by Sara Grant
Only Sanna knows about my list. Everyone she loves disappears, one way or another. Her mother died when she was eight. At least she knows what happened to her. When her dad went missing a few years later, Sanna and her brother had to live with guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, good patriots whose ancestors died in The Terror. Sanna’s brother went underground a few years ago. He’s like this rebel angel who watches over her.
I caress my snowflake pendant between my fingers. I wear it to remind me of my grandma and all The Missing. The police didn’t take the necklace because they couldn’t find it. When they were confiscating my movie collection and anything else my grandma gave me, I had slipped the necklace off and put it in my mouth. The entire time they were robbing me of my grandma, I was tracing the snowflake pendant with my tongue.
The next morning when Mom and Dad returned from wherever the police took them, they acted as if nothing had happened. I asked Mom about Grandma. She pretended she didn’t know who I was talking about. I asked Dad, but he left the room. From that minute, she was erased from my life. Erased on the surface, but captured memory by memory in my journal.
I hear the rattle of keys and the click of the front door lock. My parents are home. I close the book and slide off the bed. If she thinks I’m still up, Mom will want details and what would I say? I kissed my best friend’s boyfriend and broke the law? A guilty sludge oozes through my veins.
I remove several large clumps of cotton from my mattress, tuck my journal deep into the center of my bed and dive under the covers. Sometimes I think I can feel its rounded corners beneath me. I guess in some ways I’m like my dad, recording history so I never forget. But it’s not enough anymore.
CHAPTER
THREE
I’m up early the next morning to meet Sanna at her mom’s grave. It’s one of the places we meet when we want to make sure no one’s watching or listening. I stroll down the hill in the church graveyard. Most people are superstitious about walking on graves. Not me. I imagine the people below whisper their wisdom to me as I pass. They want to be remembered. I read each tombstone. I subtract the date of birth and death. The numbers are getting closer together. The oldest dead person I find is sixty-two years old. There are also more small plots for children. I tiptoe across the tiny graves. Mom had four miscarriages before she accepted that I’d be an only child. Our graveyards are filling up too quickly, but no one talks about it. I heard the government is secretly cremating people to obscure the fact that our population is shrinking.
“Hi, Mrs. Garcia.” I plop down on Sanna’s mom’s grave. She died during childbirth, but there’s no marker for Sanna’s dead sister. They don’t bury anyone under a year old anymore.
I lie down next to her grave and admire her view. The sun catches the Protectosphere, and it seems to twinkle like a sky full of cubic zirconium. The first time I saw, really saw, the Protectosphere was when we passed near the border on a family vacation when I was eight. Dad stopped the car, flashed his badge at the Border Patrol, and we walked the rest of the way. He wanted me to be proud of my heritage. We walked for about a mile before we saw the final warning signs. When you’re that close you can see the edges of each triangular Protectosphere panel. Dad stood tall and rested his hands on his hips. He stared skyward as if enjoying a Protectosphere light show. I looked at the cracked, dusty ground, dotted with dead animal carcasses. Dad explained that animals don’t always see the Protectosphere, just like birds don’t always see windowpanes. If they run into it, they get electrocuted. Dad wanted me to see this shining example of technology and progress. All I saw was a clear cage and a line of rotting corpses.
The memory still gives me the creeps. It’s when I first felt trapped. Back then, I thought the Protectosphere might collapse or explode, killing everyone instantly like those poor animals. Now it feels as if it’s killing us slowly. Sanna’s brother says it’s genetics. We are too alike. He says inbred. We come from a limited gene pool, which makes us weak. But the government insists that the Protectosphere is a safe haven, not a prison.
“Oh! My! God!” Sanna calls from near the church. She doesn’t bother with greetings. When I’m around her I feel like everything is for the first, last, or only time. She comes bounding down the hill, her huge patchwork handbag banging against the tombstones. “Hey, Mom,” she says when she reaches her mother’s grave. She sits next to the marker, one hand resting on her mom’s name.
Act normal, I tell myself, but sweat is collecting on my cool skin. I see Sanna and think of Braydon and our kiss and how alive it made me feel then and how guilty it makes me feel now. It was one kiss, spontaneous. I didn’t know who I was kissing. I got carried away. It was the excitement of anonymity.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
“I can’t believe it.” Her face is red and blotchy and she’s breathless. “Braydon—”
“What?” I sit up, my heart suddenly racing. I can’t tell if she’s excited or upset.
“Braydon told me…”
My eyes flare wider. She knows. But she can’t know.
“… he wants us to be exclusive.” She laughs. “How wild is that?” She touches the scar on her cheek, which is distorted by her wide smile. “He’s, like, my boyfriend,” she says in a singsong fashion as if she’s making fun of herself, but I can tell she’s genuinely excited.
“Oh.” I exhale. She doesn’t know about the kiss. I should be relieved, but her news heightens my guilt and makes my heart feel heavy. How can he kiss me one minute and tell her she’s the only one the next?
“I love him, Nev,” she says, hugging her handbag to her chest as if it’s Braydon. “I mean, like the gooey, tingly, toe-curling kind of love.”
“Really?” I respond too quickly, almost angry that she’s used the L word. “You’ve been out, what, three times? And one of those was in the dark.”
“But it was so intense, wasn’t it?” She swoons. “Kissing in the dark. The kiss was the only thing. There was no Protectosphere. Or guardians. Or limits.”
She’s right. The dark stripped everything else away. Braydon and I connected in a way we never would have in the light of day.
“Nev! I’m telling you the most important thing ever and you’ve got your head in the Protectosphere.”
“Sorry. I’m happy for you, Sanna. I really am,” I say, but I can’t muster up the appropriate best friend enthusiasm. Sanna’s the type of girl who guys like but never date. She’s got more personality and more curves than the rest of us and I think guys are intimidated.
“Nev!” She swats me with her handbag.
“Ouch!” I don’t know what she’s got in there, but it thuds on my arms and I focus on the pain and not the kiss.
“Me and Braydon. Can you believe it?”
My best friend finally has a real boyfriend, and he kisses me. What am I supposed to say? “Just take it slow. I don’t want you to get hurt.” We make eye contact briefly before I have to look away.
“Yeah, I know. It probably won’t last,” she says, leaning against a nearby tombstone. “I’m not in his genetic sphere.” Sanna is the human equivalent of a mutt. Neither of her parents were descendants of our founding fathers. No one in her family died in The Terror.
“You’re too good for him.” And his cheating and lying ways. “Him and his stupid red shoes.”
She removes two blueberry muffins from her handbag. “Please try to like him.” Her mood has turned serious.
“Where did you get blueberries?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. I haven’t tasted blueberries in years. “And how did you get enough sugar for muffins?” She offers me one.
I record missing people, but I could fill volumes with missing things: chocolate, balloons, fizzy flavored drinks, electronic gadgets that sparkled and buzzed and hummed. We used to have stores with brand-new shiny things. Now we have markets for trading and swapping what’s already tired and gray.
“Braydon knows someone who knows someone.” She takes a huge bite o
f muffin. “We made muffins together this morning. I mean isn’t that a-maz-ing.” Tiny crumbs fly from her lips as she speaks.
I divide my muffin in half and then in half again. “Did you—” I stop myself because I don’t really want to know.
“I promised, didn’t I?” she says after a long pause.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Nev. Chill. We did stuff but not that.” She’s plops a plump blueberry in her mouth.
“If you’re going to… you know… take precautions. Be careful, okay?” I study the crumbs in my hand.
“Careful.” She practically cackles. “They’ve made it impossible for us to be careful.”
“You could always use condoms.” My stomach lurches.
“Not anymore. My brother says they’ve pulled those off the shelves. Something about a product defect. More lies.”
“What?” Two months ago the supply of contraceptive pills dried up. Shortage of supplies, they said. That’s how they do things. No big pronouncements. Our choices dwindle—clothes, careers, and now contraception. “That makes our vow even more important.”
“I know. I know. Braydon and I are abstaining. We aren’t stupid.” She gets a silly, stupid grin on her face. “It’s not easy.”
“But it’s worth it,” I add. “The government can’t run every aspect of our lives.”
“Yeah. Yeah. If they want more babies, they can build a mommy factory. My vag is not working for the government.”
I laugh, but it’s not funny. That’s all the government seems to want—more people. It doesn’t matter that the citizens they have are miserable and dying. They don’t want thinking, feeling people. They want bodies. More workers. They promise that more people means more resources. Old factories back in production. Barren farmland flourishing again.
“There’s got to be more to life than birth and death.” She pauses mid-rant and, in Sanna style, makes a hairpin turn in the conversation. “Did you know he makes masks?”
“Who? What?”
“Braydon. His room is covered with them. All kinds. He recycles paper and other stuff. He makes molds of people’s faces. He paints them with fantastic designs. It’s proper art, Nev. It was like we were making out in front of an audience.”
“Weird.” He doesn’t strike me as the artist type.
“No,” Sanna objects. “A-maz-ing.” Sanna stretches her legs and wiggles her toes in the grass.
“If you say so.” I take a bite of the muffin and savor the tartness of the blueberries. How can she love him? What does she know about him? He makes masks and wears red boots. He’s a good kisser; I’ll give her that. But he’s quiet. It’s not a shy quiet. It’s an intense, eerie quiet—like the eye of the storm.
“Do you want to hear the best part?” She looks around conspiratorially. “He’s staying in this huge house outside of the City. He’s, like, squatting or something.”
I nearly choke. “What?” I cough to dislodge a muffin lump from my throat. “He’s a Bartlett. He doesn’t needs to camp out in some abandoned house.” I wipe my mouth on my sleeve.
She looks around again. “His parents are missing in action. And this house is really a-maz-ing. It’s like whoever owned it before just walked out. It’s fully furnished. There’s even clothes in the closets.”
More Missing. “I wonder what happened to them.” What happens to them all?
She pinches off a piece of her muffin and throws it at me. “You are missing the point, friend o’ mine. He’s got no parental supervision. He asked me to spend the night with him and I thought, why not?” She takes a dramatic pause. “So I did, and it was a-maz-ing.”
Braydon showed up a month ago with his new red boots and no explanations. He didn’t need any. His last name was Bartlett. We all assumed he was relocated to the City like so many others. The government started consolidating and then closing towns up North and now people migrate in a steady trickle. Rumor is that they’ll force migration from the East next and continue to sweep clockwise until we are all collected on one dot on the map. The government tells us it’s more efficient to move people to population hubs. But I know, from things I’ve overheard and pieced together, that the government can no longer afford to supply basic necessities like electricity and water to smaller communities. Also, it’s easier for the government to watch us if we are crammed in fewer places.
“What do we really know about this guy?” I ask. She should know what kind of guy he is, but I can’t tell her. My stomach threatens to turn inside out. He’s a jerk no matter what his last name is.
“I know everything I need to know.” She punches me in the arm. “Can’t you be happy for me?”
“Ouch!” I rub my stinging arm, but I’m glad to be punished. “I am happy for you.” And I am. Well, sort of. I’m glad that she’s found someone who makes her happy. I only wish it was someone else.
“Are you ready for tonight?” she asks, lying down and staring up at the Protectosphere.
“As I’ll ever be.” I stretch out next to her. We didn’t want to give people time to chicken out, so we planned our first act of rebellion for tonight. “Are we really going through with this?”
Sanna nods. “It will be exciting.”
“What if we get caught?”
“You worry too much.” She knocks my shoulder with hers. “What are we hanging around here for?” She kisses her mom’s name. “Sorry, Mom. We gotta go. We’ve got to get the last of our supplies and get busy.” She’s talking to her mom’s tombstone. “I’ll make you proud.”
“You think it will make any difference? What can a few teenagers—”
“Adults,” she corrects.
“Adults.” I laugh. It’s ludicrous. One day we’re children. A diploma and a stupid ceremony and we are now adults.
“We’ve got to do something. Or we’re going to end up here sooner than we think.”
I try to imagine living without a synthetic ceiling between me and the sky, but I can’t.
“That’s what I love about you, Nev.” She’s up and dusting herself off. “I want to make a splash, and you want to make a difference.”
It’s what my grandma would want.
Sanna helps me to my feet. “We’ve got a lot to do.” She’s chasing the wind up the hill. She makes me believe in the impossible. “What are you waiting for?” she calls, waving wildly.
I push thoughts of Braydon out of my mind and race after her.
CHAPTER
FOUR
There are moments, like photoflashes, when I think I’m destined for something greater. My grandma told me I could do whatever I set my heart and mind to. But that was before the government started assigning careers. My grandma planted this optimism like a tiny mustard seed. Right now I feel like it’s finally sprouted.
Sanna is hunched over her bathtub mixing the paint. She’s stirring the goopy mess in a bucket with her brother’s baseball bat. She mashes the potion up and down as if plunging one of our ancient toilets. Then she stirs round and round, banging the metal bucket with the bat. Sweat beads on her forehead and drips from her chin.
I sit on the toilet and try out slogans. “Bubble Buster,” I say, spitting out the B’s.
“Bubble Trouble,” she replies.
“Sounds like a witches’ brew.”
“Exactly,” she says, switching from stirring to mashing.
“It needs to be short but say more.”
“Like an innuendo?”
I nod. We’ve been trying to come up with a slogan for weeks, almost as long as we’ve been collecting our paint supplies. I bought chili powder and paprika in small increments at the market. Everyone knows my mom makes homemade salsa with our greenhouse tomatoes, so I didn’t arouse much suspicion. Sanna’s brother has purloined a few of the more difficult ingredients—something called builders lime and linseed oil—no questions asked. Sanna and I both stole our families’ weekly rations of skim milk. I’ll tell Mom I spilled ours. Sanna won’t make any excuses. The
Joneses are used to Sanna’s daily sabotage of their happy home.
Sanna’s clattering stops. “We need something that will initiate a thought explosion.”
“Thought explosion,” I repeat. Where does she come up with these things?
“Something that says the Protectosphere is killing us and we want out.”
I almost believe it’s possible. “Okay,” I say. Think slogan.
“Open with Care.”
“Grand Reopening.”
We both laugh.
“Opening Time.”
“Open and Closed.”
I’m not sure that makes sense. “Don’t we need to make sure people understand we are talking about the Protectosphere?” I ask.
“Yeah, right.” She mashes and bangs a little more. She dips her fingers in the bucket. Her hand is red and looks like it’s dripping congealed blood. Congealed blood with bits in it. She rubs the red between her fingers. “I think it’s about done.”
“But we don’t know what we’re going to write.” I smooth a curl behind my ear and think of my grandma.
“We better figure it out. Once this stuff sets, we can’t use it.” She drops the bat in the tub. A spray of red splatters the yellowing tiles. She grunts as she hefts the bucket out of the tub. She closes the shower curtain and turns on the water.
“No Protect Us Fear,” I say as the slogan pops into my head. No Protectosphere. No protect-us fear. We are tired of being scared all the time. We don’t want this artificial barrier anymore. It says all that.
She’s leaning over the tub with her arms behind the curtain as if she’s doing a magic trick. “What good…”
