by Anne Tibbets
“I’m twelve,” she lied.
“Like hell you are.”
“Do you think they really care?”
She had me there. “No. I can’t do it. Just...go back to bed. We’ll figure something out in the morning.” I was stalling, and I could tell she knew it. But I didn’t know what else to do.
“I’m going anyway.” She stomped to her cot and curled up.
“No, you’re not!”
She didn’t answer. She turned her back to me and stayed still.
I watched her for a few minutes, waiting for her to continue the argument. “Evie!”
She ignored me. After a minute or two, her breathing softened to regular and slow intervals. I hoped she’d fallen asleep.
This was crazy. Taking an unpaid prostitute who I thought loved sex to the Line was one thing. But taking a ten—or eleven-year-old girl so she could escape her molester was something different.
How had it come to this?
There had to be a way to help Evie without messing up my own plans. I just couldn’t think what it was.
I made mental note to ask Shirel in the morning. She seemed to know things and had helped Evie before. Hopefully she could come up with something, because I had no ideas. All I had was some credits.
Credits.
Maybe if I gave Evie some of mine, or got her out of Central. I could buy her transfer orders, get her a job in that commune Shirel had mentioned. But I didn’t know if the transaction would be approved by the Line, or if I did that for her, would I be giving up my only chance to get myself out of Central.
The only thing I could think, after asking Shirel, was to get a bulletin first thing in the morning to check the job listings. Then I could ship off Evie, find another replacement and join her later. That was the best I could think of.
And it all had to happen before the babies were born.
Six months and twenty-one days left.
It was an awful plan. And I knew it.
My vision faded. As active as my mind swirled, my body was spent.
I lay on my cot and tried to think some more, of a better idea, but I drifted off to sleep.
* * *
The next morning I awoke with a start. Shirel and Oliv were yelling at each other, again. Gretchen chimed in every now and then, adding nothing of worth.
It took a moment or two for me to fully awaken before I managed to understand what they were saying.
“You don’t know?” Shirel pointed a sharp finger into Oliv’s chest.
“I’m not her mother. How the hell would I know?”
“Yeah, Shirel. How the hell would she know?” Gretchen asked.
“Shut up, Gretchen.”
“She talked about sweeping, that was all.” Oliv sat on her cot and slipped on her ratty shoes.
“Maybe she went to work early,” Gretchen offered.
I glanced at Evie’s cot. It was empty.
I gasped aloud.
Shirel reeled on me. “You know where she’s gone?” She pointed her finger at me now.
“I hope not.”
She had no patience for my cryptic answer. “What?” Her face had gone an odd shade of pink. “Come on. Either you know, or you don’t—spit it out!”
“I think she’s gone to the Line.”
Oliv’s mouth dropped open. Gretchen actually smirked, and Shirel looked stricken.
“You kidding me?”
I told them an abridged version of my conversation with Evie the night before.
“And you let her go?” Shirel shrieked.
“N-No,” I sputtered. “I told her to wait. That’d we talk about it this morning. I was going to ask you—”
“Stupid!” Shirel spat, and she kicked the leg of the cot to her right. “And you thought she’d actually listen?”
Oliv shook her head in disappointment and stood. “What a dumb kid. She’s wrecked now.”
Gretchen shrugged and turned to leave. “Oh, well. You tried.”
Shirel was the only one who seemed aghast. “We have to stop her!”
Gretchen waved Shirel off and went out the door, no doubt to try to be first in line at the recycling factory.
Oliv raised an eyebrow at Shirel. “Look, it was her choice. Nothing you can do about it. Sounds to me like she thought it through.”
“She’s ten years old!” Shirel turned a brighter red.
Oliv shrugged and went to the door. “What are you going to do? Bring her back here? You can’t take care of her. You don’t have enough to feed yourself! Why do you think her mom took off? Don’t get me wrong, I agree it sucks. But we can’t save her. She’s on her own and she’s made her choice.” With a final glance at me, Oliv left.
Shirel looked ready to pummel her, so it was probably best she had. After a few moments of labored breathing, she turned her fiery eyes back on me. “I’m going after her. You coming?”
I could think of a million reasons why I didn’t want to, but I knew this was my fault. “Okay.”
* * *
We walked several blocks down 14th Street and turned right on Avenue X, headed straight to the Line. Shirel led. I think she knew I didn’t really want to go.
At the prospect of returning, my bones felt electric. Shaky.
It was like walking back into a nightmare, not that I knew what those were. I hadn’t dreamed in years.
As we got closer and closer, all my newfound emotions boiled over, bubbling hot vapor under my skin. Toxic fumes seeped from my pores, poisoning the world and those around me and covering me with the sticky, smelly sweat of panic.
I was about to reenter hell.
Torture.
Pure, untethered, emotional torture.
Suddenly the brightness of the sun was too bright. The pavement under my feet was too hard and dirty. The grotesque air of Central grew too thick to breathe.
When we got to the Line door, I froze. My skin went clammy. My head lifted off my shoulders as if full of helium.
I wanted to vomit, just to release the pressure inside me.
“I can’t do it.” I took a step backward. “I can’t. Shirel, you don’t understand what it’s like in there. What they made me do. What if they won’t let me back out?”
Shirel set her jaw and grabbed my elbow, dragging me into the reception area. I stifled a scream.
The same reception nurse from before sat behind her desk, the phone cord dangling from her earlobe.
The smell of antiseptic from the infirmary, just behind the stainless steel door behind the desk, burned the inside of my nostrils.
The humidity in the air saturated my skin.
In the waiting area, three men in folding chairs held application tablets in their hands, trying to look as if they belonged but failing miserably.
The sight of them loosed a whimper from my mouth.
Perverts.
“Evie,” Shirel reminded me. “We’re here for Evie.” She dragged me past the men and to the receptionist, who was typing like there was no tomorrow.
My eyes found the manager’s door behind her. It was slightly ajar. Deceivingly warm light emanated from the doorjamb.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked, not without attitude.
“Did a little girl just come in here?” Shirel blurted.
The receptionist blinked. Her crisp white uniform was pressed firm and she had obviously just eaten her breakfast because she had food in her teeth. “I’m sorry?” Her eyes stayed with Shirel, and it occurred to me that she may recognize me.
Did that matter?
“You deaf?” Shirel spat. “I asked if a little girl just came in here asking to go on the Line.” She certainly had a way with people.
The reception
ist stiffened. “Are you a relative of this girl?”
I snapped back to reality enough to realize where this was going. “Y-yes.”
Shirel was confused but had the good sense to cover it quickly.
“She’s my little sister,” I said, “and I revoke her admission. We no longer wish to sell her to the Line.”
One of the men in the waiting area noisily dropped his application to the floor. All eyes went to him. He turned ashen. He was out the door like a shot.
“Right, Mom?” I nudged Shirel.
“Right,” Shirel said after a brief pause.
The receptionist produced a black palm scanner from behind her desk. She patted the tight bun on the back of her head with her other hand. “Identification, please?”
Shit.
I pulled Shirel by the sleeve, moving her behind me.
The receptionist squinted at me as I did this. Maybe she did recognize me.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” I said, eyeing the manager’s open door. “We do not wish to sell her. Please bring her out!”
I heard the front door open and noticed that the rest of the applicants had vacated the waiting room.
Good.
“Without proof of identification, we cannot release any occupants of the Line to anyone,” the nurse said. “Including people claiming to be members of her family. I’m sure you understand. It’s for the girls’ safety.”
I scoffed.
Shirel cleared her throat and with the slightest motion of her head, signaled we should leave.
I had other ideas.
I ran—around the receptionist’s desk and behind, bursting through the manager’s open door. The receptionist screamed for security, and I heard Shirel pounce on her with a growl.
Inside the office was the good-looking man with the extra-wide smile. He was seated on his leather couch, wearing a different suit and tie. Across from him, in the overstuffed chair, sat Evie.
The man got to his feet and was about to scurry out the door behind his desk when he recognized me and stopped.
Evie gushed relief. “Oh, Naya. This was such a mistake!” She stood and ran to me.
“Naya!” the man proclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Evie wrapped her little arms around my waist. I patted her back.
“Did you convince Evie to come here?” he asked me.
“No.”
He pursed his lips with mock disappointment. Luckily, Evie didn’t notice.
“He kept asking me all these strange questions about Mr. Coleworth and what he made me do,” she said. She was crying now and seemed so young.
I shot the man a look of disgust and to my surprise he appeared defensive.
“Standard entry questions,” he explained. “To assess her level.”
Such an asshole.
I knew “levels” determined how far an appointment could go with a girl. Not that it ever stopped them from doing whatever they wanted anyway.
“She won’t be staying,” I said. I could hear Shirel shouting and fighting with security in the reception area.
“How unfortunate, for you,” he said.
I gritted my teeth.
“Evie just told me all about you, Naya,” he said. “And how she’d gotten the idea to come here after meeting you.”
He was rubbing it in.
My chance at freedom, for my babies’ freedom, had just slipped through my fingers. Or, more honestly, was wrapped around my waist and crying like the child she was.
I could convince her to stay.
I could get on with my life, move to West. Start over.
Evie’s arms trembled with renewed sobs.
What was I thinking? There was no way I would have been able to trade someone to the Line, anyone at all. I was an idiot to think that I ever could have.
“I had rather hoped this was your opportunity for a fresh start,” the man said.
“Go to hell.”
His eyes shot wide.
Just then, the door from the reception area burst open. Three security guards had Shirel in a body hold. I caught a glimpse of the reception nurse crying behind her desk with a black eye and a bloody nose. Shirel didn’t look much better, but she had a sly expression on her face as if the experience had been rather enjoyable.
“Sir, request permission to escort this intruder to a cell,” one guard said. He held Shirel’s arms pinned behind her back.
Shirel struggled, and the three of them adjusted their hold.
“She’s with me,” I said to the asshole, who’d gone behind his desk and was scrubbing his hands with sanitizer.
“Get these three out of the building,” he said.
“But...” The guards struggled to maintain their hold on Shirel, who repaid them by spitting blood on their uniforms.
“Out!” the man said. He gave me a knowing look. “Better luck next time.”
There would not be a next time. I was sure of that.
The three guards didn’t release their hold on Shirel until they shoved us back outside into the greyness of 10th Street. Evie was still wrapped around my waist.
The guards locked the door behind us.
Shirel called nasty names through the glass door and then spit more blood on it before wiping her mouth on her sleeve and cursing some more for good measure.
I sighed heavily and the smell of trash filled my mouth, making me gag. Evie let go just in time to dodge the vomit. I made sure to aim at the Line’s front door.
When I finished heaving, Shirel was grim. “Now what?”
I didn’t know.
Chapter Six
We went back to the boarding house. It was empty.
Good.
Shirel was hungry, as was Evie. I wanted to vomit again, but I was the only one with credits, so I splurged and bought some food. I figured after that disaster at the Line, my credits would be cut off soon. I might as well stockpile as much as possible.
Fresh produce was hard to come by in Central, but there was a merchant out in front of the boarding house who had some root vegetables and flat bread, so I bought a few. I also overpaid for a salami and a couple of jars of water. Back inside, Shirel pulled a hot plate and a small pan out from under her bunk and started slicing the salami against the floor. But her hands shook so badly, I took the knife from her and did it myself.
I knew what I was doing. It was almost second nature. Hugo, the chef at the restaurant, had taught me long ago. Several lifetimes ago.
Some things you can never unlearn.
As I sliced the salami and cubed the onion, the familiar action calmed my nerves, settling my stomach. My hands moved without thinking. Part of me liked remembering back when Hugo and I were both slaves at the restaurant. The secret cooking lessons. The trips to town to buy produce.
Then again, another part of me hated the memories.
It was pretty pathetic that it was the only joy I had ever known.
I took my feelings out on the vegetables and fried them up crisp and fast, twirling them in the pan without a spoon or a fork. Then I tossed in the cubed salami and served the mixture to Evie and Shirel, using a piece of flatbread as a plate for each of us.
Evie didn’t think twice about it, rolled the bread around the food and devoured the whole thing almost instantly, but Shirel sat on her cot and eyed the meal in her hands, then me.
“You can cook.”
I shrugged, not wanting to get into it.
I was thankful Shirel let it go. We stuffed our faces in silence. With a belly full of food, Evie soon fell asleep.
As I washed the pan in the bathroom sink, Shirel stood beside me at the other sink and ripped off a sleeve. She patted her bloodied face. When we got back to th
e room, we sat down on our bunks, too exhausted to speak.
Shirel slid the cooled hot plate under her bed, and I rested my eyes, leaning my head against the wall.
After a week of beer and sausage sandwiches, I felt better than I had since leaving the Line. Who knew the secret to fixing a chronic nauseous stomach was eating? The feeling must have been on my face because Shirel chuckled. When I opened my eyes, she was grinning at me.
“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“You know,” she said, swirling her hands in the air. “That thing with the pan.”
I debated telling her. It was hard to think about. But I had to admit, Shirel was the closest thing to a friend I had in Central. I remembered how long it had taken me to open up to Peni and I regretted it.
It felt like time wasted.
“Before the Line,” I said, “I was at a restaurant as a dishwasher. When I was five to thirteen. The chef, Hugo, showed me how to cook when the owner wasn’t looking. Until we got caught, and then she sold Hugo someplace else.”
“Why didn’t she sell you?”
“Good question. Next time I see her, I’ll ask.”
Shirel cracked a grin. “You look good. Got some color in your cheeks. How far along are you?”
“What?”
“You’re still pregnant, right?”
“I think I’m about two months along or so.”
She nodded. “You should try and eat a lot of meat and dairy. It’s good for the baby.”
“Oh. Okay. You have any kids?” I was hoping she’d give me some much-needed words of wisdom, but I could tell from the pained look on Shirel’s face that I’d struck a raw nerve.
“Long time ago. They’re all grown now.” She hastily changed the subject, and I let her. “You been to a doctor yet?”
Wait...
Oh my God.
Technically, I’d seen a doctor at the Line. Supposedly, that had happened when I’d been knocked out, after being hosed off by that blonde nurse, but it suddenly occurred to me there was a problem with this. I’d never seen a doctor on my own. I’d never questioned whether or not I was actually pregnant. I’d taken their word for it and gone on this quest to find a replacement, and I had no idea if it was even true.
