by Sara Grant
“Don’t be silly,” I say, but I can tell by the look on his face he’s serious. “We just graduated.” I try to withdraw my hand, but he pulls it closer to him.
“Let’s stop wasting time.” He’s kissing the place behind my ear. The place he knows drives me crazy. “Courtney and Kieron. Sara and Neil. Jasmine and David. They’re all getting married. Sara’s already pregnant.”
I try to focus on what he’s saying, not what he’s doing. “What about our vow? We promised. We can’t give in to the government. Not now…” I stop talking because he’s not listening. He’s wrapping his arms around me, secretly caressing the side of my breast. My body flushes.
“Ethan, please,” I say, but I’m happy for my body’s response. He kisses a line from my ear to the nape of my neck. I enjoy the sensation until I think of Braydon. “Ethan.” I wriggle free.
He clears his throat. “We’re adults now, Neva. We need to start acting like ones.”
Where’s all this coming from? “Some arbitrary date on the calendar and some ceremony doesn’t mean—”
“Neva, I need to tell you something,” he interrupts. But he doesn’t say anything. He removes his watch and places his hand, palm-side up, on the table. There’s a thin red line, like a cat scratch, hidden among the blue veins in his wrist, the place usually covered by his watch.
“What’s that?” I ask, and reach out to touch it, but he turns away. “Ethan?”
“It’s a tracking device. They implanted it after I was arrested.” His back is to me so it feels as if I’m eavesdropping. I can’t have heard him right. A tracking device? “They said that they will track my movements. If I go a year without any other incidents then they will remove the device.”
I don’t want him to turn around. I don’t want him to see the shocked look on my face. If I’m with him, the police know exactly where to find me. He feels contaminated. I cross my arms tight across my chest. He’s waiting for me to say something, but my mouth is dry.
“I can’t be caught gathering with other people with tracking devices,” he continues. “If they see a cluster of us together for too long, they’ll bring us in.”
I look around. Are they watching us now? I want him to take it back. Tell me it’s a joke. He used to have such a wicked sense of humor. He regularly reset the clock in our history class ahead fifteen minutes so we got out of school early. He always slipped in later and changed it back so the teacher was none the wiser. He was always doing little pranks like that. But when he turns toward me, I can see it’s no joke. His eyes appear darker, haunted, next to his pale skin. “How could you keep this from me?”
“Because of that.” He points to my face. “That look.”
I try to change my expression, but my face feels set in stone.
“So much is changing, Neva. I wanted—no, needed—us to stay the same.” He moves in for a kiss. I am repelled, but I force myself to give him a quick peck on the lips.
“I love you,” he says.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I search his eyes for something familiar.
“I don’t want this to happen to you,” he says, glancing at the thin red line on his wrist. I don’t know if he means the tracking device or the way that it has drained the life out of him.
I caress his tiny scar with my finger. I can feel it there, right below the surface of his skin, a thin square. “Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head.
“I didn’t know that the government had started—”
“Me neither.”
“We’ve got to tell everyone. The government can’t do—”
“Please, Neva, no. I was forbidden to tell anyone.” He takes my hands in his. “Promise me.”
I nod. I wish he hadn’t told me. I can’t look at him without wondering who else is listening and watching and tracking our every move. I want to tell him everything will be all right, but that would be a lie. I don’t want to touch him anymore.
“Neva, eventually you’re going to have to face facts. This is the future we get, and it’s not so bad.” He fumbles in his tan canvas backpack, the same one he’s carried since kindergarten. He removes a few crumpled sheets of paper and smoothes them on the table in front of us. It’s a printout of the morning news. “When are you going to realize you are in the minority?” He points to a headline. “See, people support the Protectosphere. They want more government protection. Why can’t you just be happy with the way things are?”
I read the headline: NIGHTTIME VANDALS PAINT CITY RED WITH PLEA FOR HELP. I grab the papers and read as fast as I can. According to the story, these vandals wrote the words “Protect Us” more than one hundred times throughout the City. The police are quoted as saying they believe it’s a plea for the government to strengthen the Protectosphere. Some right-wing Protectosphere-loving group has claimed responsibility.
“Oh, my God.” I collapse into my chair. The government has transformed our protest into a statement of support. All our work last night—our planning for weeks—hijacked.
“Neva, what’s the matter?” He’s reaching for me, but I wrench myself away. I stumble backward, knocking my chair to the floor. Everyone stares at me.
“I’ve got to go.” I wad the story in my fist and dash out of the coffee shop.
“What the hell happened?” I ask when Sanna opens her front door. I shove the printout into her chest. She takes the papers and studies them.
“Don’t know.” She shuts the door behind her, and we sit on the top step of her front stoop. “This is a colossal catastrophe.”
“How did they erase… I don’t understand.” I shake my head as if trying to jostle the pieces into place.
“All that work for a big zilch.”
“Worse than nothing. Now it seems there’s growing support for the Protectosphere.” I can’t stop picturing someone wiping out all our hard work, making our statement of freedom the government’s rallying cry.
Sanna and I sit side by side staring at the boarded-up houses across the street. I remember when those houses had families. Someone has stolen the plywood from the lower windows. The houses don’t seem solid anymore.
We don’t speak. I don’t know what we expected to happen.
Sanna leaps to her feet. “What we’re forgetting…” She’s pacing as she’s talking; I can almost see the pinwheels spinning in her brain. “Oh, God, Nev, this is really awesome. What we’re forgetting…”
I’m leaning forward, feeling her excitement build. “What? What?”
“Someone has seen our message. They had to coordinate the cleanup. There must have been these manic calls zinging back and forth last night. They cared enough to counter our attack. Don’t you see?”
And the part of me that was deflated gets a breath of air. She pulls me to my feet. “We’ve got to check it out. See for ourselves.”
We take a train and exit into the stale air of the City. I know where I want to go. I lead Sanna toward the embankment. I follow the same path that Nicoline and I took last night.
As we walk along, I’m almost afraid to look. I grab Sanna’s arm. I can’t believe it. “Over there. On the bench.” We slow down, but we don’t stop. We nudge each other again and again. We are trying not to smile, but we must look like we are in pain by restraining our euphoria. PROTECT US. The words I wrote in red still remain, but someone has book-ended the red with bold, block capital letters—NO and FEAR—in a brownish gray paint. Someone has littered the walkway with flyers that say “No Protect Us Fear!” Someone has scratched the words into the stone of a statue and etched it on the wood of a bench. Our slogan has multiplied. If we had wings, we’d be flying.
CHAPTER
SIX
“What have you done?” my mom asks as she bursts into my bedroom. It takes me a moment to wake up, but only a moment. Mom’s eyes are wide, her face is flushed.
“What?” I sit up. It’s morning already. Yesterday’s events come flooding back. Sanna and I felt like superheroes, for a few hou
rs at least. Until we saw the cleaning crews with their high-pressure washers and wire brushes removing our messages. Never mind. It was a small victory and that is more than most people ever get.
“It doesn’t matter. There’s not much time,” Mom says as she hands me a pair of jeans. “Your dad called, and the police are on their way.”
“The police.” The euphoria from yesterday plummets. I scan my room for anything incriminating. My pink journal is peeking from under my pillow. I must have fallen asleep holding it. I catch the bra Mom is throwing at me with one hand and shove the pink journal farther under my pillow.
“What do they want?” I toss my covers off, remove my T-shirt, and slip on my bra.
“Something about graffiti,” she says, and I freeze. I thought I’d gotten away with it. “Keep your story simple,” she continues, not realizing I’m paralyzed with fear.
Why do they suspect me? The police officer Nicoline encountered that night couldn’t recognize me. I’ve got no visible identity mark. Nothing’s distinctive about me. Did someone turn me in? That has to be it. My body feels liquid.
She notices I’m not moving. “Neva, get ready.”
“Okay. Okay.” I nod, but I can’t move.
Mom gives me a quick hug. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. They can’t… they won’t…” Her voice falters. “Calm down.” I don’t know if she’s talking to me or herself. “Only answer the questions they ask.”
Since when does my mom give me advice on how to cover up a crime? I try to stop mentally fast-forwarding to all the terrible possibilities. Just get dressed. I pull on the gray shirt and faded blue jacket my mom has selected. I hop around the room, squeezing myself into my jeans.
She grabs my arm to keep me from falling. “You were never there, wherever.”
I start to respond, but she shifts me perfectly parallel to her. Her hair is swept back in a loose ponytail. Stray locks of hair fall in fuzzy stripes across her face. She’s wearing one of Dad’s old dress shirts. She’s missed a button, which makes her look as if her body is off center. “You didn’t do anything.”
I nod and tuck my snowflake necklace under my shirt. I touch it through the material and ask Grandma for strength. I’m going to need it.
“It will be okay. Calm down.” She’s talking to herself again. She walks over to my bed and takes the pink journal from under the pillow. “I better hide this for you.”
“Mom…” I reach for it.
“I won’t read it. We all need our secrets.” She tucks my journal under her arm. “Just hurry. I’ll buy you some time.” She closes the door behind her.
I slowly spin, looking for anything else suspicious. My room resembles your average recycling dump, clothes everywhere. Half-read books on my nightstand. Jewelry scattered on my dresser. I start to clean my room, but I’m afraid that will look more unusual. I check myself in the mirror. My upper lip is sweaty. My eyes are bloodshot. Even the way the tail of my shirt is stuffed into my jeans and the way the jacket sits stiff on my shoulders makes me look guilty. I flop on the bed and wait for the police.
“Would you state your name for the record?” The police officer looks up from the file folder in front of him. Something about him reminds me of Ethan. Their hair is the same length. He’s got dark circles under his eyes too. The black police uniform obscures any other defining features. Only his face is exposed. I’m so busy examining him that he has to repeat his question.
“Oh, sorry.” I lean in to the microphone in front of me. “I’m Neva Adams.” My voice trembles. I thought about the questions the police might ask and my answers on the car ride over. It was either that or imagine how easy it would be to make me disappear. They didn’t take me to the Central Police Station. I’m in the building where my dad works. They made me walk down three flights of stairs to the sub-basement. They want me to know how trapped I am. I’m in a gray room with concrete block walls. I can see my reflection in what is probably a two-way mirror. I bet my dad is back there, watching. I can sense the tension he normally brings to a room.
“Your full name,” he demands, and I instinctively search for his name badge, forgetting that the police are the only government employees that don’t have to wear them. Their uniforms are a clean slate except for the crest of Homeland embroidered on their lapels.
“Neva Elaine Adams.” I emphasize the new piece of information. All the women in my mom’s family for generations have the same middle name. You’d think that would make me feel connected, but it’s one more thing that makes me feel recycled.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” he says casually.
“Okay.” I try to mimic his relaxed manner, but my heart is thumping so hard I’m afraid he can hear it.
“What can you tell me about the recent vandalism?” he asks, shutting the folder with his black, gloved hand.
“I read something about graffiti in the news,” I say after taking a few slow breaths.
“We believe that a gang of youngsters are responsible for this breach of patriotism.” He’s watching my every move. My eyes reflexively widened. “Do you know or have you heard of anyone participating in this or any other unpatriotic behavior?”
“I thought the graffiti supported the Protectosphere. That’s what the news said.” I have to deny it, but part of me is screaming to tell the truth.
“The graffiti wasn’t all positive.” He looks me in the eyes. I force myself to hold his gaze. Only guilty people look away. Or do innocent people look away because guilty people have something to prove?
“You know the consequences of such behavior, don’t you?” He increases his volume and his words bounce off the concrete blocks.
I nod.
“What are they?” he demands.
“Patriotic seminar,” I answer, ashamed that my voice squeaks and sounds so small.
“No.” He stands. He is an imposing figure dressed head to toe in black. “This type of behavior borders on treason.”
My legs start to shake. How can painting a few simple words amount to treason? It feels as if all the blood has drained from my body.
He sits on the corner of the table and crosses his arms. I remember my mom’s advice, only answer the questions asked. He didn’t ask a question, so I remain silent. I probably couldn’t speak now if I wanted to.
“At a minimum, the person or persons will be sent to Community Farms.” He sits back to let that soak in. Sanna’s brother was sent to a Community Farm for six months. It’s the government’s answer to food shortages and crowded prisons. He came back with calloused hands and an anger that radiated from his tanned, peeling skin.
The officer coughs and tugs at his collar. “The maximum punishment… Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about.”
But I want to know. I want him to say it: they will disappear. But what awaits The Missing? Death? Torture?
A buzzer sounds, startling us. He exits through the only door. I lay my forehead on the cool metal table and roll it from side to side. I don’t know how long I stay suspended there, trying not to imagine what’s next.
I sit up when the door clicks open. My interrogator returns. The tail of his shirt is sticking out on one side, ruining the straight lines of his police uniform. He sits across from me again. “I’m going to ask you one more time if you know anything about the unpatriotic graffiti that was painted all over the capital city.”
I look down at the table and shake my head.
“We know there are groups planning more protests. We need good patriots, people like you, to help us uncover these plots. Your father is a member of the governing Council. You wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his position.” He looks at the mirror behind me. “Can you tell us names of anyone who has engaged or plans to engage in unpatriotic behavior?”
I run my fingers through my hair. It’s damp with sweat. “No,” I say, “I don’t know anyone.” But even I wouldn’t believe me.
“Neva, we know you are a good citizen, but we have reas
on to believe that you know who might be planning protests. For your sake and theirs, give me their names and we can put an end to this nonsense. I promise we’ll go easy on them, if they stop all this now.” He pulls a small battered notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. He flips the notebook open and finds a clean space to write. Pen in hand, he’s poised to transcribe my confession. Does he really think I’m going to give him names? “The Protectosphere keeps us alive. There are dangerous levels of toxins out there. We are safer inside.”
I’ve heard it all before. My grandma and Sanna’s mom didn’t believe it. My grandma said there is no proof that everything outside ended. I try not to do anything to give away my true feelings. I force myself to nod in agreement.
He continues, “Any anti-Protectosphere rhetoric could cause some mentally unstable person to compromise our security and filtration system. You wouldn’t want that, would you? You wouldn’t want the harmless words of you or someone else to cost good people their lives.”
“No, sir.” White-hot fear slithers over me, like a dry, scaly snake. What if Grandma was wrong? Are we doomed if we do nothing and if we open the Protectosphere? I don’t know what to believe. I place my hands on the table and spread my fingers wide to steady myself.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod, but I can feel saliva collecting in my mouth as if I might throw up.
“Neva, are you going to tell me their names?” He’s leaning in closer, pen at the ready.
I’ve got to be careful. He’s setting a trap. “I don’t know anyone who has done anything. Can I please leave now?” I tuck my hands under my thighs.
He slams his notebook and pen on the table. “I’ve got to release you,” he says through clenched teeth. I relax a bit. “But consider this your warning.” He walks around behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. I want to scream. Every muscle in my body tenses. He bends down and whispers so only I can hear and, if there is someone watching, they won’t see his lips moving, “I know you are mixed up in this. But Daddy saved you this time.” His hot breath sends chills rippling through my body.
