by Tessa Clare
Mr. Eastwood raises an eyebrow. “And yet, your family still opted to stop their aging.”
I stand up, defiantly glaring at him. “You mean, what’s left of my family?”
I wait for an answer from Mr. Eastwood, but all I hear are quiet whispers from my surrounding classmates. I cross my arms, daring him to speak further; but he refrains from commenting. Instead, he turns his attention back to the timeline. “After the burning of the constitution, can anyone tell me what happened after that?”
I turn on the audio recorder on my Mobiroid, deciding that I’ll listen to a lecture at a later day. The topic of my family is still a sore subject, and I hate it when people that don’t know me comment on it. I browse the internet and ignore the curious glances from my classmates. Then, when Mr. Eastwood isn’t looking, I pull out my Mobiroid and text Roman to let him know that I’ll be unavailable this evening.
Once the class is over, I make my way home. My commute is spent attempting to memorize vocabulary for my Biology class. We’re studying the structure of BIONs, and I have my work cut out for me.
I scan through vocabulary. Immunized ribonucleic acids, titanium ribonucleic acids. I don’t understand the difference.
As soon as my car is inside the garage, I head for the kitchen. I’m planning on microwaving a bag of popcorn, but the mechanical maid greets me. CLEO’s robotic voice drones: “Good morning, Miss McIntyre. How can I be of assistance?”
I check the clock. Something is off. “It’s like, four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Setting time to four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“It’s not actually four o’clock,” I correct. “It’s probably more like four fifteen. I don’t know…”
“Setting time to four fifteen in the afternoon.”
I wave a hand dismissively, giving up. With the robot frozen in place, I enjoy the freedom of cooking my popcorn without a machine following me around. I can see sunlight streaming through the kitchen window and wind that is lightly bringing the water to the shore. The nice thing about District 220 is that we’re far away enough from the pollution of District 200. Sure, we wear a mask on some days, but not as often as the residents of District 200. Today is one of those days where I can enjoy the sun and the wind on my face. I don’t want to waste a good day by spending it inside, so I grab my computer and move it to a table on the balcony. I’m about to turn it on when the sliding door opens.
“Mind if I join you?”
I turn my head to find my mother standing in the entryway. I want to tell her that I’d rather be alone; but before I can say another word, my mother is pulling out a chair and taking a seat next to me. She pulls out a cigarette and sets it between her lipstick-stained lips. She pats her pocket down, before realizing that she doesn’t have anything to light her cigarette. “Do you have a lighter?”
I’m appalled that she even asked me that! “You do know that I quit smoking a year ago, right? Your psychoanalyst friend beat that habit out of me.”
My mother eyes a pack of matches that are lying on the table. “Just checking,” she says nonchalantly, as she strikes a match and lights a cigarette.
Now that my mother is immortal, she doesn’t have any reason to quit smoking (other than the fact that it smells disgusting). The BIONs will just heal all the tissue damage that the tobacco causes. I, on the other hand, spend way too much time near District 200 that I’m not willing to pollute my lungs any more than I need to.
I hit a button on my hard drive. A computer screen is projected in front of me, wide enough that it takes up the entire space in front of me. I can shrink the projection if I wanted to, but I’m hoping that the screen between my mother and me will discourage any further attempts at conversation.
“So, how are your meetings with Darcy?” my mom asks, oblivious to my need for space. “She let it slip the other night that you were still seeing that Roman boy.”
Just like that, the projection in front of me disappears. I can picture the therapist divulging private information to my mother, and the thought makes my fists clench. “Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, you can’t blame her,” my mother says, waving a hand dismissively. “She had a few drinks in her, and I did push her for answers.”
“So, you two are chatting about my mental health over drinks?”
My mother takes another drag of her cigarette, confirming my suspicions. My jaw tightens in displeasure.
“That’s my private business!”
“I only asked, because I’m your mother!” she counters. “I was worried about you! Speaking of which, why aren’t you taking your medications? She prescribed them for a reason!”
The mention of my medication only fuels my anger. I stand up from my seat and shoot my mother a glare. “Oh really? What reason is that? A quick fix for her best friend’s crazy daughter?”
“April, you have to understand that you were out of control before I sent you to her!”
“I was eighteen!” I roar. “My dad had just died! Did you ever think that maybe I was just trying to cope?”
“You’re nineteen now!” my mother counters. “There’s not much of a difference!”
“Of course there is!”
“How so?”
I grab my computer off the table, determined to end the conversation. “I went nine months a year without him! I’m sure I can survive the rest of my life just fine.”
My mother’s eyes soften. “You regret not making amends with him before he died. I can understand that.” She looks away. “I’m sorry for a lot of things. Some days, I regret not following him to District 1 when he became a part of Parliament – and other days, I regret not leaving him the first time I found out that he was cheating on me.”
I stop in my tracks. My mother’s words find its way under my skin.
“Sometimes, it takes a lifetime to find a healthy method of coping,” she continues, then she turns her attention back to me. “And I’d hardly call biting a police officer at your father’s protest a healthy way of coping!”
Just like that, any sympathy I felt for her vanishes. I grab my computer and walk the opposite direction.
“Just think! You were on the news! How will that look when you’re trying to find a job!”
I want to tell her that I have a job – one that isn’t needed thank you very much – but I’m cut off by the sound of my Mobiroid vibrating. I glance at my wrist and read the caller ID: Roman Irvine. I hit the “Accept” button and let the call transfer to my earpiece.
“Hey, baby!” I answer, a bit too perkily. “How’s it going?”
Roman’s laugh fills the other end of the line. “Since when did you decide to start calling me baby?”
I shrug as I make my way back inside. I close the sliding glass door behind me. “I don’t know. It feels like it fits.”
“How do I fit in the same category as an infant?”
His tone is light and teasing, but I still turn red. Maybe I’ll let that pet name die. “Never mind.” I pause as I approach the elevator. “Give me a second. I’m about to get on the elevator. I might lose signal for a few seconds.”
“Where are you?”
I press a button with an arrow pointing upwards. “Home.”
“Your house has an elevator?”
“Of course. My parents are way too lazy to walk up four flights of stairs every day.”
The mention of my parents brings back the sting of my earlier argument with my mother, but the elevator arrives before I can dwell on it further. “One second…”
The elevator brings me to the top floor, where my bedroom is practically beckoning to me. As soon as I close the door, I ask, “So, Mr. Irvine, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you are free tomorrow.”
I hesitate. Tomorrow is my birthday, which means that it’s also the anniversary of my dad’s death. The last thing I want to is to commit myself to plans that might involve birthday cake and candles – and yet, maybe a distractio
n is what I need. Plus, it’s not like he knows when my birthday is. I haven’t told him. The chances of him knowing the significance of the day are rather minuscule.
“I’m free,” I reply. “What do you have in mind?”
Roman’s idea involves picking me up at noon and telling me to wear a dress. “Nothing too fancy,” he emphasizes. “Think more business casual.”
Business-casual is a strange term to me. They’re opposites, like saying dress for the hot-cold weather. And yet, I opt to wear a black dress that I pair with heels and a leather jacket that matches my black face mask. I tip-toe out of the house in a successful attempt to avoid my mother and sister.
I’m not sure what my family wants to do. Before my dad’s death, we’d celebrate my birthday by going out to dinner. Occasionally, my dad would fly in to celebrate with us. This year, the day serves as a reminder of the most trying day of our lives; and my birthday represents that. Maybe a distraction is well-needed.
Roman takes me to an Italian restaurant that’s tucked away in District 230. The establishment is located in the town square of a quaint suburb, stationed near a looming clock tower and next to a movie theater. The prices aren’t high, though I’m sure that Roman had to work a few extra hours of overtime to take me here. The fact that he’s willing to put in extra work for me makes me feel elated and guilty at the same time.
I’m not surprised to see other patrons that are wearing black dresses and suits, but Roman is taken aback. Black clothes are everywhere we look, and Roman’s red button-up shirt is beginning to stand out.
We’ve already ordered our food when he finally notices. He brings his voice to a whisper. “It’s the bureau’s deadline day.”
I nod. “I know.”
“Do you know anyone that was elected this quarter.”
My stomach lurches. “Not this quarter.”
“That’s good.”
I hesitate. The black suits are reminders of everything that I hoped I’d be able to avoid today. “It’s the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death.”
Roman’s face falls. “Oh.”
I don’t know what I expected him to say. The topic is dark, and I’m not in the mood to sadden myself when Roman had gone out of his way to take me somewhere nice. I decide that a change of topic is in order.
“The good news is, today is my birthday!” I say as enthusiastic as I can. In my ears, my voice sounds forced.
I’ve just revealed my biggest secret of the day. I expect Roman to look surprised. I’m sure he’ll be asking me for clarification before wishing me a happy birthday and apologizing that he didn’t get the chance to get me anything or take me anywhere.
Then it occurs to me that he’s taking me to a restaurant that is out of his usual price range. The clothes look a bit too fancy. He’s also eying me nonchalantly, un-phased by this new piece of information. The waiter is setting our food onto the table at the same moment that the pieces click into place.
“You already knew that, didn’t you?” I ask, my tone more accusing than I had intended. I swallow. “How did you find out?”
Roman looks away, a guilty expression on his face. “I might have looked it up in the bureau records. I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss it.”
I stare at him.
He.
Looked.
Up.
My.
Fucking.
Birthday.
His face contours to alarm. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” He looks away, thinking about it. “That probably is a little weird…”
I look down at my food. I ordered a veal cutlet. It’s the first time in years that I’ll be eating real meat instead of synthetic meat.
“What… what else is there about me in the bureau records?” I ask slowly, afraid of the answers.
“Nothing much,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Just – err – the usual stuff.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The usual stuff?”
“You know, things like birth records and known aliases,” says Roman, though he still isn’t looking at me. “It's all pretty boring.”
I don’t know what to say, so I fill the silence my cutting my veal cutlet open. The aroma of fresh meat hits my nostrils and takes away some of the disgruntled feelings. As soon as it’s in my mouth, I can feel the annoyance simmer away.
Roman, sensing my change in mood, offers me a smile. “How is it?”
The meal is the most delicious food I’ve ever had in my mouth, even if it is a dead animal.
“Like two decades of my life have gone by,” I admit, knowing that he wasn’t talking about my birthday. I take another piece. “Roman?”
He freezes up. “Yeah?”
“If you ever use your Divinity Bureau connections to look up information about me again, I’ll cut your balls off,” I say menacingly, holding up the knife for emphasis. I take another bite, then swallow. “Seriously. If there’s something you don’t know, you can always ask…”
I’m cut off by the kitchen door swinging open. A line of waiters and waitresses march out. A bald boy in the front is holding up what looks like a birthday cake. I’m going to kill Roman.
Roman turns red. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
Before I can say anything more, the wait staff has surrounded our table. The boy at the front sets the cake down in front of me. I stare at the lit candle and purple lettering – ‘Happy Birthday’ – unable to bring myself to look at the wait staff in the eye as they begin to sing.
“Happy birthday to you!”
I close my eyes.
“Happy birthday to you!”
Behind my closed eyelids, I can see my dad’s face. Like my mother, he hadn’t wanted to stop his aging, but he had different reasons. He wanted to look older, wiser, and more responsible. It was part of the image that he wanted to present to his voters.
“Happy birthday, dear April…”
“Happy birthday, April,” were my father’s last words to me, as he prepared to report to the bureau’s headquarters. He had taken a limo because he wouldn’t be a McIntyre if he didn’t go down in style. He thought it would be best to go alone, so he parted ways with us from the driveway of our house. I was the only one who hadn’t cried, still reeling from jail time and being cut off from my source of income. While Autumn had thrown a fit and begged him to stay, I had spent nineteen years saying goodbye to my father every time he’d leave for the capital. I wonder if my mother had taken it as a sign that I didn’t care. Autumn’s goodbye had consisted of a long embrace and comforting whispers that everything was going to be okay. I, on the other hand, got a pat on the back, a reminder to take care of our family, and a birthday wish.
“Happy birthday to you!”
I look up at the wait staff, who are standing too close to me. I feel like I can’t breathe. Does this restaurant not understand the concept of personal space?
But they hover over me – waiting.
I blow out the candle. It barely flickers out when I excuse myself, telling Roman that I need air.
CHAPTER NINE
ROMAN
A pril’s threat leaves a chill up my spine: “If you ever use your Divinity Bureau connections to look up information about me again, I’ll cut your balls off.”
I realized that I had crossed the line when she hastily excused herself after blowing out the candle on her cake. I had good intentions that time. I was certain that she had told me her birthday at some point, and I was worried that I had forgotten it – so, needing a reminder, I looked it up in the database. As it turns out, she didn’t tell me because it was a sore subject for her.
I spent the next several minutes lamenting over my apology. But April came back shortly afterward with a smile plastered on her face. She mentioned something about having a bathroom emergency, and we continued our night as planned.
“April,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that it was a trigger for you.”
She shook her head. “No, I should be the one apolo
gizing. I know you mean well. I don’t think you’d ever use your job to spy on me – and even if you did, I highly doubt you’d find anything interesting.”
She laughed at this. I wanted to say, ‘You have no idea, April McIntyre.’
That was ten days ago. One week ago, I deleted everything that I found on Gideon’s computer. One week ago, I told myself that I would respect April’s privacy and never look back.
The problem is, how do you balance someone’s desire for privacy against their need for security? What if those secrets jeopardize that person’s safety – or your livelihood?
So, in spite of my refusal to look through Gideon’s files, I do have one source: the internet. The realization comes during my lunch hour when I realize that I hardly have any background on her family. The moment I return to my desk, I pull up an internet search engine and search for the name ‘McIntyre.’
The first result is April’s social media profile. I can’t help the smile that comes to my face. While we haven’t officially defined our relationship, April has posted several photos of us together, including the picture that we took at the top of the observation deck.
The pages after that are links to news articles. April hadn’t been lying when she told me that she had come from a long line of politicians. There are a few articles about her relatives, but most are news articles were published in the following weeks following Henrik McIntyre’s election. I scan the headlines:
Henrik McIntyre: Youngest Member of Parliament, Now Youngest Divinity Bureau Selectee.
Henrik McIntyre Resigns Following Divinity Bureau Election.
McIntyre Daughter Arrested at Bureau Protest.
All of the articles are intriguing, but they’re regurgitating information that I already know. I’m ready to give up on my search when a forum catches my attention. The subject reads: ‘The McIntyre Curse – fact or fiction?’
My curiosity is piqued. I click the link, but what I find is a forum for conspiracy theorists. I nearly close the browser at that. As a government employee, I can’t stand conspiracy theorists. Half of what they say is simply lies, while the other half are molehills turned into mountains. I doubt that I’ll be able to get any valuable information. The post is a year old, so it doesn’t take new information into consideration. But once I begin reading, I can’t look away.
