by Tessa Clare
“Roman…”
“Let’s not worry about that,” he interjects before I can worry any further. “You nailed it up there. How did you even convince them to let you up there?”
I shrug. “It’s a public protest. There aren’t any ‘leaders,’ so anyone can speak. I just found the guy that spoke last and asked if I could borrow his microphone.”
“That’s incredible,” Roman breathes.
Silence falls between us, the repercussions of our earlier conversation still weighing on our minds – or at least, it’s weighing on my mind. We need to get out of here quickly, but a larger part of me wants to clear the air first.
“Roman –”
“You’re right,” Roman whispers, his voice hoarse. I’m not sure if it’s because of the pollution. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.” He looks away. “From the moment I’ve met you, I’ve tried to play the hero in your story. But the closer I get to you, the more I realize that you don’t need one.”
He’s wrong. I do need him. But I don’t need him the way one needs air to breathe. I need him the way I need a face mask: a filter to make this dirty world a little more bearable.
“You’re still a hero to me,” I say. I grab his arm, slick with sweat. “Let’s get out of here. I’m in the mood to celebrate.”
Judging by the look on Roman’s face, he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to disagree.
Once we’ve fully recovered from our pollution exposure, we celebrate with a dinner at an Italian restaurant near the waterfront. Roman attempts to sneak me a glass of champagne; but we end up catching the eye of an inquisitive waitress and thus spend a significant portion of our celebration begging the manager not to kick us out. After that, I suggest to Roman that we visit my old work for coffee, which he obliges.
I’m hoping that Tate is working so that I can formally introduce him to Roman, but I also secretly hope that Tate wouldn’t mind sneaking us a few drinks at no charge. I ended up covering our celebratory dinner since Roman’s rent was almost due, but the lack of income was starting to hurt – and after the last few weeks, it doesn’t sound like my mother has any plans of letting me access my trust fund after she’s gone. Fortunately, Tate doesn’t disappoint me.
“I call this the coffee rainbow,” he says as he hands me and Roman two large cups that smell like a combination of peppermint and caramel. “It has every single syrup on the rack – but in varying doses. I was a little nervous about adding peppermint and raspberry, but it seems to add a crisp taste – assuming you dose it correctly.”
I take a sip and determine that it is not dosed as well as Tate had hoped. The taste nearly makes me throw up. I glance over at Roman, who looks as though he wants to do the same.
“It’s… interesting,” Roman says, as politely as he can muster. “It seems to have a lot of caffeine in it.”
“Triple Espresso,” Tate says proudly. “This will give you a sugar high on top of a caffeine high.”
I wait until Tate isn’t looking to toss my drink into the trash bin. The concoction is already starting to give me a stomachache.
“So, Roman,” Tate asks in between measuring a cup of coffee grounds. “I’m kind of curious to know how you got your name. Are you actually of Roman descent?”
I have a momentary flashback of asking Roman the same question the first time I met him – ironically while standing in the same location that Tate is standing in now.
Roman shrugs. “Not really. I’m one of the many Confederal District citizens that haven’t been allowed to leave the country in the last two hundred years.” He gives me a side glance. “Unlike April.”
I shift uncomfortably. Citizens of the Confederal Districts aren’t allowed to travel outside of the country, as the government claims that it’s too dangerous. My dad did bring me to The Iceland’s, but I was twelve years old at the time, so I hardly remember it.
“My parents couldn’t agree on a name,” Roman goes on, oblivious to the fact that I’ve spaced out in the last few minutes. “So, they had a bet on whether or not I would be a boy or a girl, and the winner would get to name me. You see, my mother’s family was from the Southern continent – Mexico, it was called before the war – and she has a strong connection to her heritage. But my dad had recently uncovered some old history textbooks and was doing some reading about a guy named Julius Caesar. That’s what he originally wanted to call me.”
“So, I take it your mother won?” Tate asks.
Roman laughs. “No. My mother was adamant that I was going to be a girl. I would have been named Alejandra Rosa de Maria Irvine-Martinez.”
“She was even going to hyphenate your last name?”
Roman shakes his head. “My surname was hyphenated for twenty-five years. But it was a pain every time I needed to sign something, so I started going by my dad’s last name. My brother and I made a compromise. He’d go by my mother’s last name, while I’d use my dad’s.”
I wonder if that is why he initially majored in history. I could easily imagine his family pouring over history textbooks after a long day of work.
As soon as Tate disappears into the back room to replenish his stock on syrup, I take Roman’s hand. I bring my voice to a low whisper. “How come you don’t talk about your family all that much?”
Roman looks away. “I don’t know. I figured that there wasn’t much to talk about.” He eyes me nervously. “It’s nothing like being the daughter of an infamous politician.”
I snort. “It’s overrated.”
Roman laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. “To be honest, it wasn’t the same after I went to college. We used to be close. My brother and I would go to school; then we’d spend six or seven hours in the ArgiTower. It wasn’t terrible because I was usually working with Joe and my friends. We’d go home and have dinner. The adults would drink themselves under the table. As soon as we were old enough, we’d drink with them. Then we’d go to bed and repeat.” He looks away. “Then one of my friends had an asthma attack while working. He would’ve made it, but he spent years exposed to the chemicals. So…” He trails off, not willing to talk about it any further. “To my family, that was a regular thing. But I was curious to know if there was another life out there – so, as soon as I turned eighteen, I packed my bags and went off to District 530 for college. That was almost ten years ago. We still keep in contact, but it’s not the same as seeing my friends and family every day. I drifted apart from most of my friends; and occasionally, Joe will pester me about coming home.”
“Do you want to go home?” I ask, suddenly curious.
Roman shrugs. “I’m not going to lie: I’ve thought about it a lot. I moved out to District 200 with my girlfriend from college, but we broke up shortly after I got here. After that, I was convinced that I was fooling myself and that I’d be better off in District 402. I had bills to pay, a pile of student loans, and it just didn’t seem worth it to stay in District 200 when I can hardly afford to live here.” He turns his attention back to me, a lopsided smile on his face. “Until I met a particular barista.”
My chest flutters, but I can’t resist the urge to ask, “You mean Tate?”
Roman laughs. “Obviously.” He turns his attention back to him. “He seems like a great friend.”
Said great friend emerges from the back room a moment later with three bottles of syrup. I watch as Tate rearranges the syrup rack to make room for the additional cylinders – destroying my alphabetical system, I think remorsefully.
“The second quarter deadline is tomorrow,” Tate murmurs.
“I know,” I say.
“How’s your mom handling it?”
I think about it for a moment. Last week was the first time that I’ve spoken to my mother since I found out that she was elected, and it ended with her calling me an ungrateful brat. I can’t say that I don’t deserve it. But other than that skirmish, I haven’t seen her do much, other than yell at Leonard and smoke two packs of cigarettes each day instead of one. “I think she’s hand
ling it pretty well. She was granted an extension, so her appeal hearing is in three weeks.”
“Well, at least you’ve got an extra few weeks with her.”
“It’ll go through,” I say. “That’ll give me a few extra decades.”
The room falls silent. Roman and Tate eye each other – something that I already decide I don’t like. Roman is the one to break the silence: “What are you going to do if it doesn’t?”
“It will,” I say, my eyes narrowing. Didn’t I already prove him wrong once today? “All we need to do is show that corruption is happening within the bureau. Then they’ll have no choice but to let her go. Now that we know it’s a legitimate thing, getting evidence should be easy.”
Roman shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” I ask. “We know that it’s happening. Hell, you can probably use the evidence from Gideon’s computer!”
“You can’t win a courtroom case by calling the judge corrupt!” Roman exclaims. “It’s the same concept! And your speech probably just diminished her chances!”
I take a step back, unable to believe what I’m hearing. Just a few hours ago, Roman had told me that he was proud of me. I didn’t realize how important his approval was until now when it’s being retracted from me. And I’d never forgive myself if my actions sent my mother to an early grave…
“I think what you did was an amazing thing,” Tate interjects. “You should be proud of yourself. But…” He pauses to glance at Roman. “I think your boyfriend’s right. The timing wasn’t the greatest.”
I’m in disbelief that my boyfriend and best friend are practically on the same wave-length. Under normal circumstances, I’d be elated. Right now, it’s causing pain in my chest.
I pull out the key sensor to my car out of my pocket. “I want to go home.”
Roman is the first to protest. “April…”
I hold my hand up to keep him from speaking any further. “No, you’re right. I guess I should stop being a brat and spend time with my family.”
Roman smiles. “Your mother loves you. You should know that.”
I shrug. I know that every parent loves their child in some way, but some have different ways of showing it than others. My mother is a blunt, chain-smoking piece of work – but I suppose she’s only human. As am I.
“Will you be okay driving home?” Tate asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Roman and I took separate cars.” I had driven to the bureau’s headquarters for lunch earlier that day, and neither of us was willing to leave them at their respective locations when we finally met up.
“I think I’ll hang out here for a little bit,” says Roman, glancing at Tate as he makes another drink.
I nod. I have a feeling that this can either bode poorly or greatly for me in the future. In spite of this, I kiss Roman goodbye and promise Tate that we’ll see each other soon. As I walk away, I overhear Tate offer Roman a drink known as the “Zebra.” I try to stifle a laugh as I get into my car and drive to the mansion.
Throughout the ride, I think about what I’m going to say to my mother. She already called me a selfish brat in the last conversation that I had with her (which was really me asking her if she knew where CLEO went and my mother letting her frustration with me from the last few weeks come loose). I can’t just walk up to her and start talking about shopping and boys, as my mother would immediately think that I had an ulterior motive. I couldn’t just launch a pity party, as neither of us would want that. The only thing I could do is the one thing that leaves me with a feeling of dread in my stomach: apologize.
I’m still dwelling on it as I pull into the driveway. I attempt to park in the garage, but my mother’s car is blocking my way. It takes every ounce of my body not to be irritated by this, as I’m forced to put my car in manual mode to park in the grass.
She doesn’t have a lot of time left, she doesn’t have a lot of time left…
But when I jump out of my car, I notice something is wrong. As I walk past it, I see exposed wires throughout the car’s dashboard. I squint my eyes and take several steps closer, certain that my eyes are deceiving me. The computer screen is missing from the panel. The steering wheel has been permanently mounted in front, near a pair of pedals that I’ve been taught to only use in case of emergency. Bags and boxes are stacked in the backseat, lining the car from floor to roof.
I dash to the mansion. I don’t bother waiting for the elevator – instead, I bolt up four flights of stairs until I find myself standing in my mother’s bedroom. My mom is in the middle of zipping up a suitcase when I find her.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
My mother looks like a deer caught in headlights. “What are you doing in my room? I thought I raised you better than that!”
“I came up here because I saw that the entire front dashboard of your car was ripped up!”
My mother finishes zippering up the bag. She avoids my hard gaze. “I took out the computer and GPS. It was Leonard’s suggestion to make sure that they’re not able to track me.”
“Who’s able to track you?” I ask, but a part of me already knows the answer.
My mother is silent.
I eye the bags. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you,” my mother says, her lip quivering.
The logical part of me knows what’s happening, but my heart can’t seem to accept it yet. “Will I see you at the appeal hearing?”
Macy turns to face me. Her lip stops quivering, and her voice is devoid of emotion: “I’m not coming back.”
With those words, my heart can’t deny what my head already knew. My mother isn’t intending on coming back for the hearing; and judging by the number of suitcases and empty dresser drawers, she’s not planning on turning herself over to the bureau. “You’re running away.”
“I’m sorry, April,” my mother says. She looks numb, as though she had spent all of her emotions mulling over this decision. “But I can’t die. I won’t.”
“You won’t die,” I say, weakly. “You’ve got one of the best appeal lawyers out there! And… Roman! He knows the Divinity Bureau better than anyone. If there’s one thing that I know, it’s the fact that this is all a mistake!”
“It’s not a mistake!” my mother shoots back. “Don’t you get it? The McIntyre Curse is real! We’re targets, April!”
Her words hang in the air, like the pollution in District 200.
“I don’t believe it,” I say breathlessly. “I said the same thing last year when Dad was elected, and you made me spend a year in therapy.” I close my eyes. “Why?”
My mother glances around the room. I can’t tell if she’s looking for items that she’s forgotten or if she’s avoiding looking at me.
“I knew about the McIntyre Curse before I married your father,” my mother says, her voice low. “Your grandparents and great-grandparents did some dishonest things, but your father was a good man.”
I snort. I have a hard time believing that the man who practically slept with every harlot that walked through the Parliament doors was a good person.
“We didn’t always get along,” my mother says, noticing the disbelief on my expression. “But I have no doubt in my mind that he was innocent in all of this. It’s a shame that we both had to get dragged into this as well.”
“Will we still see you?” I ask, my voice helpless. I feel like a child begging my father not to go back to District 1.
My mother looks at me as though she expects me to know the answer.
“Were you even planning on saying goodbye to Autumn and me?”
“I left a note for Autumn,” my mother answers. “I would’ve waited for you, though.” My mother hesitates on her next words. “I… I know you had regrets that you never got the chance to reconcile with your father before he died. I’m sure you know as well as I do that regret is one of the most crippling emotions. So, if there’s anything that you want to say to me now, please do it. I don’t want you to spend
your life with the regret that’s haunted me ever since your father died.”
“So, that’s it?” I ask, unable to believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. “You’re okay with Autumn having regrets, but not me?”
“She wouldn’t have had them,” my mother answers. “She knows I love her, and I know how much she loves me. She’ll feel a lot of grief; but grief will only destroy you temporarily, while regrets will haunt you until you die.”
“I’m having a hard time believing that you’re doing this out of selflessness,” I say bitterly. “I can hardly hold down a minimum wage job down! I don’t know how you can expect me to take care of a kid!”
“Because you love her,” Macy whispers. “And she worships you.” She takes her bag and makes her way towards the door. “When the police come, don’t tell them that you saw me leave. As you know, harboring a fugitive of the Divinity Bureau will land you prison time. Just pretend that you know as little as possible. Maybe you can even suggest that I’m staying at our vacation home in District 180.”
“I don’t need to pretend.”
Macy offers me a small smile. “Last chance to get your regrets out of the way. Anything you want to say? Are you going to tell me what an awful mother I am?”
I blink back tears, my head and heart fully comprehending the situation that’s happening in front of me. I have only one question: “Why are you doing this?”
“Because when you have nothing left,” my mother murmurs. “You don’t have anything to lose.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROMAN
I n the next few weeks, the McIntyre Family has taken over my entire life.
April has stayed busy following Macy’s departure. In the weeks that followed, I expected police to be swarming at her door; but April has decided to keep her disappearance a secret from everyone except for me. Together, we worked out a cover story: Macy decided to spend some time at her family’s lake house to find a sense of peace and serenity before her appeal. Little did anyone know – including Autumn and, allegedly, April – that she wasn’t planning on coming back. This would give Macy time before anyone started looking for her.
