by Simone Pond
I play it casual. “How’s business?”
“A little slow. Handful of regulars. A few of those highfalutin Long-Timers,” he says with disdain.
I roll my eyes, letting him know I agree with his sentiment. Most working class Short-Timers despise the double standards set for Long-Timers, who don’t get docked days for breaking the law. When anyone else does the same thing, they’re classified as a Low-Bottom. It’s maddening. Long-Timers are unfettered by the rules, while the rest of us suffer the system of imbalance.
“Any visits from the resistance?” I innocently inquire.
“No Borders today. But it’s still early. I’m sure one of the pesky do-gooders will show up and drive away business.”
This is encouraging, since my entire reason for visiting the speakeasy is to potentially run into someone from the resistance. The Borders live outside our “civilized” town grids. They’re always trying to help the drug-addicted Low-Bottoms, as opposed to the uncaring Technocrats, which makes me wonder who’s really uncivilized. I admire the Borders for having the courage to break away from a system that’s literally killing us.
Before letting me into the speakeasy, he holds out his hand, requesting payment. I take a couple of silver coins from my pocket, leaving the last one tucked deep inside. As I drop the coins into his palm, I feel a string tugging at my heart. Currency is precious.
“Gonna cost you more,” he says.
“That’s all I got.” I don’t like lying, but I really need that last piece of silver.
“Can’t help you then.” He hands back my coins and turns to leave. He could be bluffing, but I can’t let him walk away, not when graduation is looming and I’m running out of time.
“Wait!” I dig into my pocket.
His grin is boastful like he just won a hand in poker as he pulls back a threadbare tapestry hanging on the wall, revealing a hidden door. I don’t thank him as I slip behind the material and head downstairs.
In the dingy lounge, songs with banjo-picking and triumphant sentiment from the Civil War days stream in the background. Half-passed out patrons laze in armchairs. The flickering candles make shadows dance on their dopey faces. I recognize a few of the men from the speakeasy circuit. Others I’ve seen at town meetings or dances.
I find a secluded corner and plunk down onto a couch. The Long-Timers look completely out of place in their tailored suits and top hats, inhaling broken capsules and floating off into blissful oblivion amidst the riffraff. I wonder what is so burdensome in their cushy lives that they seek escape. Is it the limitless amount of days that causes such unrest?
Someone kicks my boot, giving me a start. “Pardon me!” I say, standing up to face none other than Parker Bishop and his pocket-watch-flinging sidekick, Noah Brenson. This is definitely not their typical after-school bailiwick.
I don’t hold back my laughter. “What in heaven’s name are you two doing in a place like this?”
Parker sneers at me, stepping a bit closer. “Thought we’d see where the Flies hang out.”
I gesture toward the top-hat-wearing Long-Timers hanging out across the dim-lit room. “So you’re calling your buddies Flies, now?”
“Shut up, Fly,” Noah says.
“Why don’t you guys leave before you get hurt?”
“We’re not going anywhere, Miss Kalliste.” Parker shoves me.
Losing my footing, I fall onto the couch like a buffoon. A sudden fury rises up through me like a tornado wanting to whirl across the room. But I remain seated and tight-lipped, knowing my words won’t help. I’m out of my league. For all I know, Parker is a low-level demon sent to do the devil’s work. I glance at Noah, hoping he’ll keep his buddy in check, but he stands there fiddling with that dang pocket watch. I’m tempted to yank it from his hands and run off to pawn it. It’s probably worth a lot currency.
Parker sits on the couch and motions for Noah to sit on my other side, sandwiching me. I wriggle around, but it’s no use. I’m trapped. They start talking back and forth like I’m not there, intentionally torturing me.
When they finally shut up, I look at Noah, hoping to appeal to what was once a friendlier side of him. “I don’t know why you’re here or what you have against me. But isn’t it high time you pick on somebody else?”
“Let’s just say you’re guilty by association,” Parker says.
“Association?”
“I’m talking about your no-account brother. Running off-grid like some yellow-bellied pansy.”
They can get sour on me all they want, but I won’t allow them to disgrace my brother’s good name. I pry myself from between them and stand up. “You don’t know a thing about Achilles.”
Parker glares up at me. “I know he’s a coward. Just like you.”
“I’m not afraid of you. You know that, right?”
Parker glowers and raises his pale blond eyebrows, challenging me to do something very unladylike. Which I wouldn’t put past me, but I’m not in the mood for an altercation. Why waste another second on these two ignoramuses? I grab my bag and fake an amiable smile. “Well, gentlemen, it’s been lovely. So much to do … and so little time.”
Parker busts up, smacking Noah’s leg. “You got that right, Fly!”
I’d love to land one good kick to Parker’s shins, but I depart their company with as much poise as I can garner, making sure I don’t trip on my way out.
3
Walking down Main Street, a chill brushes against my cheek. Now that school’s out, the streets are packed with students heading home to study or help with chores, or in the case of Long-Timers, convening at Sadie’s Soda Shoppe doing what they do best—wasting time.
Before heading home, I need to make a couple of pit stops. My first is a quick visit to the pawnshop. The familiar jingle of the bell announces my entrance. Old Petie glances up from behind the counter. The pungent smoke from his cheap cigar sticks to the air like a toxic cloud. I’ll always associate the stench of cigar smoke with the shame of coming here. But if I don’t scrounge up the money somehow, my father won’t get his medicine. And if he doesn’t get his medicine … Don’t even think about that.
“Afternoon, Miss Kalli.”
I nod politely, making my way up to the counter, and set down my ratty bag.
Old Petie puts the half-smoked cigar into an ashtray, then stands up all creaky-like. “What can I do you for?”
“Same old thing. Need some silver.”
He stares at me with a twinge of pity in his weary old eyes. “Not for any of those speakeasies, I hope.”
“You know I don’t mess around with that stuff, Petie. I’m a good egg.” I give him one of my sugary smiles and open up my bag to get the transaction over with.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
From underneath my schoolbooks, I pull out a small pouch. My trade items have become more and more inadequate with each trip to the pawnshop. My stockpile has been depleted, leaving very little to hock. I deposit the paltry items on the counter, hoping that Old Petie will cut me some slack. But the broken-toothed pearl hair comb, gold-plated compact and cruddy watch could be mistaken for rubbish. Not worth the effort it was bringing them here.
“Can’t give you much for these. Maybe a few pieces of copper?” he says sympathetically.
“That’s all I’ve got. Are you sure you can’t pinch out a piece of silver?”
He stares at the thin gold chain around my neck—my mother’s locket. I clasp it in my palm, protecting it from his lingering gaze.
“I’ll give you three silver coins for that there piece.”
This can’t be happening. I can’t hock my mother’s locket. It’s the last thing she gave me before the swarm of flies took her down. Or rather, before the Technocrats removed her from the System of Balance. “I don’t know. It means a lot to me. Sentimental value and all.”
“You drive a hard bargain. I give you four pieces of silver. But that’s it.”
He thinks I’m negotiating, but I�
��m not. I cling to the locket, torn between letting go of my mother and getting those coins. “Is there anything else I can do? Some chores around the shop?”
“I’m running a business, not a charity. Besides, you can always come back for it.”
I picture my father’s weary eyes. His calloused hands. The way he collapses in the foyer after a long grueling day working at the rails. The medicine is the only thing that soothes his bone-deep pain, and I need currency to buy it. I glance around the barren shop, knowing the chances of this locket sticking around are slim to none. Old Petie’s good at what he does. In fact, he’s so good I reluctantly pull the locket over my head and set it down on the counter.
He carefully opens it and stares at the photograph inside. “You’re mother was a fine woman. Salt of the earth, she was.”
“Indeed.” My voice is shaking and annoying tears start welling in my eyes.
Old Petie ambles over to his safe and returns, gently placing the silver coins into my hand. I look down and count five shiny pieces of silver.
“You said four.”
“Didn’t know it had a photograph of your mother inside. Makes it more valuable.”
I have no idea why a picture of my mother would increase the value, but I don’t question my boon. I haven’t held this much currency in a long time. I grab my bag and dash to the door before he changes his mind.
*
By the time I get home, the house is dark and quiet. I walk from room to room turning on lights. Somehow I always think this will make the emptiness seem less glaring, but the absence of my mother and Achilles still resonates no matter how many lights I turn on. Dad isn’t home yet, probably another double shift at the rails. Part of me is angry with Achilles for leaving me all alone to take care of our father. But I’m not about to lose another family member, so I do whatever it takes to keep my father upright.
I remove the bottle of powder from my bag and set it on the kitchen table. There’s enough to last at least a few weeks. It’ll be difficult explaining how I could afford such a large quantity, but I’ll figure out something. I scoop out a heaping teaspoon of the white powder and mix it into a tall glass of water, stirring until it’s dissolved.
Out in the living room, I set the glass down on the table next to my father’s special chair, trying to ignore the empty one next to it. To fill up the quiet, I turn on the radio. Friday nights they usually run stories about the old days—the days before the Border War. Long segments spinning yarns about the time when my grandparents and others fought for our country. Like every American who actually survived the Border War, they lost everything. But the Technocrats rallied together and created the town grids for the survivors. They’ve been overseeing things these last forty-six years. I never got to know my grandparents because they reached their DODs when I was a little girl.
The front door opens and Dad barrels into the house, dropping to his knees the second the door closes. I jump off the couch and rush over, heaving up his limp body and assisting him to his chair.
“You okay?” I fight back my tears because I have to be strong. He doesn’t need some wishy-washy mush ball fussing over him.
He holds my hand and brings it to his cheek. “You’re a sight for sore everything, my beautiful Kalliste.”
The anguish in his eyes grips my heart, and I want to scream or break something. It’s so unfair that he has to work in his condition. But the SOB will squeeze out every last morsel from this resource, and when he can’t work any more . . . No, I can’t think about it.
I hand him the glass. “Here, drink this.”
He doesn’t waste a millisecond gulping down the concoction. It takes all of my strength to ignore the opalescent blue glow on the inside of his wrist, displaying his date of death. The date I’ve been trying to stave off for the last few years. The mark all of us get upon graduation. He hands me the empty glass. Almost immediately, peace floods over his face and his shoulders sink into a state of relaxation. Releasing a long sigh, he reclines in his chair. “You’re so good to me, my dear daughter.”
“I got a lot of powder this time. At least a three-week supply.”
“How’d you afford all that?”
Tilting my head and winking, I muse, “I have my ways.”
“Didn’t think you had anything left to sell.”
I reach for my locket, forgetting it’s gone.
“You didn’t hock your mother’s locket, did you?” He glances at the empty chair, wincing with a different kind of pain.
“I had to.”
Tears fill his watery blue eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll get it back for you, Kalli.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I figured it was worth keeping you around a little longer.”
He laughs as his eyelids draw heavy. “I’m sorry I’m not a better father.”
“You’re the best father a girl could ever have.” I take off his sweat-stained cap and muss his jet-black hair, which is starting to show specks of gray along his temples.
“I love you,” he mumbles.
“Everything’s gonna be all right, Daddy. I’ll figure out a way to get things back to normal.”
Normal seems like a million moons away, but I cling to the hope that I can fix these unfortunate circumstances with my brother’s help. I just need to find him. Dad slowly drifts to sleep. I pull off his work boots and turn up the radio, hoping he’ll sleep all the way through to morning.
Walking upstairs to my bedroom, I pass by Achilles’s door. His room is untouched and looks like a museum or a moment frozen in time. On his desk are a family photo and a deck of playing cards. Achilles loved shuffling those dang cards over and over, forcing us to play games. He’d drive us crazy on poker night, dealing hand after hand, determined to figure out how I kept winning. It helps to have a photographic memory like mine. I kept the secret to myself, though Mom eventually caught on. When she’d kiss me before bed, she’d hold me close and say, “One day, you’ll do great things with that gift of yours, Kalliste.”
The phone rings, jarring me back into reality. I rush into the hallway to answer it before Dad wakes up.
“Hello?”
“Kalli?”
“You know it’s me, Knack. Who else lives here besides me and my father?”
“I’ve got good news.”
“You mean in addition to detention on Monday?”
He pauses. “Yeah, sorry about that mishap. Anyway, I’m calling because I heard a rumor there’s a party tonight over on the west side.”
“You know what I say about rumors?”
“Usually there’s a sinkhole at the end of one.” He recites the very words I’ve tried to indoctrinate into his thick skull. Too bad he can’t remember his studies as easily. Poor Knack.
“I abhor the idea of hanging out with a bunch of Long-Timers on the west side. Everything about that sounds like a bad idea.”
“I might have something to change your mind.”
I laugh a little. “It’ll take an awful lot to change my mind.”
“I also heard a rumor that someone has some new speakeasy codes.”
My heart picks up a beat. Going to a different speakeasy will increase my chances of running into a Border. Especially since the last visit was a bust, no thanks to Noah and Parker. I dig into my pocket, my fingers gliding over the leftover silver coins. Dad has plenty of medicine to last a few weeks, and it’s still early. I can’t pass up a golden opportunity like this.
“Come by and pick me up.”
“You might want to wear something a little more suitable.”
“Sure thing, Knack. I’ll get out my hoop dress and ribbons.”
“You own a hoop dress?”
“Hurry up and get over here before I change my mind.”
Both of us know I’m not changing my mind.
Before I go downstairs, I decide it’s probably best to fix myself up a bit. I slide some combs into my hair, pulling it up and leaving out a few long strands to frame my face. I’m not about to pu
t on a dress, but I dig around in my closet for a nicer top. I find a flimsy white blouse with a lace collar that I haven’t worn in ages. It takes a good ten minutes to get it on, fiddling with the dainty pearl buttons.
I dash by my father, who is out cold, and leave the house. Knack is standing on the front porch, sporting a tailored pinstriped jacket and a fresh cravat. His grin is so wide, I feel myself blushing. “And I thought you didn’t care about making impressions,” he goads.
I do my best to ignore his obnoxious gawking and walk ahead to the nearest trolley stop. My nerves are jumping all over the place, but I’m happy. I’ve got two silver coins in my pocket and I’m on my way to acquire some new access codes.
4
The party is packed to the walls with Long-Timers getting boozy and peacocking about. As I enter the living room, the girls peer at me with incredulous wonder while the fellows perk up, at least until they realize whom they’re gawking at. Knack slips away into the belly of the beast, leaving me alone with these upper-echelon time wasters. I’m tempted to go back outside and wait, but the mere force of the crowd sucks me farther into the grand home.
Not making eye contact with anyone, I find the kitchen and come across what appears to be a pitcher of Old Fashions. I shove by a couple of girls to pour myself a tall glass. As much as I’m underdressed, their extravagant hoop dresses make up for it in spades.
“Dreadful blouse,” one of them chirps.
Ignoring them, I pour some of the brown whiskey into a glass and pick out the orange rinds, tossing them into the sink. I don’t care for whiskey, citrus or bitters, but the only way I’m getting through this despicable situation will be with a strong buzz. I tip back the glass until every last drop of whiskey is gone, then turn to the girls, batting my eyelashes sheepishly. “It truly is an awful blouse, but my hoop has gone missing.”
The slender blonde raises her white glove to her rosebud lips and exclaims, “Missing? What a catastrophe!”
