by D. K. Dailey
A few minutes later, her point becomes clear. My sister is used to playing with dolls as white and clean as herself. She’s forming her view of the world through the simple concept of a doll’s cleanliness. She comprehends the poor-and-rich divide. I didn’t understand my world until recently, when I saw how other people lived. Didn’t realize everyone wasn’t like me. Like most Goldens, I was sheltered and blind to reality.
In the past, people were obsessed with zombies, vampires, the apocalypse, and global warming. But the future is now, and those things haven’t happened. Well, at least not yet. What has happened are the Inequality Wars, the worldquake that dismantled land, structures, and people alike, and the spread of sickness and disease.
“Don’t worry about Dregs or their dolls. They can take care of themselves.” I try to distract Ems from the path her brain is speeding toward. She’s too young to think about the disparities between Dregs and Goldens.
As we crest the hill, her question and what she could be thinking fade from my mind. S enters again. What’s her real name? What’s her story? But most of all, when will I see her again? After only two encounters, I shouldn’t feel for her. Dregs and Goldens can’t date, marry, or even socialize. So this feeling is enough to cause alarm cuz there’s no future for a Dreg and a Golden.
Chapter Three
Later that night—after dinner with the family and everyone is asleep—I slide open my bedroom balcony door and step out into the chilly night air, closing the door behind me. For a few seconds, the tremendous view of the four hill sectors has my attention. Hill Sector One, my neighborhood, is the richest district, full of immaculate estates inhabited by government officials and renowned doctors. Living in the richest sector in a house that’s over thirty thousand square feet should make my life interesting, but it doesn’t.
Flutterboard in hand, I climb the balcony ledge, place the board under my feet, and dive down. I guide it up a few stories and then whip through the air until I’m cruising down the hill at the highest speed. Free like a bird.
Since flutterboards have a height-climbing limit and the walls between sectors are tall, I have to go down my hill and through the city to travel up another hill, which makes the trek longer. Leaning into board movements with knees bent and hands raised for balance, I soar at top speed for the thrill of it. We have strict laws on curfews, parties, education, and extracurricular activities, so there aren’t too many thrills to be had. Noodle’s party is the most exciting event so far this year. But the fact remains that I could go to jail, get a citation, or pay a fine if caught. Dad’s insistent words—with responsibilities come expectations—ping in the back of my head, but the need to take a risk wins.
At the rec center, kids have been saying the party will be killer. For all I care, we could make a giant quilt. As long as it’s unauthorized, I’m down. Unauthorized parties fill my body with exhilaration. I imagine a roller coaster ride might’ve felt the same way. One that keeps going up and around and then drops and drops.
All the vices we aren’t allowed—alcohol, loud music, party games, and endless girls—are ripe for enjoyment. At these parties, we break laws and live life as if we are Dreg, and that feels great. Like the Dreg girl who ventures into the hill sectors and talks back to cops, I’m rebelling.
I take the road down the hill and bend around the corner to soar up Hill Sector Three. Plotted like the four directions on a compass, the hills offer no shortcuts between sectors. Thirty-foot walls prevent Dregs from sneaking between sectors, though nothing prevents them from entering or exiting any one sector.
Hill Sector Three is similar to mine. I climb and wind around and through streets before reaching a neighborhood of uniform, yet grand houses. None as magnificent as the ones in my neighborhood, of course. Hills are numbered according to social status. Hill Sector Three contains mini mansions. Nothing shabby like Sector Four.
Noodle’s mansion has a good view of the city, and tonight it’s lit up like a traffic light, like he’s trying to attract cop squads. Noodle’s always been a dummy when it comes to being sneaky.
The distinct musty yet sweet smell of marijuana permeates from the house as I jump off my board in the yard. I hesitate on the porch, but the music and high-pitched giggles draw me inside the cavernous entryway. Light from the chandeliers bathes me in confidence.
A few guys grin at me, one hands me a brew, and another whines about how he wishes they could ride boards as fast as me. Being from Sector One means most kids worship me. I down the brew, leaving the canteen on a nearby table.
Two girls from Sector Two give me sexy, devouring looks. This night will be one to remember.
“Kade, you came!”
“Of course.” Smiling, I slap Noodle on the shoulder, giving him a smooth pound with my other hand. “Thought you’d never throw an unauthorized party.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” He grins as a familiar girl approaches us, pushing her way through the sweaty, zozzled crowd, who are all definitely feeling their alcohol.
“Hi, Kade,” she says cheerfully.
“Hello, you.” My reply flattens. I don’t know her name. We call her Big Boobs for obvious reasons. I wanna say it starts with an R? Her voluptuous chest invites me to stare. Dad taught me to look quickly because you don’t want a girl catching you. Believe me, that’s an awkward conversation. Once a girl asked what I was looking at, and when I said, “Nothing,” she got offended and slapped me. It’s like you can’t win with that topic. They want you to look. But when you do, you’re a creep.
“Hi.” Noodle waves at her. I smile, reading my bestbud’s now expressionless face. He’s blanked on her name too.
“Hi, Noodle.” Her voice lacks emotion, but she scans his beanpole build and average looks with slight interest.
“I’m invisible next to you,” he mutters. Shaking his head in mock despair, his eyes zero in on her chest. And she knows it. She sticks it out and then beams when I, too, focus on her assets. She seems to like the attention, but a fine line lies between politeness and creepiness.
“So, Kade…” She leans into me, chest brushing my hand, proving Noodle is invisible. I don’t move. She licks her lips. “What would you say if—”
“I was talking to Kade, you know.” Noodle motions to me, shooing her away like a fly. He’s being rude, but she comes on to me all the time, and it’s annoying. Really.
“Sorry, guess I’ll catch you later.” Her tone is carefully neutral.
“Yeah, later,” he says. I only nod and give her a sympathetic smile.
She shuffles past, angry, but not so much that she’ll take it out on a Sector One kid. That sort of thing makes me sick. I’m almost positive she would be mean to Noodle if he weren’t my bestbud.
He concentrates on her butt. “Honorable mention.” He holds out a fist.
He’s a creep for positive, but it’s what I like about him. We fist bump. “You can’t be so rude, man. It turns girls off. You’ve got to let them down easy.”
Noodle sighs. “You weren’t interested. You said she was annoying last week.”
Talking to her is interesting only because she has big boobs. I scan the familiar, chatty groups of girls I’ve known since kindergarten. This sentiment applies to most of them. “She is annoying, Noodle, but you were rude for no reason.”
“You should thank me, man.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes, I don’t get you. There’s too many girls to worry about one. I can’t say I’m not impressed with your tactics. Let them down easy, you say?” His brown eyes glimmer. “You’re smooth. But if I were you, I’d use my skills to get some action.” A slick, approving smile engulfs his features, and I smile back.
I’ve never understood why buds like Noodle look up to me as though I’m special. Maybe it’s being six-foot-two. Towering over most classmates long before I turned seventeen intimidated them. My blue eyes and blond hair, coupled with rumors that I’m virgin or pure—which we all should be, according to the law—seem to make girls think I’
m a clean-cut, good guy.
Recently, I shaved my hair off at the sides, but it didn’t dispel the image. I’m good at flutterboarding, I attract girls I have no interest in, and I work with technology cuz of my dad. But all of that is grime at the bottom of my cup. I’d like to fill it with substance.
Noodle hands me another brew. “Help yourself to whatever you want.” He holds his hands out to the room at large. “I’m the host, and I’ve got to entertain. Got games to play and girls to see about.” A wide smile lingers on his square face as he’s absorbed into the crowd.
Nodding, I lean against one of the walls with my flutterboard and brew, scoping out the party before committing to joining anything.
Mostly Sector Three and Four people are here. Some play a few popular drinking games: the rhyming game and flip, sip, or strip. Man, they’re zozzled. I grin. Flip, sip, or strip is tempting: two girls are in their bras, and another’s in a slinky undershirt. It’s hard, but I avert my eyes to the dance floor, where people grind so close you can’t tell where one person ends and the other begins. Other couples mack out in the corners, kissing and holding each other tight.
I replay my time with the Dreg girl. Since the skate-park memory is confusing, the one from the market takes over. The way her hair accentuated her eyes makes my heart beat hungrily all over. Even the hardened look she gave me intrigues me. Why won’t she get out of my head? Maybe it’s cuz I can’t have her, or cuz I couldn’t pay her braveness back? I’m not positive, but I’m going cuckoo thinking of the Dreg girl.
“Hey, Kade,” a girl with a sweet, raspy voice approaches.
“Oh, hey.”
“When you going to give me a chance?” Puffing an e-cig between her fingers, she blows vapor in my face.
“I told you, I find smoking unattractive.” The lingering nasty smoke coats the inside of my throat and I cough.
“Aw, Kade. You’re such a—” She stops midsentence, like she doesn’t want to offend. She shuffles away, visibly disappointed.
I study the room again. Maybe I’ll dance with someone.
“What the zard, Efren!” A girl’s voice lifts over the music.
Everyone backs up. A few losers already have on their handy-dandy melt guards. On the floor, Efren rolls around in a puddle of his own vomit. Orange vomit. Bad sign.
Orange or blue suggests nonresistant strains of the flu or another virus. Sickness separatists would say this is the reason large groups shouldn’t gather, while Revisionists and other groups would argue exposure to sickness helps build immunities. After the worldquake, we were too efficient with immunizations, so much so that our bodies didn’t work as well to fight off sickness. It’s what got us into this situation in the first place.
Noodle shoves through the crowd to give Efren a wide berth. “Turn off the music,” he shouts to system controls and then faces a few of our buds. “Get him the zard out of my house. I’m not getting sick again.”
“You should at least put him in a biomedical suit and program it to fly him home,” suggests a girl with a melt guard on.
“Zard that. Toss him out. He’ll get home somehow.” Noodle points to a few of our buds. Efren’s sour vomit fans through the room, and my hand slaps over my mouth on its own.
A few guys move to do as Noodle says, and I step forward in front of them, letting my hand drop to my side and trying not to inhale too much. “Noodle, don’t you have any suits here? Get him in one and send him off.” Then I grab his sleeve and lower my voice. “Plus, the girls will think you’re sensitive, and sensitive is good.”
Noodle contemplates that before a satisfactory expression plays across his features. “System, release a med suit,” he concedes. “Everyone stay back.”
Rolling, Efren faces the ceiling, coughing uncontrollably.
Blood sprays from his mouth, and everyone backs up another couple feet. Noodle returns with a thin, space-like suit and makes Efren get himself into it. Once he’s secured inside, for peace of mind, I trace the little neon dots and wavy lines that circulate across the second skin, scanning his body. The suit is diagnosing and starting the appropriate treatment. He’ll be okay.
Suddenly, the suit turns red. Not good. Med suits use three colors: green for good, yellow for improving, and red for dangerous.
The nearly weightless and soundless motor attached to the suit turns on, and Efren commands it to fly to his address. Someone opens the front door, and he flies out.
Noodle bows to the crowd. “What are you all standing around looking sad for?” He rolls his eyes. “System, clean up the mess, turn the music back on, and let’s do illegal things!”
Once the mess is clean, germaphobes disable their melt guards, and people socialize again.
I cough up a laugh. Noodle is loony, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. He keeps me on my toes.
Chapter Four
I pat Noodle on the back and return to my propped-up place against the wall.
“Glad they got him out of here quick. When Sam passed out at the rec center, my parents put me on a one-week lockdown.”
Nell. I’d know that sweet voice and watermelon scent anywhere.
I smile, happy to see the blond-haired, green-eyed beauty. “I remember. Noodle got sick too.”
“But you didn’t. You visited him and everything.”
I shrug, hoping to avoid a conversation about sickness altogether. Too depressing.
“Hey, I heard you teasing some girl earlier about e-cigs. You shouldn’t. That’s wrong.”
“I wasn’t. I’m helping her quit a nasty habit. One day, I suppose, she’ll listen.”
“What a do-gooder.” Nell pretends to swoon, batting her eyes and fanning her face with a delicate hand before laughing. “Remember when you said plenty of girls would love to be with you?”
I cringe, my words coming back to haunt me. I’d said that after she dissed me for scaring her. We’d flutterboarded to one of my getaway spots, and I dropped us off a cliff over the water. Turns out, she didn’t love the thrill of it, like me.
“Yeah, that’s still true, you know.” My words exude confidence though I know for a fact the Dreg girl wouldn’t love to be with me. And oddly, the thought of that hurts.
“I didn’t admit it before, but it might be true.” She pushes a silver canteen into my hands. “Brought you something. Made it special.”
I whiff the concoction and take a few experimental sips of the neon-orange liquid. Not bad. Fruity with strong hints of alcohol. I tilt the canteen up into the air in thanks. “Pretty good.”
A glint shines in her eyes, and her rosy lips wrap into a crooked smile. “My dad’s favorite. Doesn’t like to admit it, though. Says it’s too colorful. ‘Any drink with bright colors is girly.’” On her tiptoes, she leans close to my ear. “Wanna find a room?”
I nod and grab my board.
Oh, shucky. Okay, I’m coming clean. Along with being a virgin, I’ve never kissed a girl. I’ve kissed boobs and felt up about four girls. But I’ve always avoided lips because kissing means you’re serious—plus sickness travels quicker that way—and I’ve never liked a girl enough to take the risk. Maybe that’s why I’m so obsessed with boobs.
Something always stops me from going further, too. Maybe it’s the under-eighteen laws not allowing minors to be alone, or the mandated school separation of the sexes into different classrooms that allow us to only socialize at lunch and in the halls. Nevertheless, no one upholds laws at unauthorized parties, and it’s about time I kissed a girl.
Nell navigates through the crowded rooms with my hand in hers. A few of my boys give me head nods that mean, Good job.
We enter the first unoccupied room. An uninspiring dimensional image of seashells adorns the wall above the bed. From the distinct lack of personalization, the blank walls, the four-poster bed, and one large, angular cabinet that looks like a diamond on its side, this is obviously a guest room I’ve never been in before.
After leaning my flutterboard against the wall
, we sit on the edge of the pale comforter, side by side. A few more gulps of my neon concoction, and alcohol buzzes through my system. Nell’s scent permeates the enclosed room and seeps into my memory for good. The watermelon aroma teases and then lingers a bit.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you I don’t like your hat.” She taps the tip of my gray cap. It may be worn around the edges, but I love it.
“My parents say a relative gave it to me. I like it.”
Nell pulls it off and fluffs my hair. “You’d think you were trying to hide a bald spot. Why is gray a Dreg color anyway?” She throws my cap back on.
I correct the hat’s angle and shrug. This, too, makes me think of the Dreg girl. Most Goldens don’t dare wear gray. But, of course, I don’t care. I like my hat.
“You know I like you, right?” She giggles, placing a hand on my leg while her other hand closes tighter around her canteen. She’s too giddy to be sober, so it’s the alcohol talking. “I’ve wanted to be alone with you again since the cliff. Though you scared me with the heights and all, I still like you. And we were never really alone at the dalliance dance.”
“You’re zozzled.” My tone arches in accusation. I don’t know what to say or do. I’ve never made the first move. I don’t have to.
“I get you, you know. You’re this brooding guy who has it all together.” She takes her hand off my leg and drops her shoulder to stare at me seductively.
If that’s what she thinks, then she doesn’t get me. I don’t have it all together. I’m a proud Golden from Sector One who has points, a good family, lots of buds, and fine girls that dig me.
But what’s left to do in life? No more colleges like the olden days. When I turn eighteen in six months, I’ll waltz into my top career choice like every Golden my age. No effort required. What’s the risk or fun in that?
I’ll follow in my dad’s footsteps into technology. Even at seventeen, I’m prepared. He practically taught me everything, legal and illegal. But I’m not excited about the future. Being smart comes easily, but it doesn’t make life any less boring.