Gods of Anthem (23 page)

Each night, Jeremy
met me on the roof. He’d taken to calling me Liza, and I’d grown to love hearing my name come out of his mouth. Some strange agreement was struck about not tilling up freshly turned dirt from the past, so we talked mostly about writing and music, and other vague subjects.

The rebel was a yo-yo, I quickly learned. Some nights, he’d pace in a fury, fists punched in the air, arms spread wide in the fullness of his anger.

And I’d listen to him rant about the Authority, mesmerized.

Other times, he was somber, thoughtful—a side of him that drew me into the vortex of his mania.

He’s fascinating in the way you’d find the midday sun too bright to stare at. Still, at least once in your youth, you’d shade your eyes and squint into its fiery depths for as long as you could stand.

Even with so many burned in the trail of Jeremy Writer’s life—reading between the lines, it was obvious no person was left unsinged—my path led me back onto the roof each and every night. He’d say ominous things, like:
“
I’ve had to go my own way most times,”
or: “People don’t get me like you do, Liza.”

But all sense melted away when that purple haze lingered for a beat too long. Those eyes, they were my own kind of madness.

After he’d leave, I’d write music. All at once, my room was littered with pages. Here was my father’s hope on every sheet, my place overflowed with newly composed masterpieces.

My muse was incredibly reliable. Jeremy Writer: a lyrical intoxication, passionately infused with the serious contemplation that both great men and tyrants alike shared on their sleepless nights; his driven demands for change, feeling or dreaming, always plotting, all while casting long shadows on the people nearest to him. But which way would he tip?

Inwardly, I’d disagree at times with the utopia he predicted we’d have once we overthrew the current government, but I’d bite my flapping participle in half, because to argue with Jeremy was a practice in futility.

Even if it’s his hatred for the Authority that keeps him warm at night, it’s easy to lose myself in this boy. A tiny violin plays in the background for the destiny of our feelings.

Other days—black days, he’d show up looking stricken, faded, like he’d just taken a beating, and he’d barely speak or even write. He might talk about the purge, and I’d have nightmares after. Purging is being tortured for months by the Authority until pain is no longer felt. The result? A guard. They’re not soulless, he said, but maybe really screwed up, and most definitely brainwashed.

Jeremy rarely spoke about his anarchy group, too. I suppose he surmised it’d be safer for me to know as little as possible.

We’ve gotten good at spreading out the favorite topics, but how long can we retell our same stories?

He never says why he comes so often to see me. And the reason I always wait for him is left hanging, as well. Can we abide the silence, knowing it will bring intimacy?

Time magnifies the surreal until it just becomes … real.

Upon my broaching the subject about his maybe needing a break when he seemed burned out, he wouldn’t come visit for two whole days after.

When he finally returned, he sat with me and told me how I’m a still water, a balm to his soul … that he’d missed me. He told me I balance his life right now.

This is worrisome.

What I don’t tell him is that he’s like four people in one and I’m in no position to balance that type of chaos.

What I don’t tell him is that he cuts me deeply by punishing me with his lack of visits for asking him the tough questions a real friend might.

Or how I’ve never been so angry in all my life when I’d realize that’s what he’d done.

What I don’t say is, “How dare you!”

And what he doesn’t say, I notice, is that he’s sorry.

A train filled
with the sick passes next to our place on the roof tonight. It chugs on, back to the Island, with its heavy load.

Jeremy’s livid when he sees it. Then, he’s staring at me, clearly considering my prior imprisonment on Bodega and hating them for it. This makes me soften toward him even more, if that’s possible.

In the quiet after the train passes, I ask, “What was it like? I mean, when they purged you.”

Jeremy shrugs. “There isn’t enough pain in the world to purify me. The Authority had to pull out all the stops during my purge. I was half dead when they let me go, but who needs a soldier with free thoughts still left inside his fried brain?”

Who, indeed.

“What about you, Liza? Did you dream of things, back there on the Island? How they
could
be?”

“It’s a prison, Jeremy, not a vacation. I rarely dreamt.”

“But when you did?” Jeremy asks.

My smile’s dry. “It was peaceful. Everyone was dead.”

Visibly shaking off my description, he asks, “What about the prisoners? Didn’t anyone fight?”

“That place is full of dying people.”

He nods in sympathy. “Same as here, then. It’s like everyone’s asleep. Pisses me off how they obey the Authority, no matter what. Stand by and watch. Disgusting.”

I shrug. “They
are
asleep. But to wake them the wrong way … “I gesture toward the sign above us that had been slashed in half from the last uprising.

Jeremy tells me the slaughter from that time was such a great loss, you had to wear rain boots for the puddles of blood on the streets. He’s fine with such lengths for freedom, but he has nothing to lose.

“There are still angry, willing people out there,” I tell him, “but maybe they have a family, or maybe they just know it’s futile. If my family were still alive, nothing would be worth losing them again. Nothing.”

But he’s not going to concede my point. He rarely does.

Back at Bodega, we’d pictured people living perfect lives here in Anthem City. Seemed like we were the prisoners, and the mainlanders lived in prosperity. But that had all been a dream. Every place is a camp now, and if there’s a free man left among us, it’s Jeremy. It pains my heart to think of just how short his life will be for that fact. The leader of the rebellion sits not two feet from me, and at any moment he could be caught. His outlaw status is “kill on sight” for the last round of pamphlets. No more hearings.
Kill.
The urge to hide him, even though we’re completely alone, is ever-present.

Jeremy sadly shakes his head. “Your hair’s barely grown back. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be sick, rounded up, then forced to get busy dying. To them, you were already gone. They fear it, because they want something to blame for what’s wrong with us.”

My hands cover the scars hidden under my shirt. “No, Jeremy, they fear it, because they might be next.”

He sighs and starts to write. I try to see what he’s working on, but Jeremy hands me another pamphlet. “This new one might be of more interest to you.”

Island Duppy Returns

And beneath that:
An inmate of
the Authority tells a story of a survivor from Cancer
Island. She holds the power of life and death.

My stomach tightens. “I thought you said you wouldn’t write about this.”

“I know,” he replies guiltily. “But it doesn’t have your name, and the people need things like that. Fairytales. Imagine the impact it’ll have on the poor lost souls going there. Someone got out, so there’s still a chance for all of those people on that train.”

“I suppose….”

He always makes good points, but permission would have been nice.

Jeremy continues, “I met an interesting inmate recently who’s been telling the story of a girl who died and came back. Jamaicans have folklore of the duppies—or ghosts, evil spirits who walk this earth—although he never called you that. His cellmates now have their own version.”

“Inmate…?
Desi?
”

“That’s it. So you
do
know him?”

My fingers pet the page. “Yes,” I reply, feeling my throat constrict.

“Did you, Liza?” Jeremy asks, drawing my name out long. “Did you … die?”

The jerk of my shoulders is swift. “I was just really sick.” Then, I change the subject. “Jeremy, have you ever thought of translating these?”