After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) (2 page)

It isn’t a request. I breathe in slowly, as if the extra air could quash my rising frustration. At least fetching drinks will take up more time of this awful party. Coral has already turned back to the Demonstrator and evidently does not intend to shout her order across the room, so I walk through the groups and over to the lounger.

‘What would you like?’ I ask, putting on my sickly sweet voice. It’s not only for Dad’s promotion that I have to suck up to Coral, but for our whole well-being. One wrong move and we could be monitored for a week; I know Coral has her influential parents wrapped around each ruby-painted fingernail.

‘We’ll have three virgin mojitos, and Dylan will have . . . ?’ She looks up at him through curled lashes. Instead of answering her, he does the unthinkable. He turns to me.

‘Are you a server here?’ he asks. That heavy lilt makes it hard for me to think. I shake my head.

’Getting drinks is just my favourite part of being at a party,’ I say,
nearly
quoting him back.

He raises his eyebrows, then laughs. A low chuckle which sounds like hollow bamboo sticks knocking against each other.

‘In that case, I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

I have no idea what I’m having and doubt Coral planned on wasting a drink on me, but I turn away before I can say or do anything stupid.

There’s a refreshments table set up in the hallway with a cocktail recipe stuck to the board. They’re all non-alcoholic, seeing as most of us are seventeen, and I giggle at the ridiculousness of a virgin mojito. Without the rum it’s just mint leaves and ice. Oh well, what the lady wants, the lady gets!

I pour two cokes for Dylan and me and load them onto a tray. As I go to pick it up, a manicured hand slaps down beside the glasses.

‘I’ll take those.’

Coral. Her red hair bounces around her back as she ushers me out of the way.

‘Dylan’s nice, isn’t he?’ she asks over her shoulder. ‘My father paid the Shepherds a lot to get him here for me.’

She smiles at me, obviously expecting something. I twist my hands together and give her a half-smile that I hope says
good for you
. When she holds out a coke I go to take it, but Coral doesn’t let go.

’Look, I’m saying this as a friend, Sola. Don’t come back into the party. I know it’s not your scene, and it’s kind of embarrassing. To be honest, I only invited you because Father made me. I didn’t expect you to come.’

‘Oh. Right,’ is all I manage. Coral’s unfaltering smile slips into a genuine one and the full weight of the drink falls into my hand. With a flick of her hair, she retrieves the tray and floats back into the living room. All it takes is a delicate kick of the door, and I’m alone in the hallway.

I stare after her, unable to breathe. To stop my hand from shaking I take a controlled sip of my drink but the coke tastes bitter and lonely in my mouth. For a stupid, brilliant moment, I really thought I would be drinking and chatting with the others.

Humiliation burns behind my eyelids.

I can’t run home. Dad will know something went wrong. I can’t hang out on the streets, the Herd officers will have me escorted back in minutes. Most of all, I can’t stay in this hall, waiting for my tears to break through.

I slam my drink onto the table and run through the kitchen, bursting out into the back garden. I used to play here all the time when I was a kid so I know the house inside-out. Sometimes I think it’s the reason Coral hates me, because I know so much about her childhood. Or maybe it’s because we were forced to be friends through our parents, but she became cool, I didn’t, and now it’s the most embarrassing thing in the world to have known me.

The worse thing about it all is that, if I’m honest, I miss her.

I breathe in that fresh, dewy smell of the garden, but as I reach the far end the scent goes bitter, like decaying plants. They keep a massive trampoline tucked away down here. It’s covered in autumn leaves, and in the twilight, they kind of look like scales. I close my eyes, kick off my boots, and pretend I’m a kid again. Clambering onto the trampoline, I imagine it’s a giant tortoise which will take me out of the city. It will keep me safe, and I’ll see the sky without pollution, and the stars will shine so brightly that the light will burn into my eyelids forever.

I stretch my arms up and jump as high as I can. The leaves spin around me as if I were caught up in a tornado. They rustle together, crunching underneath my feet as the springs launch me into the sky again and again. When the wind rushes past my face, I pretend it’s travelled all over England and Ireland and touched the faces of millions of people just like me.

Then I remember that anyone outside of Juliet would want me dead, and I stop pretending altogether.

Slowing down, I stretch my legs out so that I land on my bum. Trickles of sweat fall down my face and I gasp to catch my breath. With my hands tucked behind my head, I lean back, panting amid the bouncing array of cold leaves. As usual, the misty film of hanging, polluted sky blurs the image ahead. I wonder if the stars really are those dull shiny smudges or something more.

Dad told me that my great-grandfather used to live in the countryside—before England got into Debt and the cities had borders. I used to imagine him looking out a window with the sun on his face and no blanket of dead air in between. In school, they say the heat used to burn people, making their skin peel off and causing deathly diseases to spread within their bodies. I don’t believe that. Thinking of the sun’s undiluted rays makes me warm from the inside out. I bet it’s like delving into a hot bath, only less like sinking and more like flying.

‘You’re enjoying this party about as much as I am.’

The low voice sends sharp impulses through me. I jolt up, trying to find purchase with my hands on the trampoline. They skid on the leaves, making my whole body bounce. After what seems like an age of making a fool of myself, the springs steady and I look out towards the voice. The outline of the Demonstrator’s jagged hair is silhouetted from the lights of the house. He stands at the edge of the trampoline, facing me.

’You startled me,’ I tell him. Witty, I know, but it’s all I can think of.

His eyes are on me once again, and I get that same gasping excitement he stirred in me earlier. I try, unsuccessfully, to lean back onto the trampoline with grace.

‘Aye, but you scared me too,’ he replies.

‘How on earth did
I
scare
you
?’ I hope he doesn’t notice the wobble in my voice or that my breathing hasn’t calmed yet. He moves around the trampoline, getting closer.

‘Well.’ The leaves rustle once more. The trampoline dips slightly. Risking a glimpse over, I see he’s leaning both elbows on the surface, palms cupping his face. ‘I saw you jumping around with all those leaves and I thought you were being attacked by some sort of bush monster.’

I laugh a little too hard.

‘So you came out here to rescue me then?’

‘Hmm. Unfortunately, I came out here to rescue myself.’

Ah, Coral and her gaggle. No doubt they’re scouring the house to try and find him right now.

‘She’s not that bad really,’ I say. I don’t know why I’m defending her, but I know how horrible it is to like someone only for them to dismiss me.

‘I think you’re being kind, Sola.’

He remembers my name. The sound of it in his voice makes my skin tingle, like every hair on my body is jumping up. For some reason, I’m not even surprised that he’s nothing like the other people from Victor. I wonder what they say about our city where he’s from.

Dylan pats the surface beside me.

‘Can I?’

I swallow and shuffle over. Suddenly I don’t know what to do with my body. How was I lying before? Everything seems unnatural; nothing fits into place like I want it to. Thankfully, he doesn’t lie down, just sits up near my head, his legs dangling over the edge. He brings with him the faint smell of dirt and metal. I sense his eyes are on mine so I look directly ahead, acting as though I don’t notice.

‘Grand night, isn’t it?’ he asks. I keep my gaze upwards. I can’t believe a killer is making small talk with me. Then again, he doesn’t
act
like a killer. Ignoring him would be rude.

‘It would be nicer if we could see the stars.’

‘Aye. You’re not wrong there.’ He tilts his head back so I take the opportunity to glance over. His wild brown hair sprouts in layered tufts, sticking out in an adorable way. His cheekbones are high, his jaw set, and those deep blue eyes look through such long, thin eyelashes. His only imperfection is what looks like a twice-broken nose. Unfairly, it makes him more beautiful.

Without warning, he brings his gaze back to me. I let my lips part in surprise, unable to take my eyes from his. Maybe it’s the leaves which surround us, the night which hides us away, but when he whispers that maybe one day he could show me the stars, I close my eyes.

His lips are on mine.

I don’t have time to think, I just move my mouth gently. He tastes sweet and bitter all at once.

With a jolt in my stomach, my senses kick in. What on earth am I doing? One sweet line and I’m kissing a stranger? I push him off me in a violent movement and sit up straight, my breathing quick and shallow.

His eyes dart around wildly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was—you just looked so—ah. I’m sorry.’ He grabs the edge of the trampoline and pushes himself off in a fluid motion, before turning to me once more. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Eventually, he runs his hand through his hair and hurries back inside.

For the second time tonight, I’ve been left alone. But for the first time in my life, I’ve been kissed. I touch my bottom lip. When I look up, I swear I see two stars twinkling in the distance.

The stars move. An outline solidifies and Coral steps out from the shadows. She stares at me with eyes so narrow all of the light I saw before disappears.

A moment later she stalks back inside the house and it’s as if I had never seen her at all. Yet I know I’m going to pay for my kiss with the Demonstrator.

A million different words jam into my mind, vying for my attention.
Demonstrator, killer, murderer, sweet-talker, party-goer, rule breaker
?

Or maybe
, a strange part of my brain murmurs,
just Dylan
.

Sola Herrington is in bedroom 2 of Flat 436 Rotunda Building (home)

I SPEND THE NEXT WEEK obsessively checking Coral’s Debtbook profile. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—a mention of her party, perhaps—but there are only the usual updates: comments, whereabouts, events, friends’ birthdays . . .

Nothing about Dylan.

I suppress a grin. The Demonstrator strides into my mind more than I care to admit, followed each time by a soft, hot flourish which causes me to draw breath. I
could
check his profile, but I’m scared. I can only access the profiles of those from Juliet, but public figures like Demonstrators are open to everyone as long as we sign up as a follower. So if I found him, he would know that I’d signed up.

Almost subconsciously, I tap Coral’s name on my digipad. Her profile zooms up from the corner of the page.

Coral Winters is attending Demonstrator Tryouts—Two Teams, Only Winners Survive! tonight (touch to follow link)

Why am I not surprised Coral is attending the most horrific Demonstration around? The price of a ticket is probably more than the cost of this flat.

With a sigh, I grab the four-leaf clover hair pin from my desk. I’ve been wearing it all week, and each time I catch a glimpse of myself, I remember Dylan. I twist all of my hair into a messy bun and secure it with the pin, reliving the kiss in my mind one more time before school. That sensation swells again in my stomach, like when you’re going backward on a swing and for a second, you trick yourself into thinking you’re free falling.

Chasing the delicious smell of microwaved bacon, I scan into the kitchen. The beep makes Dad jump.

‘Oh! Morning. How do you fancy a cooked breaky?’ He sounds surprisingly cheery for before eight o’clock. There’s not enough room in the kitchen for both of us to stand, so I manoeuvre around Dad and hop onto the stool in the corner.

A crazily loud advert makes me jump in my seat. I wait until it’s over to look at the left wall where the large digiscreen incessantly flickers between mine and Dad’s profiles, occasionally interrupted by some Shepherd propaganda. Sometimes I like looking at it ‘cause when the pictures change from Dad’s to mine, I see the resemblance between us: the button nose; eyes which are too far apart; the sloping grin we both share. I used to see my resemblance to Mum on the screen, too. If I had had my way, her profile would still be up there, living right between mine and Dad’s, reminding us we’re still related. I guess the Shepherds don’t like to think of those who’ve passed.

I still remember hugging that screen, my tears smudging on the cold surface as the status changed.

Luna Herrington’s profile will be deleted in 26 minutes. 25, 24, 23 . . .

I shake my head; profiles don’t matter. If I
really
had my way, she wouldn’t have been killed at all, wouldn’t have left me and Dad alone for the last seven years.