Gods of Anthem (20 page)

I’m half tempted
to go without my books, but after the night I’ve had, I’ll be damned if I leave empty handed. Cold sweat makes my clothes cling to me, yet I’m too embarrassed to ask if it’s the beer that’s causing it.

I rummage through hard copies and paperbacks at the booth we’d finally found with books. In the second pile, I find a copy of
Moby Dick
for almost nothing because the cover’s been ripped off. While Manda waits for me, a guy comes over to her and offers her some money, which she takes, and he starts kissing her right then and there.

“Hey, wait!” she calls when she notices that I’m leaving.

“I’ll head home.”

“Not by yourself.”

My meaningful look at her customer is obvious. “Aren’t you busy?” I ask. “You go ahead and … work. I’ll see you later.”

Confusion fills her face. “What?” Then, realization dawns, and she laughs. “Oh, girl, ya think I’m some kind of street walkah?”

“Aren’t you?”

“
Ay yi yi, mamacita
, no! Not even money is gonna get me to do that with these losahs. Come ovah here.” She drags me back. “This here’s my boo, Lug. We run contraband through the black mahket. He was giving me my cut from tonight’s sales.”

Lug leans forward to say hello. Something’s rolled up behind his ear. “Manda says you’re good people. She don’t like most girls, neither, so, I figure she’s right. You stayin’ at the warehouse? That little nerd, Journee, used to work down here, too, but he’s popped those freebies from the Authority in his mouth. Actin’ like he rich, shaved off them braids like he could hide his roots. White folk …” He breaks off with a laugh.

I’m trying not to check the color of my skin.

“My bad,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.” And he laughs again, like he’s waiting for me to join in. But after this strange night, I’m fresh out of humor. “When it comes down,” he says, “and bahleeve me it will—
Boom!
” He slams a fist into his hand. “He’s gonna get his. Just like his cousin did.”

“Cousin?” Suddenly I’m interested in what Lug has to say. “Which cousin?”

Lug gives a shrug and lights up a cigarette.

It takes immense control to not grab him by his shirt collar. “Do you mean Desi? Or Desmond?”

He points at me. “Yeah. You know that fool?”

“Tell me what happened to Desi.”

Lug’s staring in surprise. “Dude got locked up. Came around in a red shirt. They called it gang clothing, like this be the old days. But he knew better. Won’t be out for a while, now.”

Manda steps between us. “Come on, Mo. Lug, stop acting so stupid.”

“But—”

Manda’s already towing me away while my sputtered questions go unanswered. “Can’t say that I blame him,” she says. “Some guard cracked Lug’s head wide open tryin’ to catch him for the purge.”

Lug steps to my right, catching up. “They shock you till you piss yourself. No way I’m going down like that—no way! Make you watch their movies, listen to their music. White—them folks is crazy. You see that brainwashing going on? Big money in wearing the last outfit you’ll ever wear, I hear.”

Manda reaches across me to shove at him. “Okay, okay, we get it already! So anyway, Mo, they don’t purge for money, whatevah this idiot tells you. Ya purge because they say you won’t get zombied out, like evah. And ya nevah die. It’s like they found the fountain of youth or somethin’. Some send their kids at fifteen. Ya know that Jeremy guy? He was purged, too, and that’s why Kiniva and us don’t trust him.”

Lug puffs in my face, and I want to cram that cigarette down his throat
.
But then he says, “Trust this. That fool’s a spy for the Authority.”

Fool being, Jeremy Writer.

So why would a spy want to die?

Someone’s banging on
my door. I’m up reading, but irritated at having my alone time interrupted.

Journee’s on the other side, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Rise and shine, Mozart. Got a present for you. Bring it in, fellas!”

Behind him two men carry a … a …

“Is that what I think it is!”

“Ay-yup.”

One blink, two, but it’s still there. It’ll barely fit into my apartment. I’ll sleep on the floor, if need be.

My mattress is pushed up to lean against the wall before they can bring in … a piano! Not an electronic one. No, this is the real deal. Where could he have gotten it? White, a baby grand, well-crafted and … I’m … hyperventilating.

They set it carefully onto its side to affix the legs, and the tiny spot left in the corner will have to be my bed—which is fine.

The helpers leave, and I’m hugging Journee tightly before the door’s even closed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Whoa, wait a second. This isn’t from me.”

“What? It’s not?”

“Nuh-uh. They showed up with it this morning, saying they were looking for Mozart. Oh, wait”—he snaps his fingers—“there’s a note.”

He pulls it out and hands it to me. It’s written in calligraphy:
Thank you for giving me faith in humanity again. JW

Journee reads over my shoulder. “Who’s JW?”

Placing the paper on top the piano and pulling up my chair, I’m already pressing a few keys and tuning it. “Jeremy Writer,” I reply, but I’m too focused on my new baby.

“Hmm. Well, save a man’s life and you get a piano, I suppose. But I’m not sure it’s good for you to tangle with that guy.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Journee laughs at my lack of interest, then taps a piano key. “So, what are you waiting for? Play me a song.”

I’m practically jumping out of my skin to do so. “Won’t it be loud?” I ask.

“Certainly.” Journee fixes his glasses. “But I’ll find a way to soundproof in here … as long as I get another hug like you gave me before, when you’d thought I’d brought you this here musical instrument. I say we wake everyone up anyway. What do you know?”

I caress the keys. “Everything.” My sigh is bliss-filled while my fingers run lightly across … real ivory, if I’m not mistaken. I tamp down the guilt at that. Poor elephants. “In my head, I’ve been playing every song I know for four years.”

Beethoven comes to mind, and Journee grins in recognition as I play.

The sisters come in, eyes round, hair mussed, pajamas still on. They find seats to listen, before others soon follow, squishing inside my small one-room apartment or standing just outside to enjoy my rendition of “Moonlight Sonata.”

Me, I’m in my own little world, a place where no one else can go. One song, then another, and another, until Journee stops my hands all too soon. He coughs and looks at the line trailing out the door. “Let’s not push it, Mozart. Playing anything too patriotic might piss some people off.”

I’d delved into some of the old greats, and of course, American tunes, without thinking—anthems, hymnals … these things are the lifeblood of the pianist. My hands still hover over the keys, while a pang sits deep inside my heart. I’ve never been so homesick in all of my life.

We’ve no freedom here.

Righteous anger stirs, and it takes several deep breaths to keep the despair at bay. But Journee’s right.

Long after everyone leaves, I’m still frowning at the piano keys, and without pressing, I finish my song anyway, sans sound. Just fingers gently tapping the tops. “There.”

I’m late to
the courthouse this morning. Previous night and its earliest dawn hours were spent sitting in front of my piano, dreaming of the things I’ll be able to play once I’m able.

It’s been weeks since my last hearing, and I’m catching up for lost time. Journee wanted me to lay low for a bit longer, but my new identity with black curly hair and spike heels is concealing enough. Maybe if the judge and guards are looking at my legs, Journee says, they won’t recognize me as the one who freed their terrorist.

Underneath the borrowed jacket is my new silk shirt, and the stockings have a line up the back that makes my legs look really long. “Hot,”
as Manda put it.

I click up to the courthouse in a half-jog, only to find the line at the entrance backed up. An older gentleman with white hair promises to hold my place while I wait on the bench near the doors. I’ve learned my lesson about standing overly long in heels.