Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  A minute later, my dad calls, “Sunny, there’s a package for you.”

  Frowning, I drop my diamond earrings carelessly onto the bed; I wonder who could be sending me packages. I haven’t been back long enough to have ordered anything online. Of course, I suppose, it could be hate mail, but all our mail goes through stringent security checks before being allowed to be delivered, so that was unlikely. Tugging on my pyjamas, because they’re the closest thing to hand, I head out to take a look.

  Walking down the hall, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the circular mirror hanging on the wall and stop short. I’m a mess, my hair is a wild mass of fiery curls surrounding my face and my eye makeup is smeared, presumably from where I had tried to get off the fake eyelashes Micah had superglued to my eyelids. It makes me laugh. Not bothering to clean myself up, I continue on into the living room to see my dad standing over a large box.

  Nudging it with his toe, he asks tersely, “What is it?”

  “How should I know? I haven’t opened it yet, have I?”

  Scowl deepening, he says, “Perhaps we should get someone up here to open it.”

  “It’s already been through security checks,” I point out, indicating the red stamp over our address. Crouching down, I’m about to open it, but then I reconsider. It’s too heavy to lift by myself, I figure out after trying, so I glance up at my dad, asking grudgingly, “Can you help me get this to my room?”

  Once back in my room, having shooed my dad out, I use a pair of scissors to cut open the tape sealing the package before pulling back the flaps. Inside is a bulging black bin bag, with a folded piece of paper stuck to it with a stripe of cellotape. Ripping it off, I open it without hesitation and stare at the printed writing. Sunny, it reads, Sin asked me to get this to you as quickly as possible. Not sure what you’d need with a heap of junk, but whatever. Signed, Joel. Curious, I undo the knot in the top of the bin bag to peer inside. A mixture of contradictory emotions assail me: happiness, dismay, gratitude. Ludo is a mess of broken parts, exposed wires and loose bolts, but it’s still Ludo. And on top of it all balances my tool kit.

  I spend the next week voluntarily confined to my room, dividing my time between the video campaigns and fixing Ludo. He’s a complete and utter wreck, having obviously been dismantled none too gently and then buried, if the dirt in his creases is anything to go by. Despite this, once I have cleaned and organised the pieces, ascertaining what is missing in the process, he actually isn’t all that hard to put back together. The hard part comes when I have to dig around for the bullets that had punched through his breastplate to shred the wiring beneath. However, luck had obviously been on my side that first night in the Ghetto, because though he needs rewiring, nothing vital was damaged, meaning all his programming is still intact.

  By Friday I have my friend back, but after experiencing real friendship it feels like a hollow achievement; I no longer find comfort in the one sided friendship, because no matter how intelligent, Ludo will never care for me or feel any semblance of the varied emotions that go hand in hand with friendship. To avoid the sharp sting of loneliness, I throw myself wholeheartedly into the campaign to help Sin and the others. Briefly, I consider giving my dad a heads-up, but I quickly decide against it because all I would be doing is giving him time to prepare more lies. I’m not pulling my punches this time.

  While working out a plan of action, I also manage to find contact details for a Mr Joel Masters and send him a quick email. Obviously I don’t ask him about Sin outright, just in case the government is monitoring him, I simply thank him for the gift and ask when he’ll be doing voluntary work again. I also send my missive from a bogus email account to cover my tracks. His reply is prompt and pleasing. He will be ‘volunteering’ tomorrow evening and if I would like to help I should meet him at the shop at nine. My heart flutters at the prospect of seeing Sin again. However, my plans are derailed that evening when I venture out of my room to grab a bite to eat, thinking my dad was locked away in his office. Unfortunately, he appears to have the same idea as me and strolls in just as I’m fixing myself a cheese and tomato sandwich.

  “Did you make enough for two?” he asks, indicating the coffee pot I’d just put on.

  “No, but you can have it.” Slapping on the top slice of bread, I return the fillings to the fridge, shutting the door a little more forcefully than necessary and pick up my plate, about to leave.

  “Sunny,” he puts out a hand to stop me, “I know you’re angry at my right now, but we really need to present a united front tomorrow at Lady Emilie’s party tomorrow night. You don’t want to ruin my image, do you?” I had totally forgotten about the damn party.

  For a moment I can do nothing but stare at him in open disbelief, mouth hanging open, before my teeth snap together and my eyes narrow angrily. “Honestly,” I spit the words out, “I couldn’t care less about your image. All your policies are lies and I don’t want to be associated with them anymore.”

  “Sunny,” he berates me sternly, “now just listen to me…”

  “No, you listen,” I interrupt, shrugging off his hand, “I’ll go to your stupid party and paste on a smile, I’ll even be polite to all the other narrow-minded, bigoted guests, but after this I’m done.”

  “Done?” he challenges, puffing himself up. “What is that supposed to mean, young lady? As long as you live under my roof you’ll obey my rules.”

  “First of all, this isn’t actually your apartment, it’s provided for you by the tax payer only for as long as you remain President. Second, I don’t want to keep living here anyway.”

  Red faced and indignant, he’s still blundering around for an answer, all his political charm and quick thinking having abandoned him, as I push past. He doesn’t try to hinder my retreat, but then I didn’t really expect him too, though I have no experience in this type of situation. As strange as it may sound we’d never really argued before, which was probably mainly due to the fact that we hadn’t spent enough time together over the last few years to actually disagree over anything.

  Despite this lack of experience, however, the last thing I expect my stubborn dad to do is knock on my door several minutes later and call through the barrier, “There’s coffee out here.” His voice is curt and clipped, yet when I slide open the door once I hear his office door close, I find my favourite blue mug sitting on the floor, the thick, dark brown liquid inside steaming gently. Taking a sip, I find it loaded with sugar, just the way I like it. Maybe there’s hope after all.

  Around twelve o’clock the next day, Micah returns once more, armed with even more beauty products than usual, as well as a long white clothes bag draped over his forearm. It takes him several trips up and down in the elevator to get all his paraphernalia into the apartment and when everything is unloaded we begin the tired old process of making me “absolutely perfect”, as Micah says with a flourish once we’re finished.

  For a change, my hair has been allowed to remain loose, though the wild red curls have been tamed into smooth, sleek wakes that spill down my back and over my shoulders. Admittedly, my new ball gown is beautiful; made of silk, it’s a deep, luxurious purple halter-neck with a clinched waist, but still, it seems an awful waste, considering it will only be worn once, for a couple of hours, before being removed, put in my wardrobe and forgotten about, never to be seen again, since the Presidents’ daughter can’t be seen wearing the same dress twice.

  Back in my room, while Micah straightens my dads’ bowtie and styles his hair, I quickly set out another set of clothes, a pair of jeans and a simple black t-shirt, coupled with trainers and a light cardigan.

  “Hurry up, Sunny,” my dad calls impatiently, “we don’t want to be late, it’s bad manner.”

  Rolling my eyes, I head for the door; he was the one who’d waited until the last possible minute to start getting ready. Out in the hallway, my heels clicking smartly on the laminate floor, Micah turns to watch me approach with a broad, proud smile.

  “You, my darling, a
re going to be the belle of the ball,” he proclaims, leaning forward with his hands on my bare shoulders to kiss my cheeks. Drawing back, he’s still smiling as he says, “I’ve called you a car, it should already be outside waiting for you.”

  “Much obliged, Micah, thank you,” my dad says, patting him on the shoulder as he makes his way over to the elevator to scan his Brand. When the doors slide open, we both step inside and I raise a hand in farewell.

  “Have a good evening,” he calls as the metal doors shut on us.

  As we descend, my dad comments, “Micah’s a nice young man, he’d make a good match for you.”

  “Perhaps,” I shrug delicately, “but he’s not the same class as us, I wouldn’t want to cause a scandal.” Not to mention Micah was about as straight as a roundabout.

  Picking up on the derision in my voice, he turns to looks at me, one brow arched in consternation. “There is no one equal to us, Sunny, we’re at the very top of the pyramid.” I can’t believe he actually just delivered that line with a straight face; my own is a mask of disbelief. How can he possibly believe we are better than any of the people who voted him into a position of power in the first place? Without them we’d still be second class citizens, not the lowest of the low, but not part of the coveted elite either. “All I want,” he continues obliviously, stepping out of the elevator when we reach the lobby, “is for you to meet a man who respects you and loves you for who you are, not your social standing.” Unbelievable. He’s such a hypocrite!

  “Luckily for you I’ve already found a man like that.”

  Shooting me a sharp look, he stops just before we reach the doors leading out onto the street. “I hope you’re not talking about that Ghetto boy.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? He loves me for me, that’s all you want, right? You did just say you didn’t care about class.”

  “I didn’t say I’d approve of you dating a criminal though. The Ghetto Folk aren’t even part of the class system, they gave up that right when they committed their crimes.”

  “Do you even hear yourself?” I cry, throwing up my hands in agitation. “You talk about classes as if they’re a right, when they’re not, they’re an injustice; people should be judged on their abilities, not where they were born.”

  “That’s enough!” he snaps, “You’re insulting the very foundations this society was built upon, without the class system there would be absolute chaos, you know this.” Of course I knew the history; the revolution of 2035 was taught from pre-school all the way through to college level. Back then, people had treated each other deplorably, countries had warred against one another and built weapons of mass destruction, people had disagreed on race and religion. There had been fighting in the streets, massacres in schools, destruction on a global level. Just as the world was on the brink of nuclear war, a group of the worlds’ top minds came together to find a solution which, unbelievably, eventually resulted in peace worldwide and the class system being put into place in nearly every country across the globe. However, that had been over a hundred years ago, we had evolved since then.

  “The system worked all those years,” I admit, “but times have moved on and it now does more harm than good.”

  “That’s just your opinion, if the general public felt the same way we would have heard about it by now.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have, because anyone who disagrees with the government is sent to the Ghetto. We call ourselves a democratic society, but it’s a lie!”

  A sudden flash makes us both jump, heads whipping around to see a man standing pressed up against the glass wall with a professional black camera. The sound proof glass means he couldn’t have heard the subject of our argument and he can’t get into the building without authorization, but he’s probably got some pretty damning photos.

  Smoothing the lapels of his dinner jacket, just as the robotic guard stationed by the door goes to intercept the paparazzi and force him away from the building, my dad glances at his watch and huffs, “Now we’re late.”

  As expected, the ball is an unnecessarily lavish affair, held in a penthouse apartment similar to ours on the other side of the city, with women floating around in horrendously expensive dresses and solemn faced waiters making the rounds with tiny h’orderves balanced on their trays, while their female counterparts offered around flutes of pale, bubbly champagne. We’re announced upon arrival and from that moment onwards there is a constant stream of people vying for my dads’ attention and I’m required to stand quietly at his side, smiling politely and nodding along with their mind numbing conversation. Time drags. I swear the clock’s ticking backwards, but I keep a close eye on it nonetheless; I can’t wait to make my excuses and be gone from here. The cloying scents of hundreds of different perfumes are beginning to give me a headache.

  “There you are, Peter! I had begun to think you wouldn’t show.” A high, feminine voice titters and I glance up to see that the speaker is a tall, willowing woman with a pale complexion and blond hair hanging in waves over her shoulders.

  “I apologize for our tardiness, Emilie, Sunny was getting her hair done.” Smiling amiably, he kisses the blond on both cheeks, ignoring the look I shoot him.

  There is no way I’m taking the blame for this.

  “Actually, I believe it was the discussion in the lobby which delayed us,” I say sweetly.

  Making that annoying tittering noise again, Emilie asks, “What could possibly be so important that you just had to discuss it in the lobby?”

  Very satisfyingly, a tick appears in my dads’ cheek. “It was nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

  “Well, at least you’re here now,” she smiles, tilting her head coquettishly, though there is a hint of irritation in her voice, “and you’ve brought the guest of honour.” Turning her attention to me, she scans me up and down with a critical eye and I take the opportunity to do the same. Despite her cultured voice and the soft baby blue of her dress, she’s a sharp looking woman, with a pointed chin, cheekbones that could cut diamonds and cold, cold blue eyes. Meeting those eyes, I feel a pickle of recognition; I assume I must have met her before at another pompous function.

  “Talking about dreary old politics isn’t something a young lady should be doing at a ball,” Emilie continues. “Come with me, dear, let me see if we can find you a strapping young gentleman to dance with.” It’s a nice offer on the surface, but I’ve taken an instantaneous dislike to this woman and her fake smile.

  “Thank you so much for the offer, but I’m alright here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says with an airy wave of one ring adorned hand. “Come, come, I know someone who’d be delighted to meet you.”

  That someone turns out to be her son, Augustus, who is actually a year older than me, though he looks like a pre-pubescent; tall and lanky yet with absolutely no muscles to speak of and a face full of pimples. Not exactly what I’d call ‘strapping’. Despite his looks, I’m sure he’s a very nice person, however, I don’t stick around long to find out. After a couple of dances, during which time he stomps on my toes numerous times, doesn’t speak a syllable despite my attempts to strike up a conversation and only meets my eyes once – revealing that he’s inherited his mothers’ steel blue eyes – I tell him that I’m going to the bathroom, before disappearing into the crowd.

  Instead of trying to find a toilet to hide in, I head over to the bar, where a human bartender is serving. “Vodka and orange, please,” I say to the man serving.

  “May I ask how old you are, Miss?”

  Sighing, I don’t even bother presenting my Brand so that he can officially call my bluff. “Skip the vodka.”

  His lips twitch in amusement as he turns away to prepare my drink, serving it to me several seconds later with a little umbrella sticking out of the top. “There you go, Miss, straight orange juice on the rocks.”

  Sniffing in irritation, I accept the tall glass of rich orange liquid and step back, only to bump into someone standing behind me. “I’m
sorry,” I apologize, turning to face a stocky old man with a shock of thick white hair and kind brown eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it, love,” he smiles down at me, “no harm done.” Nodding, I move away without another word.

  After wondering around for a while, losing myself in the crowd of colourfully dressed socialites milling around beneath the crystal chandelier, I find a secluded corner of the balcony and lean against the iron railing to stare out at the city. Far down, on the street, cars glide soundlessly along, ferrying people to their next destination, the noise from the party raining down on them. It’s because of the swelling music and the chorus of voices spilling out of the door that I don’t hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Right behind me, someone clears their throat loudly and I jump sky high, whirling around.

  “Whoa there, girly,” the old man from the bar steps back quickly, though he’s still smiling, “bit jumpy, aren’t you? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Hand over my pounding heart, I can only stare at him for a moment, before expelling a breath. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry.” His smile widens, moustache twitching. “Colt Mason at your service,” – Why does that name sound so familiar? – “I’d offer to shake your hand, but they’re both full at the moment.” Glancing down to verify that statement, I see that he’s holding a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand and a tall glass of what looks to be the same drink as mine in the other.