by Tessa Clare
As subtly as I can muster, I mouth, ‘He’s cute.’
Tate laughs. ‘Get his number,’ he mouths back.
I bury my face in my sleeve to stifle a giggle. Roman clears his throat, interrupting our silent exchange. “So, April...”
I turn my attention back to him, shaking the thoughts out of my head. “Yeah?”
He looks like he wants to say something; but instead, he watches me for a long moment. I wasn’t kidding when I told Tate that he was good-looking. Sure, he’s a bit awkward, but he has a handsome face and an aura of sincerity. I wait for him to say something, but I don’t think I can look away if I tried.
Roman can, however. He’s the first one to break the silence. “Sorry. I – uh – I forgot what I was going to say.”
I realize at that moment that I haven’t begun making his drink. I queue two shots of espresso and start steaming a cup of milk. I try to lighten the conversation by saying, “Were you about to compliment my fantastic drink making abilities?”
“Yes!” Roman exclaims, a bit too quickly. A blush forms when he realizes what just happened. “I mean, no – that wasn’t it. But that is true.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I say, a bit proud. It may be a minimum wage job, but it still feels good to be complimented on it. The drink is almost done, but I wanted to hold onto it for a bit longer so that we can keep talking. “Where do you work, Roman?”
At those words, Roman immediately tenses. He looks away. “Err – around…”
His sudden shift in mood is alarming. “Are you always this vague?”
“No,” says Roman, shifting his feet. When I don’t say anything further, he elaborates, “I work in IT.”
“A computer science guy!” I exclaim. It’s not a unique profession (in my College 101 class, it’s one of the most common majors), but I’ve spent my entire life around politicians and businesspeople. The steamed milk is done, so I pour it into an empty cup. Casually, I ask, “Do you like it?”
Roman shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Again, with the vague answers,” I observe. The drink is finished, so I hand it to Roman. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me as much as I initially thought he did.
“Sorry,” Roman apologizes. He eyes the drink, but he doesn’t take it. “I’m not trying to be vague. It’s just…” He pauses, then he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not used to talking to gorgeous girls. It’s a little nerve-wracking.”
I nearly drop the drink. Sweet Hades. That hair is going to be the death of me.
“Did that come out weird?” Roman asks, his face turning pink. His face turns to horror. “That definitely sounded creepy! I’m sorry. I swear, I’ll leave you alone if you want me to…”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not it at all.” I glance at the cup in my hand. Tate told me to get his number, but I feel like being a little more creative. “I need a minute.”
I quickly move to the back office – brushing past Tate, who is watching the scene unfold before him with keen interest. It reminds me of a picture I saw in a museum: a man sitting on the edge of his seat with a bowl of something called Pop Corn. Tate eyes the drink in my hand.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I search the desk for a black marker. “Following your advice.”
I scribble on the cup: ‘Life is short. Don’t waste a single moment.’ Underneath it, I scribble my Mobiroid number. I think I’m done, but then I see Tate standing in the corner. I think of when he made fun of my hourglass drawing; and, to prove a point to him (and myself), I draw a miniature hourglass on the side of the cup.
“Nice,” Tate nods in agreement. He chooses not to comment on my added touch.
I practically race to the front of the shop with the cup in hand. By then, I’m certain that the drink is cold. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Roman is too awestruck to notice.
I hand Roman the cup. He takes it, though he looks confused by the happy expression on my face.
“Don’t forget to keep the cup,” I say with a wink, before seeing him off.
I can’t say that the rest of the day was eventful. We had a mid-afternoon rush; and by the time it was over, I had forgotten all about Tate and his idiotic lectures about my life decisions. I’m no longer irritated with him by the time I’m ready to go home. We re-bonded over an afternoon session of experimenting with different coffee concoctions (the most notable being a peppermint and passion fruit combination that I’ll probably never recover from). When it’s time for me to leave, he corners me in the backroom office.
“You know you’re my only friend out here, right?” Tate says. His face is pensive, but his blue eyes are wide and inquisitive. He’s looking for validation like he always does. I can never tell if it’s because he needs it or wants it.
I want to remind him that he’s my only friend as well, but my pride won’t allow it. I swallow. “I know.”
Tate crosses his arms. “That means I’m going to be pretty pissed off if I have to bail you out.”
I roll my eyes. Whatever validation Tate was hoping to get from me has officially gone out the window. “You know that I’m the daughter of Henrik McIntyre, right? Bail money would hardly make a dent in my massive trust fund.”
It’s a shame my parents had grounded me and blocked me from accessing it.
The thought of my late father only reinforces why I want to do what I’m about to do. My dad was only fifty years old when he was elected. He lived a good life, but fifty years is still young. There were rumors that he hadn’t even opted into immortality (of course, I knew that was a lie). He wasn’t known to be a pleasant person, but a demonstration in front of the bureau’s Midwest headquarters still erupted. I suspect that the general public’s outrage has less to do with his life and more to do with the fear that it can be any of us.
I put on my facial mask; then I check the weather report on my Mobiroid before I head out the door. Clear skies, 70 degrees, and – most importantly – an Air Quality Index of 150. Not bad.
My car is parked in a public parking garage that’s located three blocks away. I use a remote to queue one of the doors to open for me, before stepping into the interior of a vehicle that smells of peppermint. The thought brings me back to the passion fruit and peppermint concoction that I had just a few hours previously. I try not to vomit.
A robotic voice purrs: “Hello, Miss McIntyre. Please enter your destination.”
I enter the Divinity Bureau’s headquarters into the screen next to my seat.
My car drives and parks itself, as it’s illegal for people to be driving manually on public roads. Typically, I use this time to watch TV and surf the net; but today, I’m staring out the window and contemplating about what I’m about to do. It should be easy. Hold a sign, show my support, and try not to get arrested. It’s been a year since I’ve been on television, so I’m hoping that no one recognizes me.
My mind wanders to the last protest I had attended: the one after my father was elected. At the time, I had been proud of what I was doing. I was standing up for what I believed in, which is something that my father had dedicated his entire life to do. But when my dad bailed me out, he cursed me out for spending his final weeks embarrassing him (“Biting a fucking police officer?” he had said in astonishment. “I passed laws that would make that a federal offense!”). He cut me off from my trust fund until I learned to “take responsibility” for my actions. I spent the remainder of his life resenting the fact that I had been grounded, forced to attend weekly therapy sessions, and obliged to get a minimum wage job that hardly allowed me to live the extravagant lifestyle that I once had.
A glass building comes into view – one that I remember quite clearly from my nightmares. The Divinity Bureau’s Midwest Headquarters is a twenty-story skyscraper shaped like an isosceles triangle. The building appears to be made of glass, but I heard rumors that the glass is bulletproof. The roof was shaped to look as though it pointed towards the heavens, which is said to symbolize the bureau as a sta
irway to heaven. I can’t help but be amused by the irony.
Parking is never easy in District 200, not even with a car that parks itself. In the end, I find a pay-per-hour garage several blocks away. From a distance, I can hear the chants of protesters and the drumming of a snare drum.
“Hey, ho! The Divinity Bureau has got to go!” a voice enhanced by a microphone calls out.
The crowd quickly repeats the speaker’s words: “Hey, ho! The Divinity Bureau has got to go!”
What?
I glance down at my sign, suddenly unsure of myself. I grew up in a world where changes – from policy making to parenting decisions – occurred behind closed doors. Standing in front of the bureau with nothing more than a crudely-drawn sign, I feel overexposed.
To be honest, I’m not even sure if I want the Divinity Bureau to go. Logically, I know that there is something wrong with the idea of a government agency deciding who lives and who dies; but what else needs to happen? Billions of people live in this world, and hardly anyone is leaving it.
I take another look at my sign. If I hadn’t spent two hours drawing the hourglass design and more time sitting in traffic for this protest, I would have turned around in a heartbeat. But I did.
A realization hits me: I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not a policymaker. I’m not even a politician. Solutions for things like overpopulation are for people like my father. All I need to do is make an appearance, show my support, and, when it was over, cross one item off my bucket list. What do I have to lose?
With newfound determination, I follow the chants. I contemplate standing in the back, but police officers surround the area. Instead, I find myself standing in the middle of the crowd.
An array of senses overtakes me. I can smell tobacco smoke and sweat, even through the supposed protection of my face mask. The sound of drums is pounding in my ears. And the sights! Everywhere I look, there’s something new to look at – the pointed building, the brick courtyard, and the protesters. I can tell that most of the protesters aren’t immortal. Most have gray hair and wrinkles. One man is holding a sign from his wheelchair. And the unfortunate reality is that many haven’t opted out of immortality by choice.
Police officers surrounded every corner. The sight nearly sends me running back to my car. Am I supposed to be there? Would I get arrested?
But once my mind adjusts to the activity around me, I take a closer look. The police officers – covered from head to toe in black metal gear that makes it look like they’re more prepared for war than a protest – aren’t arresting anyone. Some are even joking and laughing amongst themselves.
I’m not doing anything wrong. I have every right to let my voice be heard. Even if I’m intimidated by the protesters that surround me, the protest itself is peaceful. They – like me – have been impacted by the Divinity Bureau, and we all deserve to be here.
Despite my mixed feelings, I find myself chanting along: “Hey, ho! The Divinity Bureau has got to go!”
Halfway through the protest, I notice the air quality clearing up – or maybe I’ve just grown accustomed to it. Still, it’s not often that I can breathe in fresh air, so I pry the plastic mask off my face. I’m not ashamed of what I’m doing. I can’t be – not if I want my voice to be heard. That means that I shouldn’t need to hide my identity.
I’m watching a woman dance in the middle of a drumming circle when I hear a familiar voice call out: “Excuse me! Excuse – oh! I’m so sorry! Excuse me, sorry again!”
Geez, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone apologize so much in such a short period. No one, except…
Oh.
In the corner of my eye, I see a head of dark curly hair attempt to push his way through the crowd. When I glance in his direction, I rub my eyes to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me.
It’s him: Roman. I hardly recognize his face through the face mask, but there’s no mistaking his voice and head of dark hair. He has a black laptop bag swung over his shoulder, while his other hand is holding a badge. I think about calling out to him; but by the time it crosses my mind, he’s already at the front of the crowd.
Please don’t tell me he works for the Bureau.
You’d have to be heartless to make a living killing hundreds of thousands of people every quarter. I gave him my number because I thought he was sweet, sincere, and even a little sensitive…
But when he makes his way to the front door, and a police officer lets him inside without a second thought, there’s no mistaking it.
Roman works for the Divinity Bureau.
CHAPTER THREE
ROMAN
T he Divinity Bureau’s Election Day is a federal holiday. Banks and federal offices – including the bureau’s headquarters – are closed for the day. I have the day off, so I used it as an opportunity to visit my new favorite coffee shop. The banter alone had been worth an hour of traffic, but when she handed me a cup with her phone number, I thought that I’d hit the jackpot.
I was standing outside my car, in the process of inputting her phone number, when I felt a vibration on my wrist. A text came through: I can’t get my computer’s projector to work. Is that something you can fix?
It was my neighbor, Marla. She lives in the apartment below me. I’ve hardly ever interacted with her – occasionally, we’ve made light conversation in the elevator – but I guess that she had gotten my number from someone else in the complex.
It’s not a secret that I’ll barter my skills in computer engineering for food and money. It’s more exciting than my day job, and there’s no way that I can survive on twelve sterling an hour without a little extra side cash coming in. The message came at the right time, as I was starting to run low on cat food.
It took another thirty minutes of sitting in traffic, but I made my way home to pick up the computer. I knocked on Marla’s door, and she invited me to her apartment to look at the computer.
The computer itself was only a keyboard and a wireless mouse, but there was a button above the keyboard that would project a computer screen wherever she wanted. Unfortunately, according to Marla, whenever she pressed the button, nothing would happen. Immediately, I know that it’s a hardware issue. One of the connectors looks like it’s fried. I’d need to fix it at the bureau, as I didn’t have the appropriate equipment at home.
I cringed at the idea of sitting in more traffic.
“I don’t need it for another few days,” Marla offered when she saw the look of dread on my face. “Maybe you can fix it while you’re at work tomorrow?”
“I can’t,” I say through gritted teeth. “My work has a non-compete clause. I can’t do any computer work for anyone while I’m still working there.”
It’s complete bullshit. I can hardly make a living from my government paycheck. Still, that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do it anyways.
The best time to do my work is today, Election Day. The building will certainly be empty. Even if it isn’t, the protestors will draw most the attention. Another hour of traffic, but maybe I’ll be able to splurge on real meat instead of the lab-grown crap that I feed myself with every day.
That brings me to now: pushing myself through a crowd of protestors while I fumble to find my badge. In an area surrounded by police, the last thing I want is to be mistaken for a protestor. I finally make it onto the front steps of the bureau when a familiar face in the corner of my eye catches my attention.
April.
For a second, I think that I’ve gone crazy. April McIntyre is standing less than twenty feet away from me. She’s not wearing a face mask, which is a horrible decision. The place reeks, and the pollution level is still at hazardous levels. She almost blends in with the crowd – almost.
“April!” I call out, my heart thumping in my chest.
She gives me a side eye, but she doesn’t respond. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me in my face mask.
“April!” I call out again. I make my way towards the crowd to reach her.
Once I’m clo
se enough to see her, a smile crosses my face. She can’t see it, thank heavens, because I’m sure I look like an idiot.
“Hey,” I say, a little out of breath. “So, I meet you at your work, and now you’re following me to mine? Is that what’s happening here?”
I assume she knows that I’m joking, but she huffs and crosses her arms.
“Sorry,” I say, raising my hands up defensively. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just…” I trail off when I see the sign that she’s holding.
It’s dangling sideways from one of her clenched fists. I need to tilt my head slightly to read it. When I do, its meaning is loud and clear: No Justice in the Divinity Bureau.
She’s protesting the Divinity Bureau. More accurately, she’s protesting the organization where I spend forty hours of my life, and that pays my bills. That’s a huge problem.
“April?” I ask, realizing that she hasn’t said anything to me.
Maybe I’m better off letting this one go. There are billions of people in this world, and I’m bound to meet the right girl eventually. But I like this one. Is chemistry enough to see past what is possibly a glaring red flag?
“I can’t believe you work for them,” April spits out, immediately dashing my hopes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, hoping denial might help my case.
April’s eyes narrow. “You know precisely what I’m talking about! You work for a bureau of murderers!”
“I…”
“God,” she groans, tugging her hair. “I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I gave you my number!”
I stare at her, unable to understand why she’s upset. She has no idea how close she had come to sharing her father’s fate. She would have if it weren’t for me. I saved her life, and it’s not fair to group me in the same category as a “Bureau of murderers.”
“That’s rich,” I say dryly, unable to stop the words from coming out of my mouth. “Coming from the daughter of Henrik McIntyre!”
April’s mouth falls open, and it hits me that she hasn’t told me about her father. I know that my biting words are going to come back to haunt me.
