“Language.”
She scoffed. “Sounds to me like you’ve got a decent handle on the whole talking thing. How much longer is it gonna take you?”
Lee didn’t dignify that observation with a response. He silently watched as she sifted through the clacking beads, grabbed another handful and scrubbed. Then she picked up a scrap of sandpaper and buffed them with grit.
“So you live in the dorms?” she asked.
A dorm room would’ve been a luxury his parents were far too thrifty to consider, but Lee suspected his idea of thrift was preposterous in the Taxable District. “No. At home.”
“Got a job?”
“I’m in school,” he repeated.
Spike stopped her scrubbing and shot him a look of utter contempt. “So you spend all day studying something you can do perfectly well already, and you don’t generate any income. What’re you planning to do once the gravy train is tapped out?”
Lee’s first thought was that Spike was misusing the “gravy train” expression. Malaprops, spoonerisms—Lee picked them out of conversations every day. There was something disconcerting about Spike’s surety, though, and before he could ask what she meant, Roman hopped back into the small clearing, mostly dressed, pulling on a pointy black boot. “Thanks for being so gracious to my guest.”
Spike huffed, never taking her eyes from her beads.
“C’mon, Lee.” Roman herded him out the door. “Not all Tax Rats are raging assholes. I promise.” With Lee following, Roman strode into the street. He set a quick pace, as if he was eager to put as much distance between them and the apartment as Lee was. “So,” he said briskly. “Language.”
“Language,” Lee murmured. And that was all. Yesterday, if anyone had shown an interest in his studies, Lee would have been bursting with things to say. For instance, take the expression Tax Rat. Most people thought it was because there were rats in the old Taxable District buildings, and the residents lived among them. But it was worse than that. During the time of the Black Death, rats carried the fleas that carried the original bubonic plague. So Tax Rat actually meant they were filthy plague-carriers.
Not that he thought he’d score any points by trumpeting out that particular etymology in the District, whether he would ever dream of using the phrase himself or not.
Lee was about to step off a curb when Roman tugged him back. An old man on a tricycle rolled by, startlingly fast. “I really want to salvage this morning,” Roman said quietly. “Because Troy and Spike don’t know you like I know you. You’re more than just a pretty face. I want our date to end on a good note…and not just for me.”
Lee didn’t know what to say—after ten years of studying words and phrases. He nodded.
They crossed the street to a cafe in an old brick building. If the Cat and Canary seemed overdecorated, the Sugar Bowl was an explosion of texture and pattern. Worn barrels bursting with flowers flanked the door. A string of bells tinkled as Roman opened the door for Lee with a flourish. Inside, the furniture was brightly painted, and no two chairs were alike. Blown glass baubles hung in the windows caught rays of sunlight slanting between the tall buildings, casting fairy-like dots of light and color on the walls. It was magical, in a weird way, once you got past the fact that the paint was probably the only thing holding everything together.
Emma would have been fascinated, but Lee had never allowed his sister to tempt him so far into the District. He must have sensed they weren’t really welcome. And, he was now realizing, maybe Mr. Babcock wasn’t naturally grim after all—maybe he was sick of his shop being so close to the highway, and having to deal with all the ignorant Boomers wandering through.
They seated themselves at a wobbly table by the window. A cup of crayon stubs sat on each tabletop beside the ketchup and mustard, and the walls were covered in doodles, some awkward, some obscene, and some beautiful. Each of the hand-printed menus was decorated with colored stickers, all suns and raindrops. Studying the ubiquitous District stickers very nearly distracted Lee from the alarming prices. “You don’t have to treat,” he said. “It’s too much. I’ll pay for my own.”
“You think I can’t afford breakfast?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s the prices. They’re all….”
“Lee.” Roman’s hand fell to Lee’s wrist. “Look at me. Don’t worry about the prices.”
But how could he not? While his needs were provided for by his family and he enjoyed the luxury of really exploring his field of research, Roman worked multiple jobs with nothing to show for it but a closet.
Lee scrambled to find the cheapest thing on the menu as the waitress filled Roman’s coffee cup, then turned Lee’s over and did the same. Roman sat back and chatted briefly with her. The waitress smiled at Lee. He smiled back, dreading the moment her opinion of him would be ruined by his accent.
“I’ll have the regular,” Roman said.
“Four-egg omelet and a half-stack, extra syrup. Got it. And for you?”
Lee did his best not to “hammer” his plosives. “Toast.”
The waitress waited for the rest of his order. When he finished with an apologetic shrug, she scrunched her face in puzzlement.
“That’s all,” Lee said. Then he added, “Revenge of the Orange Malt.”
The waitress shook her head in sympathy, jotted down the order and headed toward the kitchen.
Once she was gone, Roman gazed at Lee for a long moment, head cocked, a small, saddish smile on his face. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and murmured, “You didn’t drink that much.”
“It’s fine. I’m not a big breakfast-eater.”
“I can’t get you off. I can’t feed you. Kinda makes me wonder…” Roman spread his arms to indicate himself. “What’s in it for you?”
“Plenty.”
“Yeah?” Roman quirked an eyebrow skeptically. “Your family’s got enough drama going on, what with the wedding, and here you are staying out all night. You sure it’s worth the grief?”
“It’s worth it.”
Roman rested his chin on his fist and gazed up into the opalescent glass bauble hanging over their table. “We’ll see.”
The waitress returned with their food, and Lee’s mouth watered at the sight of Roman’s full plate. In the center of the small plate in front of him, his own pitiful slice of toast just looked sad. He took small bites and interspersed them with sips of coffee to make them last, and even so, he finished well before Roman.
“More toast?” Roman said. “I can flag down the waitress.”
“No, no thanks. I’m…full.” Lee hoped his stomach didn’t punctuate his statement with an empty growl.
“Food’s safe to eat here, y’know. District shops get inspected out the yin-yang.”
“I didn’t mean to imply…. I didn’t think it was contaminated. Honest.”
Roman eyed him. “Okay. So what’s really bugging you?”
“Nothing.” Lee forced himself to meet Roman’s shrewd gaze. “I had a great time.”
“Huh. Just imagine how impressed you’d be if you actually shot your load.”
The waitress saved Lee from fumbling for a reply by checking back to see if they needed a refill on their coffee. “No thanks,” Roman said, with a hint of resignation. “We’ll settle up now. Martinville filters?”
“Small or large?”
“Large.”
She glanced down at her notepad and did a quick calculation. “Three.”
“Three? Highway robbery.”
The waitress considered. “I’ll throw in a muffin to go, but that’s the best I can do.”
Roman sighed dramatically. “Fine.” Goods changed hands. Roman dug three sealed water filters out of his leather jacket and handed them over. The waitress brought him a bran muffin that he offered to split with Lee.
Lee very nearly accepted. But he was so baffled about Roman paying for their breakfast with water filters, he could only shake his head. Roman shrugged and crammed the muffin into his pocket.
The ea
rly morning sun slanted into Lee’s eyes as they emerged from the cafe, and Roman pointed out the direction of a recognizable street and detailed which landmarks would lead back to Cat and Canary. Despite the early hour, Lee knew it was late enough that once he got home, he’d have some explaining to do.
Roman gave him a parting hug—a press of bodies accompanied by a provocative grind that was over far too soon—and said, “What a shame. I hoped you’d be different.”
Different from all the other Benefit Boomers, or different from the way he actually was? “How?”
“You didn’t trust me…with breakfast, I mean.”
“I hadn’t realized it was a test.”
“I can handle your ignorance. But your pity? That’s a lot tougher to digest.”
Before Lee could answer, Roman had spun on his heel, striding back into the depths of the Tax District, all long legs and swagger.
Lee swallowed around the sour coffee aftertaste. Last night, in that fleeting, pre-sleep moment with Roman cradled against his side, Orange Malt and semen on his tongue and the scent of woodsmoke in his nostrils, he felt as if he’d peeled off a protective barrier and experienced the world anew. Now, though, that rawness only intensified the sting of seeing Roman walk away.
CHAPTER NINE
IF MR. BABCOCK hadn’t been outside Cat and Canary washing his windows, Lee would have simply used the store as a familiar landmark, one that informed him he was on the border of the Benefit Sector, that much closer to a shuttle home. But the old man was there with a bucket full of sudsy water and a long-handled brush, scrubbing the big pane of glass. And although Lee could have slunk past without Babcock noticing, he felt that failing to acknowledge the shopkeeper would simply prove that Boomers were as overprivileged and oblivious as everyone in the District thought.
“Happiness and hope, Mr. Babcock.”
Babcock looked over his shoulder, frowned in recognition, and turned back to the soapy window. “Shop’s closed. We open at noon.”
“Yes. I know.” He’d been coming to Cat and Canary for years. He was well aware of the hours. “Just being polite.”
Lee kept walking, but from the corner of his eye, in the window he saw Babcock do a double-take at his reflection. “Isn’t that the shirt I sold you?” he called out.
Lee paused, recalling the transaction in an entirely new light. It was the shirt he’d been offered in exchange for the Boomer magazine he’d been reading. At the time, he found it bizarre on many levels—not only being offered clothing at a bookstore, but trading a magazine for it he was going to recycle anyway. Lee turned to face Babcock and said, “Not exactly. We bartered.” Babcock narrowed his eyes in appraisal. “All these years. You could have just said something if you didn’t want me to pay cash.”
“Took you long enough to figure it out.” The old man turned back to his window. The flip side of the long-handled scrub brush had a squeegee attached. He put all his attention into stripping gray water off the window, even though the reflection clearly showed Lee expecting him to participate in a conversation. When Lee didn’t give up and go away, Babcock stopped squeegeeing with a roll of his eyes. “So what more do you want from me?”
“Tell me what I’m supposed to pay you with. Water filters? Sugar?”
Babcock spat out a laugh, possibly the first one Lee had ever elicited from him. “Do I look like a moonshiner?”
“I have no idea.”
Babcock tilted back his head and gave the air a sniff. “You smell like smoke. So that’s where you’ve been. You didn’t show up early—you’re doing the walk of shame.” He laughed again, more bitterly now. “Hope she was worth it. Your wife will have a few choice words for you when you show your face back home.”
“I’m not married,” Lee said coldly, “I’m still in school. Plus, it’s not a she, it’s a he.”
“Queer, huh?” Babcock didn’t seem particularly shocked. “I’d be less vocal about that if I were you. It’s one thing to make that kind of announcement here in the District, but be careful who you brag to back home, where your family is counting on your wedding to keep ’em exempt. Not that you’ve got any reason to listen to an old fart like me, who won’t even tell you what he barters.”
He’d turned back to his damn window again. Ten years of patronage meant so little to him? Fine. So be it. Lee was just about to stride off in disgust when he realized Babcock was tapping at a spot on the window where cutesy plastic clings were stuck inside. Wheels. Circles. Suns. Decorated like the cafe menu with its sun and rain stickers.
No rain drops here, so…no water filters.
He had no idea what the sun or circles might mean, but he’d seen the wheels before, last night at the bonfire. And there’d been shuttle tokens in the bucket. Cat and Canary was right off the highway, which meant he’d probably do well bartering… “Shuttle tokens.”
Babcock plunged his brush into the soapy water and sloshed it up and down with a vengeance. “So. Maybe you’re not that slow after all.”
* * *
The ride back to the Benefit Sector went by faster than usual. The shuttle made all its typical stops, and although Lee was seeing everything through new eyes, the roads hadn’t magically grown shorter. He was simply lost in thought. He’d glimpsed another world, a world where money was devalued and symbols replaced numbers. It had been there all along, and he’d never noticed.
The secret barter system wasn’t distressing—not when he wasn’t trying to trade something ridiculous, anyhow—but he wondered what other mysterious dealings had been happening right under his nose. He was so preoccupied as he disembarked and strode across the platform, it took him a moment to realize the ticket taker was chasing after him. It struck him as odd, since the time to check tickets was before someone got on, not after they got off. And doubly odd, since she was calling him by name.
He was about to show his receipt, but paused with his hand on his wallet. The ticket taker jogged after him, red-faced and winded. “Are you Lee?” she gasped.
Briefly, he considered denying it. But why bother? He had proof of payment.
“I am.”
“I got a message for you from your sister.” Her diction wasn’t as crisp as Lee’s, but it was still a Boomer accent, only less educated. Poorer. “She says she covered for you. She says go inside the back door and right to your room.”
“But, why?”
“She didn’t say.” The ticket taker assessed Lee, then added, “But she said the info would be worth a fiver to ya.”
Unlikely, since Emma didn’t use that sort of slang. But luckily Lee did have an emergency five-dollar bill folded small behind a picture in his wallet. And luckily he still had his wallet, too.
As he approached his house from the alley and slipped in to the sound of raised voices, he considered what it was, exactly, that Emma thought she’d “covered.” For all anyone knew—anyone other than Roman’s housemates—the only reason he’d braved the Bonfires was for the music.
It felt childish to lie about where he’d been. But unless he told everyone about Roman, whatever he said about his District adventures would be nothing more than a half-truth anyway. Tensions were high enough over the wedding, so it was best not to talk about it right this very minute. He slipped into the house, stripped off his smoky clothes and ducked into the bathroom for as long a shower as he dared take without setting off the water conservation alerts and giving Mom something more to worry about.
As he shuffled from the bathroom to his bedroom with a towel around his waist, Mom called out, “So, you’re finally up. Glad you could join us.”
Emma rushed out of her room and squeezed past him in the hallway with her wedding dress over one shoulder and a shoebox cradled to her chest. “You’re hungover,” she whispered. “I told them to let you sleep.”
The protective plastic around the dress shushed him as she bustled away—to go get ready to marry Howard. “Emma, wait,” he whispered urgently.
She spun around in a hug
e rustle of plastic and tulle, eyebrows raised. “What now?”
“Did you ever think about…calling off the wedding?”
“And then what? Live with Mom and Dad for the rest of my life? I don’t think so. That’s your tactic, Lee. Not mine.”
CHAPTER TEN
LEE LOOKED AT the event hall as if he was seeing it for the very first time. Suddenly everything felt surreal, from the balloons to the ice sculpture—and, no, he couldn’t tell where Roman had chipped off a piece. He’d seen most of his extended family just a few months ago at his cousin Carl’s wedding, yet they all looked different to him now, pale and tidy and manicured. No spikes. No facial piercings. No neck tattoos.
He sat dutifully beside his mother in the front row as his sister signed the marriage license, even though each stroke of the pen cut his heart like a knife. And then the Officiant Notary came forward, a stout older woman with an imposing air. She slipped on her reading glasses and analyzed the documents while a guitarist twiddled through some bland classical piece. Had the Reading of the Reports taken this long at Carl’s ceremony? It seemed to go on forever. Lee glanced at Mom. She was leaning slightly forward in her chair. Her eyelashes glittered with tears. Beside her, Dad looked slightly baffled, though that was nothing new. They thought everything was normal. Just wait until the Notary discovered some irregularity, though—a distant link between the two families, or a history of birth defect the Algorithm had somehow missed, or the fact that Howard was descended from a long line of jerks—any reason at all why Emma should not be joined to him in matrimony. Then they’d all see that Lee was absolutely right to avoid putting the entire family through a similar ordeal.
Just as Lee reached for Mom’s hand in hopes of softening the blow, the Notary took up the majestic white plume, dipped it in the inkwell that would only be used once, on this particular day, and penned her elaborate signature. The crowd sighed and murmured. She turned to the audience, slipped off her reading glasses with a flourish, and said, “By the power vested in me by Zone Twelve and the Bureau of Deeds and Records, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Howard, Emma, you may now kiss.”
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