Dark Parties

by Sara Grant

  He releases me, but my body is still vibrating. “You’re scaring me,” I whisper. He’s scared too. I can see it in his eyes.

  He backs away. “Get to bed.”

  As I head for my bedroom, the floor and the ground beneath it feel less solid.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  I wake up to shouting. I sit bolt upright in my bed. My curtains are ringed with light, so it must be morning. It takes me a while to realize the voices belong to my parents. I have never heard them argue before. I can’t make out words, and I don’t even try to eavesdrop. I know too many secrets already. I don’t want any more.

  Mom comes into my bedroom after Dad has left for work. She sits on the edge of my bed. She’s in her light blue fuzzy bathrobe and mismatched slippers. She doesn’t say a word.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. She squints at me as if she doesn’t understand the words that are coming out of my mouth.

  “I’m sorry the job with your father didn’t work out.” She clasps and unclasps her hands in her lap.

  “I heard you and Dad arguing,” I confess.

  She reaches into the pocket of her bathrobe and hands me a letter. It’s an official letter from the Minister of Health. I have to read it and reread it. It’s a lot of governmental mumbo jumbo. I think I know what’s it’s saying, but it can’t be. “Mom?” I need her to make sense of this. “Is this saying…”

  “That we are getting a baby.”

  I scoot as far away from her as I can. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Dad were trying to adopt?” Dad’s secret archives and now this. My reality is altering at an alarming rate.

  “We didn’t apply,” she says flatly.

  “So you’re telling me the government’s handing out babies at random? I know you and Dad wanted another baby. I know you tried.”

  Her face creases with sadness, but she fights back the tears. “We wanted a brother or sister for you. Dad was getting a lot of pressure from the government. Bigger families have more opportunities, but we stopped trying and accepted that one perfect child was enough.” She touches me on the chin and tries to smile.

  “So then why—”

  “I’ve heard rumors about patriot families being tapped to raise unwanted children.”

  “Who doesn’t want children? The government subsidizes and practically begs people to have kids.” I fold the letter and hand it back to her. She knows more than she’s telling. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “This is too much.” She waves the letter in the air.

  “Don’t you want another baby?”

  “Look around. Things are getting worse. I don’t want to bring another child into this…” Her voice trails off.

  “Why don’t you call the Minister of Health and tell her you don’t want the baby?”

  She shakes her head. “Your dad’s on the Council. And even if he wasn’t, you can’t really refuse a direct request.”

  “How does this work? Where does the baby come from?”

  “It’s best not to ask too many questions,” she says.

  I think we don’t ask enough.

  “So I guess this means you are going to have a baby brother or sister,” she adds.

  “Whether we like it or not,” I mutter. I want to tell her about the archives and what I discovered. But she looks so tired. She doesn’t need another revelation today.

  “I’m going out later,” she says, and heads to the door.

  “Can I come with you?” I want to feel five years old, to reach up and grab my mom’s hand and walk down the street feeling her tug me into a shop. I want to twirl in a frilly dress in front of a mirror for her. Our arms will swing together as we walk, and we’ll eat ice cream cones and let the ice cream drip down our chins. She won’t yell at me when the chocolate ice cream leaves brown spots on my shirt. We will come home and have a day’s worth of secrets to keep from Dad.

  Her back is to me. “No, Neva, this is something I have to do for myself.”

  I want to ask where’s she’s going. But everyone has secrets. She said so herself. So she leaves and I bury myself under my covers—my own personal Protectosphere.

  There’s a pounding in my head, in my dreams. Slowly I realize that this rhythm is outside of me. “Nev.” Sanna’s not just knocking on my bedroom door; she’s playing her own special drum solo. She knows where we hide the spare key. Dad hates it when Sanna lets herself in but, to me and Mom, Sanna’s family.

  I glance at the clock. It’s nearly noon. All I want to do is go back to sleep. “Give me a minute,” I whine.

  But she doesn’t. She bursts into the room. “Rise and shine.” She looks down her nose at the grubby and probably slightly smelly mess that is her best friend. “What’s with the zombie routine?”

  “I said, give me a minute.” I snuggle under my blankets, enjoying the weight of the quilt and the bubble of warmth. She rips my blankets away. The cold air swirls under my big gray shirt. Goose bumps dot my arms.

  “No time. Get dressed.” She throws a pair of jeans from the floor to me.

  “Why?”

  She searches for a pair of matching shoes. She gives up and hands me one pink and one gray tennis shoe. She opens my closet and pulls out a gray shirt. “Here. Wear this.” More clothes are shoved at me. “Nev, you want an engraved invitation? Get moving.” There’s an urgency to her actions. She’s rummaging in the pile of jewelry on my dresser. She loops my watch on one finger and the snowflake necklace on another.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I scratch at a crusty white spot on the leg of my jeans.

  “Not like that you’re not.” She pulls off my shirt and throws it in the corner. I cover my bare breasts. “Please, Nev, I’ve seen them before. Not all that impressive.”

  I bend down and open the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I untangle a light blue bra and beige cotton underwear from the mass. I slip off my old underwear and put on the clean pair.

  She’s trying to act carefree, but I can tell she’s trying, not just being. “What’s wrong?”

  She waves off my question. “Nice tat,” Sanna says, reaching toward my snowflake tattoo.

  “Get off,” I swat her hand.

  “Must say I do good work.”

  “It hurt like hell,” I say, remembering the millions of tiny pinpricks. It took two hours to make my one-inch square tattoo, but Sanna was right: it looks pretty amazing.

  I finish getting dressed. “I don’t really feel like going out.”

  “I don’t care.” Sanna slips my snowflake necklace over my head.

  And it feels almost like old times, that effortless give and take, before Braydon created a wedge between us. I decide to play along.

  Before I know it, we are at the train station. We take the two most secluded seats on the train. “Sanna, where are we going?” I ask.

  “I can’t tell you.” She scans the passengers on the train.

  “Why?” Now she’s got me checking to see who might be watching us.

  “It’s mega top secret.” She’s nervous; she keeps looking around. She’s trying to act like her old self, but something’s wrong.

  “Sanna?”

  She settles into her seat. She tucks her bare feet underneath her. It’s as if she’s been unplugged.

  “What is it, Sanna? Talk to me.”

  “My brother.” Her voice catches in her throat. “I haven’t heard from him in a few days.”

  “Oh, Sanna, you know he has to go dark sometimes.”

  “It’s different this time. Yeah, he’s disappeared before when the police were looking for him or something.”

  “You can’t reach him whenever you want to, can you? I thought he was always the one to make contact.” Her brother is like this mythical creature. I haven’t seen him since he went underground.

  “I’ve asked around and no one knows anything.” She draws her knees to her chest, curling herself into a tight ball. “We have a signal, you know. I’ve signaled and signaled
and signaled and nothing. That’s not like him. He never ever hasn’t come when I’ve needed him.”

  Another Missing. “He’ll turn up. He always does.” I try to sound reassuring, as if I believe it.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” She brightens.

  “Now, where are we going?” I bounce in my seat and try to lighten the mood.

  She scoots closer to me and whispers, “We are meeting some friends of my mom’s.”

  “Why is that so hush-hush?” I say in my normal voice.

  Sanna shushes me and pulls me closer. “We have similar interests. I asked around; you know, looking for my brother. Seems as if we aren’t the only ones planning a revolution.”

  “What?” I feel a twinge of excitement. Rebel Sanna is back.

  “You were right, Nev. We can’t stop. We have to do something. I figure if you can steal from the government—”

  Now I shush her. “What about Braydon?” His name tastes sweet and sour on my tongue.

  “I’ve got to do this for my brother. Braydon doesn’t have to know, right?” Now Sanna and I have a secret from Braydon. My web of lies continues to grow. Soon I won’t know what the truth is.

  Once we exit the station, she practically sprints. “Where are we going?” I say, breathless.

  “The Square,” she pants, and takes a sharp right.

  I recognize where we are. “Wouldn’t it be faster to go that way?” I point left.

  “I want to make sure no one follows us.” She speeds up. I’m not sure our evasive maneuvers would fool anyone. She stops abruptly as we approach the Square. “Here.” She thrusts a pair of sunglasses at me. “Incognito.”

  I almost laugh. Does she really think a pair of sunglasses is a great disguise? I put them on. Now she’s walking really slowly, almost sauntering. The Square is swarming with people. Some are sitting near the fountain. Others are passing through on the way to the National Museum or the State Court, which border opposite sides of the Square. In the center of the Square stands a bronze statue of Dr. Benjamin L. Smith, who towers twenty feet high and looks down humbly upon the uniform masses.

  “There they are,” she whispers. “The one in the blue shirt and the one with the big yellow purse.”

  We approach two average-looking middle-aged women. Not my idea of revolutionaries.

  “Sanna, look at you.” Both women coo and fuss over her. The woman in blue introduces herself, Senga, and her friend, Carson. They look familiar. Maybe I met them at Sanna’s mom’s funeral, but that was so long ago. “Congratulations on graduating,” Senga says. “Studying science at the National Institute for Research and Development. Your mother would be so proud.”

  Sanna shrugs off their attention. “Yep, I’m all adult-like now. This is my friend Neva—”

  I clear my throat before she gives my last name.

  Carson extends her hand. “You must be Lily’s daughter. She—”

  Senga elbows her in the ribs before I have the time to shake her hand. The two exchange a knowing glance.

  “You know my mom?” I ask. She’s never mentioned them to me before.

  “Yes,” Carson says.

  “No,” Senga interjects.

  “I mean, no,” Carson corrects. “I know of Lily Adams, of course. Who doesn’t? And Neva is such an unusual name.”

  Carson’s hands never stop moving. She fiddles with a loose button on her shirt then begins to bite her fingernails. Senga’s eyes dart from side to side. They are making me nervous. I tug on Sanna’s sleeve. I’m ready to go. Sanna brushes me aside. “You have some information for us?” Sanna asks.

  Senga nods. She whispers, “Silent demonstration here tomorrow.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Sanna asks without moving her lips. I understand, but Senga and Carson clearly don’t. She repeats her question, but she still sounds like a stroke victim.

  “Meet here at eleven thirty. Senga and I will be operating a sandwich cart. One of you come up and order a sandwich,” Carson explains.

  This is ridiculous. These women are acting out some bad B movie. They don’t look like revolutionaries. I’m not sure they could rebel against hen-pecked husbands. Or maybe that’s the genius of it. They naturally have the perfect disguises.

  Carson continues, “We’ll give you some flyers. The demonstration starts at noon. You’ll see what to do.”

  “This is for you.” Sanna slyly hands a manila envelope to Senga.

  “What is this?” she asks, and looks around again to see if anyone is watching.

  “It’s an article from outside, from when the Protectosphere was sealed.”

  “Sanna, no!” I reach for the envelope, but Senga tucks it in her handbag.

  “Nev,” Sanna says sternly. “Chill.”

  “But—” I start, but then I notice heads turning toward us. I thrust my fists deep into my pockets. My body flushes with anger.

  “Where did you get this?” Carson asks.

  “See if you can use it.” Sanna puts her hands in her pockets too.

  I can’t believe she gave the article to these two women. They might know what to do with a recipe for applesauce cake, but how can they use the article without implicating me or my dad?

  Senga elbows her friend.

  “We’d better go,” Carson says, and hugs us, adding loudly, “Great to see you.”

  “Make sure you’re not followed home,” Senga whispers in my ear. The pair disappears into the crowd.

  “What just happened?” I ask, confused by the housewife drive-by.

  “I know.” Sanna gives a little jump. “Isn’t it a-maz-ing?”

  “How could you?” I punch her in the arm, not so playfully.

  “Nev—”

  “You put my life in danger.”

  “Your life is already in danger, Nev. All our lives are. You said so yourself.”

  How does she do that? She does exactly the opposite of what I ask and makes me feel bad.

  She continues, “This is the starting gate. They’ve got mega plans—”

  “Those two? Those are the masterminds behind some plot to open the Protectosphere?

  “Shhhhhh,” Sanna hisses. “Never underestimate the power of a mother. They’re part of a network or resistance or something—oh, I don’t know.” She roots around in her handbag. “Nobody is supposed to know too much. It’s for our own protection and theirs, I guess.” She pulls a slightly bent cigarette from the bottom of her handbag and pinches it between her lips. “Want one?” she mumbles without dropping the cigarette.

  “You can’t smoke that here,” I say, and watch as she pats herself down for her lighter. “Where are you getting cigarettes anyway?”

  “My brother made them,” she pauses, realizing what she’s done. She’s spoken of her brother in past tense. She swallows, erasing the sadness that flashes across her face. “He makes them. Sells them. Started doing it a few months ago. You have a greenhouse for tomatoes. Some people choose to grow, well, other things to barter with.” She pulls a silver lighter from her back pocket. “I’ll let everyone know about the silent demonstration.”

  “Yeah, I know. No one trusts me.”

  “We could be the match that sparks the fuse that—” Lighter in one hand and cigarette in the other, she mimes a mushroom-cloud explosion. She repeatedly tries to ignite the old lighter, but her hands are shaking. Click. Spark. Click. Spark. The image of a skull is imprinted on the side of the lighter. It seems to be laughing at her.

  “Where did you get that thing?” I gesture to the lighter. “It’s hideous.”

  “My brother knows someone who knows someone.” Her voice catches. She’s already missing him.

  Sanna’s brother is part magician, part angel, and part ghost. I’ve always liked the thought of him out there somewhere watching over Sanna. He can’t be missing. He just can’t. I take the lighter and flick the wheel to produce a steady flame. Sanna lights her cigarette and inhales. She links her arm though mine. “I’m still mad at you,” I say, bu
t I am more terrified about what could happen next.

  “I did what had to be done,” she says between puffs of her cigarette. She’s right. I never would have used the article for anything. I would have kept it hidden just, like my dad did.

  We stroll to the center of the Square. She exhales smoke though her nose, which makes me think of a charging bull. We gaze up at Dr. Benjamin L. Smith’s statue.

  “Wonder what old Benjy would think about our silent demo,” Sanna says, flicking her cigarette at Benjy’s knee.

  “I don’t think he ever intended for us to end up like this,” I say, surveying the earnest edges of his bronze face. I’ve seen photos of him. I know this is what he looked like, but he never looks real to me. It’s as if someone has exaggerated his features.

  “Look at him. Curly hair. Pointy nose. I heard he had blue eyes, can you imagine?” she asks, fumbling in her handbag for another cigarette.

  I can’t, not really. I look across the Square at a sea of sameness. Any extremes have been averaged out.

  “He looks weird. Kind of ugly,” Sanna says.

  But I am oddly attracted to his unique features. “I know what you mean.”

  As we leave the Square, Sanna removes her sunglasses. “Do you really think in a thousand years we’ll all look like identical twins?”

  I shrug. “We look pretty similar now.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still you and I’m still me.”

  “I don’t think that will change.” I laugh and push my sunglasses onto my head. “But what does it matter since we are never having kids?”

  “Maybe not never,” she says.

  She has never, ever mentioned wanting to have children. Her mom died in childbirth after all.

  “Quit staring at me like I’ve got a scar on my face. Oh, wait.” She slaps her hand over her scar. “I’m allowed to change my mind. I’ve been thinking that maybe I want a little Sanna. I don’t want one now. And, no, before you go all inspector on me, Braydon and I have not broken the vow. It’s just, with him…” She gets this dreamy, un-Sanna look on her face. “I start to see a future, you know?”