I can’t read an answer on Michelle’s face. She tents her fingers. “What does your mother do for work?”
I skip the part-time jobs she’s worked and promptly lost the past few years. “She was an office manager at a big law firm for fourteen years. Janssen & Der Duin.”
“Was?”
“She left.” It’s not a lie—she did leave. It just wasn’t willingly.
“Why?” Michelle’s gaze pins me into place. All this scrutiny makes me so aware of my own edges. My legs tight against each other, my hips too wide for the chair, my hands clenched in my lap.
I choose my words with care, simultaneously honest and darting around the truth like a circus act. “When I was nine, my father’s parents fell ill and he returned to Suriname to look after them. He didn’t come back. My mother had a hard time with that. She left work. But she’s better lately.”
I don’t say that “better” means little, given how bad she’s been. I don’t say that Mom had been struggling before Dad left for Paramaribo, or that I wonder if that’s the reason Dad broke his promise to return.
And I don’t say cocaine and Ecstasy and ketamine.
“What about you? You go to school?”
“Not since the announcement.”
“That’s fair. But you understand that . . .”
“Look, I—I’m smart,” I blurt out, which feels like my first true lie. Els must be hiding her laughter. If the doctors who once diagnosed me as intellectually disabled could hear me, they would, too. “I have a good memory. I thought I might—I might try to become a vet. I volunteered at an animal shelter.”
“The only animals on board are insects and fish.”
“I know! I’m not stupid.” I press my fists into my thighs. “I just mean that being a vet is hard, but I wanted to do it. I don’t know if I’d have succeeded”—shit, I shouldn’t have said that—“but I wanted to try. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Michelle sighs. “I’ll take a look at the numbers, but we’re already at our maximum . . .”
“I don’t want to go out there!” When did I start shouting? My fists are pushing into my lap so hard that my shoulders point up. “I can’t! I can’t!”
“I said, I’ll look at the numbers.”
“We’ll do any work you want us to. You’ll need people for the crops, right? Or in processing? If this is about supplies, you can have everything we have. It’s not much, but we can pay. Anything in our home, food, or drugs—”
“Excuse me?”
“Anything! We can be useful, I swear, we—”
Fingers wrap around my biceps. “Denise!”
I jerk away. The force sends my tiny chair tumbling onto its side, and me with it. I slam to the floor. Pain shoots from my shoulder to my fingers.
Els stands over me, one hand to her mouth. She must’ve been the one who grabbed me. I hadn’t even seen her stand.
“You OK?” Michelle asks.
Now she cares? I nod, my breathing choppy and my mind too scattered to find the right words.
“Good. We’re done talking.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MY FACE BURNS AS I CLAMBER UP. If I thought people were looking at me before, when I’d just scraped my chair over the floor, they’re definitely looking at me now.
“Come with me.” Els wraps one arm around my shoulders. I hunch at her touch. She turns me away from Michelle, toward the exit, and leads me back through the same hallways Max guided me through only minutes before.
My good hand flaps against my thigh as we walk. I keep my eyes averted all the way, like if I don’t see other people, they might not see me. But that also means I can’t tell where exactly Els is taking me. After going down several flights of stairs, I’m not even surprised when I’m faced with a sign that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
“This is where I work.” Els presses her hand against the door, which opens with a high whine.
“I’m sorry. I’ll go back to my cabin.” I disentangle myself from Els.
“What happened in there?” Her voice sounds chilly.
“I panicked. I . . . got stuck. I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“I vouched for you. Anything you do on this ship reflects on me. And you go and harass our staff about something we told you wasn’t an option, scream at Michelle, and try to bribe her with drugs. Drugs, Denise?”
I don’t know what kind of response she wants. My jaw clenches.
“I asked you a question!”
I shake my head. It’s the least offensive thing I can do.
“Tell me!”
“Tell you what?”
She breathes deeply, like she’s gathering herself. “Are you doing this on purpose?”
“I’m not doing anything. You—never—asked—me—any—question.” Tears burn in my eyes. People always get like this, sooner or later. They start pushing and pushing, and I don’t get what they’re pushing me toward, or they promise me something, then do the opposite, and I no longer know what to do. Either way, someone gets hurt. Most of the time, it’s me.
As it is, I’ll need to leave the Nassau. I don’t see why I should deal with this, too. I turn. I want to walk—go back to my cabin and clutch my pillow, the one familiar thing in there—but my legs don’t move. They’re trembling. I’m sorry, I want to say a third time, just to make Els stop pushing.
“You offered Michelle drugs,” Els says. “Were you grasping at straws, or did you seriously bring drugs on board?”
I stay stubbornly silent.
“You’re sixteen!”
“You’re sending me to my death,” I mutter. “And you’re worried about my health?”
“That’s not fair!”
“I didn’t bring drugs on board.” It’s the truth: I didn’t. Mom did. “I was grasping at straws. Like you said. That’s all.”
Els fixes me with a stare. “I believe you.”
“Good,” I say, prickly.
She reaches out again.
I jerk back my shoulder. “Stop trying to touch me.”
“I only want—”
“I’m autistic. Stop it.” The words fly out. Immediately, I wish I could take them back. I don’t want to be like Mom, pushing my limits into everyone’s face and demanding sympathy. I don’t want them to be like Mom, either, telling me it’s OK or how sorry for me they are.
“Oh.” Els takes a backward step into her office. “Damn. Of course you are. I should’ve seen that.”
I stare at the ground. “I’m sorry,” I try one more time.
“I never thought about it. I just thought you were . . .”
Mulish. Antisocial. Disrespectful. Difficult is what she’s thinking, just like a dozen teachers and psychologists before her. Just another maladjusted Black girl from the Bijlmer.
“Why didn’t your mother tell the school?” Els asks.
I don’t want to answer that. It doesn’t matter now. “Can I go?”
She’s silent for a minute. “I wish there were a way for you to stay on board. I do.”
“Yes,” I say. “Me, too.”
CHAPTER NINE
MOM HAS LEFT THE CABIN BY THE TIME I stick my head inside. I turn on my heel. This time, I explore more than just the balcony. I climb up to the other walkways, which are nearly identical, then go down to wander around the would-be park. It’s pleasant. There’s no trash. No hot dog or gelato stands. All the green is green, rather than the browns and grays of fall and winter, and the water in the narrow brook that slithers through the park is so clean, it’s see-through, like something from a travel brochure.
I sit on one of the benches—which at first I think is newly painted, then realize is new, period—and close my eyes. A tree leans over me, blocking out the artificial sunlight of the dome. All I hear is people talking in the distance, the chatter of the brook, and the sound of rain-that-isn’t.
The calm comes over me like a cat curling on my lap. I stroke my leg with bent fingers like running my hand through warm fur. “I�
��m fine,” I murmur. “I’m . . .”
“Hey. You’re the girl from this morning.”
I blink my eyes open, my hand a frozen claw against my jeans, and recognize the boy standing two meters away. Max. He frowns at me. Of course he’s frowning—he saw me make an ass of myself at breakfast just now.
“Hey,” he repeats. His frown intensifies. “How come you didn’t know where the dining hall was? You could’ve checked the network.”
“I’m not hooked in.”
“Whoa. You’re new? You’re cutting it close.” When I don’t say anything else—all I could say is that I’ll be gone again by tomorrow, and I’d rather not—he goes on. “I never got your name.”
“Denise.”
“I’m Max.”
I press back into the bench. Max doesn’t seem to be backing off. I’m not sure what he wants from me, but he’s my age, which means he could basically be a classmate—and things tend not to end well with classmates and me.
“Yes,” I finally offer. “You said.”
“I did? Huh. I’m not much of a morning person.” I swear he’s suppressing another yawn even as he says that. “Are you OK? I saw you fall earlier.”
If he saw me fall, he must’ve heard the reason. I swallow some rude words—why is he still standing there?—and eye him instead. His concern might be sincere. I’m not nearly as bad at recognizing expressions as people assume, but I’m not as good at recognizing when one is fake—not with strangers, anyway, or with classmates who put on convincing smiles then drop me once I end up too off-putting. Max must be here to satisfy his curiosity or to find out more about those drugs I have to offer. Either way, he’s got the wrong girl.
“Hey, if you don’t want to talk, that’s . . . Whatever you want.” He raises both hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Did you hear what we were talking about in the dining hall?”
“Are you kidding me?” He lets out a hard, short laugh. “I was half asleep.”
“Not a morning person,” I repeat.
“If you don’t know where the dining halls are, does that mean you never got a tour? My mother’s supposed to handle that. Want me to . . . ?” He actually cocks his head then, like the dogs at the Way Station when I walk past their cages. “We’ll be on this ship for the rest of our lives. Might as well get to know each other.”
I shake off the lingering wariness. Be nice, I tell myself.
“You don’t have to.” Max shrugs one shoulder.
A tour may be like rubbing my nose in something I can’t have, but I have nothing better to do. I climb to my feet. “Thank you.”
“OK.” It’s less a confirmation and more a cheer, a drawled Oh-kayyy. A slow smile grows on his face. “What haven’t you seen yet?”
Max guides me around the ship. He shows me two other dining rooms—both bigger and so different in décor and furniture from the one I saw that it’s hard to believe they’re even on the same ship—and several recreation areas, with gym equipment and virtual reality chairs and big cinema screens. Occasionally, he gestures at something and offers a jumbled explanation that usually ends with him musing aloud, then producing another explosive laugh. It keeps startling me. Only after a couple of those laughs do I realize why: the sound doesn’t seem to fit the rest of him. He keeps squinting like he needs laser surgery or glasses, but aside from that, it’s like his every muscle is relaxed, and he could lie down and nod off in two seconds flat.
Then he does that laugh, and I jump, like I’m surprised he’s even capable of making a noise like that.
“I like the curves.” I gesture as we descend a flight of stairs. “The hallways, and where the walls meet the ground or floor. It looks so futuristic.”
“Right? Straight out of Star Trek. It’ll be different when they’ve got the plants growing everywhere. You know, like the vines around the balconies? They want that on the rest of the ship, too.”
“Spaceship jungle.” I nod my approval. I like the ship as is—smooth curves, straight lines, pleasant lights, everything brand-new and so very safe—but a ceiling of warm leaves has its appeal as well.
“I’m not even a fan of plants . . . green . . . nature . . .” He waves his hand vaguely. “But it’ll be good, different. The ship is making me claustrophobic already and we haven’t even left.”
“I think it’s nice. It’s . . .” I pause to find the right word. Yesterday, I’d hated the thought of going anywhere but the Gorinchem shelter we’d been assigned to. I’d seen maps of that shelter, I’d read instructions, I’d known what to expect.
This is better, though. I don’t have to guard my backpack or fight people for rations. I’m not locked underground with stale air and people bracing themselves for the end. It’s just me and Mom, here, who have to brace themselves.
My smile fades. “It’s clean,” I finish.
Max laughs. “Clean? Wait till you have to rake up all the leaves in these halls.”
I swallow instead of matching his laughter. “I’d be happy to.”
“I’ll leave that to you, then. I’ll stick with my computers.”
“You shouldn’t—” You shouldn’t complain, I want to say, not when you get to stay and I don’t, but that’d lead to questions I don’t feel like answering. “Computers?” I settle on saying. “That’s what you do here? Or did your family get you on board?”
“Nah, I got them on.” His eyes glint.
Family. What he said earlier finally registers. “Wait. You said your mother was supposed to take care of tours. Anke?”
“She was assigned to be a hostess.” He uses air quotes for that last word. “You know, giving tours, checking on people who are having trouble, answering questions. My father and sister got stuck on grunt duty in the kitchens. Captain makes sure everyone’s useful.”
That brings to mind Michelle’s casual interrogation. “And you’re useful in computers.”
“Mostly software. I help out around the place, though. Oh! There are some great viewing windows near here. Have you seen outside yet? Not that there’s much to see, dark as it is . . .” He turns a corner, one arm trailing behind him as if we’re holding hands and he’s guiding me.
Before he can go far, a voice barks out, “Max! You were supposed to be in the engine room an hour ago!”
“Huh?” He slows. “I was?”
The owner of the voice stomps from a hallway on Max’s right. It’s a guy, black-haired and short—short short, I realize after a moment; he’s a little person—and looking as weary as I’ve ever seen anyone. “I won’t even answer that question. C’mon.” He grabs Max’s arm.
“Wow. I didn’t realize that was right now.” Max blinks owlishly and jogs after the guy. Belatedly he calls out, “Sorry, Denise!”
“No problem,” I say as they disappear into the hallway. A glance around confirms that I’m alone.
Which leaves me with . . . what? More time to waste?
I look back at the spot where Max and Engine Room Guy turned the corner. Only now do Max’s words truly sink in. He got his family on board purely because of his skill in software. He’s so indispensable in the engine room that they drag him in bodily. On a ship like this, I can’t imagine just how intricate the software has to be. And how old is Max? Seventeen, eighteen?
No wonder Michelle wasn’t impressed with my desperate Maybe I’ll be a vet, I don’t know.
The thought makes me want to either cry or laugh. I choose the latter, uttering an abrupt laugh like Max’s. So I can’t be a vet. So I’m not into literal rocket science like Max. I still need this ship, and if there’s even the slightest chance they need me, I want to grab that chance.
I break into a run after Max and Engine Room Guy.
“Hey!” I call out. “Hey! Do you need any help?”
CHAPTER TEN
THEY DON’T, IN FACT, NEED HELP: Engine Room Guy just goes, “Do I know you?” and Max shrugs apologetically.
Now that I’ve got the idea stuck in my head, I refuse
to let it go. There’s nothing I can do about Iris until lockdown ends. I might as well try to secure us a spot in the meantime. I stalk the corridors, and with every person I see, I introduce myself and ask if they need help. I smile, keep my hands still, and make eye contact for a half second at a time. I feel nothing like myself and, at the same time, so accomplished that my smile isn’t even fake.
Once, I trail after a floating transport to help stabilize it. Another time, someone drags me into a production plant filled with crisscrossing tubes and big metal containers making noises that grate like a knife dragged against a dinner plate. They put a mop in my hand and point at a spill on the floor, something sticky that glows blue in a certain light.
Two hours later, when the sweat on my back has long dried but my head is still throbbing, a girl in the hallway stops me. She’s got thick blond hair and hard, narrow eyes. “Denise?”
“Yes?”
“You’re helping out. Right?”
“Yes?”
She narrows her eyes further, as though sizing me up. She’s not much taller than I am, but she milks that centimeter or two for all they’re worth. “I’m Mirjam,” she says finally. “My brother, Max, mentioned you. I’ve got something you can help with.”
I trail after her. I hadn’t picked up on the resemblance, but it’s obvious now. They’ve got similar broad shoulders, similar hair—though hers doesn’t have the red sheen his does—and similar pale, blotchy skin.
“You play soccer?” Mirjam asks. When I don’t answer straightaway, she turns, walking backward through the hall. “A friend and I are setting up a women’s team once we’ve launched. We’ll call it the Astronauts or whatever. You play?”
“No, I don’t.”
Air escapes through her teeth. Disappointment, I think—I hope. The other option is annoyance. “You want to try?”
No, I almost say—I’d only embarrass myself—but the odds are, I won’t be on board then, anyway. “Sounds fun.”
On the Edge of Gone Page 5