Dark Parties

by Sara Grant

  This doesn’t seem possible.

  “Do you have an identity mark?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I need to know what it is,” he continues.

  I blush.

  “You will only be identified by your mark, no names. Describe your identity mark.”

  This is one of those moments that will change my life forever—and I’m not ready. I can trust him and tell him about my snowflake tattoo, or I can walk away right now. Trusting him means risking my life on the promise of escape. He could be working for the government. Or this could be the one and only chance I will ever have for a better life.

  “So?” He is pressing the edges of the envelope into my palm. I fold the envelope in half.

  “I’ve got a snowflake tattoo,” I say, and tuck the envelope down the front of my blue jeans. “Right here.” I indicate the spot directly under the envelope.

  “Okay.” He clears his throat. “Midnight. Four nights from tonight at the Capitol Complex. Someone will approach you and ask to see your identity mark. Got that?”

  “But that’s right in the center of the City.”

  “That’s why they will never suspect it. They send all their officers to patrol the borders. When you see your grandma, tell her that Thomas sends his regards.”

  “Wouldn’t you be coming with me?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s too late for me.”

  “What if—” There are so many what-ifs.

  “You are Ruth Adams’s granddaughter. You can do it.” He pats my cheek with his soft wrinkly hand. He looks me directly in the eyes. “Tell no one about this”—he pauses—“no one.” His stare is not from a man in his seventies but a fierce young rebel. “Neva, trust no one. Do you understand?”

  I nod, but how can I keep this secret from Mom? She’s lost so much already. What about Sanna? Will she even care what happens to me after last night? And Braydon. What about Braydon? How can I disappear without a word?

  “You shouldn’t be seen with me much longer. It’s too dangerous.” He turns away. I don’t know what to do. My grandma has sent me an invitation to the great beyond. And I can’t imagine accepting or rejecting it.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  As I walk back across the bridge, the corners of the envelope dig into my stomach. It takes every ounce of restraint not to rip it open. When I’m once again in the middle of the bridge, I walk to the edge and hold the rail. I look up, arch my back and rise on my tiptoes. The wind whips my ponytail in circles and stray strands sting my face. Thomas is still sitting on the bench. He’s resting his chin on his cane as if he’s sleeping. From this vantage point, I notice a pattern of people spaced an equal distance from him. Were those people there before? I don’t think so. We would have noticed, but I can’t be sure.

  A woman in a gray jacket walks over to Thomas and touches him, gently at first and then she’s shaking him. She calls to the others who quickly surround him. Two men pull him to his feet. A black van drives up on the embankment. People have scattered like pigeons to make way for the vehicle. Thomas jerks his shoulders back and the two men release him. He straightens, takes his cane from the woman, and walks toward the van. As he bows to enter the van, he looks up and, for a second, our eyes connect. We both know too late that it was a mistake. My adrenaline rockets. The woman forces Thomas into the van. She bangs on the van and it speeds off. The woman is pointing to the bridge. Two men take off in my direction.

  I back away from the rail and then run. My mind is racing faster than my feet. Who are those people? They can’t be police; they aren’t wearing uniforms. Maybe it’s some special team like the people who robbed me of any trace of my grandma. Has Thomas been erased? It’s that easy. The government wipes you away like a smudge on a window. If they catch me, I may also find out what it’s like to be a smudge.

  I run.

  I stumble down the stairs from the bridge to the opposite embankment. I check behind me. I can’t see anyone chasing me, but I can feel them closing in. They will have the better vantage point to find me. All they have to do is scan the area for a girl with a ponytail in a beige shirt.

  That’s it. Blend in.

  I hide under the bridge. I rip the elastic band out of my hair and throw it into the river. I untie my sweater and slip it on, zipping it all the way up. I place my hand protectively over the envelope tucked into my jeans. I’m walking, but my legs keep speeding up. I have to slow down, but my pace bursts fast and then slows. Fast then slow. Fast then slow. I need to find a crowd and get lost.

  The Square. It’s only a few blocks away. I turn off at the next street. My neck throbs from forcing myself to face forward. I desperately want to turn around to see if anyone is following me, but that would look too suspicious.

  The Square is busier than I expect. I snake through the crowd with my head down. For once, I’m thankful for our similarities. I push myself forward, but the friction of bodies seems to pull me back. Nearly every part of my body makes contact with someone else as I move. My heart is racing. I rise on my tiptoes and look around. The crowd is growing and it’s harder to move, but maybe I’m safe.

  A piece of paper is being forced into my hand. I make a fist and bat it away, but a hand is closing around mine. “Read it,” someone whispers. I can hear paper crackling all around me as it’s wadded and forced into hands. “Our hope for the future,” someone else says in a low and steady voice. I curl my fingers around the paper.

  It’s the silent demonstration; I’d almost forgotten. I rise to my tiptoes again. I scan the crowd. Everyone is looking down. It’s impossible to recognize anyone. I duck back down and aimlessly weave my way through the crowd. I pause and slowly unfold the paper. I read the headline: THE PROTECTOSPHERE IS KILLING US. I flip the paper over and freeze. It’s the article from the archives. It’s been pieced back together.

  I am being knocked about in a human tide. I don’t know if I’m more excited or scared. All these people know one of the government’s secrets. Sanna and I have made a difference. But I’ve got the letter from my grandma tucked in my jeans. I think Thomas was just erased, and they—whoever they are—could be after me now. My survival instinct kicks in. I press the flyer into another hand when I bump it. I push through the crowd with my arms folded tightly across my chest. Anyone can see that I’m not distributing propaganda. I search for the quickest route out of the mass of people that is growing by the minute.

  I need air. I climb up and cling to the Dr. Benjamin L. Smith statue. I watch as the river of people flow from the Square and down toward the embankment. As people detach from the crowd, I can see papers being tucked into jackets and handbags, as well as dropped casually on the ground.

  “Neva! Neva, is that you?”

  I panic at the sound of my name, but I pretend I didn’t hear it.

  “Neva!” the voice is louder and familiar. I can’t ignore it.

  “Neva! Over here!” I see a boy waving his arms and rushing toward me. My first impulse is to run, but I hold my ground. As he gets closer, I recognize the shape of his body. His short hair. The blue-and-gray-striped shirt I gave him for Christmas. Those deep-set eyes.

  “Ethan,” I say when he reaches me, and throw my arms around him. I am safe. “What are you doing here?” I don’t really care. He’s here; that’s all the matters. If they come, he’ll tell them he’s been with me the whole time.

  “I’ve been calling you,” he says, and he strokes my hair, smoothes out the wrinkle where my elastic band was.

  “I know.” Mom has given me all of his messages. I realize what I’ve just done. He will misunderstand and imagine that I’ve missed him and want him back. The truth is when I saw him I saw an alibi. I feel bad that after all those years together I can’t conjure up a deeper emotion than feeling safe. I move away from him. “What are you doing here?” I ask again.

  He kisses me on the cheek and whispers, “The demonstration.”

  “Really? I thought you said—”
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  He takes my hand. “I thought you’d be here.”

  “You can’t do this for me,” I say. “It’s too dangerous for you. What if—”

  “I love you, Neva.” He tries to draw me closer, but I stand firm. “You know that, right? I can’t live without you.”

  Maybe they aren’t tracking him. I should tell him what Tim said about the government’s haphazard approach to surveillance, but Ethan would probably only chastise me for snooping. And maybe he is one of the few they watch. Maybe everything would be different if they weren’t tracking Ethan. But it doesn’t matter anymore.

  I notice that the police have surrounded the crowd and are closing in. “Let’s go.” The police are after me. I’m a fugitive and a thief. I gave the demonstrators the stolen newspaper article. I have a letter from my long-lost Grandma in my underwear.

  We walk away from the Square. We travel side streets until we are at the train station. I kiss him on the cheek. “I really need to go home.” I’ve got to read my grandma’s letter.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I don’t know what to say to him. Part of me wants him to take me home. It’s Ethan. I can trust him. We’ve known each other forever. Everything around me is shifting, but Ethan still loves me. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  “But I want to.” He smiles this sweet, warm smile, and there’s a hint of the old Ethan, the one I fell in love with. The guy who picked his neighbor’s flowers when he was twelve and brought them to me with the dirt still clinging to the roots. But I can’t keep hoping. The old Ethan is never coming back.

  “Ethan, we broke up, remember? You have to move on.”

  His face reddens and tears swarm his eyes. “I thought if I showed you I could change. I can be the person you want me to be—”

  “No, Ethan,” I say firmly. I don’t want to leave any room for doubt. He can never be the person I want him to be. He will never be Braydon. “I’m so sorry, Ethan, but I…” I’m not sure I can say it with him staring at me as if his life is ending. I blurt what I have to tell him, “I don’t love you anymore.” Now that it’s out there, a part of me wants to take it back so I won’t have to see the way his eyes are deadening. I may be leaving in four days. I don’t want him to miss me or search for me. I don’t want him to feel the anguish I’ve felt for my grandma every day for the past ten years.

  I walk away. This is for the best, I reassure myself.

  “I won’t let you go,” he calls after me.

  I stop. It sounds like he knows about my grandma’s invitation to escape, but he couldn’t. I walk on.

  “I love you, Neva!” he shouts. His words have the impact of stones. I never knew I was capable of hurting someone so deeply. I want to comfort him, but I can’t. I’m the source of his pain.

  I hurry onto a departing train. I don’t care about the train’s destination. I’ve got to get out of here.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  When I get home, the living room is dark. I can barely see the mom-size shape slumped on the couch.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” I flip on the lights. Her eyes are rimmed with red. Streamers of hair hang loose around her face. She has a dish towel over her shoulder. Her beige shirt looks like a paint-splattered canvas. There’s a brownish blob in the center of her shirt and polka dots of a darker beige. “What’s wrong?”

  Mom fiercely hugs me. I can hardly breathe, she is squeezing me so tightly. “Where have you been?” she demands, suddenly breaking our embrace.

  “What?” My mind is still processing the day’s events. I could escape. I could see my grandma again. Four days. Her invitation has started an internal clock ticking.

  Tears are streaming down Mom’s cheeks. She covers her face with the towel from her shoulder. I press my hand hard into my stomach and feel the edges of the envelope. “I…” She’s sobbing so hard she can only get one word out at a time. “Thought.” She pants for air. “You.” Her sobs are more like the low moans of a wounded animal. “Were.” She holds her breath and cries, “Gone.”

  “Oh, Mom. Why would you think that?” But I could have been erased so easily, like Thomas.

  “You don’t know what’s going on. What can happen to young girls. I saw Sanna.”

  “What about Sanna?”

  “I saw her today. You’re always with her. I was so afraid…”

  Did Sanna say something to her? “Mom, Sanna and I had a fight last night. She’s not speaking to me. She may never speak to me again.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She throws her arms around me.

  Not the reaction I was expecting.

  “When the police were taking her away—”

  “What?” I break free.

  “At that thing at the Square.”

  “You were there?”

  “But you’re safe and that’s all that matters.” She’s hugging me again, but I don’t want to be hugged.

  I pull Mom parallel. “Mom, what about Sanna? Where did they take her? I’ve got to help her.” Sanna’s missing.

  “I know this is hard, Neva. But you can’t do anything. You can’t get involved. You don’t understand the stakes. You were damn lucky last time. Your dad had to call in favors and practically beg them to release you. If you get mixed up with this again…”

  “But, Mom, this is Sanna. I can’t…” What? I can’t what? I’ve betrayed her with her boyfriend. I didn’t think things could get worse.

  “They will probably interrogate her like they did you.”

  I haven’t told her about Nicoline. They will send Sanna away. I know it. “I’ve got to do something.” I release her.

  “Let me see what I can find out.” She holds my face so I am forced to look her in her bloodshot eyes. “But you have to promise to stop whatever you and Sanna have been doing.”

  “Okay.”

  Mom grabs her coat and leaves out the front door. I can’t just stand here. I feel so helpless. I decide to make one call. Maybe Sanna’s home already. She won’t talk to me, but if I hear her voice, I’ll know she’s okay. I dial.

  A deep voice answers the phone. “Jones residence.”

  “Hi, Mr. Jones. This is Neva Adams. Can I please speak to Sanna?” I ask in my most polite voice.

  The phone line crackles.

  “Mr. Jones, are you still there?” I ask after what feels like an eternity.

  “Yes. I’m still here,” he says clearly. He knows me. I’ve spoken to him hundreds of times. He used to think I was a good influence on Sanna. He liked that Sanna hung out with the Minister of Ancient History’s kid.

  “Can I please speak to Sanna?” I ask again.

  “I’m sorry. There’s no one here by that name.” The phone goes dead. Not Sanna. Please, God, not Sanna. I double over to squelch the pain in my gut. The corners of the envelope hidden in my jeans dig into my snowflake tattoo. I’d almost forgotten.

  As I head to my room, I remove the now-wrinkled envelope from my jeans. I turn it over and over in my hands. What does it matter now? If Sanna is missing, I can’t leave until she’s safe.

  I sit on my bed and carefully slice the envelope open. There’s just one sheet of paper; I rub the paper between my fingers. It’s cream-colored, nearly brown, rough with bits and pieces woven in. I’d forgotten the feel of my grandma’s handmade paper. I unfold the letter.

  My dearest Snowflake,

  Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But if you’re reading this then my fondest wish will be granted and soon we will be together again.

  This message has to be short. I can’t risk any more. You will have one chance to escape. No one must know what you are planning. Leave everything behind. If there is any way possible, I will be waiting for you on the other side.

  It’s a lot to ask. I can’t make you any promises. But I believe that a better life awaits. I love you, Snowflake. Hope to see you soon.

  Was this always her plan—from the moment I was born? My parents let her name me�
�her one and only grandchild. She chose to call me Neva. She told me once that she wanted my name to hold promise. “The government can manage the snowfall, but it can’t make two snowflakes the same,” she had said.

  I stare at the letter for a long time. I may have found my grandma and lost my best friend. I dig out my journal and flip to the pages filled with the memories of my grandma. The postcard she sent marks the spot. All I ever wanted was her back in my life, but I never expected that I’d have to choose between her and everything and everyone else.

  I turn to the last page and note the date and write: Thomas. I don’t even know his last name, but he’s gone. I reread the names of the people I’ve lost. My pen hovers on the next blank line. I can see Sanna’s name there, but I can’t let that happen. I’ve got four days to decide if I want to accept my grandma’s invitation, which means I’ve got four days to rescue Sanna.

  I read the letter again. With everything else spiraling out of control, I want to hold on to the spark of hope it ignites in my gut. I want to save the letter with the other memories of my grandma, but it’s too risky. I’ve got to destroy the only evidence I’ve ever had that my grandma is alive. I can’t put it in the recycling bin. Dad has a shredder, but I can’t put it in his office—even shredded in his trashcan. I stuff the letter and postcard in the front of my jeans and head to the bathroom. I lock the bathroom door. I rip off a few tiny pieces of the postcard and a few pieces of the letter and watch them flutter into the toilet. I flush the toilet and do it again. The scraps of paper look like tiny boats floating on a calm sea, then I flush and suck my fleet to a watery grave.

  I make the pieces really small—only a few letters per piece. I decide to eat the key phrases in Grandma’s letter. I put the paper in my mouth and grind the pieces. The paper fragments cling to my teeth. I stick my mouth under the tap and gulp water to wash away the evidence. A few more flushes and the evidence is destroyed. I sit down on the toilet. I can feel a lump of paper slowly making its way into my stomach where the acid will melt it into pulp.