Bel and I follow. We’re in another graffiti-covered tunnel. The art is crazy-cool. I think how much Jake would love it. Is it weird to miss someone who doesn’t know you exist?
We’re not in the graffitied tunnel long enough for my taste when Sharrow accesses a hidden door to yet another gray hallway. We traipse down it to an intersection with another gray hallway, and turn left. This hall is different—it has closed doors spaced regularly along either side, but nothing to indicate what this place was once used for. Offices, I’m guessing, or maybe back entrances to stores in a mall or something like that.
After a left turn at another intersection, I hear a faint beat, like faraway music playing with the bass cranked up. Now the closed doors flanking the hall each have little lights above them, some red, some green. The music gets louder the farther we go.
The hall dead ends in a door. It sounds like the music is coming from the other side.
Sharrow keys something on her personal, then looks from me to Bel. “It’ll be crowded. Stay close.”
Bel rolls her eyes. You think she’d be tired of that. I know I am.
Sharrow banks her personal, the door slides open, and the music hits me like a shockwave.
Bel and I follow her into a crowded room lit with blacklight. Neon colors glow on the walls, like the graffiti in the tunnel, except these are moving, pulsing with the music. Even the floor—where I can see it between dancing feet—has undulating waves of pinks and greens.
The music isn’t like anything I’ve ever heard. It’s more like irregular, high-pitched wails than actual music. But beneath the wails, if you listen, there’s more to it—a clinking, shaking rattle, another rhythm not quite as deep, and a top layer of bright background melody, with an accompanying harmony. It reminds me of when a foster mom took me to the symphony and all the different instruments were warming up at the same time.
We head directly onto the dance floor amidst the mass of gyrating bodies. I catch glimpses of lighted bracelets and glowing patterns on skin. It’s a sec before I realize—their tattoos are glowing. Insane!
Despite the crowd, no one touches me as I pass, which seems to defy the odds, if not the laws of physics.
On the other side of the dance floor, we exit crazy-town into a seating area. I rub my eyes with my knuckles to clear away the after-images. There’re a smattering of tables down the middle. Couches and booths on the perimeter. The lights aren’t strobing, and the music’s not as loud. I feel like I can breathe again.
I stick close behind Sharrow as she weaves through the tables on a mission. Some tables are occupied, and it’s hard not to stare at the glowing tattoos. Sharrow glances back at me, and I notice her freckles and eyeliner glowing iridescent green. It looks like her pink lips have a faint glow, too. Does that mean her eyeliner and lip gloss are tattooed on?
I feel so plain—I swear I’m the only one without lit ink. Then I look back at Bel, and she’s not glowing. I wonder if the tattoo thing is new since her time.
Sharrow stops at a corner booth and puts her hands on her hips.
“What the soot?” she says to the empty booth. “Where is he?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Flyx. My boyfriend. I haven’t been able to reach him all day, but I assumed he’d meet me here as planned.”
“Stood up, huh?” Bel says. “Shocker.”
Sharrow bursts into tears and runs away.
“Sharrow, wait!” I call.
“Let her go.” Bel slides into the booth. “She’ll be back.”
“Why’d you have to be so mean?” I scoot in on the opposite side of the table.
“If she thought that was mean, she needs to toughen the flick up.”
“I know you can be meaner. But why be mean at all? She’s your sister. She just wants to get to know you.”
“Whatever.”
I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not like knowing I’m her sister makes any difference.
“Let’s at least take advantage of this time,” I say. “Tell me what the plan is.”
“What plan?
“Going back to 1906. When do we leave?”
“My mom said I can’t go until after this inspection or whatever.”
“How long is that going to take?”
“What’s your hurry? It’s not like it matters.”
“What are you talking about? We have to hurry—”
“Hello. Time travel.”
“But—”
Her words rattle around in my brain. The earthquake that killed the crew happened more than two hundred years ago. Does it make any difference if we leave now or in a week? Or a month? We can still go back to before the building fell, before Bel shot Maxen. So I guess I have to admit logically that Bel’s right—it doesn’t matter when we leave. But my gut refuses to agree.
Chapter Twelve
I lean across the table toward Bel so I don’t have to shout over the noise of the club. “I still want to go back as soon as possible.”
“Enough, she’s coming.”
Sharrow arrives at the side of the booth, the wisps of hair at her temples damp, like she splashed water on her face. “We can get out of here,” she says.
Bel gets up without meeting Sharrow’s gaze. I had a tiny hope Bel would apologize. Right.
I smile at Sharrow as I slide out of the booth. I’m about to ask if she’s okay, but it looks like she might dissolve into tears again, so I don’t say anything.
Instead of weaving back through the tables, Sharrow leads us in the opposite direction, away from the dance floor, to an alcove with a couple of low couches. From the looks of it, this is the front entrance. We must have entered through the back door.
On the other side of the door is yet another hallway, this one with white walls, white ceiling, blue-gray indoor-outdoor carpet, and florescent lighting. It’s completely generic, like it could be any office building, anywhere, any time. On the plus side, at least it’s not gray.
Sharrow stops at a junction with three other hallways branching out. “Sleeping quarters?” she asks. “Unless there’s something else you want to see.”
“Fine by me.” I’m exhausted. The last time I slept in a bed was in 1906.
“You coming?” Sharrow asks Bel.
“I don’t exactly have a choice. I don’t have my own room now.” There’s a determined edge to Bel’s voice that tells me it probably won’t be long before she remedies the situation.
We head down the right-most hallway, passing more closed doors. I’d kill for a sign to clue me where we are. We could be in the basement of a high-rise in the Financial District or an office building in SoMa, for all I know.
“This is a lav,” Sharrow says, pointing to a normal-looking door with an actual doorknob. “There’s a shower room you can access from inside the sleep room.”
She continues down the hall, past other real doors, which she ignores. At the end, she banks her personal and an invisible door slides away, revealing a large, low-ceilinged room. The walls are lined with metal lockers, like a gym locker room. The middle of the room is filled with single beds—maybe forty or fifty—mostly empty.
“Welcome to the Mids’ quarters,” Sharrow says.
“What are mids?” I look at Bel—she’s wrinkling her nose.
“People ranging from age ten to twenty,” Sharrow says. “There are other sleeping quarters for twenty-plusses, one for parents with juvies, and another for olders.”
At Bibi’s, there were shared rooms, but nothing like this. “You don’t live with your families?”
“Not after age ten,” Sharrow says, like I asked if she still wears diapers. “Centralized communal living is tons more efficient than duplicating functional spaces for cooking, sleeping, etcetera.” This sounds rehearsed, like propaganda. She checks her personal. “Okay, you’re in beds thirteen and fourteen. Not far from mine.”
Without a word or glance, Bel heads into the room like she knows where she’s going.
Sharrow and I exchange
a glance. Mine is meant to convey “Sorry she’s such a bitch.” I’m guessing Sharrow’s means something like “Yeah, I know.”
“Over here,” Sharrow says, heading for the left side of the room. “Your locker corresponds to your bed number. Thirteen.”
“Lucky thirteen,” I say ironically. “Lucky me.”
“Is that unlucky in your time, too? I guess some things don’t change. But Bel claimed fourteen, so you’re cement.”
She pulls open the door to locker thirteen. The inside is bare except for a stack of gray clothing I’m assuming’s more jumpers, and a second stack in soft turquoise. Sharrow pulls the top article off the turquoise stack and hands it to me. “This is your sleeping singlet.”
“Where do I change?”
“Right here. Bin your dirty jumper by the door.” She points to a receptacle by the door we came in.
I wonder what happened to those self-cleaning fabrics I saw in Beck’s newspaper—I’d much rather not strip naked in front of a bunch of strangers. But I tell myself to get over it. No one here cares.
“My locker’s twenty-four.” She points to the back wall. “I’m going to get changed, too.”
She turns away, but I need to say something.
“Sharrow?”
She turns back. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about Bel. I know it’s weird to suddenly have a sister, especially one like her.”
“The worst part is having to share my mom.” She looks pained.
“I get it. I mean Bel and I share a dad I barely know, so that’s not the same. But if I had to share my mom…”
“I’ll get used to it. Not like I have a choice.” She gives a shallow smile and heads away.
My heart aches for her. And for me. With just that one mention of my mom, the image of her popped in my mind clear as a photo—my young mom in 1906, so vibrant and in love. The image morphs into her standing under the falling bricks as the building came down. Her life—and my history—ending in an instant. Thanks to Bel.
Molten rage fills my stomach. I feel the pressure building. If we can’t get back to 1906 to save them, it’s going to erupt all over Bel, and I won’t be sorry to watch her burn.
I turn toward my open locker so my back’s to the room, peel off my bodysuit, and step into the singlet. It’s softer than the jumper, sleeveless, and only goes to my knees. I grab the jumper off the floor, then close my locker to see a face staring at me.
A guy. The one with the blue hair.
“Hey,” he says. “I don’t know if you recog. I’m Daum.”
“Yeah, what are you doing here?” I hug the jumper to my chest, realizing he was probably right there while I changed.
He looks confused. “Uh, getting ready for bed?”
I’m an idiot. I’d assumed it was all girls. My cheeks burn and I know my face is red.
He points at the jumper I’m clutching. “I can bin that for you.”
“Sure, thanks.” I hand it over, then feel really exposed. It’s not like the singlet gives much coverage. I fold my arms over my chest.
“Sorry about before. In Detention. Wish I could have done more.”
“It’s okay.”
“Well…’night.” He heads away.
After a moment he glances back, gives a little wave. I wave back. I guess it’s not so different from passing a boy in the hall at the school lockers. Except for the naked part.
I spot Sharrow in the middle of the room with Bel. I head toward them, not looking at the occupied beds. Even if they don’t care about privacy, I can at least be respectful.
“I’m sorry,” I hear Sharrow whisper. “It wasn’t up to me. Do you want me to message Ops and see what other beds are open?”
“Forget it,” Bel says, in her loud whisper. “It’s not like you can actually do anything to fix this. I’ll right everything tomorrow with Mom.” She huffs to Bed 14.
I look at Sharrow and shrug. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for me!” Bel snaps.
“Shhh!” someone scolds.
“Sluff off!” Bel retorts.
Sharrow winces. She looks mortified.
I grasp her shoulder to give it a squeeze. She startles and I pull my hand back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It surprised me.”
For as open as they are about changing clothes and peeing in front of each other, apparently personal space is different. At least for Sharrow. “I’m sorry,” I whisper back. Seems all I do is apologize.
“No, it’s my fault. I should have told you when I gave you the personal.”
“Told me what?”
“Before touching someone, we ask for consent, and register it on the personal.”
“You do what?”
“Hold out your right hand.”
She extends her right hand and grasps my forearm, placing our personal devices next to each other. “Consent to contact?”
“Uh…yes?”
“You have to say ‘I consent.’”
I nod. “Okay, I consent.”
There’s a quiet beep.
“There,” she says, letting go. “We’re good for casual. We’d have to get consent again for anything intimate. And if we go more than five feet apart, it resets and we have to do it over.”
“Okay….” This is bizarre. But in a way it makes sense this would evolve after so many issues with people getting groped and date raped and stuff. And it totally explains why I walked untouched across the dance floor. “I’ll definitely ask now that I know. And thanks for everything you’ve done. I really appreciate it.”
“No prob.” She glances behind me, and I follow her gaze back to Bel’s red head poking out from under the covers. “Set your alarm for oh-eight-thirty so we have time for breakfast.”
“Um, how do I do that?”
“Shhhh!” someone says.
“Never mind, I’ll wake you,” Sharrow whispers. “Goodnight.”
“’Night.”
I pull back the covers of Bed 13 and slide under. The sheets feel like they’re made of the same stuff as my suit. I turn on my side and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the homesick feeling prickling behind my eyelids, but failing.
“Allie. Allie, wake up.”
I bury my face in my pillow.
“Allie, you’re going to be late.”
“Bibi, it’s Saturday.”
“Allie, wake up!”
I roll over and squint against the light. Crap. It’s not Bibi.
“I’ve been trying to wake you for twenty minutes,” Sharrow says.
“Why didn’t you shake me or something?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“Consent, remember? Come on, I’ve got your jumper. Hurry, or we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” I roll out of bed and follow her.
“Testing.”
“The doctor said I passed.”
“That was only the physical.” She activates a door in the back wall and we enter a bathroom with multiple sinks, toilets, and shower stalls.
“Wait, I could still get recycled?” Now I’m awake.
“That’s an affirm. Sorry.”
“Bel, too?”
“No, she’s in the clear.”
“What? That’s not fair. Where is she, anyway?”
“Gone when I woke up. Come on, you need to change. No time to shower,” she says, handing me a gray jumper.
I take off my singlet, forcing myself to keep my gaze on the floor. If there are other people—guys—in here, I don’t want to know. I step into the jumper and zip it to my chin.
Sharrow tosses my singlet in a basket then pushes a button on the counter. “Two toothbrushes, vanilla cleanser.” There are mechanical sounds in the cabinet, then a drawer pops open. Inside are two toothbrushes, bristles up, each with a perfect line of white paste. She takes one and holds it under the faucet, which automatically turns on.
I grab the other toothbrush and use the next faucet over. As I
brush, I can’t help flashing on the bathroom at Bibi’s with all the preggers girls and baby mamas crowded along the counter brushing teeth and washing faces. For a moment, the sadness feels like it’s going to swallow me.
When Sharrow finishes, she inserts the toothbrush into a slot marked with a recycling symbol. I spit, rinse, and do the same, then make the mistake of glancing in a mirror—ugh. I try to smooth my hair as we exit.
Sharrow power-walks through the room ahead of me. I catch up as she reaches the door.
“No time for breakfast?” I’d kill for a cup of coffee—or whatever they have with caffeine.
“Nope. You’ll have to settle for liquid nutrition.”
“There wouldn’t be something like coffee, would there?”
She turns to me with a broad smile. “Now I know we can be friends.”
Chapter Thirteen
“We’ve only got about two minutes before you’re late,” Sharrow says as we head away from the drink station.
I quicken my pace and slosh coffee from my newly issued bottle down the front of my jumper. It’s so hot it stings, so I pull the front of the jumper out, away from my skin. Perfect. It’ll be stained and stretched out when it dries. That’ll go great with my hair.
We race down an access tunnel and emerge in a corridor I don’t recognize. Sharrow rushes to a blank wall and opens a door. I hurry through behind her.
The room is small and very purple, with lavender walls and a dark plum couch. One wall has a big white circle painted on it.
And sitting on the couch—
“Bel? I thought you passed already,” I say.
“Nafe. I’m giving the testing.” She’s not wearing a gray jumper like yesterday. Instead, her bodysuit is sapphire blue, and has a flouncy miniskirt attached. Her hair is styled with a swoop of bangs tucked behind her ear, and her nails are the same blue as her jumper. I note with some jealousy she’s wearing chunky navy blue patent leather boots.
She looks me up and down and crinkles her nose. Yep, I know I look snazzy.
Bel turns to Sharrow. “You can go.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind—”
“I said go.”
“Okay.” Sharrow looks at me, and I see how crushed she is. “I guess I’ll see you later, Allie.” She steps out and the door hisses shut.
Shake Page 7