by Logan Keys
He comes forward, as well. “Not at all.”
I’d recognize those purple eyes anywhere. At once, they fill with surprise, seeming to almost light up.
“You,” he says.
I cross my arms. “And you.”
“But, your hair …?”
The blonde patch of recent growth is kinky but there; it’s starting to find my old curls already. “It was a wig,” I say.
He steps forward some more, and I sense that he’s angry. “Why’d you save me?”
“What?”
Jeremy Writer balls up his fists. “I wanted to die for the cause! I had it all planned out. It was going to help start a revolution. Maybe not right then, but later.”
Irritation boils inside, though not enough to get myself throttled by a revolutionary. What kind of sociopath is this guy?
“I thought I was helping you,” I tell him.
He cuts off a dry laugh with the back of his hand. “Helping me!” His incredulity echoes down the alleyway. “I got caught on purpose. I signed the damned things with my own name!”
Anger twists the face of his ignorant zeal.
My guffaw echoes, as well. “You’re certainly in the right place for a suicidal breakdown! This is the place to die, in fact. Perfect timing, too, because your chances of dying nowadays are incredibly high! Why don’t you just turn yourself in, then, huh? I’m sure the Authority would just love to grant you your wish.”
But Jeremy shakes his head. “It needed to be then. It could have sparked an uprising. I’d wanted … I just hoped it would have been enough.”
I give another sniff. Jeremy seems to have brought out the snob in me. “Ugh. Martyrdom is so last century. I thought you were a patriot. Now it turns out you’re just some sort of nutjob.”
He stares at my hair again like something’s dawned on him. “Why’s your hair so short? What are you, sick or something?”
Manda’s voice cuts through my curt reply as she jogs toward us. “There you are! Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say with disgust. I look Jeremy Writer up and down with a piercing glare. “I was just leaving.”
We turn to go, but he grabs my sweater. “Wait.”
In a flash, Manda steps between us and presses a blade to his neck. “My girl Mozart here was just leavin, capiche?”
He ignores her, still staring at me with those bizarre violet eyes. “Mozart, huh? Why do they call you that?”
Smugness replaces my surprise. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s the same reason they call you Writer.”
“Yeah,” Manda says slyly. “And how ya gonna do any writin’ without a head?”
Incredibly, Jeremy Writer smiles.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I’m half tempted to go without my books, but after the night I’ve had, I’ll be damned if I leave empty handed. Cold sweat makes my clothes cling to me, yet I’m too embarrassed to ask if it’s the beer that’s causing it.
I rummage through hard copies and paperbacks at the booth we’d finally found with books. In the second pile, I find a copy of Moby Dick for almost nothing because the cover’s been ripped off. While Manda waits for me, a guy comes over to her and offers her some money, which she takes, and he starts kissing her right then and there.
“Hey, wait!” she calls when she notices that I’m leaving.
“I’ll head home.”
“Not by yourself.”
My meaningful look at her customer is obvious. “Aren’t you busy?” I ask. “You go ahead and … work. I’ll see you later.”
Confusion fills her face. “What?” Then, realization dawns, and she laughs. “Oh, girl, ya think I’m some kind of street walkah?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Ay yi yi, mamacita, no! Not even money is gonna get me to do that with these losahs. Come ovah here.” She drags me back. “This here’s my boo, Lug. We run contraband through the black mahket. He was giving me my cut from tonight’s sales.”
Lug leans forward to say hello. Something’s rolled up behind his ear. “Manda says you’re good people. She don’t like most girls, neither, so, I figure she’s right. You stayin’ at the warehouse? That little nerd, Journee, used to work down here, too, but he’s popped those freebies from the Authority in his mouth. Actin’ like he rich, shaved off them braids like he could hide his roots. White folk … ” He breaks off with a laugh.
I’m trying not to check the color of my skin.
“My bad,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.” And he laughs again, like he’s waiting for me to join in. But after this strange night, I’m fresh out of humor. “When it comes down,” he says, “and bahleeve me it will—Boom!” He slams a fist into his hand. “He’s gonna get his. Just like his cousin did.”
“Cousin?” Suddenly I’m interested in what Lug has to say. “Which cousin?”
Lug gives a shrug and lights up a cigarette.
It takes immense control to not grab him by his shirt collar. “Do you mean Desi? Or Desmond?”
He points at me. “Yeah. You know that fool?”
“Tell me what happened to Desi.”
Lug’s staring in surprise. “Dude got locked up. Came around in a red shirt. They called it gang clothing, like this be the old days. But he knew better. Won’t be out for a while, now.”
Manda steps between us. “Come on, Mo. Lug, stop acting so stupid.”
“But—”
Manda’s already towing me away while my sputtered questions go unanswered. “Can’t say that I blame him,” she says. “Some guard cracked Lug’s head wide open tryin’ to catch him for the purge.”
Lug steps to my right, catching up. “They shock you till you piss yourself. No way I’m going down like that—no way! Make you watch their movies, listen to their music. White—them folks is crazy. You see that brainwashing going on? Big money in wearing the last outfit you’ll ever wear, I hear.”
Manda reaches across me to shove at him. “Okay, okay, we get it already! So anyway, Mo, they don’t purge for money, whatevah this idiot tells you. Ya purge because they say you won’t get zombied out, like evah. And ya nevah die. It’s like they found the fountain of youth or somethin’. Some send their kids at fifteen. Ya know that Jeremy guy? He was purged, too, and that’s why Kiniva and us don’t trust him.”
Lug puffs in my face, and I want to cram that cigarette down his throat. But then he says, “Trust this. That fool’s a spy for the Authority.”
Fool being, Jeremy Writer.
So why would a spy want to die?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Someone’s banging on my door. I’m up reading, but irritated at having my alone time interrupted.
Journee’s on the other side, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Rise and shine, Mozart. Got a present for you. Bring it in, fellas!”
Behind him two men carry a … a …
“Is that what I think it is!”
“Ay-yup.”
One blink, two, but it’s still there. It’ll barely fit into my apartment. I’ll sleep on the floor, if need be.
My mattress is pushed up to lean against the wall before they can bring in … a piano! Not an electronic one. No, this is the real deal. Where could he have gotten it? White, a baby grand, well-crafted and … I’m … hyperventilating.
They set it carefully onto its side to affix the legs, and the tiny spot left in the corner will have to be my bed—which is fine.
The helpers leave, and I’m hugging Journee tightly before the door’s even closed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Whoa, wait a second. This isn’t from me.”
“What? It’s not?”
“Nuh-uh. They showed up with it this morning, saying they were looking for Mozart. Oh, wait”—he snaps his fingers—“there’s a note.”
He pulls it out and hands it to me. It’s written in calligraphy: Thank you for giving me faith in humanity again. JW
Journee reads over my shoulder. “Who’s JW?”
“Hmm. Well, save a man’s life and you get a piano, I suppose. But I’m not sure it’s good for you to tangle with that guy.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Journee laughs at my lack of interest, then taps a piano key. “So, what are you waiting for? Play me a song.”
I’m practically jumping out of my skin to do so. “Won’t it be loud?” I ask.
“Certainly.” Journee fixes his glasses. “But I’ll find a way to soundproof in here … as long as I get another hug like you gave me before, when you’d thought I’d brought you this here musical instrument. I say we wake everyone up anyway. What do you know?”
I caress the keys. “Everything.” My sigh is bliss-filled while my fingers run lightly across … real ivory, if I’m not mistaken. I tamp down the guilt at that. Poor elephants. “In my head, I’ve been playing every song I know for four years.”
Beethoven comes to mind, and Journee grins in recognition as I play.
The sisters come in, eyes round, hair mussed, pajamas still on. They find seats to listen, before others soon follow, squishing inside my small one-room apartment or standing just outside to enjoy my rendition of “Moonlight Sonata.”
Me, I’m in my own little world, a place where no one else can go. One song, then another, and another, until Journee stops my hands all too soon. He coughs and looks at the line trailing out the door. “Let’s not push it, Mozart. Playing anything too patriotic might piss some people off.”
I’d delved into some of the old greats, and of course, American tunes, without thinking—anthems, hymnals … these things are the lifeblood of the pianist. My hands still hover over the keys, while a pang sits deep inside my heart. I’ve never been so homesick in all of my life.
We’ve no freedom here.
Righteous anger stirs, and it takes several deep breaths to keep the despair at bay. But Journee’s right.
Long after everyone leaves, I’m still frowning at the piano keys, and without pressing, I finish my song anyway, sans sound. Just fingers gently tapping the tops. “There.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’m late to the courthouse this morning. Previous night and its earliest dawn hours were spent sitting in front of my piano, dreaming of the things I’ll be able to play once I’m able.
It’s been weeks since my last hearing, and I’m catching up for lost time. Journee wanted me to lay low for a bit longer, but my new identity with black curly hair and spike heels is concealing enough. Maybe if the judge and guards are looking at my legs, Journee says, they won’t recognize me as the one who freed their terrorist.
Underneath the borrowed jacket is my new silk shirt, and the stockings have a line up the back that makes my legs look really long. “Hot,” as Manda put it.
I click up to the courthouse in a half-jog, only to find the line at the entrance backed up. An older gentleman with white hair promises to hold my place while I wait on the bench near the doors. I’ve learned my lesson about standing overly long in heels.
There’s a man already sitting on the bench, and he moves over to give me some room, his newspaper snapping in a rustle of pages. He clears his throat, and then again, until he’s noticed.
I glance at him, then quickly look away to avoid being obvious.
Jeremy’s wearing a top hat and dark sunglasses with a zoot suit, complete with shiny loafers. He looks like a character out of an old gangster comic.
“Hear any good music lately?” he asks under his breath.
“The best.” I’m fixing my heel. “Thank you.” My whisper’s meaningful.
My fingers practically dance across my thighs, I’m so anxious to get back to playing. After Journee insulates my apartment, I’ll be able to use my new piano at all hours of the day. Until then, though, each second is counted with impatience. Mentally, I’ve already catalogued all of the classics I have memorized—surprisingly many—and a few contemporary pieces, too. Now, I’m going over opera scores in my mind.
With a smile, Jeremy watches my hands flex over my skirt. His teeth are big and straight. “Don’t mention it.”
He returns to his reading. The paper’s headline warns that the “dreadful flu” is on the rise.
“And thank you, too,” he murmurs more seriously, “for saving my life. I haven’t had the chance to say that. If you only knew what it’s like to be prepared for death, and then be given a second chance.… Thank you, is all I’m trying to say.”
Jeremy casually makes sure no one has noticed our conversation before he continues. “Word is, Kiniva met with a ghost recently, that she blessed him in his grand regime, viva la revolucion, and all that. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?” My shrug makes him chuckle. “He’s decided the rumors are true: a girl from the Island has returned to us as a sign from the universe, a grand gesture of the phoenix rising from the ashes.” He lays a hand to his chest in mock awe. “And as so, we shall rise from Ash City in the same way. It seems this girl has inspired him greatly.”
I’m forever sniffing around this Jeremy Writer. “Kiniva said he’s not a superstitious man.”
“Ah. So you did speak with him.”
He’d just gotten me to admit to being Ghost Girl, which may not be a surprise. Still, I’d like my anonymity at a decibel level below neon sign, if possible.
“I didn’t inspire him, I just listened to him. There’s a difference.”
Jeremy pulls his glasses down, flashing his bright alien eyes. They pierce me like amethysts set so neatly in his face. “Somehow, I doubt that. You seem to have a way of affecting the destiny of people.
“But don’t worry,” he adds softly, “I won’t write about it. After your daring contribution to society has freed me, you’re already on the list. I won’t turn up the heat any further. You can count on that.”
I sit up taller. “There’s a list?”
“Yes. But if you keep under the wire a little while longer, you won’t be on it. Don’t worry, I’ll draw the attention soon anyway.”
I’m biting my tongue to not ask how.
“And in exchange for my silence,” he whispers, “because I’m sure this would be a lovely story, I’d like the full, real one for myself. Mayhap I’ll be as inspired as Kiniva was.”
At the entrance, the line has moved to my spot. “What? Now?” I say. “I’m running late.”
“No. I’ll meet you at your apartment. The roof.”
My heart speeds up. “When?”
“Tonight.”
Is he so eager to see me?
Warmth spreads somewhere near the rations sitting in my stomach. “My friends say you’re a spy, that you’ve been purged. Is it true?”
Jeremy leans forward, a smile flirting with the corners of his wide mouth. “Oh, come now, Ghost Girl. You, for one, shouldn’t take every rumor you hear as gospel. I heard you healed yourself on the Island. Is this true?”
More sniffing.
“Well, there you have it,” he says.
He’s scrutinizing my black hair and my grey makeup, Serena’s most dramatic attempt. It’s not one hundred percent my look, but my eyes are brightest in the pale light of morning.
It’s a small relief that he’s already seen my real hair. Vain, that looks are important to me, yes, but this Jeremy is peculiarly handsome, and it’s a fight to keep from touching my hair in reaction to his observation.
He’s not classically good looking or the boy next door type, but there’s something regal about him, like how my father was, and it’s hard not to notice. Still, his youth clings with boyish charm that’s glacially hardening into manhood. The combination is quite … attractive … arresting, strange, and hard not to stare at.
His face softens, making me blush. “So, I’ll be seeing you later, Mozart?”
I rise to leave. “Maybe. I’ll think about it �
�� Writer.” Then, I pause near his place on the bench. “And I do understand, by the way. What it’s like to be ready to die and have a second chance.”
“I thought maybe you might.”
“Thank you again for the piano.”
“Think of it as a token.”
Another catch of steps. “For what?”
“New beginnings. We’re each on our second lives, you and I.”
While the guards wand me, it takes everything I have not to look back at Jeremy, but my mother’s voice comes then: When your father first took notice of me—he, the grand composer, reclusive, and exciting all the more for it—I always made sure that, when he watched me dance, I never acknowledged the fact that he did. All I ever had in a sea of lovely women was my mystery.
And even though Jeremy hadn’t said, “Where have you been all my life?” my mystery was all I had, too.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tommy
The first house on the left is the only one with a closed door, and I signal for the team to stack behind me so once the door’s kicked in, we can file into the room quickly. Everyone’s breathing heavily, and I nod three times. For once, I don’t feel my heart rate climb—I’m ready, in the zone. And I’ve got enough ammo for whatever’s on the other side.
I kick the flimsy particle board loose, and we pour into the room like a dam burst. We quickly fill up the small space; some have to remain outside. But it’s empty. The room’s bare, and its mock bathroom is also clear.
The decor consists of one bed and a cardboard cutout of a TV on top of a rollaway cart. The bathroom’s simply a bucket on the ground, and from the smell, it’s been recently used. The side room appears to be a kind of eating area, with cupboards and a cardboard fridge and table.
“Hatter,” calls Waco, who’s clearing the kitchen. With his accent, he should be in a cowboy hat, rather than a helmet. He gestures with a thumb jab. “There’s some MRE’s in there, like someone was gettin’ their fixin’s right before we showed up.”