Middle Ground

by Katie Kacvinsky

  His body was rigid. Tense. He tried to keep his voice calm but I could hear it tainted with bitterness, like something toxic was coming out of it.

  “It’s pretty easy to build a website for funerals,” he said. “I checked it out after Kristin’s death. It’s laid out in ten steps. It takes about a half an hour.”

  I nodded as I listened.

  “It made me so sick. That’s all people are worth these days, a half an hour of our time. No one travels to funerals. No one’s expected to make the sacrifice anymore. We can’t be inconvenienced.” He paused for a few seconds and his face tightened. I didn’t know what to say so I just squeezed his hand.

  “That’s how desensitized we’ve become,” he said. “I’m scared of only one thing. One. That we don’t value people anymore. I can’t accept that. Because if it’s true, if we don’t value human life, what’s the point? What are we living for?” He pushed out a heavy breath. “Her funeral was a wake-up call on so many levels. People don’t appreciate each other when they’re alive. Why would they go out of their way for someone who’s dead?”

  When my grandmother passed away, we organized an online memorial; that way, more people could attend. It was convenient because family didn’t have to travel across the country. It made sense, economically. People didn’t have to buy expensive airplane tickets and take leave from work. Kids didn’t have to miss school. People didn’t have to miss out on their own plans. It was practical. I never thought of it being less intimate. Until now.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I told him.

  “I placed her there. I stationed her at the protest. On the steps, right on top of that bomb.”

  “You told me once it can take lives to prove a point,” I said.

  He took a long, haggard breath.

  “It’s not your fault,” I repeated. “Justin, you can’t save everyone.”

  He nodded like he was finally willing to accept it.

  “I can see why fighting DS is so personal to you now,” I said. “Is that the only way to discover what you want to do with your life? When it becomes personal?”

  He lay on his back and looked up at the sky and laced his fingers over his chest.

  “You like to get deep,” he said, and looked over at me.

  “If it isn’t deep, what’s the point?” I asked, and I smiled to myself after I said the words. A year ago, I would have thought the opposite was true.

  “I’ve always been against DS,” he told me. “I dropped out when I was fourteen. I never liked being on a computer all day, it’s just a world I didn’t fit into. It always felt like I was outside of life, looking in but never living it. I was always on the cusp of knowing people. But I knew I was missing something and I hated that feeling. It’s like staring at a photograph full of holes. I wanted to see the full picture.

  “And then Kristin died.” He swallowed. “Okay. This might sound strange, but I don’t think you ever know completely what you want until you get hurt. It takes pain. And I’m not talking about getting a bad grade, or missing people, or getting in a fight with somebody. I’m talking about the kind of hurt that feels like torture. It twists your mind until it feels like it’s bleeding. It’s like a part of you dies. It gives you a new set of eyes. Life slows down so much you can hear all your thoughts and that’s when you start to question things. You start to wonder what the point of life is and why you’re in it, who you wish was in your life, or out of it. And then you figure it out. You dig your way through all that pain so you never have to experience it again.”

  He told me that’s how he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. He told me he was convinced most people were motivated not by what they wanted but by what they wanted to avoid.

  He looked at me. “That’s the strangest thing about hitting rock bottom,” he said. “It makes you start over again. It sets you free.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The LADC trained me to be a programmed machine during the day. At night, the rules were optional and shoved aside like curtains. Life became a different kind of production—one without directions or scripts or dress rehearsals. Meeting people face-to-face was the only antidote I needed. It pumped life back into my veins.

  One night, Gabe and I walked down to the basement hallway where I was meeting Molly for my weekly series of tests. When we rounded the corner of the generator room, I froze. A group was waiting for me, gathered around glittering light on a folding table. I took a few steps closer and realized the lights were candles—real candles flickering on top of a cake. Justin was there, Clare, Molly, Scott; even Pat showed up. I walked over and read the icing. Happy Eighteenth: Convict, Felon, and Friend. It was fitting.

  I smiled at my friends. They didn’t keep track of dates in the DC. I’d had no way of knowing it was my eighteenth birthday.

  My birthday celebration usually consisted of a frozen cake my mom ordered online and thousands of birthday wishes from my contacts with happy one-liners. My wall screen flashed all day with messages I could never keep up with. I felt so popular scrolling down a list of thousands of names. I didn’t recognize any of the faces, but I still called them my friends because we were matched with similar profiles and interests.

  I never went out, of course, but sometimes I’d have a virtual dress-up party or my parents would pay for me to get into an exclusive gossip club (VIP online parties where you could chat with a celebrity for a steep cover charge). I would dress my profile picture up in makeup and glitter and glamour, all in the comfort of my pajamas. I watched my avatar smile. My cartoon was so happy. I even had a happiness meter on the side of my profile in the shape of a cart. It filled up with yellow bubbles according to how many friends I had, how well I was doing in school, and how many clubs I joined. On my birthday, my cart was always full to the top, overflowing with yellow joy.

  I used to look at that yellow meter and feel happy. But I was always feeling happy for someone else. I was only playing dolls.

  Tonight, we played card games around the table, and the noise of the generators and the thick walls of the basement kept our voices from being heard outside the room. In a strange way, it was the best birthday I ever had. Even though I had lost nearly everything, I’d gained so much. I saw so much love and support around me. It fed me like food.

  We played games for hours; we talked about freeing people in the DC; and we talked about change. I watched Justin and Scott joke back and forth and I watched people smile and I watched real eyes shine, and the energy was better than any drug. When you know you’re breaking the rules, it fires you up. It’s a rush to know you’re bending something solid. It’s a high to see how far you can twist your fate. We all glowed that night.

  I thanked my friends and told all of them I loved them, because I did. This was my family. Gabe was like a brother. I was closer to him than to Joe because Gabe actually saw me, not the idea of me. He accepted me, he encouraged me. Most important, he took the time to know me. Relationships can be built only if you invest time in people, whether they’re your family or not. I was beginning to believe friends could replace family. When it comes down to it, you want to be around people who appreciate you.

  Molly handed me my birthday present, a small blue box wrapped in a red bow. I opened it and found a clear vial inside, but it was empty.

  I turned the glass in my fingers. “Thanks?” I asked. I looked up at her and she smiled.

  “It’s the counter-drug,” she said. “It’s ready.” I looked from the vial to her and she explained it was a gas form. “That’s the only way we can administer it to the entire dorm,” she said. She pointed to the air ducts and said that the gas could be pumped from the basement into the ducts three times a day on a timer. Gabe said he could help set it up. The drug was odorless, and Molly said there weren’t any side effects.

  “It acts as a shield,” she said. “It attacks the drug before it can shock you. We hope to bring back your insanity soon,” she said with a smile.

  “What about
the other students?” I asked.

  “The ones that are still in here should be fine,” she said. “The ones that have already been released can get rehabilitation, if they’re open to it. Memories can be erased as easily as they’re inserted. It would just take some time and willingness for them to get help. I think when they find out what’s been going on in here, they’ll be willing to get the treatment.”

  We passed a bottle of champagne and everyone took a sip. It was Justin’s idea. He said champagne was the liveliest drink. It was used to toast life’s accomplishments: weddings, graduations, wins, milestones. We toasted to our future success.

  I looked around the basement and thought it was strange that in the darkest places you could find the most light. Hope works like that. It hides and blends in, only to pop out when you least expect it. It’s always a surprise, something you step on, trip over, or stumble on by accident. It hides in the divots of our lives, in the loneliest valleys. It’s like a child, always playing hide-and-seek to keep our lives unpredictable. Just when we’re about to give up, hope turns on, like light, to guide our way.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I heard a knock at my door and yelled, “Come in.” I had my stereo on and was nodding along to the music while I finished a paper for DS.

  “What’s up?” I asked. I turned in my seat with a smile, expecting to see Gabe. Connie stood in the doorway, the woman who’d escorted me into the DC and given me the tour. She studied my appearance with a frown.

  “You’re awfully perky these days,” she noted, as if looking alive and healthy were unattractive traits. I reminded myself to be careful. We were close to freeing the detention center’s inmates and I didn’t want to raise suspicion. I was supposed to cower from people, not welcome them.

  “It must be the coffee,” I explained; mistake number two. I wasn’t supposed to want to leave my room, especially for something as frivolous as coffee. I shut off my music and scooted back my desk chair, then jumped out of my seat with a little too much energy. I stopped midway through the room and winced at my wall screens.

  That morning I’d painted them. I drew a yellow sun on the ceiling, like a golden lantern shining happiness around me. I turned two of my wall screens into a front yard and drew homes on either side of me. One of the homes was made out of coarse red brick and it reminded me of the home in Bayview I’d stayed in with Justin. I drew a yellow house on the other side that reminded me of Eden. I felt like I was surrounded by friends. I built a Ferris wheel on one of the front lawns. I painted my other wall screens blue so I wouldn’t know the difference between walls and air. I built a train track through the center of my room to remind me to move. I wrote poems on the sidewalks with red and yellow chalk, and the words connected the houses. I wrote poems all the way up to each front door. I took cold, empty walls and gave them life.

  Connie looked around with awe at the Ferris wheel, the neighborhood I’d created, the sunlight and train tracks, as if she’d forgotten a world existed outside the DC. I wanted to kick myself for being so careless.

  “Come with me” was all she said.

  I nodded slowly. I hadn’t had a counseling session in a few weeks and was optimistic they were finally over. I had gotten my appetite back. I had gone weeks without waking up sweating and soaking through my clothes from nightmares.

  I followed her into the hallway and reminded myself to keep my distance.

  “Is this about my room?” I asked. “I have a right to design my wall screens. I read the DC rules.”

  She scanned her keycard next to the elevator. “Young lady,” she said, “I’m familiar with the rules. This isn’t a discipline issue. You have a visitor,” she informed me as we stepped inside the elevator.

  “Detention centers allow visitors?” I asked with disbelief.

  She chuckled to herself. “More VIP treatment, it seems.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “That will be enough questions,” she said, and tightened her lips to show she meant it.

  We stood silently until we hit the ground floor and then she escorted me out the dorm entrance. It was the first time I’d been permitted outside the building since I was registered here, five months ago. We walked out into the dusty courtyard. I followed her down a concrete path to the office building on the other side of the lot. The courtyard was quiet except for loose rocks crunching under our shoes. The metal doors buzzed open and Connie ushered me inside. All the windows and blinds were tightly closed even though it was a sunny, mild day. The air in the lobby was cold, and the light inside was a dim bluish gray.

  Connie pointed down the hall.

  “Last office on the right,” she informed me. I nodded and took a few steps but I was distracted. Wall screens on both sides of me lit up facts, statistics, and accomplishments of detention centers. It was like walking through a neon shrine. Most of the acknowledgments were of Richard Vaughn and his advances in neuroscience and psychology. I stopped, captivated by a diagram of the United States. Red dots on the screen represented all the existing detention centers. The size of the dot indicated the size of the center. There were centers in nearly every state. Most of the dots were small; the largest was the center in Iowa. The third largest, I noticed, was the LADC.

  I approached an open office door and voices seeped into the hallway, men’s voices. The sound of one voice, strong and powerful, practically knocked me over with surprise.

  “I have every right to tour these facilities,” I heard my father announce, and I froze in midstep.

  “Not without an appointment,” another voice responded. “This is not your area to oversee, Kevin. You have no authority inside my centers. You don’t have the training or background to question my practices.”

  I pressed my back flat against the wall, as if they could see me from around the corner. The panic and fear I battled for months to control was rising up again.

  “I’m not trying to step on your toes, Richard,” my father said, his voice calm. “I’m just interested in seeing the facility since it contains my students, and my daughter.”

  “Write a proposal, let me look over your concerns, and we’ll set up a time in the future. We don’t do drop-ins around here.”

  “Don’t you think we should collaborate?” my father asked. “Shouldn’t your mission coincide with mine? If we work together, it can only improve the system.”

  I narrowed my eyes at this. My father rarely collaborated with anyone. He had to have other motives.

  “All we do here is try to help young adults, just like you do. Isn’t that collaborating? This facility is a safe haven. I’m helping them feel secure. This is a damn paradise. That’s why you designed DS, isn’t it, Kevin? To create a perfect, peaceful coexistence? A place where people can live free of fear? Free of violence and discrimination?”

  “That was my intention,” my dad said.

  “Well, that’s why I funded your intention. And my centers encourage that. Unless the board sees a problem with my performance, I’d prefer to keep my studies at the DC confidential. Just as I’m sure you have matters of your own you’d like to keep confidential.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Richard Vaughn was blackmailing my dad, and he was using me as the bargaining chip.

  “My concern is how exactly you’re going about encouraging the students,” my dad retorted.

  “Neuroscience is my field,” Richard stated. “Education is yours. I don’t look over your shoulder. I’d appreciate it if you’d back off mine. Remember who is boss here. If you don’t like my rules I can replace you with someone who does.”

  “This center is not what I established,” I heard my father say.

  “You wanted to create a peaceful society. You recruit the orchestra. You conduct them. I make sure they stay in tune. People leave each other alone, thanks to me. Isn’t that what you want? For people to be left alone? That’s what society prefers.”

  “There’s still the issue of my daughter,” my father
said.

  “Don’t blame me that you have no control over her. I’ve given you chances. I even agreed to let the paperwork show she was in here while she was living with your son.”

  “And now I’m thinking you were only helping me so you could help yourself,” my father argued. “You didn’t want me to come down here and sniff around.”

  “You would find nothing,” Richard assured him.

  “Hey,” Connie whispered, and scaring me so bad that I nearly jumped out of my sandals. “What are you doing standing here?” she barked at me. “Go on,” she said, and shoved me toward the door.

  Connie had to push me all the way in since my feet refused to cooperate. We turned in to a large office. The screens inside were filled with more maps and awards and articles featuring the detention centers.

  Richard sat behind a black desk and my father stood on the other side of it. I had seen photographs of Richard. He had thick, white hair that stood up in a messy heap on his head. He was lean and his blue eyes studied me suspiciously. There were deep wrinkles in his forehead and around his mouth, which was pinched into a frown.

  My dad whirled around when he heard us, and his eyes found mine. For a few seconds, he just stared at me. My father could mask his emotions better than any actor. But for a moment I saw complete shock, as if he were seeing a ghost, just a rough approximation of who his daughter used to be.

  “Madeline?” He said my name as if he were asking, as if he didn’t recognize his own daughter. I hadn’t looked in a mirror in weeks. I rarely did these days because I was disgusted with the girl who looked back at me.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  Richard studied me from head to foot and scrunched his eyes at my disheveled appearance. I hadn’t showered in a few days. My hair was a ratty mess, snarled and stringy and falling limp around my shoulders, past my chest. I knew my face looked gaunt from my meager diet. Dark shadows hugged my eyes from lack of sleep. My skin was pale from a diet that consisted mostly of coffee. The scrubs hung on me like my shoulders were as wiry as a clothes hanger.