He sighs and shrugs. “Sure, honey.” And for the next ten minutes he tries. I can tell he tries. But the brief period of light we found blinks out.
Dad gives me another pat on the shoulder, tells me, “Just focus on the numbers the problem tells you to concentrate on. Don’t get distracted by anything that doesn’t apply. That’s the trick. Follow those steps and you’ll be fine.” Then he leaves the room. A few minutes later I hear the back door in the kitchen close and I head upstairs.
I put on my headset and study for the rest of my finals. The volume is cranked up high. If the car engine revs to life and my father drives away, I can’t hear it. I also won’t be able to hear the sound of his return or his unsteady footsteps pacing the floor of his bedroom, although I can imagine them as I compose an essay on the National Communication Initiative. My stylus glides along the surface of the tablet as I write my conclusion: “Scaling back the number of television channels and publications helped heal an angry and divided country by reducing vitriol, and providing more points of commonality.”
When that’s done, I read through my chemistry notes, then try to memorize names and dates of people I couldn’t care less about for my Modern American History class. When my head feels heavy and my vision swims, I burrow into my covers and pull them over my head to blot out the world. Then I will my mind into sleep.
The dream comes as it always does. And as always, I know it to be a dream. Suddenly, I’m standing next to my mother on a sidewalk in the fading early-evening light. Bright silver-and-stone buildings with sparkling glass reach into the cloudless sky behind us. A wide screen congratulates the neighborhood on winning a beautification award.
Her long yellow coat is buttoned up to the top. The blue scarf I gave her for Christmas is wrapped tight around her neck as she studies the street with narrowed eyes. Then she reaches into her matching shoulder bag for her design tablet and begins to draw. Her stylus runs across the tablet, but when I step closer, there is nothing on the screen.
“Look harder,” she says in the clipped tone that convinced me she’d never think I was talented enough to be a real artist. Before I can tell her I can’t see what isn’t there, tires begin to screech.
She doesn’t run. No matter how loud I shout, she never runs.
The car swerves onto the curb. It has no color—almost no shape as it crashes into my mother. She flies backward, and my eyes snap open before her head cracks against the ground.
My temples pound as I glance at the clock. The glowing red numbers tell me I have slept four hours. There are three to go before school starts. Knowing there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed. I take a shower and let the water wash the grain out of my eyes and swirl the memory of the dream down the drain. Once I’m dressed, I take my tablet to Mom’s studio to work.
On the way I open my father’s door. In the dark, I slowly cross to the nightstand and check the alarm. Dad remembered to set it before he passed out. Part of me wonders how much he had to drink. A lot, I’d guess, considering he caught sight of Mom’s unfinished picture.
An incomplete picture.
An incomplete life.
But the painting isn’t just about my mother. It’s about how my father and I are now living. We’re stuck in this place. Neither of us can move on until the empty spaces she left are filled. For months I’ve tried to add to Mom’s work without a sense of what direction she was taking. But after finding the inspiration for at least two, maybe three, of her paintings yesterday, I feel like I might eventually be able to fill the canvas the way she intended.
I pull up a picture of the bridge, but no matter how much I zoom in or spin sections and try to see what my mother saw, I can’t figure out how this final piece fits into the puzzle. After several attempts, I do what my art teacher told us to do when we are stuck. I stop trying to force the issue and begin to draw something else.
The outline of the guy I followed flows from the tip of my stylus. I picture the moment when I was only ten feet away from him and he turned toward me. In my mind I erase the rose gold of the newly refinished buildings near him and the half-formed impressions of other people on the sidewalk so I can focus on the details that belong to him.
I fill out his hair—shaved at the back of his neck and just a bit longer on the top. The sharp lines of his face and his slightly off-center nose. A strong face. Older than me, but not by much. Not classically handsome, but increasingly compelling as my stylus fills out the shadows of his jawline and the texture of his eyebrows.
When his face is done, I move on to the black sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to the forearms. I picture something on his arm—peeking out from the edge of the sweatshirt. But I’m not sure what it is or if that detail is real or if my imagination has taken over. However, I am certain of the narrow shoulders and the long legs. By the time my father’s alarm snaps my concentration, I know the image I have in front of me is as close to memory as I can make it.
The alarm goes silent almost as quickly as it sounded and I hold my breath and listen. Floorboards creak. A shower turns on. I let out a relieved sigh. One less thing to worry about.
Quickly, I slide off the stool and head to my room. I pull my hair into a low ponytail, grab my bag, and head back downstairs. The shower upstairs turns off as I take an apple and a can of Pepsi from the fridge. My body craves coffee, but I am not going to wait around for it to brew.
For once, I get to school in plenty of time. I slide into my desk and read over my notes for several minutes before our teacher tells us to hook up our personal screens. Along with everyone else, I grab the cord at the corner of my desk and plug it into my tablet port. My screen goes blue and the word “WORKING” appears in white as the school system locks the programs stored in my tablet so they cannot be accessed during the exam. Any attempt to do so will activate an alarm in the school network. Cheating is not allowed in any form.
While it seems like any sensible person wouldn’t risk trying to beat the system, there are always a few who do. I remember the door to my biology classroom swinging open last year in the middle of the first-semester exam. Two of the school’s security officers entered, and a freshman named Jeremy jumped up from his desk. His eyes darted around as he looked for a way to escape the two officers who approached. But there wasn’t any way out, especially when Principal Velshi appeared. The security officials each took hold of one of Jeremy’s arms and walked him out the door. Principal Velshi shook his head and apologized for the disruption. “Your fellow student thought he had found a new code that would allow him to access his own files without alerting anyone to his activities. There is a zero-tolerance policy on this campus for cheating. I encourage all of you to remember that.”
As if I could forget the fear on Jeremy’s face when he was led out of the classroom. I never saw him again. The no-cheating policy meant he received a failing grade for all his classes and was forced to repeat them at a different school. Two students were pulled out of their tests for cheating last December—a senior girl and a junior boy who ended up with the same punishment. I assumed they must have parents a lot like Mr. Webster, who forces Rose and Isaac to do extra work if they don’t get perfect grades. Parental pressure can make some students do irrational things. But Rose disagreed.
“It’s not just pressure to excel at school. Hackers are compelled to break codes that others say are unbreakable. It’s just the way they’re wired.”
Maybe that was true, but it seemed crazy to risk upsetting their families and maybe screwing up their futures because they wanted to prove they could beat the school’s examination program. I liked a challenge as much as the next person, but there was no point upending an entire life just to prove that you could outthink the system.
The word “LOCKED” appears on my screen. Once all the tablets display the same message, our teacher tells us we have an hour and a half to finish the test. She taps something on her computer and uploads the final exam into
the network. A new image appears on our screens. Our teacher takes a seat and we get to work.
All around me, people shift in their chairs. Stylus taps against shatterproof glass echo through the room. We write in answers and select the correct bubble for what year World War I started, why approval is necessary and takes years for anyone who wants to travel outside the country, or when the green tax was put into place.
I answer most of the questions. My late-night cramming clearly paid off. My chemistry test is about the same. Not terrible. Not great. Good enough.
Rose waves when I walk through the door to geometry—my last test of the day—and mouths for me to wait for her after the bell rings.
Despite the emotional fallout, my study session with Dad helped. I stumble through the first two proofs, but by the time I reach the second screen I’m surprised at how fast I cruise through the test. I finish with almost twenty minutes to spare, and after reviewing my answers one last time, I hit the Complete button. The tablet asks for confirmation that I am ready to submit my work, reminding me that no changes can be made after I do so. When I tap the Confirm icon, I am certain that I have passed the test and the class. One day of finals down. One more to go.
I shift in my desk as I wait for exam time to expire. Rose is still hunched over her tablet, along with almost everyone else in the class, probably double- and triple-checking answers. I feel a stab of worry, then shrug the anxiety off. It’s not like I can change anything now, so I turn and stare out the window at the bush on the other side of the street until the bell rings.
All our personal screens turn red as the tests are officially submitted. The screens go green to show the process is complete. Our personal data has once again been unlocked.
Chairs scrape against the tile. Everyone shoves their tablets into bags and bolts for the door, grateful to be done for the day. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and wait for Rose, who is asking Mr. Greene about one of the questions. She isn’t smiling when she turns.
“Is everything okay?” I ask when we reach the hallway.
Rose shrugs. “I changed one of my answers and I shouldn’t have. After I hit Complete I knew I had made a mistake. I have a feeling I didn’t get full points on a few others. I hope that my score doesn’t bring down my semester grade, or my father will use it as an excuse to make me take summer classes instead of working at Gloss. How did you do?”
“It could have been worse,” I say, downplaying my performance so Rose doesn’t feel bad. “I’m glad it’s over. Now we just have to get through tomorrow and we’ll be free for the summer. Or I will. You’ll be busy working with glamorous people and playing with samples of new makeup.”
Rose punches the combination into her locker. “Just because I’ll be doing some work for my mother’s company doesn’t mean I won’t be around. I will. And you’ll probably have less free time than I will if you make it into the City Art Program—unless you want to come work at Gloss. Mom says the offer is still on the table.” She opens the door, grabs her phone from the charging station, and frowns at the screen.
“What’s wrong?”
“Isaac. He’s going out with friends and isn’t going to give me a ride home even though he promised Dad he would. He’s still upset about yesterday—Dad reamed him for being late and threatened to take away his car.”
“That was my fault,” I correct. “If he is mad at anyone it should be me.”
“He’ll get over it.” She gives a dramatic sigh and slams the door to her locker. “I mean, he just had to get an ID and a uniform. No big deal. Well,” Rose says with a bright smile. “I guess the good news is that Isaac won’t be around to annoy anyone, so we can go to my house and study.”
“Um . . .” I had planned to return to Mom’s paintings. “The only real final I have left is English Composition.” My art and phys ed finals weren’t exactly the kind you could study for.
“I have Composition tomorrow, too, and I really need you to read over my history paper. The information is all there, but I know there are places it could be better. I’d ask Mom, but she has to work late tonight, and I’m not about to ask my father.” Before I can come up with a good excuse to turn her down, she adds, “Please? It’s our last time studying together as underclassmen.”
A couple of our friends we’ve known forever shout that they have to catch the bus but that they’ll call us later so we can all get together. I wave back, even though I know that while they have included me, they really mean they are going to call Rose. Which is why, instead of turning her invitation down, I say, “You know what? Sure. I can study today.”
The bridge will be there later, but unless I’m careful, Rose might not.
The clouds are thick and misty gray as we walk to her building. It sits on a block that has been completely redesigned by the City Pride Department. All the buildings and flowers and the occasional tree by the curb complement each other. Rose lives on the top two floors of a five-story building created out of off-white stone and rose-gold steel—a modern twist on the older architecture in this part of town.
Even with rain threatening, the colors chosen for the building make it appear as if it is almost glowing from within. The whole street has that same warm feeling. While I love my neighborhood, with its redbrick bungalows and cobblestone-edged sidewalks, this area helps me understand how effective the City Pride Department’s work can be and how creating this kind of environment for everyone really does improve lives.
Rose uses her key to activate the elevator, which shines in metal of the same hue as the outside of the building. Rose pushes 4, and moments later we are walking into the beautiful red-and-white living room. Art screens filled with various covers of Mrs. Webster’s fashion e-zine grace the walls, along with a colorful rendering of the Chicago skyline that I watched my mother create years before.
“I’m sorry,” Rose says from behind me. “I should have come up first and shut that screen down.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” I shake my head and stare at the strokes that so vividly brought the city to life. My mother had given Mrs. Webster a canvas version of the same image. Part of me wonders whether she turned it in to the government-recycling program, the way most people have done with their old art. I hope not. I turn away from the screen and try to smile. “Can we study while we eat?”
For the next several hours I almost feel as if time has turned back. We make sandwiches and work at the sleek black kitchen table while we eat her brother’s stash of corn chips that he thinks no one else knows about. And we study. Longer than I would like, but Rose is a taskmaster. She forces me to read her essay on how designating English as the national language helped foster cooperation and a sense of shared identity. Then she drills me with writing prompts for my English Composition class tomorrow. The slamming of the front door causes us both to look up. And when Isaac appears in the kitchen doorway and lets out an annoyed sigh, I am glad to tell Rose that I have to get home.
The sky is darkening when I arrive. I’m late enough that I am not surprised to see that my father is already there and has brought dinner home—sweet-and-sour chicken and rice. A favorite of mine. An apology from him. My stomach growls, and I decide I have no choice but to accept it.
The food is good, even if the conversation is stilted and my father won’t meet my eyes. This is normal, but after yesterday, when we were able to talk and joke without the strangling tension between us, I notice it more. I think Dad does, too, because each time silence falls he fills the void with another question about my exams. I feign enthusiasm, even when he has run out of questions and starts repeating them, but eventually he realizes that neither of us is fooling anyone. He falls silent and we both pretend to focus on the food.
Dad pushes back his chair first. “I brought some work home. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
As he heads out I find my voice again. “Dad?”
He turns in the doorway and straightens his shoulders, trying to look upbeat, which makes me feel
even worse. I want to tell him that it will all be okay and make us both believe it. But I can’t, so all I can say is, “Thanks for dinner.”
He sighs. “You bet, sweetheart.”
I hear his footsteps on the stairs, the sound of his door closing, and then my father pacing his room above me like a Bengal tiger searching for a way out of its cage.
And I hate it. I want this horrible loop we are trapped in to end. And there is only one way I can think of to do it.
I empty my plate into the garbage, then grab my bag and head out the door. The sun has set and the moon is fighting to shove its pale yellow beams through the thick, charcoal clouds. Wind whips the trees as I cross the patch of grass to the garage and roll out my bicycle. It is dusty from disuse over the winter, but the tires are still inflated.
The approaching storm and the darkness have chased most people inside, so I ride on the sidewalks instead of on the streets, avoiding traffic entirely. The wind whips against me, making it difficult to pedal, but I push my legs harder and ignore the burning of my muscles as the buildings grow taller. The quiet of the North Side disappears into the bustle of the city, which will last until the citywide street repair curfew begins.
I have hours before that, and even then I have nothing to worry about. The curfew applies only to motorized vehicles. People in our neighborhood walk their dogs or ride their bicycles or take out the garbage after curfew all the time.
My mother used to take walks after midnight several times a week. She said her best ideas came to her when the rest of the world around her was still. She said it allowed her to see beyond what was there into what could be. I wonder if in those final months she walked the same sidewalk that I now ride. I wish she had let me go with her when I asked instead of telling me I wasn’t ready.
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