As the anger subsides, my anxiety fills in the space. I look at all the signs around me, for prisoners’ rights, against prisoners’ rights, for holograms, for Jesus. Even Rita’s T-shirt carries its own agenda. There are too many signs nowadays, blatant and hidden, distorted and clear. How people look versus what they say. What people say versus what they mean. What they mean versus how they feel.
How do you know what’s real and what’s just a cover? Do you listen to the voices around you, the one in your head, or the one in your heart? Do hearts even speak anymore when the world becomes so loud?
Twenty long minutes later, I enter a voting booth and cast my vote.
Rita and I walk back to the high school parking lot after we vote. Benji leans against his car, waiting for us.
“Can I talk to you?” Benji asks me.
“Why?” I ask. “What can you possibly say to me?” The anger rises inside of my throat.
“Rita, could we have a minute alone?” Benji requests.
“Sure,” Rita says. “I’ll be in my car.” I read her face. She wants me to spill everything later.
“Thanks,” Benji says to Rita.
Who said I wanted to talk to him? Even though I’m fuming, something seems off. He was actually polite to Rita for once.
Benji begins. “Alex, I understand why you are upset. I get it.”
“Do you really?” The words come out sharper than I expect.
“Yes, you think I’m a hypocrite, like you said.”
My full anger bubbles over. “You’re so fake. You sided with Dad and then totally voted the other way.”
“Alex, you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand? That you can totally ream me out to look good in front of him? That you like to torment me? That you blame me for my anxiety and for making his worse? Yeah, I get that. I so get that. That’s your M.O.”
“No, you don’t understand. Not really.”
He takes a deep breath and his eyes focus on the ground. “Alex, I’m gay.” His face looks like he just swallowed poison.
What? My brain feels like it just traveled in time and hit a loop. WHAT?
“I’m gay,” he repeats slowly, or maybe my brain has just slowed down to caveman level.
“Since when?” I almost think he’s lying to distract me from being pissed at him. Except his face looks sincere.
“Since always. Mom knows. Dad doesn’t.”
A burning sensation bubbles up from my stomach and settles in my heart. My tongue tastes like iron. Instead of being the sister I am totally capable of being—instead of flooding him with support—more anger, hot and wild, floods my veins.
His downcast eyes wait for a response. I can’t tell him what I’m really feeling because the only overwhelming emotion I feel is betrayal and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to explain that to him. I really want to slap him across the face. Hard. And maybe again. Behind that feeling, however, is a bewildering sense of disappointment in myself for feeling betrayed.
Everything I’ve ever thought about Benji feels unfair. All my memories, interactions, everything, feels like a lie. How could he hide it from me? My heart aches that he could hold on to a lie all these years and not tell me, his only sister. Why didn’t he trust me? Then fear settles into my stomach.
Dad’s gonna have a tirade.
And that’s when I begin to understand. As much as I hate Dad when he gets going, he’s so proud of his militant, all-American son. The knowledge will shatter the perfect image of his son and trigger Dad’s PTSD. That’s the one thing Benji and I avoid at all costs—crushing Dad’s universe.
Benji’s been fulfilling his role for years. For Dad. For Mom. For me. He’s been the glue holding our broken family together.
I hug him for all those years. I can’t remember the last time we’ve hugged, but it feels like the most awkward hug in history. Like hugging a cactus. Naked. On fire.
What happened to us? When did we stop being allies? When did our lives become about protecting Dad?
I rehash the conversation for Rita on the ride home. There’s a long pause, and then she says, “I knew. He told me.”
“What do you mean you knew?”
“Yeah, remember our last sleepover? He told me that night.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” My anger resurfaces.
“He told me he was gonna tell you before school started. And then he didn’t.”
“You should have told me. You’re my best friend. He’s my brother.” My hands start to hurt, and I realize that I’m twisting the T-shirt she gave me with all of my might.
Rita sighs into the steering wheel. “I know. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my secret to tell. I wasn’t going to out him to his family.”
“Whatever. I would’ve told you.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“Yes, I would’ve.”
“You’re being childish and emotional.”
“You’re being a bitch.”
That does it. She drives me back home in silence. Best friends should tell each other everything, sometimes through mental telepathy. I feel duped by both Benji and Rita, and I’m uncomfortable with the knowledge that my small world could contain such important secrets—and I missed them. I pride myself on catching subtleties—how did I miss it? What else am I missing?
That night Dominick and I have sex in his car since his apartment is no longer parental free. His mother has been let go from her job as a home health aide since many of the elderly and ill have left through vertexes or have moved back in with their families.
Afterward, we sit and look out into the growing darkness of our city.
“My mother’s freaking out about losing her job,” Dominick says. “She doesn’t really have savings since her bank closed. I have a couple hundred saved in a coffee can, but that’s not much to live off.”
“It’s mid-November. The doomsday deadline is set for the end of January. How long can you last?”
He shrugs and looks off into the distance.
“Well, I doubt the landlord will evict you or anything since there’s no one else to move in.”
When he doesn’t respond, I change the subject. “I can’t believe Rita didn’t tell me about Benji.”
“Alex, just stop.” A blue vein in his temple looks like it’s about to burst. “Who cares about Benji being gay and Rita not telling you? It’s not about you. For a second can’t you think about someone else for a change?”
His words slap me across the face, and the imprint stings. Tears well up from being silenced by him. I don’t like it, and I don’t know what to say back.
Then I see him wipe a tear from his face. He’s always been my rock. My heart sags seeing him break down.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Dominick admits. He’s starting to sound like me.
I rub his shoulder. “Is this about your father?” I ask. More tears fall silently from his eyes. He removes his glasses. “He told me to step up and protect them for him.” He can’t wipe the tears away fast enough.
“Dominick,” I hug him and rub the back of his head. “Your dad didn’t know you’d be facing an apocalypse.”
He laughs through snot and smiles. I hug him more, clinging to him for comfort and support—mine or his, I can’t tell. Maybe it doesn’t make a difference anymore.
Back at home that night, I sneak into the basement and fill a garbage bag with food and supplies for Dominick’s family. I take a little of everything so Dad won’t notice.
The results of the voting are in. I copy them into my journal. It boils down to crime and prison sentence:
Should those with five years or fewer to serve have the right to decide to leave immediately? Yes. 75%
Should those with more than five years but fewer than fifteen to serve have the right to
decide but should have to wait until January 10 to allow free citizens to exit first? Yes. 61%
Should those with more than fifteen years but not life sentences have the right to decide but should have to wait until January 20 to allow free citizens to exit first? Yes. 53%
Should those with life sentences have the right to decide but should have to wait until January 30 to allow free citizens to exit first? No. 90%
The debate continues on television and online. The numbers follow how I voted, so I guess I’m okay with it. The newscaster predicts that the Supreme Court will review the “validity of the voting” and whether it’s legally binding for the public to basically determine death sentences and technically overthrow rulings that put people behind bars in the first place.
Victims’ rights advocates are up in arms, warning about “the detriment and emotional scars the voting has unmasked in those affected by serious crimes.” The majority of prisoners who had five years or fewer to serve have opted to leave through a vertex immediately.
I watch on television as armed vehicles drive the first waves of prisoners to the closest vertexes. Each prisoner enters the vertex still handcuffed and shackled. I wonder what the people on the other side will think when they see them arrive bound. Family members of the prisoners wait near the vertexes to journey with them to the other side and live out a happy, free reunion. Well, everyone assumes that’s what will happen.
The camera scans the crowd to display the police barricade where protesters hold signs. One sign in particular catches the eye of the camera, and it zooms in. A HOLOGRAM FREED MY RAPIST. I swallow down the hard fact, knowing it’s how I voted. I never considered how it would affect individual people. There’s a difference, and the difference matters. I shut the television off. I just can’t watch anymore. No matter which way I turn, which battle I fight, nothing is making a difference.
Chapter 14
Day 120: November—1,546 hours to decide
Question: Do you celebrate holidays and traditions?
Answer: Every day is a holiday or a tradition for someone on our planet. We no longer have similar holidays and traditions, other than birthdays and deathdays, but we are happy to incorporate and appreciate those holidays and traditions that you choose to celebrate.
Thanksgiving this year feels more like the Last Supper. The kitchen brims with an odd tension. It’s the first time I understand the expression “Too many cooks spoil the broth.” Dad has a grim smile plastered on his face as Mom and Penelope start prepping all the food. He keeps muttering things like, “We could’ve lived off this stuff for a month.” At the same time, however, he doesn’t stop them. Even though the supermarket has received fewer shipments and products each week, Dad helped commandeer specific ingredients for Thanksgiving from the grocery’s back room before customers had a chance to buy out the front shelves. He stalks the kitchen like a hunter making sure his prey hasn’t escaped.
“You really should be basting the turkey more often,” Penelope says from the counter, brandishing a potato masher. “I don’t understand why you won’t follow my old recipes. They work.”
She doesn’t seem to notice that Mom starts chopping vegetables faster and louder and in less uniform chunks. I think Mom’s imagining my grandma’s fingers on the cutting board instead of carrots.
“Alex, you and Benji set the table. Use Nana’s china.”
In the dining room, Benji and I find the table already dressed with Nana’s heirloom red tablecloth, matching cloth napkins, and a silver candelabra centerpiece. We retrieve the “good” plates—the ones that live in the dining room cabinet except on holidays. Each piece belonged to my great grandmother, who died weeks before I was born so Mom named me after her. Looking at Nana’s old decor, I think our names are the only thing the two of us had in common. The white china rimmed with a blue flower scroll design reminds me of an uptight English tea party. The delicate porcelain feels like bird bones, and my fingers tremble as I try not to let them clank together. The sound gives me chills, like tiny teeth clicking against each other.
As Benji and I carefully lay each place setting, I can’t help feeling like we are dressing the table for our funeral. If our Thanksgiving was an actual tea party, our dinner would not be a snobby affair. More like a rendition of Alice in Wonderland, including Dad as the Mad Hatter, Benji as the March Hare, Penelope as the Cheshire Cat, and Mom as the Dormouse. I’d be stuck as Alice, witness to the fact that everything, even time, has become unpredictable.
Benji clears his throat and whispers, “I need to tell you something.”
“What?” I ask. My insides turn like they want to become my outsides. After his last secret, I don’t know what to expect from him. Is he about to reveal some secret government insight about the vertexes and holograms? Are we about to be invaded? Am I really adopted?
“I’ve invited my friend Marcus over.” He lays down a plate and moves to the next place setting. Phew, that was underwhelming super secret info.
“Okay. So we need another place setting? Does Mom know?”
“Yes. And yes. And Marcus is gay.”
I follow Benji’s lead and provide the last setting with silverware. “Okay.”
Benji clears his throat again. “Alex, we’re together. I’m going to tell Dad. We’re getting married.”
My heart starts pounding in my ears. I have just gotten used to the idea that Benji had a whole life I didn’t know about.
“Today? You’re really gonna tell him today? What about Mom?” My mind starts reeling with possible Dad reactions. Nuclear war comes to mind.
“Mom knows. Why do you think she’s going overboard with all the food?”
Mom knows? How can she be dealing so easily knowing what’s about to happen?
“You’re gonna put Dad over the edge.”
“It’s not about Dad.” He puts down the last plate and turns around in a circle, like a dog sniffing for more. “It’s about me. It’s finally about me. Besides, Dad’s already over the edge, and it’s not my fault. I’ve always stayed the line to protect Dad, but you, you always make him worse by freaking out over everything.”
“Me? I’m the one who actually cares about him. You take off and constantly remind him of his past.”
And there it is. Benji and I, fire and oil. Dad is gasoline. Penelope’s gunpowder. What does that make Mom?
I know I should congratulate him, but he’s about to turn our possible last Thanksgiving into chaos. I already feel chaotic enough inside. If the world’s ending, why cause more havoc? Why not ride it out peacefully? Why not let things be?
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I make everything worse by worrying in circles about it.
Benji and I both jump when the doorbell rings. While he races to the door, I race to my room and swallow an Ativan before returning to the unavoidable drama that’s about to unfold. I pour myself a glass of water and drink half of it in one long gulp.
I’m not prepared for what happens next. When I reach the living room, Mr. Blu, my homeroom and math teacher, greets me with a fabulous white smile. Next to Benji, he’s slighter, shorter with light brown hair and striking eyes.
“Mr. Blu?” I say.
“Alexandra, nice to see you again,” he says and sticks out his hand. “Call me Marcus.” When I reach out to shake his hand, the glass in my other hand slips and drops to the floor. It shatters into a thousand pieces like a diamond exploding.
“Crap,” I mutter.
“Let me help.” Marcus crouches and picks up larger chunks. Benji sighs deeply for my benefit. Mom and Penelope rush into the room and see the broken shards.
“Oh, no.” Mom kneels down next to the glass like someone has collapsed on the floor. “It’s one of Nana’s.”
I roll my eyes. Penelope catches me and shakes her finger in my face.
“I’ll get a broom,” I offer, a chance to help and a chan
ce to escape. In the kitchen I retrieve the dustpan and broom stored in the small space on one side of the refrigerator. By the time I return to the living room, Dad has cornered Marcus.
“So, what do you do?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m a math teacher at the high school,” Marcus answers. “Was a math teacher, anyway, before the holograms basically shut the schools down.”
Dad nods in respect. “You’ll be back to work in no time.”
“Alexandra was my student this year. Always quiet and very conscientious.”
“That’s my girl,” Dad says.
My face burns as if there’s a spotlight blazing on me. I sweep up the remaining glass into the dustpan and escape to the kitchen to toss it into the trash. The back door looks like a great escape route. I take several long breaths and hold them, slowing my heartbeat. Ativan, don’t fail me now. I can’t believe Mr. Blu is Benji’s boyfriend. Did he know I was Benji’s sister when I was at school?
I hide in my room, waiting for the food to be ready. There’s no way I’m listening to their small talk. That’s an anxiety explosion waiting to happen. Thirty minutes later, I hear Mom’s voice call for me.
Everyone has gathered in the dining room and taken seats. The only open seat is between Dad and Penelope. Fun.
Penelope offers to say grace. I didn’t realize she knew how to pray.
We pass the food around the table as cordially as any functional family, but my hands begin to shake with the weight of the mashed potato bowl. I’m afraid I might drop something else.
Benji drops the bomb instead. He stands up, holding a glass of wine like he’s about to say something grand.
“I have an announcement,” he says. Dad automatically plasters a grin across his face for his son. He probably thinks Benji has won some type of military honor. I drink more and more water to hide my face behind my cup.
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