Disclose

by Joelle Charbonneau

  “My father dedicated his life to the Stewards in order to gather and protect the truth. He carefully recruited others to that mission, hoping that eventually the right moment would come where everyone could be told about the lies the government has told.” Atlas’s eyes narrowed. “The Stewards were hunted. My father was taken. I don’t know if he is dead or alive, but if he were here I think he’d give you the same answer. Why should you put yourself on the line to help us? Because the truth has to win. It’s why we’ll still do what we believe is necessary no matter what you say.”

  “But you’d have a better chance with us. Right?” Shep quips.

  The others around the room nod.

  “Time’s up!” Ari shouts. The youngest in the room complain, but they immediately get to their feet and start for the stairs.

  “Wait,” I insist.

  “We heard you out,” Stef says. “We’ll talk it over and let you know our answer.”

  “When?”

  “When we’re ready,” Joy offers with a smug smile.

  I walk to Joy and look her square in the eyes. “Some Stewards believed their way was the right way and were willing to destroy anyone who expressed different ideas. This is your chance to prove you’re better than them.” I unzip the bag on my shoulder and upend the spray-paint canisters of neon pink, yellow, orange, and white on the ground. “Or maybe,” I add, turning toward the stairs, “you’ll prove you’re more like them than you want to think.”

  Five

  Atlas says nothing as we walk back to Dewey’s street. I can tell by the set of his jaw that he has already written Stef and Joy and the others off—like the Stewards who have refused to help. Are they simply afraid? Or are they like Scarlett—who cared more about being right than about the freedoms we have lost?

  I have no illusions. I know our plan isn’t perfect. Getting people to read Gloss in even greater numbers is a good start. And while I told the truth about hiding the words in the Gloss images, what I didn’t say is those words were only a last resort. The dozens of designs on my tablet will only be used if the third step in the plan doesn’t go the way we hope. And only if Mrs. Webster can continue to keep Gloss open through her cunning and connections.

  I see only one Marshal sitting at a café down the street from Gloss when I report to work the next morning, but there is no time to worry about him as everyone dives into work getting the new issue up and running. It isn’t until late in the afternoon that Rose finds me in the bathroom to let me know the mayor called her mom personally this morning to congratulate the magazine on the new look and to make sure she wasn’t inconvenienced by the surprise Media Quality spot check from the night before.

  “My father must have talked the mayor into getting involved,” Rose whispered while we ran the water in the bathroom sink. “Mom told me to tell you that we’re fine and will be ready when you are.”

  Will I be ready? I wonder hours later, long after Mrs. Meacham finally releases the team with the warning we will be working late again tomorrow. But while everyone else is probably long asleep, I stare at the city in the shadow of a large pedestal. Atop the concrete block is a stunning Native American warrior rider seated on an intricately detailed steel horse.

  The driving curfew makes the night seem impossibly quiet. I shift the bag I carry on my shoulder. The clink of the paint cans rings loud in the silence.

  Golden lights gleam from the windows across the skyline, brightening the shadows of the silver and black steel buildings that carve out a distinctive silhouette against the black night sky. The well-tended, well-spaced trees sway in the gentle breeze that carries with it the scent of the lake and whatever flowers the City Pride Department planted in the dozens of rounded-edge square stone planters in the paved plaza.

  On a sunny, warm day, this area would be filled with tourists and Chicagoans alike. Currently, there are a few strolling along the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue. Not far from me, a lone couple is sitting on one of the benches, wrapped around each other in a way that makes it clear they have no interest in anyone around them. Across a twisting road from me, a lone runner pounds the pavement near my warrior’s twin statue. When I turn toward the lake, I spot three people on bicycles, taking advantage of riding in the moonlit, temperate late-night air. If I didn’t know the truth about “verify” and the Marshals and the missing people who dared to look too closely or question too much, I would feel completely safe here in the heart of the city.

  But I do know. I know as I study the streets and the trees that lead to the lake, then the buildings to the west that stretch into the embrace of the velvet sky.

  The city is beautiful. It’s the place my mom dedicated her life to making attractive and welcoming. Painting over whatever the government was doing. Kidnapping and oppression and death. Anger fills me as I look up at the warrior with his bow pulled back, ready to strike.

  The Native Americans fought in the war that created this country. They helped fight for freedom, and while I only know a tiny fraction of the history removed from our modern textbooks, I know that the government betrayed them. They didn’t give up their land willingly as I was taught. They refused to conform to what was convenient for the government and were slaughtered. Their land was stolen. Their freedoms. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise that even Dewey’s textbooks only dedicate a few paragraphs to their story.

  “History is written by the victors,” Dewey said when I noticed the lack of words used for such horror. “And people are happy to let them. No one wants to consider whether their happy lives came at a terrible cost.”

  Maybe he’s right. Despite everything I know, I still find myself wanting to believe in the things I’ve been proud of all my life. That scares me more than anything. And it’s why I can’t let them win.

  Squaring my shoulders, I turn and start toward Michigan Avenue. Gusts of wind accompany my footsteps as I cross the normally bustling street. I briskly walk along the wide expanse of currently empty road, first under the covered walkway of an old stone building, then on the open sidewalk—away from the lake and into the city.

  I flinch at every sound as I travel the handful of blocks to my destination. Each shift of a shadow has me looking for signs of the Marshals or the Chicago Police. Atlas wanted to be here with me tonight to guard my back—to act as my eyes when I am too busy to see. But there is no reason for both of us to be at risk until it is absolutely necessary. And if I am honest, this walk—one that will strike at the heart of everything the city stands for, and that my mother dedicated her life to—is something I need to do alone.

  Finally, my destination comes into breathtaking view. In the distance, high arching iron and tinted glass windows are filled with a beautiful blue-green light. The same vibrantly colored light shines atop a roof elaborately decorated with aluminum sculptures of owls and intricate metal foliage that my mother first pointed out to me when I was barely old enough to walk. Next to the darkened buildings around it, my target shines like a beacon.

  High-pitched laughter from somewhere nearby makes me jump. I pull my cap low on my forehead, cross the street, and walk the streetlamp-lit sidewalk that runs parallel to the building. The hum of an engine catches my attention and grows louder with every step I take. I glance over my shoulder as a street sweeper rambles through the intersection, then disappears. When I reach the end of the block, I duck around the corner of the beautifully lit building and scan the area.

  No one’s in sight.

  Carefully, I unzip my bag, remove one of the cans of paint Dewey purchased, and shake it. The clicks and clatters hammer in my ears. My breath comes fast and sharp. My heart pounds as I wait for someone to appear—to understand what I am about to do.

  Once the can is ready, I go still.

  No one comes running to see what caused those sounds. No one is close enough to see or stop me.

  I run my free hand along the rough, reddish-brown stone and stow the cap of the spray-paint can in my bag. Then I step back, take a deep br
eath, and try to forget everything I was conditioned to believe about the purpose of the City Pride Department. Even still, regret grows deep in my chest. Which is stupid. This is my plan. There is no reason to feel bad about marring the government’s veneer of perfection. The fact that I do, despite everything I know, chases away any lingering doubts about what must be done.

  The paint can is cold in my hand. Fixing the image of the logo in my mind, I clutch the hard metal, raise the canister, and press the nozzle.

  Vibrant pink hisses a terrible and triumphant song as it streaks through the air onto the section of wall in front of me. Color seeps into the stone in an imperfect curved line, which irritates me because there is no fixing it and even if I could, there isn’t time. So, I step slightly to the side and start spraying again.

  Squiggles of pink.

  Fast yellow swirls.

  Shots of orange that are supposed to resemble licks of flames.

  Then I reach for the black to create a quick outline to make the other colors pop.

  The majority of art is created on screens. It was the medium my mother taught me to draw on. It was the one I watched my mother’s hands work with every day as she created magic with colors and shapes. Yet, despite her skill with modern design tools, my mother’s first love was applying paint to canvas. I remember the way she held the brush—as if it were an extension of her hand—much like the way I feel about my stylus. When I was little, I sat on the stool in her studio and watched her work for hours, saying nothing as she danced with color on the canvas, creating meaningful beauty where there was once only a sea of shapeless white.

  My father never approved. He felt painting on canvas was not much better than using paper. A waste of resources. Selfish. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t try harder when my mother let me take the brush and spread the color on the small square of stretched fabric. Or maybe it was because no matter how hard I tried, the colors smeared and created images that were nothing like the ones I had designed in my mind.

  “Painting requires more care than the drawing you do every day. And it should,” my mother said when I grew frustrated and threw down my paint, sending spatters of crimson across the yellow of my shirt. “Mistakes on the screen can be removed with just a stroke of a stylus or a push of a button. What you do with a brush and canvas—it’s harder to make disappear.”

  I wish I remembered exactly what I said in response, but I don’t. Instead, I remember her picking up her own brush and walking to the painting that had become an unpleasant mess of muddy browns and iron-gray streaks despite my desperate attempts to create the beach scene my imagination had conjured.

  “Painting can be frustrating, but to me it is wondrous. I feel as if I didn’t just create the work, but instead I’m a part of it. That who I am comes alive in the texture of the work.”

  I didn’t understand. Not then. Not years later when she gave voice to that same thought. How anything could be more real than seeing a design come to life onscreen where the color choices are infinite and precise, and mistakes could be removed with no more effort than the blink of an eye? It didn’t make sense to me. Until now.

  For the first time, I think I feel what my mother experienced when she painted the canvases that led me to the La Salle Street Bridge—to Atlas and the Stewards—to this moment here at the back of a structure that once housed thousands upon thousands of paper books.

  My heart beats fast. My hands work faster, slashing color in long and short bursts of air. Drips of paint bleed downward from the design where my hand lingered too long. The drips are mistakes. Flaws that everyone will see. I don’t care. Maybe it isn’t perfect, but neither am I. And this painting, as destructive as it might be perceived, is part of me. Maybe that is why the color on these stones means more to me than anything else I have ever created.

  I spray for the last time, shove the can back into my bag, and step back to look at what I have done. Artwork where it didn’t belong. An image that wasn’t carefully discussed and reworked and approved by the government.

  “Hey!” someone shouts somewhere in the distance, and I don’t wait around to see if he’s yelling at me. I run.

  My feet pound the pavement as I zigzag through the city blocks until finally, I slow, walking to where I have stashed the maroon-and-black bicycle I found sitting on the porch this morning. Neither Dewey nor Atlas claim responsibility for the gift, but I’m grateful. I pull it out of the rack, throw my leg over the bar, and pause to listen for sounds of sirens or approaching cars. In the distance, there is the faint beeping of a truck backing up followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of a jackhammer. Comforted by the normal sounds of roadwork, I put my foot on the pedal and ride north through the city to the second of the three locations whereI plan to make my mark tonight.

  My legs are tired and my skin damp with perspiration by the time I ride down the block to Dewey’s house—the other logos painted without any sign of the Marshals. Tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll be happy about it. Tonight, I’m too tired to be anything but relieved. The porch light glows—welcoming me back—as I wearily carry the bike up the steps and lean it against the house. The door isn’t locked. I open it slowly and find Dewey sitting beside an illuminated brass lamp in an otherwise darkened living room. He is fingering the battered gray fedora, which rests in his lap.

  “I didn’t think you’d wait up.”

  Dewey studies me as I step into the room. “I had company until an hour ago. Atlas was quite insistent on being here to make sure you returned safely, but all his pacing was making it hard for me to read, so I kicked him out. Whoever said we need more togetherness really missed the mark.” He shrugs. “I messaged him when you came up the porch steps in case he was still inclined to worry.”

  “I told Atlas to wait at his house.” Although I can’t help wishing he was here instead of staying at the house his father inherited from Atlas’s grandfather.

  “You had to know he wouldn’t listen,” Dewey says quietly. “He didn’t understand why you didn’t want him with you tonight.”

  “He said he did.” I drop my backpack onto the other armchair and notice specks of pink, orange, and black paint dotting my fingers. If the Marshals had caught me, my hands would have given my guilt away.

  “He lied. People dedicated to the truth still do that, you know. It’s not the only thing he’s lying about.” Dewey pushes to his feet. “I tried to explain to him using small words so he could understand how difficult tonight was for you.”

  “I practiced a bit with the paint cans before I left. I was able to work fast when I was out in the open.”

  “That’s not what I am referencing.” He looks down at his hat. “Your mother would be proud of what you did tonight, Meri. And of what you are going to do next.”

  My throat grows thick and dry.

  “Atlas grew up believing everything about our government was wrong. You were raised to think the world was exactly right. It is not surprising that actively putting a mark on the thing you were taught to honor and respect would trouble you.”

  I shrug as if it couldn’t matter, but Dewey isn’t done. “Perhaps it will help for you to remember that something must break before it can be rebuilt. Change isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be, if it truly means something. And sometimes the breaks make things more beautiful. Did you cover Kintsugi in your art class?”

  I blink. “No. What’s that?”

  “It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. When fixing something, most people try to do it in a way that hides the fact that it was ever broken. They think the break means the piece is flawed.” Dewey smiles. “But with Kintsugi, artists don’t attempt to camouflage the damage. They highlight the location of the repair with powdered gold or silver in celebration of the piece’s unique history. By doing so they transform it into something even more special and give it second life.”

  If our efforts work, I plan on looking up Kintsugi pottery.

  “So,” Dewey says. “Your outing was successful?”r />
  I nod.

  “Tomorrow’s . . .” He glances at the clock; it’s post-midnight, and corrects himself. “Tonight’s adventure will be easier for your heart if not your body. The Marshals will no doubt be made aware of the situation. By this weekend they will be on high alert.”

  “Which is what we are counting on.”

  “When your friend Stef and the others meet you on the La Salle Street Bridge, the Marshals will be scouring the city in greater numbers than they were tonight. Odds are some will be swept up by those Marshals.”

  Spine’s lifeless face flashes in my mind.

  “Atlas doesn’t think they’ll agree to help,” I say, picking at a dot of paint on the back of my hand.

  “He doesn’t want them to help. There’s a difference.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His eyes meet mine. “I think you do. After all, if it is just the three of us painting the logo, it will take more time for Gloss’s popularity to grow. That would alter the timeline and buy him a few extra days to find information that will make it unnecessary for you to take the next step.”

  I shake my head. “We don’t have a few extra days. His father and Isaac might not have much time left.” If they aren’t already dead. “Atlas knows we have to do this now or we could lose this chance for good.”

  “Just as he knows Stef and the others will join because they are young—like you.”

  “Which means what?”

  “People your age lead with their hearts instead of listening to what’s in their heads—although I suppose you don’t have all that much in your head anyway, comparatively speaking.” He glances down at the hands I have fisted at my sides. “Taking risks is hard for those worried about losing what they already have. It’s the reason Scarlett and many of the other Stewards spoke of change even as they resisted it. It’s that same fear that drove your father to leave you even when in his heart he knew he should stay.”

  The unexpected mention of my father jabs past my defenses. Tears burn hot in my eyes and I’m too tired to push them away.