Dark Parties (11 page)

I throw myself into my work—well, as much as overbearing Effie will let me—so I don’t have to think of the mess I’ve made
of my life. The only thing that keeps me from going stark-raving mad is the thought that I might finally be able to find The
Missing. I get a thrill every time I see the GovNet icon.

I get my first lucky break after nearly two weeks on the job. Effie gets a call. I don’t know what is said, but she leaps
from her chair. She skirts around her desk, but then the rub
ber soles on her sensible shoes squeak to a halt. She whips around. She’s remembered her prisoner—me.

“Copy these handouts for Dr. Adams’s presentation this afternoon.” She points and taps her short, square fingernail on the
folder at the edge of her desk. “Under no circumstances are you to interrupt Dr. Adams.”

“Copying? I thought there was a ban on photocopying.” I reach for the file and flick it open.

“That’s only for nonessential, nongovernment personnel.” She slams her hand on the file, closing it. “I want you to make these
copies right now.”

Oh, I get it. She’s not supposed leave me unattended. I cannot be trusted. I pick up the file. She’s got to think I’m going
to obey orders. But there’s no way I’m going to let this opportunity pass me by. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but a chance
to sneak onto GovNet like this might not come around for a long time.

“What are you waiting for?” She swats at me as if I’m a fly ruining her picnic.

We head off in opposite directions, her rubber soles squeaking on the tile floor as she takes short, clipped strides. I duck
down the next hallway and wait for the squeaking to fade. Once I’m sure she’s gone, I race back to our desk. I slide into
her chair; the metal is cold against my bare legs. I quickly open GovNet. The flashing arrow hovers over
ACTIVE
. I move it to
INACTIVE
. I click. A dialogue box pops up and asks me to enter a name. My head is bobbing as my eyes constantly dart from computer
screen to hallway,
looking for Effie. My fingers tremble as I peck out the letters for my grandma’s name: Ruth Laverne Adams. The computer thinks
for a few seconds. I can’t believe it’s taking so long.

NO MATCHES FOUND
.

The words seem to twinkle on the screen.

She isn’t dead. She isn’t inactive.

But she is still missing. I scoot my chair closer. I position myself right in front of the screen to block the view in case
my dad opens the door behind me.

I switch to
ACTIVE
. I type in my grandma’s name again. The screen goes black. Red letters flash into the center of the screen:
CLASSIFIED
.

What does
classified
mean? Already a dead end.

The monitor flickers and returns to the main GovNet screen. My hands freeze on the keyboard. If they can tap people’s phones
and track people’s physical movements, then they could be monitoring computers. I move the cursor to the GovNet icon and close
the program.

But I can’t stop. Not now. I’m too close. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. I’ll have to risk it. This is Effie’s computer
anyway. She must search for people all the time. I want to research someone else, but who? The red numbers on Effie’s digital
clock seem to flash as if counting down to Effie’s return. Red reminds me of Nicoline’s star. I click on the GovNet icon again,
select the
ACTIVE
button and quickly type in Nicoline’s name. The file has a series of subheadings, including Education, Family, Heritage,
Address, Reproductive Status, Employment History, Identifiers,
Associations, etc. It lists her address. I never knew she lived four blocks from my house. Her file notes the date she was
interrogated. I recall the look in her eyes and the way her red star glimmered as if the ink was still wet.

Under Reproductive Status, there’s a date a week after our interrogation and the word
PENDING
. What does Reproductive Status pending mean? There are a series of capital letters that don’t spell any words I know: WEC
and IVF.

I hear a rattle of the doorknob behind me. I quickly close down GovNet. I hold my breath.

“Where’s Effie?” my dad asks.

I slowly turn to face him, but everything inside me is racing: my blood, my heart, my thoughts. He’s wearing the white lab
coat he always wears in his office. It makes him look like a mad scientist. Did he see what I was doing? I search his eyes
but see nothing except his typical disapproving stare. Maybe he didn’t notice. But my body feels jumpy, as if I’ve been caught.
Remain calm, I tell myself.

“Neva, what’s the matter with you?” He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to decipher a code. “Where’s Effie?”

I force the words out of my mouth. “Um, some emergency. She’ll be back soon.” For some reason I laugh. Not a real-sounding
laugh but a fake laugh, as if someone has told a bad joke.

He stares at me for a moment as if he’s forgotten what he was going to say. He walks back into his office and then stops and
turns around. He scratches his scalp and his unruly hair quivers. “Um, Ef—I mean, Neva.” He shakes his head. I wonder what’s
distracting him. His lab coat is
unbuttoned, and he’s only wearing one of his protective white cotton gloves. “Tell her I need those copies for this afternoon’s
meeting.”

“Yes, sir.” I promised him I’d be more professional at the office. I messed up and called him Dad in front of Effie yesterday.
He backs into his office but forgets to close the door. I pull it closed and collapse into the cold metal chair. I try not
to think about what could have happened. I’ve got to be more careful. But I can’t stop thinking about Nicoline and her “Reproductive
Status pending.” I’ve got to keep searching.

Instead of picking a name from The Missing, I type in my own name. The file notes that I’m Dr. George Adams’s daughter. I
review the standard categories: Education, Family, Heritage, Address, Reproductive Status, Employment History, Identifiers,
Associations, etc. Most of my boxes are blank. I haven’t lived enough. Under Heritage, I’m a + +. I’m sure that’s good. I’ve
got the correct past and present: my bloodline can be traced to our founding fathers and my dad is a respected member of the
government, like his dad before him. There’s a strange category at the bottom of the screen: Security Risk. I haven’t noticed
this before. The box is filled in with a percentage: 51.6%. I have no idea what that means.

In the notes section is a date and the words
interrogated on the suspicion of unpatriotic behavior.
Is this the reason government employees shun me? There’s a letter and a numerical code that looks like a link. I try it.
ACCESS DENIED
.

I hear squeaking like rubber soles on a tile floor. Probably
my nervous mind playing tricks on me. I take it as a sign to quit snooping. This is only the beginning of my search. There
will be other opportunities. I’ve got to pace myself.

I rush off to make Dad’s copies. When I return, I’m surprised that Effie’s not back yet. I burst into Dad’s office, presenting
his copies like a trophy. “Your copies,” I say, expecting to see Dad’s disapproving glare, but he’s not behind his desk. I
scan the room. It’s empty. Weird. Dad rarely leaves his office. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned into one of those underground
creatures that will shrivel and die in the sunlight. I glance at the coatrack in the corner. His jacket is still there, but
the white lab coat he normally wears is missing. Strange.

I shut the door to his office and plop myself into Effie’s desk chair. I flip open the manila file folder with Dad’s copies.
What’s so all-fired important about this document anyway? Most of his reports are written in some government-speak with way
too many words to say even the simplest thing. I flip through the pages. There’s a sheet titled “Agenda” with discussion topics
including: Historical Analysis, Structural Dynamics and Hypothetical Impacts, Perception vs. Reality, Next Steps. I only understand
the first and final topics. The other document in the folder is eighty-seven pages long, twelve of which appear to be reference
citations.
A Historical Analysis of Protectosphere Changes and Their Corresponding Environmental and Cultural Impacts
by George Adams. The date on the document is well before I was born. It must have also been before Dad earned his PhD. He’d
never forget to include his title if he had it.

“What are you doing?”

I jump.

“Effie,” I say, and slap the file folder closed.

She nudges me out of her chair. “I told you to copy them, not read them.” She sweeps the folder off her desk and checks its
contents, probably to make sure I haven’t screwed with the page numbers or lost a page altogether. “Dr. Adams will certainly
be asking for these soon.”

“Dad—Dr. Adams,” I correct myself. “He’s not even in the office.”

“Ridiculous,” she says. Now she can see through walls?

She’s so convincing that I reach for the doorknob.

“You can’t go in there!” Effie pivots so she’s standing in the doorway, blocking my entrance. “You are not allowed in here
without Dr. Adams’s express permission. Sit,” she barks, and points to my chair. I obey but seethe from being treated like
dog.

Effie knocks twice on the door and then enters Dad’s office. I sneak to the door and scan the room. Dad’s not at his desk.
I told you, Miss Effie-Know-It-All. As Effie places the file in the center of Dad’s desk, something catches my eye at the
far end of the office. Dad seems to be walking out of the bookcase. I blink and look again. He’s fiddling with something and
part of the bookcase slides shut. It’s a secret door!

I dive back into my seat. Through the open door, I can see Effie straightening the files on Dad’s desk. She doesn’t seem to
notice that Dad has magically appeared behind her. But her back straightens in a way that shows she has sensed
his presence. She slips out of the office and closes the door firmly behind her.

She sits down back to business as usual, and she scoots her keyboard a half inch closer to her. “Have you been using my computer?”
Her question is more of an accusation.

I open my mouth to deny it, but Effie holds up a hand. “Don’t waste your breath with one of your lies.” Her fingers aggressively
punch a number of keys and the screen goes black. “Don’t you ever”—her voice is low and shaking, she is so angry—“use my computer
unless you are specifically directed. Do you understand?”

I nod. A few strands of hair have sprung free from her bun. She smoothes them back. She glances in the direction of Dad’s
office and lowers her voice. “We will not tell your father about this little breach of protocol.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’m sure she’s not doing it to spare me. I’m sure she’d get in trouble too if anyone found
out.

“Don’t let it happen again.” Then she looks at me for what feels like the first time since I started to work with her. The
hard lines fade from her brow. “Neva, you don’t want to know too much.”

What is she talking about? I’m tired of secrets, of living in the dark. I want to know everything.

“Once you know something you can never un-know it.” She turns to her computer screen and clears her throat. “What are you
waiting for?” Any softness from earlier vanishes. “Get back to work.”

*      *      *

I drive home with my dad in silence. I want to ask him so many things. I hear Effie telling me I can’t un-know anything. When
he pulls up in our driveway, I hop out of the car.

“Where are you going? Your mom will have dinner,” he calls after me.

“I need some exercise,” I yell back.

At first I walk. Then I jog. Then I run as if I’m being chased. My lungs are burning. My eyes are stinging. Sweat is pouring
down my temples and dripping into my eyes. I know what I’ve got to do.

I’m standing in front of Nicoline’s house—at least it’s the address listed in her GovNet file. It’s a small brick house with
boarded-up windows. I would think it was abandoned if there wasn’t light seeping though a split in one of the boards.

Before I lose my nerve, I knock on the door. The second my knuckles hit the wood, I want to bolt. I force myself to stay.
One phrase echoes in my brain and keeps me rooted to the spot: Reproductive Status pending.

The woman who opens the door looks like she’s been in bed. Her clothes are wrinkled and baggy. But her eyes look as if she
hasn’t slept for days. The dark rings around her eyes don’t dull the fine red lines etched on the whites of her eyes.

I open my mouth to speak and get a whiff of her. She smells like our compost heap when my mom stirs it. I rub my nose and
hold my breath.

“Mrs. Brady,” I start, “you said Nicoline is grounded, but I really need to speak to her.” The woman looks up at me blankly.
“Please—it’s important.”

Her face creases as she makes this low guttural noise that doesn’t sound human. She is sobbing, but there are no tears—only
this hoarse moan.

“She’s not here, is she?” I ask, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. I don’t want to know.

The woman shakes her head.

“Where is she?” I ask.

The woman takes a series of deep breaths. “They. Took. Her.”

I don’t have to ask who. “I’m so sorry.” The memories of the night they took my grandma come flooding back. I know the loss
she’s feeling.

She looks around. “I’m not supposed to say. I didn’t say, okay?”

“Okay.”

She notices my government-issued name badge.

“You!” she screams. “This is all your fault. You and that other friend of yours. Why didn’t they take you?” She slaps me across
the face. The sting and force of it push me back a few steps. She slams the door. I cup my face where the heat of her anger
burns.

Oh, God, how I wish I could un-know this.