pre-date text tap,” Zane said. “Say you’re looking forward to the date. And text her right after the date to say you had a nice time. Then wait, like, four days and make another date. Don’t wait longer than a week or she’ll think you don’t like her. And not sooner than three days, or she’ll think you’re gummy.”
Perhaps Mason should have brought along a notebook and pen.
“Where are you getting all this?” Levi asked Zane.
“I took a class,” Zane said. “They’ve got classes for everything.”
Mason doubted he had time to take the class.
“That reminds me,” Levi said to Mason. “Zane got you a private Wyndo. Tap me when you’re in a secure location because I need to tell you about some developments we’ve had since I saw you last.”
Tonight, Jemma mouthed. We’re leaving the bunker. She pointed at the door, making her fingers move like a walking person.
Leaving? That must be why Jemma had been hiding behind the refrigerator.
“Communicate with Ciddah on your regular Wyndo, though, since hers is monitored,” Zane said. “The one I made you is only for talking with us.”
“I understand,” Mason said, though Zane didn’t seem to be worried about anyone monitoring their conversation. Who but General Otley and Lawten Renzor were they afraid of?
“So you think the medic knows something?” Levi asked. “About the boarding school?”
“Um …” Mason didn’t understand. Was it safe to talk about this? It must be or Levi wouldn’t have asked, right? “She knows everything about it. But I made her angry today when I … Oh! I forgot.” Thoughts of the date with Ciddah had turned his brain to mush. “Enforcers attacked Jack’s Peak a few weeks ago. I saw Kosowe today in the SC. She’ll have had her ETP by now. Three embryos. And I also discovered Shaylinn is carrying twins and they’re Omar’s. Twin pregnancies have a higher incidence of nausea, so that’s likely — ”
Jemma gasped and clapped both hands over her mouth.
Levi groaned and set his face in his hands.
“ — why Shaylinn has been so sick.” Clearly Mason had gone about sharing that news in the wrong way as well. Could he do nothing right today?
Yet Zane chuckled as if this were great entertainment. “You people are better than watching C Factor. I see why you’re worried about your date, though, peer. Tact is not your strength.”
CHAPTER
7
Red tugged on Omar’s hand, trying to pull him off the sofa. “Come and dance, valentine.”
Omar pretended not to hear her and took another puff from his PV. If she thought he was completely juiced, she’d leave him be. And that’s what he wanted. To be alone.
She eventually got the hint and sauntered off to the dance floor on her own. The disco lights made reflections float around the room and over the dancers. Omar watched Red from the sofa, not ever looking directly at her. She approached a couple and started dancing with the man, whose partner didn’t look pleased about the intrusion.
Typical Red. She could turn on the charm for anyone. Omar really didn’t like her very much. Or did he? He couldn’t decide. She was just so … pushy.
Relationships in the Safe Lands weren’t exclusive. If a guy saw a femme he liked, he went after her. By that logic, Omar could have gone after three girls today.
And Shay yesterday.
The thought brought on the familiar aching guilt that haunted him. Levi was right: Omar made all the wrong decisions. He was using Red … and abusing his body with the stims. He’d already contracted the thin plague. It was his fault so many of the Glenrock elders had died. And then to have such thoughts about Shay?
Truly, if he was looking for fairness in life, death was the place to start. He deserved to die for the things he’d done. No question.
He took a long drag from his vaporizer but knew this concoction wouldn’t kill him. Why couldn’t he be consistent with his doses? When he wanted more, he cut back. And when he thought he was getting too crazy with the juice, he pushed it further.
Who was Omar Strong, anyhow? What was his life worth? The people of Glenrock saw him as a traitor. Could he ever change that perception?
He took another drag and closed his eyes, wanting the buzz to be more than it was, wanting it to pull him under, to escape to that euphoric place where nothing mattered.
“Hay-o, Strong.”
Omar opened his eyes in time to see Zane fall into the chair across from him. He’d slicked back his hair tonight — no spikes. The disco lights sparkled on his nose rings. Omar focused on the place where Zane’s ear should be. Creepy. “What happened to your ear, anyway?”
Zane rubbed the side of his head. “You here with Red again?”
“Fine, don’t tell me.” Omar shrugged one shoulder. “Came with Red. Hoping not to leave with her.”
Zane chuckled. “I hear you, peer. I lived that nightmare myself. Can’t believe you’ve lasted this long.” Zane stared at Omar, squinting his eyes a little. “You talk to Levi today?”
“About the move? Yeah.” He had to be over at the bunker at three in the morning. He should probably be home sleeping right now. Zane hadn’t responded and was still staring. “What?”
“So you roughed up a few times. Move on. Don’t cower at your brother’s feet like he’s some kind of enforcer rank.”
“I never cower at anyone’s feet.” Except maybe Belbeline’s. Maybe Zane could help him get into the Highlands where he could try to find Bel. Like it would matter. “I have to do what Levi says. He’s the village elder.”
“What village? You people are in the Safe Lands now. Look, this place will destroy you. I know it’s hard to resist. That stuff …” He nodded to Omar’s vaporizer. “And that …” He nodded to the dance floor where Red was dancing with a girl with FloArt lightning bolts up her arms, which glowed neon blue and pink under the black lights. Wow … Zane kicked Omar’s foot, ripping his gaze away from the girls and back to him. “You’ve got to fight it, peer. If you let yourself get lost in it, you lose who you are.”
“What’s it matter?” Omar asked. “I never knew who I was, anyway.”
“Who you are and what you’re about are the only things that do matter. Don’t let this place turn you into a mimic.”
“I’m not a mimic.” Omar might wear some of the popular colors, but he’d never color his hair or skin. He preferred SimArt to Roller Paint.
“There’s more to mimic than fashions. This place kills the soul. Most people are walking around half dead. And from the look of you, you’re well on your way. Fight it, peer.”
Omar still didn’t know why it mattered. “What about you? You’re infected, right?”
“Yeah … and I still have moments of weakness. It burns to live your whole life separated from reality, to be trained to resist only to find out training isn’t enough. The temptation is too strong. And it feels good to give in. Real good. And suddenly you wonder about everything you were ever taught. Who was right? Does any of it even matter?”
That sounded about right to Omar. “Does it?”
Zane stood up and limped over to stand in front of Omar, looking down. “What you do doesn’t matter as much as who you a
re. But you have to decide who you are. Who you want to be. And no one can decide that for you. Not your donors, not your brother, not some flame, and not that juice. You decide. Then you stick to it with everything you’ve got. Once you know who you are and what you stand for, you’ll know what matters and what to do about it.” He slapped Omar’s shoulder twice as he moved around the sofa. “Figure it out before you die, okay, peer?”
“Yeah, sure.” Easier said than done, though.
Zane left, and Omar watched Red and the FloArt femme dance, thinking over what Zane had said.
Who was he? Back in Glenrock, he’d always wanted to be a hunter, but that was over now. Then he’d wanted to be strong. He supposed he still wanted that, but lifting weights wasn’t enough. He wanted to matter to people, to be a hero. And he wanted a nice girl like Kendall Collin or Shay.
Omar left Red on the dance floor and exited the club. Outside, the temperature was cool. He paused to watch a helicopter sail overhead and wondered what the enforcers were doing. Enforcers were the only ones who used helicopters in the Safe Lands, and only a select few had access.
A yell pulled Omar’s gaze down the street where some guy was kicking an electric sign that had once hung on the marquee of the Night Owl dance club. The electric orange pipes that outlined the owl sparked each time the guy kicked it.
Omar had always liked that sign. Someone had painted intricate feathers on the owl, but in the dark, he could see only the orange outline of the bird and the yellow circles that were its eyes.
Owls were solitary, watchful, intelligent, nocturnal —different from most birds. Misunderstood, like Omar. He sometimes thought he even looked like an owl with his round face and large eyes.
A sudden rage took over — likely stim-induced. “Hey!” Omar ran toward the guy, ready to defend the sign if need be. But the guy took off down the street, abandoning his prey.
Omar stopped and stared at those yellow circles. “You and me,” he told the sign. “We need to make some changes.” He picked up the dented metal, careful not to cut himself on the broken glass piping, and carried it back to his apartment.
When he walked through his apartment door, the sign whacked against the dumbbells he’d left on the floor. He really needed to put them somewhere else. It was 11:57 p.m. He had to be at the bunker in three hours. Might as well pull an all-nighter.
He set the sign on the floor in the middle of his kitchen and marveled at the workmanship that had gone into its creation. It wasn’t glitzy like most of the Safe Lands signage. Someone had painted each feather with black, brown, yellow, and white paint — they were all unique. Omar grabbed a screwdriver from his art box and set to work removing the brace bands that held the glass piping in place.
The people of Jack’s Peak saw owls as an omen of death and destruction. And while Omar found such superstitions foolish, he liked the idea of an owl as a messenger, the way Bender used the messenger office to communicate with other rebels.
Owls were also hunters. Omar had never been skilled at hunting deer, elk, or bear. But owls hunted smaller game. They were cunning. And they had the ability to notice things, to see and hear better than most. Omar had those strengths too.
He needed to prove himself — redefine who he was and who he wanted to be. He didn’t want to be “traitor” anymore. He didn’t want to be “juicehead” or “flaker,” either. Or any of the names his father had called him: crybaby, wimp, girl, sissy.
Omar wanted to be a hero.
He took a draw from his PV, and the burning taste told him it was empty. He pocketed it and grabbed a beer from his fridge, drank half of it, and set the can on the floor under his easel.
He removed the thin sheet of painted aluminum from the sign’s frame and carried it to his bedroom. He stood before the mirror, holding the sign in front of his chest. Squinting one eye, he imagined himself with wings. He carried the sign back to the kitchen where his easels were set up and dug out his canvas of the Owl superhero he’d started a few nights back.
Omar had been branded a traitor. It would not be an easy image to change in people’s mind. But if he could hide his face behind a mask … create a hero people loved … maybe then, when he finally revealed himself, he would have a chance at redefining his image.
He needed a costume. Perhaps the sign could be formed into a breastplate of owl armor, but reshaping the aluminum would cause the paint to flake. He could get fresh metal and paint it after it was shaped, but aluminum or steel wouldn’t stop an enforcer’s SimScanner or stunner — or bullet, if someone were to use a real gun. If he couldn’t protect himself, why not be comfortable? Maybe he should just design SimArt that would display feathers all over his body. He’d been getting tired of the chain design on his arm, which had been the first SimArt he’d done himself.
Omar stared at the sketch of the Owl, his thoughts sloshing in his mind like colors in an ink tumbler. He recalled Levi telling Jordan about how the stunners hadn’t worked on the chest waders he’d worn into the Safe Lands. If Omar could find a suit of rubber, perhaps he could craft himself a different kind of armor.
The enforcers had taken Levi’s chest waders, but Shay had found an old black-and-white wetsuit when she and Aunt Chipeta had cleaned the bunker. She’d put it on and flapped around the bunker like a penguin until everyone was laughing.
What had she done with it? He’d have to ask her the next time he saw her.
But he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to make his suit now. He glanced at the clock on his Wyndo wall screen. 12:26 a.m. He had time. He finished his beer then headed out into the night. He stopped at a stim store to fill his PV. They had a special on something called a stim cocktail. It was half the credits of what Omar usually vaped, so he decided to try it.
He entered the storm drains and headed toward the bunker, using his off-grid Wyndo to light his way. The water wasn’t terribly deep, so he waded through it even though he was unable to keep his feet where he wanted them. Too much beer, perhaps.
He sloshed down the tunnel, vaping and dreaming about his costume. Oils would take too long to dry. He did have some tubes of fabric paint that he’d used to paint wings on his curtains. He’d likely need to buy more, though.
By the time he reached the bunker, he was shivering and his pulse was racing. He was glad they were moving above ground. The door seemed extra loud, especially when he closed it. His steps too. The air around him felt electric, like time was going faster than it was, yet he could see it moving … so did that mean it was really moving slower?
He stood in the corridor outside the main room for a moment, holding his Wyndo above his head, trying to remember which room Shay slept in.
The one on the end. With Mary.
Omar walked that way, mumbling to himself. “Where’s the penguin suit, Shay-Shay? I’m going to turn the penguin into an owl so it can fly.” He giggled and cracked open her bedroom door, then shifted and held his Wyndo inside first. He squinted to make out the forms on the beds inside. One was much larger than the other.
That would be Mary.
He crept inside, trying not to laugh. He held his Wyndo close to Shay’s head to make sure it was her. The tinsel in her hair shone in the white light. He tap-tap-tapped the Wyndo glass against her forehead.
“Shaaay,” he whispered. “Oh, Shay-Shay. Wake up, Shaylinnnnn.”
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She’d taken out the green contacts and her eyes were brown again. Burnt umber, actually, like the tube of the color he bought from the Task of Art store the last time he’d been in the Highlands, thinking of Shay’s eyes, quicksand eyes that made him sink into their depths, never to return.
Walls, his thoughts were coming super-duper fast from whatever was in that stim-cock-a-doodle-doo-tail.
“Omar?” Shay said. “What are you doing?”
“Shhhhh. Don’t wake Big Mary.” He threw back her covers. She was wearing a tank top and shorts. The top had twisted around her waist, making her body look … well, p
erfect. He stared at her, mesmerized. Such a pretty girl, Shay was. When did it happen? How did he miss it? “Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty — ”
“What are you doing?” She tugged at the covers, trying to pull them back over her.
So Omar slipped into the bed and rolled onto his side, facing her. The bed was warm and smelled like honey, which made his stomach growl, and he wished he had something to eat. He shivered under the soft warmth of the blankets and snuggled into them. “You smell good.”
“Well, you smell funny. And you’re wet.”
“I’m making something special and I need your help. Say you’ll help me, Shay-Shay, please? I want to turn a penguin into an owl.”
“Omar, it’s one in the morning,” Shay whispered.
“When did you get so beautifully pretty?”
Her eyes flashed wide, and she pulled the covers tight under her chin. “What are you doing here? And what’s wrong with your eyes?”
“I want to paint you, your eyes and your hair, so I can hang you on my wall and see you all the time and stare.” He snickered. “That rhymed, Shay-Shay. Did you hear it? Hair and stare. Paint your hair so I can stare, stare, stare at your hair.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
Why was he? He blinked, trying to remember. And it came to him in a breath, like there was too much air to breathe and it gave him a pulsing rush of energy. “I need the wetsuit with the penguins. I mean the black-and-white one you put on that day to look like a penguin when you made everyone laugh so hard they cried and then you took it off. What did you do with it? Please say you kept it and didn’t throw it away because I need it for my special project of making an owl into a pink … into a p-penguin.” Deep breath. Wow. Can’t focus.
“Uh … it’s hanging in the closet.”
His cheeks were tingling. “In this room?”
“Yes.”
He threw back the covers and hopped out of bed, but he couldn’t see the closet. He felt for his Wyndo, but it wasn’t in his pockets. Where was it? Where? He spun around, looking at his feet, then back to Shay’s bed. She was sitting up now, clutching the blankets to her chin. He wanted to pull them away and stare at her again, but he ran his hands through his hair, trying to remember why he was here.
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