by Laura Preble
“You are dense.” Jana shakes her head and leafs through the pages until she finds the one she wants, then thrusts the magazine in my face. “Read it.”
A quick glance at the front cover tells me what I need to know: it’s a magazine for Perpendiculars. Why does my sister have it?
We’d been so involved in what we were doing that we hadn't heard footsteps on the landing. A sharp knock, and Jana scrambles to put the stack of magazines back in the drawer, shoves the wooden panel on top, and yells, “Yes?”
“Jana, is Chris in there with you?” David calls through the door.
“Uh...” Jana motions for me to be completely silent. Dammit. I feel like I’m going to sneeze. “He was in here. I think he went outside.”
David jiggles the brass doorknob. “Can I come in?”
“I'm changing clothes,” Jana calls, opening and closing a drawer for emphasis. “Can you give me a minute? Want me to come downstairs when I'm finished?”
I can feel David breathing outside that door, strategizing his next move. He wants Jana for some reason, and he wants to speak with her immediately, probably about me and my maladjustment. We wait him out.
“Fine,” he finally says. “Come to the parlor when you're dressed.”
“Sure.” Jana shoves another drawer shut. “Almost decent. Be right down.”
We listen for the footsteps on the stairs (thank God for creaky wood!) and only after we hear David's voice booming downstairs do we breathe again.
I stuff the magazine inside my jacket, and Jana nods silently as she checks the false drawer once more to be sure it won’t be detected. “Can you go out the window?” she asks quietly.
“What is this, Jana? Why do you have it?”
She puts a finger to my lips. “Just go somewhere and read it. We can talk later. Be back for dinner.”
I don’t know what to do. Is she setting me up? What if I take off and she tells them where I went, and what I have? “I don’t want to read it.” I try to hand it back to her.
“No.” She pats my jacket. “I still have two more in the desk. If anyone catches you, you can tell them where you got it. I’ll be in trouble too.”
“But why are you—”
“Just read.” She shoos me toward the window. “Try not to break any bones on your way out.” She opens the window slowly, so it doesn’t squeak. A gust of fresh air, followed by the scent of coming rain, washes into the room, and I feel like a wild creature escaping a too-small cage.
Chapter 4
Wind whips my jacket as I run across the back yard, down the lane behind the house, out into the main road. I keep running until I can’t run any more. The watery sunlight drains from the clouds as I trot into a clearing, find a pile of leaves, and fall into it.
Staring into what’s left of the pale blue sky, I feel like I could just stay here forever, bury myself under this tree and forget I exist. Forget Carmen, forget my fathers, forget Jana and whatever twisted plan she has. Why would she know anything about Perpendiculars? Why would she have some Perp magazine stuck in her desk? Unless she’s one too.
Could she be one too?
I yank the magazine from my jacket. Liberation—what a word. This is prison, if anything. It’s frightening to open it, like I’m unleashing some demons into the world, demons that will never go back between those pages. Liberation. The cover’s pretty plain, just a grainy photo of an old barn with a group of people sitting in front of it in a circle, a headline reading Canadian Retreats. I flip it open, and on the first page there’s an ad with a man and a woman holding hands. Ugh. I get the pit-of-the-stomach feeling I’ve been conditioned to feel all my life, but then that feeling’s replaced with something else: is it hope? Joy?
The page Jana wanted me to read is bent slightly, and the magazine opens to it. I stare into the face of a boy about my age, with night-dark hair and violet eyes like a storm over the ocean. His expression is angry, defiant; the headline above his picture reads Rebel Returns, by AJ.
It's summer, and that means the heat and humidity are back, especially out West, where the revolution is heating up more than ever. And when you say revolution and California together the person who springs to mind is M. A., leader of the west-coast arm of the PLA.
M. spoke to A J. about life after El Centro Perp Reconditioning Camp, from which he recently escaped.
AJ: How bad was it in the camp?
M: I was captured in northern California, in transit
to a safe house. Somebody saw my picture on the FBI
list and tipped off the police, so they watched me,
grabbed me, and hauled me off. That was three months
ago. I was sent to El Centro, to the Reconditioning
Camp there. What I saw made me sick. I had heard
about the camps, but never been to one. We've got to get
those people out of there.
AJ: What was so horrible about it?
M: Kids as young as 8 or 9 were there, as well as
adults, old people, anybody suspected of being a Perp.
There were people there who actually weren't Perps at all,
just supporters. We pretty much worked all day, sun up
to sundown, and at our camp, at least, the work was agricultural.
We picked strawberries, oranges, almonds, with little rest,
minimal water. I saw at least three people die in the three
months I was there, from dehydration and malnutrition.
AJ: What did they do to “recondition” you?
(Author's note: M pauses; it is difficult for him to talk about the experience.)
M: I can only say what they did to me. They put me in a
room and exposed me to images, over and over, of
men with women, and…inflicted physical pain.
They kept me awake for hours, maybe days, I don't know.
I couldn't sleep, they did something to keep my eyes open.
When they showed me photos of women, they...
(he pauses, unable to complete the comment.)
AJ: Did they torture you?
M: Yes.
I throw the magazine away quickly, toss it to the ground as if it were contaminated. I feel nauseous. Torture. The word echoes against the walls of my mind, rings like a bell, drowns out everything else I can think about. They tortured this guy, this kid, because he was attracted to females. Nobody talked about it. Nobody said anything about it! What about the loving God, the one true God, the one who forgives all sins and protects the innocent? Such a bunch of hypocrites. My father, he's the biggest one. Talking every Sunday about God and love, when he's helping people torture other people for loving who they want to love!
The buzz of the cell phone makes me jump. It’s Warren. I have to wait another ring to calm down enough to answer. “Hello?” My voice cracks, and I try to cover up the magazine, even though he can’t see it through the phone.
“Chris?” Warren sounds falsely cheerful. “Where are you?”
“Went for a walk.” I try really hard to sound normal. I’m sure it doesn’t work.
After a pause, Warren says, “Dinner's almost ready. Can you get home soon?” There’s a rustling sound coming through the phone, the clang of a pot or pan, then a door closing.
“Yeah, okay. I’m—”
“Hurry up. People will be arriving soon.” A door creaks open, and Warren’s voice becomes louder, more cheerful. “I didn’t make dinner so I could be the only one eating it. Hurry up.” The phone clicks dead. People arriving. Oh, Jesus, please don’t let Carmen be there.
Time to go and pretend I’m a good, dutiful Parallel, which is going to be damned near impossible if she’s there. I leaf through the magazine again—letters from people who’ve gone underground, photos with faces blocked out, ads for services. There’s a whole community of people living under the surface of the “real” world. If I didn’t have it in my hands I wouldn’t have believed it.
Jana is obviously not prank
ing me on this. This is too elaborate, even for her. Which means it must be real. There are groups of people out there, people who are unashamedly Perpendicular, who live together and aren’t afraid.
I can’t do that. Even if it is true, I have to bury it. I have to be what I’m supposed to be.
Carmen’s face appears in my mind. Her smile, the way her hair hangs across her cheek, the tan hands, so delicate and strong. When I think of her, it feels like drinking a shot of whisky or getting a hit of adrenaline. I don’t even know her. It’s stupid to risk everything for nothing.
I scoop dirt from the base of the tree, dig with my fingers until I have a hole roughly the size and shape of the magazine. I drop it in, cover it with the dirt and leaves, and, on the street side of the tree, I use my house key to carve a Parallel sign.
Walking home, the description of the reconditioning camps keeps running through my mind, even though I try to stop it. The face of that boy, not much older than me…why would someone torture him? Why would they want to hurt him? They’d hurt me too, if I ever told anyone. Cold air burns my lungs as I watch my feet walk home.
“You’re back!” Warren greets me as I softly close the back door. His forearms are dusted with flour, and something in the oven smells delicious. I’m not hungry, though. “He’s going to be here in a hour, so you should go shower and change.”
“Hmmm.” I trail a finger through the leftover flour on the baking center and trace a path that circles in on itself. “What are we having?”
“Pork roast.” He opens the oven, pulls the pan out, and checks the dinner. “Looks like it’s perking along.” He turns to me as he slams the oven door shut. “So? You doing okay?”
“Sure.”
He blinks at me, studying my face as I stare down at my flour labyrinth. “I don’t like to see you like this.”
“Like what?”
He sighs, then puts a dusty arm around my shoulders. “You’re depressed, Chris. I don’t blame you.”
“Why?” Does he know too? God…I hope not. I couldn’t stand that.
“Why don’t I blame you, or why are you depressed?”
“Either.” I smudge the labyrinth with my index finger. “I better get ready.”
“You’re not leaving the conversation there, are you?” He snorts and grabs a bottle of wine from the counter, pours himself a glass, and points to a kitchen chair. “Sit.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want. Sit down.” He nods toward the table, and I sit. “Now. What were you and Jana arguing about?”
“Nothing.”
“Please.” He takes a sip of merlot. “Don’t insult me. I know something was brewing up there. I have a sixth sense.”
What do I say? I’ve never been able to lie to him. But this…I can’t tell him. He’d have to tell David, and then what? It’d kill him to have to turn me in. It would put him in a horrible situation. “Okay. There was something.”
“I know.” He stares expectantly at me with owl eyes.
I lick my lips, stalling for time. “She’s mad at me.”
He rolls his eyes. “When has that ever not been the case? Give me some new information. You two have been scuffling since birth.” Birth. That’s it. I can use that.
“She says our birth mother is the same, but I say she isn’t.” There. Plausible. Emotional. Fight-worthy.
Warren takes another sip of wine, and studies my face, weighing whether or not he believes me. Time to pad that lie.
“I know you probably think it shouldn’t matter, but I don’t think we are genetically linked.” I try to sound superior. “Her mother must have had some kind of weird rebellious streak or something. Or maybe she was mentally ill.”
“Do you think we would’ve chosen someone who was mentally ill? That’s the whole point of surrogacy. They screen people, and you choose somebody who is compatible with your genetics and interests. Mentally ill people do not act as donors or surrogates.” He seems to be buying it for the moment. “Seriously, Chris, that’s what you two were fighting about? You could’ve just asked.”
“Oh.” I guess I would’ve asked if it mattered at all, which it doesn’t. But I’m stuck with it now. “I didn’t know if you’d want to talk about it.”
“Why not?” Something beeps. “Oh. Hang on.” He rushes to the second oven and takes out a perfectly golden apple pie. “All right, well, we can talk all about that issue after tonight. Let’s just get through dinner and dessert without any major casualties, okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just don’t want you two fighting about this at dinner, embarrassing your father.” He places the pie near the window, which is open just a crack, and the steam wafts out as if escaping.
“We wouldn’t talk about this over dinner,” I say, shaking my head. The lie becomes more comfortable each time I tell it. “Something like a birth mother isn’t that big of a deal.”
“Sure sounded like a big deal,” he murmurs.
Big deal. If he only knew.
Chapter 5
I watch out the front window like a kid waiting for a bad report card to come in the mail. When Lainie’s black Lexus pulls up, my palms start to sweat. And that’s before Carmen even gets out of the car.
“Chris, can you put the crudités out, please?” Warren calls from the kitchen.
“They’re here,” I mutter as I stumble in. “Lainie and Car…the girl.”
“Great, they’re early,” he grumbles, handing me a silver platter of carrots, celery, and other vegetables arrayed artistically around a dipping sauce. “Hurry.”
I’m pointlessly rearranging baby carrots and rose-shaped radishes when the doorbell rings. Jana runs down the stairs and opens it as I take way more time than I need to place the platter of snacks on the coffee table. I hear the pleasantries exchanged, but listen for Carmen’s voice above the others.
“And this is my brother, Chris,” Jana says, steering them toward me.
Lainie, all zebra-print scarf and shocking blue pantsuit, eyes me curiously. “You were at our meeting today, weren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, struggling not to squeak. I try not to look at Carmen, but it’s impossible. Behind her gaze, detachment. Like nothing ever happened.
“You must have seen Carmen there, then.” She beams at the girl, who pastes an empty but friendly expression on her face. “Carmen Wilde, Chris Bryant.”
Carmen extends her hand, and I feel the air go out of my lungs as if someone sucker punched me. I have to shake her hand…if I don’t, it will look weird. But if I shake her hand, I might not let go. God.
I cover the panic with a racking cough, then wave at her. “Oh, sorry. Allergies. Nice to meet you.”
She lets her hand fall to her side, purses her lips, and murmurs, “Sure. Nice to meet you, too, Chris.” Do I imagine it or does she linger on my name just a second too long?
Lainie doesn’t notice. “I’m so excited to get to sit down and talk with Jim McFarland. The west coast is ahead of us in so many ways, and I’m sure he has some great ideas about the future of the church and the Perpendicular League.”
Warren sweeps in and rescues me. “It wouldn’t be a dinner party without you, Lainie.” He offers her a glass of red wine, which she takes with a huge smile.
David trots briskly down the stairs. “Lainie!” he says as if she's an old friend. He kisses her on both cheeks. “So glad you could be here.”
She returns the air kisses. “It was so good of you to include me, David.” What phonies. “And this is Carmen Wilde, from California. Alexandra's daughter.”
I almost choke when David looks at her. I'm so afraid that she'll somehow tip off what we are, but he barely looks at her.
“Nice to meet you,” he says dismissively before focusing on Lainie again. He doesn't see. How could he not see? I feel like I’ve turned bright green with polks dots since this afternoon, like neon rays of lust are shooting out of me toward Carmen. “Now,
Lainie, let's talk about topics for tonight's dinner.” He takes her by the elbow and steers her toward the parlor.
Warren watches them and then says, “Chris, could you help me set the table?”
Lainie turns back toward us. “Carmen, could you run along and help as well?”
Carmen glances at me as if we’ve both been sentenced to prison. “Sure,” she says softly before looking away.
My upper lip starts to sweat as we follow Warren into the kitchen.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Warren says, smiling at Carmen in that warm, charming way he has. “I’m Warren.”
“Carmen.” They shake hands and she smiles nervously, a Cheshire cat keeping a damning secret. “I love your house. So nice of you to have us over.”
Warren’s on to the roast, his head halfway in the huge oven. “You’re most welcome. Let’s get those settings out, before this meat walks away by itself.”
I wordlessly show Carmen where the good china is kept, and we pull ivory-colored plates from the shelf. We’re trying so hard to avoid each other that I drop a plate in a shattering explosion of ceramic and gold leaf.
“Good God, Chris! Be careful!” Warren glares at me. “That cannot be replaced.”
“It was my fault,” Carmen blurts out. “We reached for the same plate at the same time. Can I offer to pay for it, Mr. Bryant?”
He chuckles. “David is Mr. Bryant. Call me Warren. And no, you can’t pay for it, but thank you for offering.” He grabs a broom and dustpan and thrusts them into my hands. “Chris, let’s try and get through dinner without further damage, okay?” He has no idea what damage is possible. But I won’t let him find out.
After cleaning up, I grab silver from the polished mahogany case and point toward the dining room. “After you,” I say, trying not to look into Carmen’s impossibly beautiful eyes.
“Sorry about the plate,” she says softly. She’s waiting for me to look at her, which is awkward, but I have to do it. When our eyes meet, my breath sticks in my throat. All I can do is nod, stare at the floor, and push past her into the dining room.
The bell rings again. McFarland. David jumps to answer it as we set plates in symmetrical patterns, Lainie close on his heels. A blast of chilly air from outside sweeps into the room, carrying the scent of the overly spicy aftershave McFarland slathers on. Baritone chatter fills the hall, punctuated with Lainie’s fawning alto.
