He drank a glass of water, discovered he actually was pretty dry, and filled another to take to his room. But the clean getaway he envisioned was not to be. Mom patted the couch cushion. Lee stepped around the squares of fabric laid out on the floor in front of her and dutifully sat. Mom said, “The sheer amount of drinking you’ve been doing lately—this had better not be a trend.”
“It’s just the wedding…everything going on…don’t worry, I’m not turning into an alcoholic.”
“We’ve all been under a lot of strain.” Mom leaned forward and switched a blue square with slightly different blue square. Fabric that the pickers in the District had supposedly salvaged, though it was more likely someone had only made it look that way with sandpaper and bleach water. Lee squinted to see if he could visualize the final pattern all sewn and quilted together, but he couldn’t. At this early stage, without the intricate hand-stitched seams and lines, the fabric squares didn’t look like much of anything. Just material. Blues. Creams. A bit of brown….
Lee choked on his water as all the implications of what he was seeing began to unspool. Wedding colors—not Emma’s, but his. Mom watched him cough, frowning. He sputtered, got his breathing back under control, then pointed to a cream-and-blue square in the corner. “Up there…was that the shirt I wore in first grade?”
“Which shirt?”
The cream shirt with the blue checks, obviously. “For the class picture.”
Mom turned her frown to the corner of the quilt, studied it for a moment, then said, “Huh. I guess it did look something like that, but no, that shirt isn’t anything I’ve been saving. Lee…” she caught his wrist and stroked it with her thumb. “This isn’t for you. It’s a baby quilt.”
“Oh.”
“Emma wants to start her family right away.”
“Oh,” he repeated stupidly. He supposed it was better than adding, And get it over with.
Mom switched the blue squares back the way they were. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Like what? Like he’d kissed one the caterers, an intense, smart, unflappable man named Roman? That he’d gone to the Bonfires, alone, then spent the night in the District—in Roman’s bed—and now he was questioning everything? Lee shifted uncomfortably. “Not really.”
Mom stared at the quilt for a long moment, then nodded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN THE END, it wasn’t math that would be Lee’s undoing, but law. He tried to educate himself on taxes at the campus library, but he felt too exposed, as if any moment someone would leap out and demand his thesis. In the end, he’d slunk away to a place where he felt safe—paradoxically so, since it was at the edge of the District, where exit-ramp fender benders occurred with disturbing frequency, and people got pickpocketed despite the fact that their money was practically worthless. Hopefully Cat and Canary offered more than just predictable thrillers and vintage cookbooks full of hilarious casseroles.
When Lee asked for a book pertaining to remedial business math, Old Babcock gave him a slim volume on tax penalties instead. Lee figured he was expected to pay for the book. He slid a shuttle token across the counter. Babcock made a “keep going” gesture and Lee paid another. Babcock accepted with a nod and a grunt. As Lee headed toward one of the many cluttered nooks where he and Emma used to pore through strange old tomes together, Babcock said aloud, as if to himself, “People who don’t haggle might come off like a sucker. No one respects a sucker.”
Because the District residents need yet another reason to loathe me.
Lee ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach and eased down onto the floor with his purchase. He hadn’t minded paying two tokens. It wasn’t just the book that had been bartered for, but the privacy in which to study it—though with his flimsy grasp on numbers, Lee didn’t hold out much hope for the faded paperback. Not until he realized that the information inside was exactly what he wanted to know.
The tables and figures confounded him, but no wonder. The true cost of anything was as cryptic as a list price on a District menu. Things like food and shelter and vehicles had costs, but these figures were either mitigated by subsidies or multiplied by taxes. The red tape around education was particularly thick. One thing society valued was a well-educated population…at least in theory. Lee had always thought public school was free, but he hadn’t considered that the money to pay for infrastructure and staff must come from somewhere. Those expenses were subsidized by taxes. Unlike primary education, higher education was only subsidized for Benefit Boomers. Specifically, Boomers under the age of thirty. After that, the full brunt of the tuition was the family’s responsibility. So that was what his sister-in-law’s remark meant. The family that would soon start losing its other exemptions once he graduated and didn’t marry.
Lee emerged from the dusty niche between the shelves with a good theoretical sense of what was going on, but no concrete idea what to do about it. No other customers were in the store. Babcock was seated behind the register reading a newspaper. Without looking up—in fact, without even a pause in his reading—he asked, “Find what you were looking for?”
“Mostly.” What he couldn’t quite grasp was how all these contingencies would affect him. “How much do you suppose the mortgage would run on a small composite house?”
Babcock allowed the corner of his paper to droop. He met Lee’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I know squat about composite houses? I live upstairs. Brick and wood.”
It didn’t matter. If Lee payed attention, he could probably find a mortgage statement in the recycling. But his parents would wonder why he was asking if he tried to determine the family’s current income. “And how much do you think a technician at a water plant would make? Or a municipal clerk?”
Babcock didn’t answer, just continued thumbing through his paper. Lee thought he was being dismissed because his question was too ignorant to even warrant a response, but then the old man teased out a sheet and shoved it across the counter. “Check the want ads and see.”
Lee hadn’t looked at the want ads since the high school summer he spent cleaning offices for minimum wage…a job which, he now saw, had been subsidized to allow it to be performed by a Boomer. He picked through the ads, and while he didn’t see the exact positions his parents held, and while he’d have to account for things like seniority and expertise, the bottom line was clear enough.
If Lee didn’t figure out something soon, his family was screwed.
* * *
Landing a job interview on campus was easy. Lee had always been an eager student, and each of his advisors was happy to furnish him with a glowing recommendation. Within a week, the head of the Language Arts Department had agreed to meet with him. Although Lee had never officially studied under the man, the two of them had chatted at enough academic functions over the years that they were on a first-name basis.
“I’m sorry to say there isn’t a tenured position available at the moment,” George told him, “but don’t be put off by the adjunct title. Several tenured faculty have hinted that they’re looking at retirement within the next couple of years.”
“My main concern is the tuition discount.” The massive discount he’d discovered that reduced tuition to a mere token payment. “It still applies to adjunct faculty. Right?”
“Absolutely, anyone who teaches at least two classes. If you’re willing to put in the work, the University’s thrilled to help you bolster your credentials.” Lee’s heart pounded. He hadn’t realized how much he actually wanted a PhD, how satisfying it would be to stop spreading out his work and actually sink his teeth into the subject matter. George scanned his transcripts for the third time. “With grades like these—and the depth and breadth of your coursework—you’re certainly qualified to teach any of our 100- and 200-level courses, and we’d be lucky to have you. Not exactly riveting subject matter, but not a bad paycheck for someone just starting out.”
Probably not, if he was looking to start a family. But his main goal
was to give himself some space to figure out what to do about the Algorithm without burdening his parents with the loss of their exemptions. If he was still taking at least nine credits in a degree-seeking program, which he would be, then his family would retain its current status. He was sure of it; he’d studied that section of the tax code until he could recite it in his sleep.
Lee had a plan. Teaching two classes and taking three more would be the bare minimum to make it fly, and he’d be busy, very busy. But if that’s what he needed to do, he’d gladly do it.
After all, Roman was busy working multiple jobs. It wasn’t as if he had a bunch of free time to spare.
And there was the crux of it all, the fleeting prize that Lee had barely allowed himself to admit he coveted. Racking up more degrees was really just an excuse. What he truly yearned for was Roman. Hard to say whether Roman wanted to spend more time with him, or whether they’d only had the elusive “hookup” Lee read about once in a crumbling paperback that seemed to be primarily about drinking mimosas and buying shoes. Either way, a good job and the freedom to stay in school would give him the opportunity to find out.
“So tell me, Lee.” George scanned the transcripts again. “How’s the thesis coming—what was it, something to do with phrases that have fallen out of usage?”
“You know how research can expand to take up as much time as you’re willing to give it. But now it’s just a matter of putting it on paper.” Lee was certain. Now that he was motivated, he could probably get it all down in a weekend.
“I look forward to perusing it.”
George wasn’t required to read any further than the advisors’ synopses and comments. Lee beamed with pride.
“How are you set for housing at the moment?” George asked.
“It’s not an issue. My parents have always been supportive.”
“Still at home, hm? It’s worth checking out the on-campus housing. If any grad student bungalows go unclaimed, new faculty can rent them for a fraction of the cost. It’ll save you the commute—and I’m sure your wife will appreciate having a place to yourselves.”
“It’s…just me. I’m not married.”
George cocked his head and looked at Lee as if he must be mistaken about his own marital status. “I could swear I saw an announcement about the Ford-Kennedy wedding a couple weeks back.”
“That was my sister.” And Howard. Who hadn’t killed each other yet, last time Lee spoke to Emma.
George still seemed puzzled. He flipped through Lee’s transcript and peered intently through his bifocals. “But you’re thirty.”
“Twenty-nine.” For a few more months, at least.
George shifted his focus to Lee’s face, eyes flicking up over the top of his glasses. It was as if, in that single glance, he suddenly saw Lee for what he was, not what everyone presumed he should be. And given the excruciating moment of stony silence that followed, George didn’t care for what he saw.
Lee added, “Transitioning from student to teacher will be challenging enough.” He didn’t think he sounded defensive. At least, he hoped he didn’t. “And being single, I’ll have more energy to devote to the job.”
“Of course, the final decision doesn’t rest with me.” Was there a coolness to George’s tone that wasn’t there before, or was he just imagining it? “Human resources needs to verify your transcripts and references. It may take a while, so I’d encourage you to continue your job search.”
Lee’s stomach sank. Only moments before, George had been acting like the adjunct professorship was a given. And now…. “The grades are from this university. And my references all teach here.”
“At that point, it will be up to the Provost whether or not you move forward in the hiring process.”
“Okay….”
“And, of course, the sorts of intro classes you’re qualified to teach are in high demand, so it may take a few semesters to find you a spot.” George tamped the stack of papers into alignment with a single severe rap. “But best of luck to you, Mr. Kennedy.”
Lee shook George’s hand in a daze and wondered if trying to chat with the Provost would be an exercise in futility. Given how quickly George had gone from “we’d be lucky to have you” to “Mr. Kennedy” once he’d discovered Lee wasn’t yet married, anything Lee said to the Provost was unlikely to make the slightest bit of difference.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE COFFEE WAS thin and the muffin tasted like sawdust, but the cluttered District diner was the only place Lee felt like people weren’t judging him for leaving the Algorithm untriggered. They did look at him strangely when he spoke—he could hardly mimic a District accent without feeling like an utter fraud—but the disapproval felt marginally less horrible when it was due only to his origins, and not his failure to live up to his duties.
During the pockets of time when class wasn’t in session and his parents were at work, Lee had been on the phone with prospective employers…or, more often, their gatekeepers. Agencies, secretaries, HR departments. They all assured him they’d call back if he made it to the next stage of the process. Very few of them did.
He scanned the ads for something meaningful, or at least something interesting, but the verbiage sounded awfully familiar. Primary school language arts teacher, copy editor, publishing intern—he’d already applied for all these positions. He would have performed any of those jobs well; in fact, he was overqualified. Yet the ads were still running.
From the hundreds of calls and resumes, he’d been offered only a handful of interviews. And of those, only two came forth with a job offer. One was from a florist who needed a deliveryman willing to haul masses of decaying plant matter to the compost site when he wasn’t surprising people with bouquets, and the other was a dusty office where workers fed sheets of paper into a machine nine hours a day. Neither one required he even finish his Master’s. For that matter, neither required his Bachelor’s, either.
Since the pay for both jobs was about the same, it meant Lee would need to decide whether he’d rather do something nauseating, or mind-numbing. He was flipping through the ads again to see if he missed anything new when he noticed a small section he hadn’t seen before, since it was wedged between Commercial Real Estate and Birth Announcements: shared rentals.
If he moved out, he’d be the only one burdened with a tax penalty, not his parents. And maybe with enough housemates….
The idea died so quickly it was practically stillborn. After taxes, Lee would need to work both the compost hauling and the paper feeder job to afford even a shared studio. At which point, he’d have fewer than six hours a day to bother sleeping in it.
He’d folded the paper on his lap and was gazing numbly at a line of ants marching down the graffiti-covered wall when the server—the same one he had before—paused to warm his coffee, and asked, “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not…we….” Lee dropped his menu, picked it up, then realized he was holding it upside down and slid it onto the tabletop as unobtrusively as possible. “He’s at work.”
Then it was the server’s turn to be flustered, as the last plosive Lee hammered rang through the diner like the clatter of a breaking saucer. She gave a tiny gasp, and then another question tumbled out in a rush. “Are you moving closer to the border so you can see more of him? That’s so romantic.” Was she mocking? It didn’t sound like it—then again, it wouldn’t be the first time Lee had no idea what was really going on. He looked her in the eye, really looked, and her cheeks went pink. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“That’s okay. Really. But rents are ridiculous, even shared. Is there a local paper where I could find something a little less…pricy?”
“Don’t look in the District paper—only Boomer slumlords advertise there.” She stumbled, blushing harder when she remembered she was speaking to a Boomer, then added, “The business cards tacked to the vestibule wall. That’s what you want.”
Lee finished his coffee and paid for his meal with shuttle toke
ns. He couldn’t bring himself to haggle, but since apparently nobody tipped in the District, it was a way to leave a little something extra for the server without coming off as arrogant. After the gauntlet of discouraging strangers he’d had to navigate these past few weeks, how could he begrudge an extra few tokens to someone willing to show him a hint of kindness?
He stepped into the entryway and looked with fresh eyes. Before, he’d been dazzled by the brightly painted chairs, the sun sparkling off the glass baubles in the window and the stream of consciousness crayon journey unfolding on the walls. But now that he knew what he was seeing, he couldn’t imagine how he’d missed the dozens upon dozens of business cards tacked up around the doorway. None of them said anything about rentals…though several of them were dotted with stickers. Most of the symbols he didn’t know, gears and diamonds and other stylized shapes that didn’t look like much of anything. But he did know one. The snowflake—sugar.
That card was creased and worn, as if it had hung there a while. It had no phone number, only a name and an address, but Lee recognized the street. Tentative plans swirled through his head as he set off to find it. He could stockpile an awful lot of sugar before he turned thirty. Enough that he wouldn’t need to work two awful jobs in exchange for half a room? It seemed like a lot to hope for, but it couldn’t hurt to investigate. And maybe, once he’d discovered that, between a job and a stockpile of sugar, he could afford his very own room, he’d stop by Roman’s apartment on his way back to the shuttle and…maybe he wouldn’t even make it back to the shuttle. Maybe he wouldn’t need to.
Lee walked. He recognized more landmarks now. First the resale shop where all the clothes in the window had faded to a mismatched shade of gray. Then the gap in a row of close-packed buildings where fire had claimed something generations ago, and now a scattering of children played on monkey bars made of industrial pipe. The street was easy to find, but the address on it was farther than Lee had realized. The deeper he went into the District, the bleaker things looked.
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