by Ann M. Noser
“Thanks a lot,” mutters Liam.
“Do you work at Plant Production, too?” Franco watches me closely as if puzzled. “You look familiar.”
“Quit hitting on my running partner,” grumbles Liam.
Hitting on me? Is he really doing that? I flush, suddenly worried that I might smell bad after our run. “No. Mortuary Sciences.”
Franco raises his brows. “Then I was right. You must be smart. Are your parents doctors or something?”
For once someone is impressed by my job. That’s a first. “No. My father’s dead, and my mom plays the violin.”
“Oh.” The look of puzzlement returns to his face. “Is she any good?”
“Of course she is. She’s Yoshe Wood.”
His handsome jaw drops. “Then you’re…”
Liam helps him out. “Oh, sorry, I never introduced you. Silvia, this is my cousin, Franco Harman. Franco, this is—”
“Silvia Wood.” Franco covers his eyes for a moment, his tone hollow. “Of course. I should’ve known.”
“Why should you have known?” I ask.
“Let’s go, then.” Franco sets off at a fast pace, walking alongside his bike. “If you’ve got something important to say to me, Liam, I prefer we talk on the move.”
Liam falls into step with his cousin. I lag behind, my tired legs as heavy as a thick wooden chair, wondering why he didn’t answer my question but too tired to do much about it. Their conversation floats back to me on the early summer breeze.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Franco growls.
Liam shrugs. “What does it matter who she is?”
My steps pause. Why would Franco be so upset about who my mother is?
“Why do you want to be Chosen, anyway?” Franco snaps. “It’s crazy. You want something without even knowing what it is that you want.”
“To be Chosen is the greatest honor—”
Franco grabs Liam by both arms. “But what happens to the Chosen? Their families never see them again. Is that what you want to do to your mom and your sisters?”
I hurry to catch up but hang enough back to stay out of Franco’s way. He seems to get easily pissed about everything.
“But think about the possibilities.” Liam grins, his face rapt. “The Chosen go to another city and get a great job.”
“Why do they have to go to another city?” Franco asks. “Aren’t there any great jobs left in this one?”
Liam throws his arms in the air. “You’re so paranoid, it’s ridiculous.”
Franco turns to confront me. “Why are you helping him with this… this joke of a race? I suppose you want to be Chosen, too.”
I take a deep breath, his intense gaze disarming me, making me tell the truth. “Well, my mom would like it. She wants me to be special.” I blush at how infantile I sound, but something about Franco doesn’t allow me to be any other way but honest.
“What’s wrong with you the way you are right now?” he asks.
I self-consciously cover my wrists. How could he possibly hit on the same question I often ask myself? Franco’s dark eyes pierce right into mine, making me wish I could say something—anything—that would make him smile again. Why do I care if he’s happy?
I clear my throat. “That’s what I ask my mom, but ever since I tested into Mortuary Sciences instead of Plant Production, she’s been on a mission to ‘better my life,’ as she puts it.”
“Gotcha.” He frowns for a second. “Family’s important. The most important thing, really.”
Avoiding his intense stare, my gaze descends to the collarbones peeking out of his scrub top. What lovely clavicles. I almost reach out and touch them.
What is wrong with me? I must be so tired from our run that I’m losing my mind.
“Okay,” Franco says. “Fine. I’ll take you.”
“What?” I’m lost in his beautiful anatomy. “Take me where?” What’s he talking about?
“Isn’t it obvious?” His eyes widen. “I’ll take you for a tour of Plant Production.”
I struggle to focus. “Why?” Did I miss part of the conversation?
He cocks his head. “Don’t you want to see it?”
“Yes, but—” I feel like a bouncing ball, trying to catch up to his next emotion. Friendly, angry, distressed—what’s next?
“Then it’s settled. You’ll come tomorrow on my short day.” Franco turns his attention back to Liam.
I stand in a daze. The outside world fades away. I get to see inside the greenhouses. I really get to see them. But why is Franco taking me? He’s obviously not doing it just to be nice. Nice isn’t really the right word for him.
“Silvia! Did you fall asleep?” Liam calls.
The guys are far ahead of me on the path. I hurry to catch up.
Franco elbows Liam as I approach. “Maybe she found out that you still play with dollies and is trying to ditch you.”
Liam laughs. “More likely she doesn’t want to hang out with you, the mad scientist, always thinking everybody is after your Top Secret super fruits and mega-vitamin vegetables.”
“I’ve got more secrets than you’ll ever dream of,” Franco warns then turns to me. “But if you don’t want to see my section of Plant Production, you don’t have to. I just thought you might find it interesting.”
“Yeah, I want to go.” My eyes catch on the way his muscular shoulders (deltoids, trapezius) fill out his jacket. Oh, do I ever.
“That is, if it’s okay with your mom.” Franco pats his pockets, searching for something.
“It’s my day off tomorrow, so she’ll be fine with it.” I don’t have to ask her permission. I’m old enough to make up my own mind, even if he doesn’t think so.
“Franco, you should work in Business Management like me,” interjects Liam. “Don’t you ever get sick of digging in the dirt?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been there close to ten years now, and it only gets better.”
“Ten years?” I ask. That would make him almost twenty-five.
“Yeah.” Franco reaches in a pocket and pulls out a small book. “I interned with the best. Now I’m—”
“The best?” Liam smirks.
“That, too.” Franco glares good-naturedly at his cousin. “But what I was going to say is: now I teach my own interns.” He turns back to me and places a small book in my hands. “Here, take this.”
I glance down, hiding the blush that flares in both cheeks as his gentle touch sends a thrill up my bare arm. Good grief—what is wrong with me? The cover is hand-drawn, flowers spiraling along the border. I flip it open and scan the contents.
Edible plants.
Poisonous plants.
Medicinal plants.
Plants to produce or dye clothing.
Plant proteins.
“Is this my homework?” I ask.
Franco raises one eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were averse to learning.”
“I’m not!” I flush even hotter. Now, he’ll think I’m lazy. “That’s not what I meant at all. I want to read it.” I hug the book close, struggling with embarrassment as we exit the park.
“It’s a copy I made of the original. But I’d appreciate it if you took good care of it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Where? When?” I flinch, hoping he doesn’t notice the desperate tone in my voice.
He stops to think. “You belong to the 37th Street Gym, right?”
I nod.
“Then I’ll meet you there at eight.” Franco’s gaze lingers on a group of people gathered together at the far end of the street. How I wish he thought I was that interesting. “Bring your bike.”
“Um… I don’t have a bike. I’m within walking distance of work, so—”
Franco frowns slightly. “You do know how to ride one, right?”
“Yes.” Of course I do. Everyone gets taught in grade school. But I haven’t ridden anything except a stationary bike for years now.
“Good. Because the monorail only goes so far. My st
ation is ten miles past the last stop.”
My heart sinks. Oh, no. This is going to be like treadmill versus road running. I am going to look like an idiot. And I might die, riding a bike that far.
Not sure which is worse.
“Okay. I’ll meet you in front of the gym tomorrow at eight,” I say and stretch my tired arms over my head, still clutching the plant book in my sweaty hand. “It’s going to feel so good to sleep in my own bed tonight. I haven’t been home in two days.”
Liam snickers.
I flinch. “Wait—that sounded bad. I wasn’t—”
Franco lifts up his hands in mock surrender. “Listen, it’s really none of our business.”
“Actually,” Liam interjects, “I wouldn’t mind hearing about fancy Silvia’s nighttime activities.”
Franco shakes his head at his cousin.
I’m blushing so hard; it’s giving me a hot flash. “It’s nothing like that. Seriously, you two, I was working. And Liam, don’t act so suspicious. I already told you that I helped Gus bring the bodies to the Incinerator last night.”
“Really?” Franco pauses. “I work in the Plant Production building right next door.”
My stomach sinks. That’s where we’re biking to? “The roads out there are crummy.”
“Does this mean you’re backing out?” Franco asks.
I cross my arms. “No. I can do it.”
“Don’t worry, cuz.” Liam smirks. “She’ll probably kick your butt.”
I seriously doubt this. Biking out there is not going to be easy. The only ass getting kicked will be mine.
leave the guys, clean up, and hurry home. At the apartment, my mouth waters at the smell of lasagna coming from the kitchen. Mom must’ve really missed me.
“I’m home!” I drop my gym bag near the front door and head for the kitchen counter.
“Good.” Mom hands me a plate.
I detect a faint scent of something unpleasant. My nose crinkles as I poke the lasagna with a fork.
“Oh, don’t give me that face,” Mom says. “You can’t even taste them in there. I swear you can’t.”
“I knew it!” My fork stabs a pink gelatinous protein cube. It jiggles as I hold it in the air. I sigh and shake my head. “Such a disappointment. It’s an insult to tomato sauce and cheese to hide these in there.”
“You’re too fussy for your own good. They’re perfectly nutritious. And you need your protein if you’re going to train for that race.”
“They’re perfectly disgusting.” I remove the blobs and shove them to the side of my plate.
“Well, you can’t blame a mother for trying.” She takes a seat and starts eating without complaint.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t stand the feel of them. They’re squishy and sticky. It’s like eating glue. So gross.” After my systematic dissection, I take my first bite of supper. “But, otherwise, this is really good. Thanks.”
She sighs, and I feel bad for a moment. It’s not her fault, but swallowing down those plant protein cubes always makes me gag. She’s tried everything. She’s fried them, breaded them, and hidden them in hot dishes like this one. But it’s no good. I can always find them.
“You know”—Mom holds a flier of race info, the bag open and perched at the feet of her chair—“It says in here that if you log enough miles on one of their running watches, you’ll earn extra protein rations.”
“What kind of protein?” I point my fork at the limp pink globules. “I don’t want any more of this crap.”
“It says alternative sources of protein.” She shrugs. “Whatever that means.”
“You’ve been through that whole race bag, haven’t you?”
“Of course. You didn’t tell me anything.”
“That’s ‘cause I haven’t had a chance to read half that stuff, yet.”
“Well, it was quiet here without you last night, so I had some time on my hands.” Mom brushes imaginary crumbs off her lap. “Want to go shopping with me tomorrow morning? The cupboards are bare. I slapped this dinner together with scraps.”
“I can’t…” I pause, not sure she’ll be happy or upset about my news. “I’m getting a tour of Plant Production tomorrow.”
“Really?” Mom smiles, and I realize at once that she’s gotten the wrong idea. “Are they considering you for a job?”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not it. I met someone today who works there.”
“Are they an intern like you?”
“No, he’s older.” I avoid her penetrating gaze. “He’s a relative of Liam’s.”
“Is Liam going, too?”
“No.” The thought makes me smile. “He’s not interested in plants or dirt. He likes business.”
Mom dabs her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Are you taking a tour with Liam’s uncle, then? That’s nice of him to take the time to do this.”
“No. Franco’s his cousin.”
Mom raises her eyebrows. I should’ve known I couldn’t con her.
“How old is he?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “Maybe twenty-five.” Give or take a few years.
“Behave yourself then. Maybe you can make a good impression. It would be good for you to get out of—”
“Don’t say it. You know I like my job. Stop worrying about me so much.”
She frowns. “I’ll worry about you if I want to. You like that creepy job more than you should.”
“It’s not creepy. It’s fascinating.” I stuff a big bite of lasagna into my mouth to stop myself from arguing the point any further. I’m tired of fighting about my job.
That night I can’t sleep. Even exploring Franco’s book on plants doesn’t calm my mind. All I can do is think about the strange way he dresses and the odd things he said. My stomach flips topsy-turvy at the thought of spending time with him—alone—tomorrow. I really should get some rest. I’m running on empty after half my normal sleep last night, and that outdoor run today really took a lot out of me.
But it’s no use. I roll to my side and fret some more. If I don’t sleep, that bike ride is really going to kill me. I shake my head. Positive thoughts. I need some positive thoughts here.
Nope. Not coming up with any.
My tired gaze lands on my father’s photo across the room. The moonlight hides his expression, and if I didn’t have the picture memorized, I couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad. The memory trunk below his face is shrouded in dark shadows, but it calls to me just the same.
If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something.
I throw off the sheets, flick on a light, then go sit cross-legged beside the trunk. With a creak, the lid opens. I line the items across the floor, one after the other. First to come out is Dad’s old sweater, then his favorite childhood books, and a picture of his parents. Sometimes, I think I have to check everything to make sure something else hasn’t gotten lost—or taken away, perhaps.
With a longing sigh, I hold up the red dress I so loved as a child. Dad never got a chance to return it. He died a week after that summer concert. Then when The Suits went through our belongings, asking me and my mother a million questions, they found the dress. Dad had forgotten to give it back which was strange. He was usually more careful than that.
When one of the Suits tried to confiscate it, Mom went ballistic, screaming and hitting him. “Leave her alone! You can’t take all her memories! How could you be so heartless?”
My eyes water as her tearful cries echo in my ears. I hold the dress close to my heart, wishing it still smelled like summer, popcorn, and my father. But only the recollection of a scent remains. The past is all we’re left with now. Living in the past while we’re half-asleep in the present.
I’d like for today to be more important than yesterday. Not that I want to forget my father, I’d just like someone—or something—else to make me as happy as he did.
It’s time for some new memories to be made.
Starting tomorrow.
he red dress guides my dr
eams and cushions my sleep. The next morning, I wake on the floor, clutching the soft, luxurious fabric. Before Mom discovers I’ve been dwelling in the past, I tuck everything back into the memory trunk, pausing to gently fold the dress in half before hiding it away.
I rush my morning preparations, leaving the apartment before Mom wakes up. I speed-walk toward the 37th Northwest Street Gym. Thank goodness it’s my day off. I can’t wait to see Plant Production… and Franco. When I reach the last block before the gym, I slow my pace, hoping the sweat across my back dissipates before he arrives. I’m not sure what I’m more curious about: the tour of the Plant Production facilities or the tour guide himself.
Franco’s nowhere to be seen when I reach the steps in front of the gym. I scan the walking and bike paths but can’t find him. Disappointment pinches my gut. Did he forget about me? Or simply change his mind?
He strolls around the corner with his bike, and my shoulders relax. He’s wearing the same jean jacket and boots as yesterday along with what must be his typical green scrub top and cargo shorts. My stomach flip-flops. I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much today.
“You’re on time,” Franco notes. “Good.”
He’s so calm and collected, the complete opposite of me. My heart’s racing, my palms are sweating, and he’s acting like he’s conducting a field trip for little kids.
Oh crap, that “little kid” is me!
I dart over to his side. “I still need to check out a bike.” Why didn’t I do that already? Why did I just stand around like an idiot?
Because part of me thought maybe Franco wouldn’t show up, and I’d be left standing alone, waiting in vain.
“Okay,” he says. “But hurry, so we can catch the next monorail.”
I rush inside the gym, check out a bike, then speed-walk back to Franco.
“Let’s go. I think we can still make it.” He hops on his bike.
I take a deep breath and push off on the pedals. As I follow in Franco’s path, I wobble at first then straighten up after a block or two. At the end of the short trip to the monorail station, I’m pretty confident that I can handle this biking thing.