My breath catches when I feel his hands on my shoulders, at first tentatively, as if he expects me to bolt across the room. Apparently, I’m too tired to be bristly this early in the morning. Instead I stifle a sigh of relief as he begins kneading my aching muscles. After a minute, I have to fight the urge to lean against him. Still, my mind won’t settle down.
“That patrol could come back anytime. But we can’t leave Claire like this. She’s too sick. What are we going to do?”
Reed sighs. “Could you relax for just a minute? They’re not likely to come back right this second. And you’ve been up all night. Just…chill.”
Chill? I bite my lip—the only thing I can think of to keep from arguing. After only a couple minutes, I feel my muscles unknotting, my skin tingling. My thoughts drift away from our predicament, but only to settle in other worrisome territory.
Reed and I have been alone together for most of the past few weeks, but I’ve been focused on our mission, and haven’t let myself think about how I changed from the angry girl who throttled him in the cafeteria to the confused girl who kissed him in the shed. Still, if I focus on what he did all those years ago in the Sand, I can work myself into the same anger, the same hatred. Then, if I think about all we did together at the House, well then my feelings sort of melt into whatever drove me to kiss him. But what feeling is that? I don’t know. And I definitely don’t know what Reed is thinking or feeling. He’s never brought it up.
And he’s never tried to kiss me again.
“Relax,” Reed says. It’s almost a whisper. His hands feel so good, so comforting. I close my eyes and stop resisting, telling myself it’s just for a few minutes. All my questions can be answered another time. For now it’s okay to follow his advice and chill.
The next thing I know, I’m waking up on my bunk with a blanket pulled up to my chin. Sunlight is streaming through the windows and Reed is gone.
“The beehives?” Reed’s voice carries to the kitchen as I head toward Claire’s bedroom.
“Yes. It’s mostly about the honey.”
“Why don’t they just…”
Claire laughs. “Kill me and take it? I used to wonder that too. Until I found out not many people are left who understand bee husbandry. And how important it is.”
When I walk through the door, I find Reed in the rocking chair and Claire sitting up in bed, looking better. They barely acknowledge me before returning to their conversation.
“How often do patrols come through?”
“Sometimes once a month. Other times, I don’t see them for several.”
“Do they always take your stock?”
“They always take honey. Usually food too.”
“I hate to interrupt,” I say, leaning over the bed to get a better look at Claire, “but how long have you been awake?”
“About an hour.” She points a steady finger at Reed. “Woke up to find that one sitting there like a prison guard. He flat refused to let me out of bed until you came to check on me.”
Reed shrugs. “Riley needed to sleep. I’m just being helpful.”
Claire frowns, but she doesn’t look unhappy. In fact, I would bet anything she’s trying not to smile. “And who put you two in charge of taking care of me?”
“You did, when you took care of us.” Reed stands up and heads for the door. “I’ll let you do your thing, Riley. Let me know if she gives you any trouble.”
Sure enough, Claire breaks into a grin as soon as he leaves. “That boy is trouble, Riley.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She lets me take her pulse, examine her eyes, and check the wound on her head.
“That’s enough,” she finally says, pushing back the covers and swinging her feet to the floor.
“I think you should take it easy.”
Claire glares at me, clearly not as impressed with my bossiness as she was with Reed’s, which I find thoroughly annoying.
“I need to pee,” she says. “No chance of me taking it easy until that happens. Okay?”
“Okay. Yeah, sure.”
Claire tries to get to her feet without help, but sways a little, so I insist on helping her to the bathroom. She firmly shuts the door in my face, so I stand outside, waiting, looking at framed photos that cover the wall. They span several decades, but the newest of them are at least fifty years old. I find Claire in a couple of them. In one, she’s arm in arm with a young man who must be Joseph. He was dark and handsome, with intense eyes. He kind of looks like Reed, which is probably why she likes him.
By the time Claire emerges from the bathroom, she looks pale and weak again. I call Reed in to help me get her back in bed.
“No, I need to get up. Feed the chickens, milk the goats.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Reed says.
“And if you’ll rest for just another day, you’ll feel so much better,” I say. “I promise.”
She looks like she wants to argue again but doesn’t actually have the strength. I pull her covers up to her chin, thinking she’s fallen asleep again. She hasn’t.
“Reed and Riley,” she says, her eyes still closed. “I figured it out, you know. You’re those kids who stole the Liberty Bell.”
12
Xoey
There’s an old song called “Scarlett Ribbons” I heard in the Hidden Library back when I was recuperating from the flu. Adam found it on vinyl and played it one night while Oliver and Sam stood guard in the laundry room next door. It is about a father who hears his daughter pray for red ribbons to tie in her hair. He searches every shop in town for the ribbons, but returns home empty-handed, aching with sadness. When morning comes, he finds scarlet ribbons on his daughter’s bed, an unexplained answer to both of their prayers.
The melancholy tune struck me, and sometimes I find myself humming it mindlessly. But I could not even pretend to relate to the lyrics. My father never bought anything special for me. In fact, he grumbled about buying me the basic necessities of life, often telling me how much I owed him, and how he longed for the day when I could join a guild, get a job, and start paying my fair share.
Why? So you can spend more of your money on liquor?
Of course, I never asked those questions out loud. Anyway, he ended up turning me over to the government long before that day could come.
Tonight, “Scarlett Ribbons” is repeating in my head while we wait to watch Jez Rodriguez’s interview with my father. I do not know what I will feel when I see him on the screen, but I know what not to expect: a warm rush of homesickness.
Fort Unity does not have a pixel wall, so Ozzy, Quyen, and I crowd around Ozzy’s tablet, which is connected with old-fashioned cables to a portable sat dish. The interview is supposed to be streaming, but our lousy reception and cloaking protocols mean we only get about two minutes of uninterrupted feed at a time. Everything freezes whenever the system refreshes, then, if we are lucky, picks up again where we left off. But that is not the most disturbing thing about waiting to see what my father has to say.
UDR news reports always follow a pattern I never analyzed before reading Floodlight’s blog. Now, it is hard to miss. Before they write a news story, before they turn on the cameras or ask their questions, producers choose an underlying message to convey. Something government officials want people to believe. They rarely share this message outright. Instead they offer it on the lips of someone we all admire, or they cherry-pick anecdotes to make an issue seem more or less than it is. There are dozens of methods, and even more messages to share, but every one of them somehow demonstrates the good that comes from conforming to UDR society, and the bad that comes when you question “correct thinking.”
Just last week, there was a report telling us that rolling blackouts are good for the environment. Another assured us that the widespread malnutrition we experience in the UDR is actually beneficial to our health.
“Hooray for starving in the dark!” Ozzy said.
We all laughed, but tonight is no different. Even befor
e my father is mentioned, the government’s message comes through loud and clear: The radicalized students who escaped Windmill Bay during the president’s visit are dangerous criminals who threaten not only national security, but the safety of anyone they encounter.
If Reed was here, I know he would already be arguing with the vid, saying the government is obviously desperate to quell the surge of American pride that followed our heist. But then Riley would tell him to shut up and let us watch the interview in peace.
I smile, missing them both. Then Jez takes my smile away.
“In the wake of a horrifying breach in security at one of our highly-praised reeducation facilities, many questions have been raised,” she says, standing in front of a nondescript government building. “Was our president in any danger? Which terrorist groups are responsible for the breach? How dangerous are those students still at large? Who are their hostages and what are their demands? We will answer those questions tonight. But first, one issue is buzzing from Sand to Sand more than any other, so let’s set the record straight.”
The video switches to a marble hallway, presumably inside the government building since Jez is wearing the same white trench coat in both shots. In this one, she and a bearded man stand in front of a wall emblazoned with the seal of the UDR National Archives.
“So, Mr. Fiso, you’re telling me that the American Liberty Bell was not stolen?”
“No, it most definitely was not.” He shakes his head and laughs, as if this is all a big joke. “The genuine Liberty Bell is secured in a high-tech storage facility. I can only assume the stolen bell was one of dozens of replicas. The resemblance might be close enough to fool a group of ignorant teenagers but would easily be identified as a reproduction by the experts here at the National Archives. Let me assure you and all citizens: At no time was this precious artifact ever in jeopardy.”
Mr. Fiso smiles, looking so friendly and comfortable, it is hard to believe he is lying. “Even though anyone who has been adequately educated knows that the Liberty Bell symbolizes the dangerous oppression of the failed American regime, it is a historical treasure nonetheless—one we would never sell. Instead, we look to preserve it here, where thieves have not even the slightest chance of getting their hands on it.”
Now a glass skyscraper with Japanese characters on the side fills the screen. Jez’s voice continues to narrate. “And as to the Japanese bankers who reportedly bought the Liberty Bell?” The video cuts to a man identified as Hiroji Sato, Communications Director of the Mizuho Bank in Tokyo. He sits behind a glossy, black desk and speaks in Japanese. The subtitles read: “We emphatically deny any purchase agreement of the American Liberty Bell between our financial institution and the United Democratic Republic of America.”
The next footage is an interview with an expert who claims to have authenticated the Liberty Bell in a warehouse. Then records are displayed with information circled in red, suggesting the truth of their claims. The vid switches to Jez on the sidewalk again.
“And now, the delinquents responsible for this reckless heist are left looking foolish with nothing on their hands but a worthless replica. But were they fooled? Or were their motives more malicious than conscientious citizens can imagine?”
The video feed stalls then, leaving us to wait until it refreshes again.
“Could it be true?”
“Which part?” asks Ozzy.
Quyen jerks his thumb toward the yellow crate near the entrance to our underground bunker. The crate holds the Liberty Bell, which we will load on the truck first thing in the morning before returning to Windmill Bay. “Could this bell be a fake?”
“No!” Ozzy and I say in unison.
Quyen looks doubtful. “How do you know?”
I shush him as Jez begins talking again. This time she’s standing on a familiar street near my old neighborhood in the Sand and her outfit has changed. She walks toward the camera as she talks, looking at ease and confident as she returns to the subject of our escape from Windmill Bay.
“…a school,” she says, “in a location so secret, we cannot share it with you today. What we can share are details about one of its students, and one of this story’s most tragic victims: Xoey Stone.”
A chill runs down my spine. Ozzy and Quyen look sideways at me before returning their attention to the screen, which now shows a video of me singing the UDR national anthem on the night of the heist.
“You sound good!” Ozzy says. I shush him as Jez begins to tell my story, beginning with my birth “under the shadow of the Hollywood sign” to parents she describes as “a loving father and a dangerous mother.” The rest of her narrative follows the same pattern of distorted facts and partial truths, all designed to make me a victim, and my father a model parent. As Jez wraps up her dramatic tale, the video cuts to her sitting with my father in his living room.
I say “his” because it cannot possibly be the same residence I shared with him and my mom. The windows and doors are in the wrong places, and when they settle down in matching chairs I do not recognize, the wall behind them is covered in garish foil wallpaper that somehow makes me think of Daisy from The Great Gatsby.
I blink, struggling to focus.
It must be my father’s home, though, and not a studio set, because I spot a familiar set of comedy/tragedy masks on the wall above his head. Mom bought them for him on their tenth anniversary, knowing how much he wanted to be an actor. She saved for months, all while worrying they would disappear from the antique junk shop where she found them. When my father opened them, I just knew he would love them, then maybe he would love us again too. Instead he laughed. It was a nasty sound I knew too well. The kind that meant Mom had failed to please him once again.
“Are you rubbing failure in my nose?” he asked her.
“No! Of course not. I thought—”
“You thought what? That a daily reminder of what I lost would be a good idea?” He rose from his chair, dropping the masks on top of the torn wrapping paper Mom had also saved up to buy. “But why should I expect a little compassion from you? You’ve never even tried to understand me. Just get them out of my sight.”
Mom did just that, wiping tears from her face and shoving the masks behind towels in the linen closet. Yet there they are now, hanging on his wall. I guess once Mom and I were out of his life, he decided he could bear the sight of them after all.
I do not know why these memories are so sharp and painful tonight, before my father has even had a chance to answer any questions, but seeing him sit there calmly talking to Jez Rodriguez is surreal. My head feels light and for a minute my vision blurs. I grip my seat and hope no one notices.
“So Sean, tell me: Why don’t you think Xoey was involved in this theft?” Jez asks.
“It’s absolutely impossible,” my father says.
Close up, he looks different than I remember. His hair is the color of sand and naturally wavy, but the white I remember coming in at his temples is gone. Also, his eyes and nose were always red from too much drinking, and there was always a rash of broken capillaries scattered across his cheeks, but tonight his skin looks even, and his eyes are bright—just like his smile. I remember Middlebrooks talking to Kino about video editing to make up for whatever was lacking on the night she televised the president’s visit to Windmill Bay. Clearly someone has used the same techniques on my father, who is shaking his head and looking every bit the concerned parent.
“Xoey’s conscience would not allow her to be involved in such a deceitful scheme. Her mother was a religious extremist, yes, but she did not tolerate theft. Deceit of any kind was not allowed. In fact, even the slightest mistake on my little girl’s part brought on discipline of the worst kind.” He sniffs. “I did what I could to intervene, of course. But there were times when I wasn’t quick enough. There were times when I failed her.”
His hand trembles as he wipes away a tear. I glance at Quyen and Ozzy. Both of them are fixated on the screen. Ozzy’s mouth is open while Quyen’s lip
curls.
Do they believe my father’s lies?
“But no matter what her mother did, Xoey was stoic,” he continues. “So brave! All those years, she had to be. She kept trying to please her mother, but it was never enough. No one was perfect enough for Carly or her God.”
“So what do you think happened to Xoey?” Jez asks.
“I think those rebel thugs kidnapped her,” my father says. “I don’t know why. Maybe she was in their way, or maybe their plans are more despicable than I can allow myself to imagine.” He stops talking and his shoulders shake. Jez hands him a tissue and he dabs his eyes. When he speaks again, his words are thick and hard to understand. “But they took my daughter! Those terrorists took my little girl!”
Awkward seconds pass with his nose buried in a tissue. Then everything freezes while our system refreshes. Quyen and Ozzy are strangely silent too. It feels like they are avoiding looking at me. When the interview restarts, my father is already talking, which means we must have missed a few seconds of the feed.
“…which meant Xoey would finally get the help she needed to correct her illogical thinking. Wanda, that is, Director Wanda Kino, was so close to rehabilitating her thoroughly. Just a few more months and she would have seen through her mother’s manipulation. She would have had her mind rinsed free of that religious nonsense. But I have a sick feeling now in my gut. A father knows, right? Something needs to be done.”
Now he looks right at the camera and I have to acknowledge something I never knew: My father is actually a good actor. “So now, I appeal to those of you who took my daughter. Please release her. She’s of no value to you anymore. Send her home.”
“Is there anything you would like to say directly to Xoey, if she is watching tonight?”
He nods and returns his focus to the camera. One tear manages to glisten on the edge of his black lashes.
“I love you with all my heart, Xoey. Stay strong and be brave. Stay alive and come home to your daddy.”
Weeping Justice Page 9
