daynight

by Megan Thomason

  We take a walk in the canyons at sunrise the morning before our evening transfer to student housing. Things seem particularly awkward between us. Tonight we’ll be meeting the infamous Second Chancers. We have no idea who we’ll be rooming with or what classes we’ll be taking. Despite a full week’s training I have little idea of what working with the Second Chancers entails. Blake’s super tense and I’m uber-hormonal and a little too attracted to him after watching him run and lift weights, the yoga and meditation not working for me tonight.

  We stop near the bottom of the canyon and to breach the awkward silence, I pipe up with “I’m dying to know who the Second Chancers are.” My thoughts turn to my conversation with Brad Darcton and potential sighting of Ethan. Could he really be one of them? “I mean, do you really think we’ll know some of them.”

  “How would I know?” Blake says in a nasty tone, and then as per the usual, catches himself and adds, “Sorry. I…uh…am just a little stressed out. I wish I could answer all your questions and put your mind at ease, but I think we just need to let it play out.” He turns his head and looks like he’s in physical pain. I lean in to whisper that it’s okay, I don’t expect him to answer all my questions, when his head snaps back and our lips meet.

  What’s worse than a kiss with someone you aren’t quite sure if you like? An accidental kiss between two people, both of whom aren’t sold. As soon as the sensation registers in his brain he takes a full step back and buries his head in his hands. I step back the other way leaving an uncomfortable four foot distance between us. What can I say that will ease the tension? Not much. That unplanned first kiss rates a one on a scale of one to ten.

  Before I can get a word in Blake chimes a “Crap, crap, crap. That should not have happened.”

  I fold my arms defensively and spit out my response. “Crap? That’s what you have to say about accidentally kissing me? I thought that was next step for our fake relationship. Won’t the watchers be expecting it?”

  “Crap, Kira, yeah I’m sure they’re expecting it, wanting it, but I am just pretty worried that you’re going to regret doing it.”

  “I already do,” I snap. “But wait a sec. Me? You think I kissed you? Hardly. But whatever. You can pretend like you don’t like me. I’ll pretend like I don’t like you—which will be easy given that I don’t a big chunk of the time. Forget that it ever happened. I already have. It was completely, freaking forgettable.”

  He ignores my poor review of the non-kiss and says, “Yeah, Kira, sure you like me in the ‘we’ve been thrown together and I’m the only one you can really talk to’ sense. But you love Tristan, not me, and well, I just don’t know if the whole thing is kosher. I can’t compete with your perfect dead boyfriend.” This upsets me and I raise my voice to respond. He’s going to blame it on my dead boyfriend now? And when did we go from fake relationship to implying it could be real? I swear this guy’s brain damaged.

  “Tristan is dead! How I feel or felt about him doesn’t really matter does it? And he was far… no, miles away from perfect. I’ve only met one guy I thought was perfect—ironically the night of the Goodington party. He was some college guy. We instantly clicked, but I stupidly blew him off because of Tristan, who was busy kissing my best friend, Bri, at the time.”

  Blake grimaces at my mention of Tristan’s indiscretion. He says, “That sucks what Tristan and Bri did. That still doesn’t mean that we’re right for each other and should even contemplate making this whole deal anything other than a cover. I don’t hear you calling me perfect.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned Ethan, even if I didn’t do so by name. He adds, “Why are people always meeting the perfect people at parties, anyway? Gads. That’s the second time tonight I heard that.”

  I cock my head and give him a puzzled look, imagining which of the few people we’ve run across would be the type to be at a party. Not seeing it. “Well, with any luck you’ll be rid of me come tonight and will only have to see me at school,” I snarl.

  “I’m not trying to avoid you, Kira. We won’t stop being partners just because we’re relocating. Just promise me that no matter what happens you aren’t going to hate me… that you’ll still have my back?” he says.

  He’s right. Given he’s the only person I know here from home, I’m stuck with him. “Sure. I still have your back.”

  I arise before my wakeup call for the first time, reeling from Blake’s psychotic reaction to our happenstance kiss, and longing for Bri who listened to me overanalyze every aspect of my relationship with Tristan for more than a year without complaint. She would have some useful advice or witty thing to say about my situation that would calm my nerves and make me think that there’s still hope. My attempts to imagine what she’d say fall flat and even her image in my memory is faded ever so slightly. I sob for the remainder of my shower as I realize I’ve let my training and confused feelings about Blake crowd out my memories of Tristan and Bri. And even though I came here to do just that, I hate myself for allowing it to happen so fast.

  Today, or I guess tonight—I’m still working on the terminology shift—I get back some sense of normalcy with the return to school. Even though the format will be different and the kids will be strangers, I’ll still be surrounded by teens and have a routine of homework and activities to keep me grounded. It won’t just be Blake and me, and that alone will help me figure out if my ‘crush’ is just situational or something real.

  Blake must not have slept well either, because he’s already making breakfast when I leave my room. I’m fidgety since I feel like I should be packing, given we are moving, but there’s nothing to take. Our notes from our training sessions have already been transferred to our new tablets and everything will be provided at our new residences. We both pick at our food and keep conversation to a minimum as we wait to be fetched by our escort. Any light-hearted, joking atmosphere Blake and I had disappeared post accidental kiss, so figure I’m in for a whole lot of awkward.

  Our escort arrives promptly at 1900 hours. I was hoping to avoid an evening pit stop at the clinic, but have no such luck. In fact, they do a longer workup than usual, including another full abdominal ultrasound. The technician looks a little worried as he scans my belly, and calls in the doctor to confer, who informs me I have a small lesion that will need surgical correction. I freak at the mention of surgery, but the doctor assures me that it’s a very minor procedure done with a local anesthetic and that I’ll be in and out in an hour. He schedules the procedure to be done at the school clinic a couple evenings from now, and sends me on my way. Thank goodness I didn’t eat a big breakfast or I would’ve lost it all over him.

  Our escort takes us on an amusement park-ride style train, traveling eight or nine stops before exiting through a set of tall glass doors at the GARDEN CITY HIGH stop. Two rights and three lefts later, we’re through a set of double doors and at an outdoor walkway similar to the one at the training center, though this one has periodic ramps and staircases up to another level above. I lean over the rail and note that this canyon looks the same as the last one. We walk the equivalent of three city blocks and are motioned up a ramp to our right onto a lovely porch overlooking the canyon below, which at this hour is a sea of dazzling lights.

  “This is your new home,” our escort informs us.

  “Wait a second,” I say, confused. “Mine or Blake’s?”

  “You are partners, so of course you will be sharing housing.”

  “Who are our roommates? A couple other students?” I say hopefully.

  “Just the two of you, as you are the only two Recruits serving at Garden City High right now, and we never mix Recruits with Second Chancers,” he says. “But you are surrounded by other students who you’ll meet shortly.” I shove a finger in my mouth and start chewing my nail as I contemplate a year of unsupervised cohabitation. Now I’m positive they want us to Cleave and be stuck here forever.

  “Sweet,” Blake says, trying to diffuse the tension and maintain our cover. “Let’s take a
look,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside, and then whispering in my ear, “Chill. It’ll be fine.” I nod at him and we proceed to walk through the rooms of our new home. Inwardly I think, “No way it will be fine. A whole year of awkward? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The house is identical to the Cleaved housing residence we’d toured and in immaculate condition. Elaborate ‘tromp l’oeil’ three-dimensional garden paintings cover every wall and like the other paintings we’d seen, do not resemble the landscape of Garden City. Where on Thera do they get their inspiration?

  “The previous occupants had the murals commissioned. If you prefer to paint your own, we’ll have them painted over immediately,” our escort advises.

  “No, no. Don’t do that,” I say, running my fingers across to feel the uneven surface. “I love them.”

  “Me, too, and I’m definitely no artist,” Blake adds.

  I’m surprised to find we have two bedrooms and bathrooms, since the Cleaved training implied the only way to get one of these was to be a Cleaved couple with children. The man senses my surprise.

  “Uncleaved, dissimilar sex recruit partners are given two bedroom homes. Obviously, if the situation ever changes for either of you housing would be reevaluated.” Well, I guess the powers that be do have some semblance of morality. Not much, but at least enough not to want Recruits to get word back home that they’re sharing a bedroom with a member of the opposite sex. That’d be a quick way to destroy the SCI’s unfathomably stellar reputation.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. And my parents will appreciate it, too,” I say, smiling, though unfortunately the man looks as if I’ve just threatened him. “So, when do our classes begin?” I ask to change the subject.

  “Tomorrow, I believe,” he says. “You’ll meet with an administrator here shortly to schedule your courses, and then will meet the other Garden City High students during free time a little later. After exercise time and dinner, you’ll each meet with your assigned Handler to discuss your night.” Mr. Rosenberg had told me way back I’d have to do nightly reports, but I’d forgotten until the mention.

  “Sounds good,” I say pleasantly, hoping to sound as amenable as possible. He continues by explaining most of our schooling will be done online from our home and that the administrator would provide more details.

  I’m no expert on square footage, but I’d guess the house is about a third the size of my family home, so somewhere around 2,000 square feet. But because of the layout, central garden and outdoor sunroom, and the lack of all the junk my parents have accumulated, it feels plenty big for a family of four, and complete overkill for just Blake and me. At the time we’d visited the model homes I’d had no idea we’d be living in one. Somehow I’d assumed students would be housed in dorms of some sort.

  The living area opens to the dining room and kitchen, which I like, but the sunroom is my favorite. With the lights off inside, I can sprawl out on the lounge chairs and look up at the night sky, seeing the stars for the first time. The edges of the sky are blurred from the lights of the canyon, but not enough to completely obscure the feeling of being in a planetarium.

  Blake gets the bedroom with two twins and I’m appointed the one with the queen. He scores two closets, but when we are forced to wear a uniform at all times—even Industrial City issue pajamas—I guess closet space means nothing. Our new clothes are similar fabrics to our training uniforms, but are green and gold shimmer, the school colors, rather than white and silver. Thank goodness they picked colors I can pull off. The maroon and gold I had to wear for Carmel Valley High cheer was bad enough, but I didn’t have to wear it 24/7. Several alternative outfits fill my dresser drawers, but I’m clueless as to their purpose. Swimming? Prostitution? There’s some seriously skimpy stuff in there.

  The man finally leaves us to change and prepare for our administrative guest. I quickly throw on the new uniform, check the contents of the bathroom to make sure everything needed is present, and freshen up. Then I head back out to the sunroom to do more stargazing. It’s too hot to stay for long, but enjoyable nonetheless. I’m starting to get used to the dry heat. I search the skies for the familiar constellations my father taught me such as Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper, but don’t see them. Oddly enough the moon looks roughly the same, although has a definite blue-green tinge to it, rather than the white or slightly yellow or orange tints I’m used to.

  “You going to be OK with this?” Blake says, taking up the lounge chair next to mine. “You and me for a year?”

  “Sure,” I lie. “You?”

  “I’m good,” he says, averting my gaze. “Cool place. I can’t believe they give students their own houses. It’s all seriously crazy, but hey, I can’t complain. Well, except for the fact there is no TV, games or music that I can find.”

  “It is creepy quiet here. I miss my music, especially while working out,” I say.

  “Seriously,” he says. He looks ready to add some sort of insult, but is interrupted by the chime of the doorbell, which Blake jumps up to answer. The school administrator, a frumpy lady with frizzy gray hair who’d be lucky to top five feet in height, urges our prompt attention to her business.

  The next hour and a half is spent going over transcripts, discussing class options, and configuring our new tablets for our class schedules. Our desk area in the living room has headphones, two large monitors to view our lessons on, and our tablets, which will be used for note and test taking. We’ll be taking the same core classes we were taking at CVH, but will have electives ‘more suited to Garden City Living,’ like psychology to help us work with Second Chancers, gardening, and art. Turns out you can cover a lot more curriculum when it’s just you and the computer, so we have eight classes instead of six; four each night for an hour and a half each; 1-3-5-7 on M-W-F and 2-4-6-8 on T-Th-Sat. School on Saturnight? I groan at the thought.

  Free time doesn’t start until 0200 hours, and it takes us only ten minutes to eat lunch, so I wonder what we’re going to do with two hours of free time. I’m thinking nap? I’d read a book, but the options on my tablet look less than interesting. Alas, the same voice that wakes us up each evening appears out of nowhere and urges us to watch the prepared video on our monitors, which will recap our instructions for working with Second Chancers. Boring. I guess I’ll get my nap in, though at a desk instead of my nice new queen bed.

  At two o’clock sharp, we receive a knock on our door, which serves as an instant wake up call. I jump up to answer and am surprised to see it’s my buddy Spud Rosenberg.

  “Ms. Donovan, I hope Mr. Sundry shared with you the news that I’ll be staying on Thera. In addition to some new responsibilities at headquarters, I’ve been assigned to be your Handler, which I’m very excited about.” I look at Blake. When did he talk with Spud? He certainly never mentioned it and I wonder what else he’s kept hidden.

  “Oh, man, I’m really sorry, Kira. I totally spaced. Mr. Rosenberg ran into me in the locker room yesternight and he told me to say, ‘hi,’ but by the time I was out of there, poof, totally gone.” Blake never forgets anything, he’s said so himself, but I don’t dare push anything more than a glare in front of our new ‘Handler.’

  “Anyhoo,” Spud says. “It’s an exciting night. You finally get to meet some of our Second Chancers—your fellow classmates. I assume you brushed up on etiquette by watching the video.”

  “Uh yeah,” I say, not wanting to admit I was out cold, drooling on the desk for most of it.

  “Really educational,” Blake says, rolling his eyes. “So, let’s go do this.”

  “We can walk or zip,” Spud says. “It’s actually faster to walk, though, as it takes four zips to get there.”

  “Walking’s fine,” I say. The zip lines would be more fun, but I’m eager to get there and see what the big deal is with the Second Chancers. See if Ethan’s one of them.

  “And safer,” Blake adds, needling me in my side. I’ve figured out how to brake properly on the zip lines, but Blak
e still hasn’t let me forget that I ambushed him the one time.

  Spud leads us out the door, down the ramp, and then down a walking path in the canyon that leads around a bend to the right. Since the path is new to me, I’m extra careful with my foot placement, as the lights seem more sporadic here than back in the training canyon. We get delayed waiting for some workers and pack mules to cross the path on their way up to a group of residences. Close up I can see they carry boxes of ‘Industrial City’ supplies. Wonder what goodies we’re getting? New soap? Towels? Kitchen supplies? Given the boring nature of the authorized resident belongings, I doubt it’ll feel like Christmas, whatever the boxes include. I wonder if they even celebrate Christmas or any other holiday here? Another question for my tablet that I doubt will get sufficiently answered.

  I can see the large flat area ahead we saw by ‘air’ in our ‘flyover’ and in the scaled city, with dozens of skate paths and trails leading to it. There are tables and chairs, an outdoor basketball court, and a large opening into the side of the canyon. Students are everywhere, gathered under large flood lights, but we’re still too far to get a good look, so I imagine them being animated Ken and Barbie dolls in green and gold casual wear.

  “There is an indoor soccer/football field, as well as specialty classrooms for science labs, art clinics and such inside,” Spud says. “The medical clinic is also there.”

  “How many students are there?” I ask, trying to get a sense of how the environment will compare to what I’m used to.

  “Fifteen hundred, give or take,” Spud responds. Not as big as Carmel Valley High, but still a big high school.

  The Second Chancers see us coming their way and herd toward the path entrance to greet us. About twenty-five feet out I start to identify some faces. Most I don’t know, but a few too many are impossibly familiar. I try to scream, but it gets stuck in my throat and the last thing I hear is Blake saying, “Holy crap” before I stumble headfirst into a thorny bush to the side of the path.