Requiem (8 page)

Julian straightens up too. He runs a hand through his hair. Abruptly he says, “Remember when we first met?”

“When the Scavengers—?” I start to say, and he cuts me off.

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “Before that. At the DFA meeting.”

I nod. It's still strange to imagine that the boy I saw that day—the poster child for the anti-
deliria
cause, the embodiment of correctness—could be even remotely connected to the boy who walks beside me, hair tangled across his forehead like twisted strands of caramel, face ruddy from cold.

This is what amazes me: that people are new every day. That they are never the same. You must always invent them, and they must invent themselves, too.

“You left your glove. And you came in and found me looking at photographs. . . .”

“I remember,” I say. “Surveillance images, right? You told me you were looking for Invalid camps.”

“That was a lie.” Julian shakes his head. “I just—I liked seeing all that openness. That space, you know? But I never imagined—even when I dreamed about the Wilds and the unbordered places—I didn't think it could really be like this.”

I reach out and take his hand, give it a squeeze. “I knew you were lying,” I say.

Julian's eyes are pure blue today, a summer color. Sometimes they turn stormy, like the ocean at dawn; other times they are as pale as new sky. I am learning them all. He traces my jaw with one finger. “Lena . . .”

He's looking at me so intently, I begin to feel anxious. “What's wrong?” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

“Nothing.” He reaches for my other hand too. “Nothing's wrong. I—I want to tell you something.”

Don't,
I want to say, but the word breaks apart in a fizz of laughter, the hysterical feeling I used to get just before tests. He has accidentally smudged a bit of dirt across his cheekbone, and I start to giggle.

“What?” He looks exasperated.

Now that I've started laughing, I can't stop. “Dirt,” I say, and reach out to touch his cheek. “Covered in it.”

“Lena.” He says it with such force, I finally go quiet. “I'm trying to tell you something, okay?”

For a second we stand there in silence, staring at each other. The Wilds are perfectly still for once. It's as though even the trees are holding their breath. I can see myself reflected in Julian's eyes—a shadow self, all form, no substance. I wonder what I look like to him.

Julian sucks in a deep breath. Then, all in a rush, he says, “I love you.”

Just as I blurt out, “Don't say it.”

There's another beat of silence. Julian looks startled. “What?” he finally says.

I wish I could take the words back. I wish I could say
I love you, too
. But the words are caught in the cage of my chest. “Julian, you have to know how much I care about you.” I try to touch him, and he jerks backward.

“Don't,” he says. He looks away from me. The silence stretches long between us. It is growing darker by the minute. The air is textured with gray, like a charcoal drawing that has begun to smudge.

“It's because of him, isn't it?” he says at last, clicking his eyes back to mine. “Alex.”

I don't think Julian has ever said his name.

“No,” I say too forcefully. “It's not him. There's nothing between us anymore.”

He shakes his head. I can tell he doesn't believe me.

“Please,” I say. I reach for him again, and this time he lets me run my hand along his jaw. I crane onto my tiptoes and kiss him once. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't kiss me back, either. “Just give me time.”

.Finally he gives in. I take his arms and wind them around my body. He kisses my nose, and then my forehead, then traces his way to my ear with his lips.

“I didn't know it would be like this,” he says in a whisper. And then: “I'm scared.”

I can feel his heart beating through the layers of our clothing. I don't know what, exactly, he is referring to—the Wilds, the escape, being with me, loving someone—but I squeeze him tightly, and rest my head on the flat slope of his chest.

“I know,” I say. “I'm scared too.”

Then, from a distance, Raven's voice echoes through the thin air. “Grub's on! Eat up or opt out!”

Her voice startles a flock of birds. They go screaming into the sky. The wind picks up, and the Wilds come alive again with rustling and scurrying and creaking: a constant nonsense-babble.

“Come on,” I say, and take Julian back toward the dead house.

Hana

E
xplosions: a sudden shattering of the sky. First one, then another; then a dozen of them, rapid gunfire sounds, smoke and light and bursts of color against a pale-blue evening sky.

Everyone applauds as the final round of fireworks blooms above the terrace. My ears are ringing, and the smell of smoke makes my nostrils burn, but I clap too.

Fred is officially the mayor of Portland now.

“Hana!” Fred moves toward me, smiling, as cameras light up around him. During the fireworks, as everyone surged onto the terraces of the Harbor Golf and Country Club, we were separated. Now he seizes my hands.

“Congratulations,” I say. More cameras go off—
click, click, click
—like another miniature volley of fireworks. Every time I blink, I see bursts of color behind my eyelids. “I'm so happy for you.”

“Happy for
us
, you mean,” he says. His hair—which he gelled and combed so carefully—has over the course of the night become increasingly unruly, and migrated forward, so a stray lock of hair falls over his right eye. I feel a rush of pleasure. This is my life and my place: here, next to Fred Hargrove.

“Your hair,” I whisper. He brings a hand automatically to his head, patting his hair into place again.

“Thank you,” he says. Just then a woman I recognize vaguely from the staff of the
Portland Daily
shoulders up to Fred.

“Mayor Hargrove,” she says, and it gives me a thrill to hear him referred to that way. “I've been trying to get a word with you all night. Do you have a minute—?”

She doesn't wait to hear his response but draws him away from me. He turns his head over his shoulder and mouths,
Sorry
. I give him a small wave to show that I understand.

Now that the fireworks are done, people flow back into the ballroom, where the reception will continue. Everyone is laughing and chattering. This is a good night, a time of celebration and hope. In his speech, Fred promised to restore order and stability to our city and to root out the sympathizers and resisters who have nested among us—like termites, he said, slowly eroding the basic structure of our society and our values.

No more,
he said, and everyone applauded.

This is what the future looks like: happy pairs, bright lights and pretty music, tasteful draped linens and pleasant conversation. Willow Marks and Grace, the rotting houses of Deering Highlands, and the guilt that compelled me out of the house and onto my bike yesterday—all of it seems like a bad dream.

I think of the way Willow looked at me, so sadly:
They got you, too
.

They didn't
get
me
, I should have said.
They saved me.

The last, wispy fingers of smoke have dispersed. The green hills of the golf course are swallowed in purple shadow.

For a second I stand on the balcony, enjoying the order of it all: the trimmed grass and carefully plotted landscape, the pattern of day into night into day again, a predictable future, a life without pain.

As the crowd on the terrace thins, I catch the eye of a boy standing at the opposite side of the deck. He smiles at me. He looks familiar, although for a moment I can't place him. But as he begins moving toward me, I feel a jolt of recognition.

Steve Hilt. I almost don't believe it.

“Hana Tate,” he says. “I guess I can't call you Hargrove yet, can I?”

“Steven.” Last summer I called him Steve. Now it seems inappropriate. He is changed; that must be why I didn't recognize him at first. As he inclines his head toward a waitress, depositing his empty wineglass on a tray, I see he has been cured.

But it is more than that: He is heavier, his stomach a round swell under his button-down shirt, his jawline blurring into his neck. His hair is combed straight across his forehead, the same way my dad wears it.

I try to remember the last time I saw him. It might have been the night of the raid in the Highlands. I had gone to the party mostly because I was hoping to see him. I remember standing in the half-dark basement while the floor thudded with the rhythm of the music, sweat and moisture coating the walls, the smell of alcohol and sunscreen and bodies packed into a tight space. And he had pressed his body against mine—he was so thin then, tall and skinny and tan—and I had let him slide his hands around my waist, under my shirt, and he had leaned down and pressed his lips against mine, opened my mouth with his tongue.

I believed I loved him. I believed he loved me.

And then: the first scream.

Gunfire.

Dogs.

“You look good,” Steven says. Even his voice sounds different. Again, I can't help but think of my father, the easy, low-belly voice of a grown-up.

“So do you,” I lie.

He tips his head, gives me a look that says both
Thanks
and
I know
. Unconsciously, I withdraw a few inches. I can't believe that I kissed him last summer. I can't believe that I risked everything—contagion, infection—on this boy.

But no. He was a different boy back then.

“So. When is the happy event? Next Saturday, isn't it?” He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“The Friday after.” I clear my throat. “And you? You've been paired, then?” It never occurred to me last summer to ask.

“Sure have. Celia Briggs. Do you know her? She's at UP now. We won't be married until she's finished.”

I do know Celia Briggs. She went to New Friends Academy, a St. Anne's rival school. She had a hook nose and a loud, rattling laugh, which made it always sound as though she was fighting a bad throat infection.

As though he can tell what I'm thinking, Steven says, “She's not the prettiest girl, but she's decent. And her dad's chief of the Regulatory Office, so we'll be all set up. That's how we scored an invite to this shindig.” He laughs. “Not bad, I have to say.”

Even though we are practically the only two people left on the deck, I suddenly feel claustrophobic.

“I'm sorry.” I have to force myself to look at him. “I should get back to the party. It was great seeing you, though.”

“Pleasure's mine,” he says, and winks. “Enjoy yourself.”

I can only nod. I step in through the French doors and snag the hem of my dress on a splinter in the threshold. I don't stop; I give my dress a sharp tug and hear it tear. I push through knots of partygoers: the wealthiest and most important members of the Portland community, everyone scented and powdered and well-dressed. As I make my way through the room, I pick up on snatches of conversation, an ebb and flow of sound.

“You know Mayor Hargrove has ties to the DFA.”

“Not publicly.”

“Not yet.”

Seeing Steven Hilt has destabilized me for reasons I can't understand. Someone presses a glass of champagne into my hand, and I drink it quickly, unthinkingly. The bubbles fizz in my throat, and I have to stifle a sneeze. It has been a long time since I've had anything to drink.

People whirl around the room, around the band, dancing two-step and waltz, arms rigid, steps graceful and defined: patterns forming and reforming, dizzying to watch. Two women, both tall, with the regal looks of birds of prey, stare at me as I push past them.

“Very pretty girl. Healthy-looking.”

“I don't know. I heard her scores were rigged. I think Hargrove could have done better. . . .”

The women move off into the swirl of dancers, and I lose the thread of their voices. Different conversations overwhelm them.

“How many kids have they been assigned?”

“Don't know, but she looks like she can handle a litter of 'em.”

Heat starts to climb into my chest and cheeks. Me: They're talking about me.

I look around for my parents or Mrs. Hargrove and don't spot them. I can't see Fred, either, and I have a moment of panic—I'm in a room full of strangers.

That's when it hits me that I have no friends anymore. I suppose that I will make friends with Fred's friends now—people in our class and rank, people who share similar interests. People like these people.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I shouldn't feel this way. I should feel brave, and confident, and careless.

“Apparently there were some problems with her last year before she was cured. She started manifesting symptoms. . . .”

“So many of them do, don't they? That's why it's so important that the new mayor aligns himself with the DFA. If they can shit a diaper, they can be cured. That's what I say.”

“Please, Mark, give it a rest. . . .”

Finally I spot Fred across the room, surrounded by a small crowd and flanked by two photographers. I try to push my way toward him but am blocked by the crowd, which seems to be growing as the evening goes on. An elbow hits me in the side, and I stumble against a woman holding a large glass of red wine.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, pushing past her. I hear a gasp and a few nervous titters, but I'm too focused on getting through the crowd to worry about what has attracted their attention.

Then my mother is barging toward me. She grabs my elbow, hard.

“What happened to your dress?” she hisses.

I look down and see a bright red stain spreading across my chest. I have the inappropriate urge to laugh; it looks as though I've been shot. Mercifully, I manage to suppress it.

“A woman spilled on me,” I say, detaching myself from her. “I was just about to go to the bathroom.” As soon as I say it, I feel relieved: I'll get a break in the bathroom.

“Well, hurry up.” She shakes her head at me, as though it's my fault. “Fred is going to make a toast soon.”

“I'll hurry,” I tell her.

In the hall, it's much cooler, and my footsteps are suctioned away by the plush carpet. I head for the women's room, ducking my head to avoid making eye contact with the handful of guests who have trickled out into the hall. A man is talking loudly, ostentatiously, into a cell phone: Everyone here has that kind of money. The air smells like potpourri and, faintly, cigar smoke.

When I reach the bathroom, I pause with my hand on the door. I can hear voices murmuring inside, and a burst of laughter. Then a woman says, very clearly, “She'll make a good wife for him. It's a good thing, after what happened with Cassie.”

“Who?”

“Cassie O'Donnell. His first pair. You don't remember?”

I pause with my hand on the door. Cassie O'Donnell. Fred's first wife. I've been told practically nothing about her. I hold my breath, hoping they'll continue speaking.

“Of course, of course. What was it? Two years ago now?”

“Three.”

Another voice: “You know, my sister went to grade school with her. She went by her middle name then. Melanea. Stupid name, don't you think? My sister says she was a perfect little bitch. But I guess she got hers in the end.”

“The mills of God . . .”

Footsteps cross toward me. I take a step back, but not quickly enough. The door flies open. A woman is standing in the doorway. She is probably only a few years older than I am, and punch-bowl pregnant. Startled, she draws back to allow me room to enter.

“Were you coming in?” she asks pleasantly. She betrays no signs of discomfort or embarrassment, even though she must suspect that I've overheard her conversation. Her gaze ticks down to the stain on my dress.

Behind her, two women are lined up in front of the mirror, watching me with identical expressions of curiosity and amusement. “No,” I blurt, and spin around, and keep going down the hall. I can imagine the women turning to one another, smirking.

I round a corner and plunge blindly down another hallway, this one even quieter and cooler than the last one. I shouldn't have had the champagne; it has made me dizzy. I steady myself against the wall.

I haven't thought very much about Cassie O'Donnell, Fred's first pair. All I know is that they were married for more than seven years. Something terrible must have happened; people don't get divorced anymore. There's no need. It's practically illegal.

Maybe she couldn't have children. If she were biologically defective, it would be grounds for divorce.

Fred's words come back to me:
I was afraid I'd gotten a defective one.
It's cool in the hall, and I shiver.

A sign indicates the way to additional restrooms down a carpeted flight of stairs. Here it is totally quiet except for a low, electrical hum. I keep my hand on the thick banister to steady myself in my heels.

At the bottom of the stairs I pause. This floor isn't carpeted, and it's mostly swallowed in darkness. I've been to the Harbor Club only twice before, both times with Fred and his mother. My parents were never members, although my father is thinking of joining now. Fred says that half the country's business is conducted in golf clubs like this one; there's a reason, he says, that the Consortium made golf the national sport nearly thirty years ago.

A perfect golf game uses not a single wasted movement: order, form, and efficiency are its trademarks. All this, I learned from Fred.

I pass several large banquet halls, all dark, that must be used for private functions, and finally recognize the vast clubhouse cafe where Fred and I once had lunch together. I find the women's bathroom at last: a pink room, like a gigantic perfumed pincushion.

I pull my hair into an updo and blot my face quickly with paper towels. There's nothing I can do about the stain, so I detach the sash from around my waist and tie it around my shoulders loosely, knotting it between my breasts. It's not the best I've ever looked, but at least I'm semi-presentable.