Liberty

by Andrea Portes

  I get up and start running after her.

  “Well, I’m gonna have to shoot you now! So that’s basically karma!”

  We’re yelling at each other over the snow.

  “You won’t shoot.”

  “I have dissociative disorder, you know!”

  “I thought you hate gun.”

  “I do. That’s why I don’t want to shoot!”

  “Nice try.”

  She keeps running away through the snow. Of course, she’s a much faster runner than me. Part of her bionic Russian training.

  “Katerina, stop! Or I’ll shoot!”

  “Then fucking shoot!”

  “Okay, I’m gonna shoot you in the ankle, okay? They say that’s the safest place.”

  “Don’t shoot me, just go home.”

  “I can’t! Okay, I’m gonna shoot you now, and then when I do, just stay down, okay?”

  “Why are you so weird?! If you are going to shoot, then fucking shoot!”

  “O-kay! Are you ready?!”

  “What is wrong with you?!”

  BANG.

  She goes down.

  I run up to her, bleeding out the side of her calf.

  “Oh, I meant to hit a little lower, actually.”

  She gets up. I think she actually believes she’s going to catch up with these guys. Gunshot and all.

  I kick her in the chest.

  “This is interesting friendship.”

  “Stay. The hell. Down. You’re bleeding pretty bad, honestly. It really behooves you to stay down.”

  Katerina, the wind knocked out of her, looks down at her bleeding leg. There’s no way she can keep up.

  “Look. You tried. You gave it your best shot. And that’s really what counts.”

  “Do I get participation trophy?”

  Just then, another snowmobile comes flying past.

  It’s Uri.

  “Jesus Christ. What the fuck is happening right now? Look, you’ll be okay. You have about two hours to get inside before you freeze to death. You should be able to make it.”

  She looks up at me, and a funny little smile takes over the side of her mouth.

  “I think positive.”

  I smile and it hits me that after this mission, whatever happens, I may never see Katerina again.

  “Come see me in the horrible imperialist United States.”

  “I will, puppy dog. I bring vodka.”

  We share a look of acknowledgment. So this is friendship. The sad part. The part you avoid by not letting anyone in in the first place.

  I give her a smile before taking off after Uri and everybody else who seems to be coming out of the woodwork.

  “You’re an alcoholic!” I yell it over my shoulder.

  Not sure if she hears me over Uri’s snowmobile.

  13

  Quite frankly, by the time I get to the clearing there’s a lot to process.

  First, there’s a clearing in the forest. Check. Second, there’s a small runway, the type usually used for a prop plane. Check. Third, there’s a private jet, there in the middle of the winter wonderland. Check. Fourth, I can’t see Raynes anywhere, but I am assuming he’s on the plane as he seems to be the crown jewel of this whole enterprise.

  But wait, there’s more!

  Standing on the steps coming out of the plane is Ice Queen. Sidebar: I really like her outfit. She’s wearing a kind of faux-fur hat thing, so she kind of resembles a Russian Q-tip. But she’s making it work. I understand that fashion is probably the last thing I should be thinking about, but it’s important to stop and smell the roses.

  Now Uri is standing there, having ditched his snowmobile in a snowbank and also having what appears to be an extremely passionate conversation with his dad, Dimitri. When I was little, my dad used to read me Roald Dahl stories at night before bed: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Twits, James and the Giant Peach . . . You get the picture. I am fairly certain Dimitri never read books to Uri at bedtime.

  This suspicion is confirmed when Dimitri nods at Queen Elsa and she raises her gun at Uri.

  Yes, let’s think about that for a second. Dimitri, Uri’s own father, just gave the order to kill his own son.

  Nice guy.

  I am not a fan of Uri’s rap stylings, but I think it’s rude to kill your own son. So I raise my gun—effing gun, I hate you—one more time and aim at Ice Queen. Sorry, darling, at least you’ll be caught dead in an extremely chic getup.

  Sayonara, Ice Queen.

  BLAM!

  Wait.

  That wasn’t me.

  I didn’t even fire yet.

  And that’s not Uri on the ground either. No, folks. Uri is standing right there. Happy as a clam.

  Can you guess who’s on the ground?

  Yep, you guessed it.

  Dimitri.

  Moscow kingpin and generally satanic guy is writhing around in the snow. At least he’s alive to look up and see his son kiss his girlfriend.

  “Wait. What the hell?”

  I say it, mostly to the tree I’m hiding behind. But I’m sure Dimitri is thinking it, too.

  This is a really long kiss. I mean, it’s still happening.

  And still happening.

  Annnnd still happening.

  “Jesus, get a room.”

  But the tree doesn’t laugh.

  And before I know it, Uri and Queen Elsa are stepping onto the plane, leaving Dimitri to roll around in the snow and feel like a damned fool. Through one of the windows, I can make out Raynes near the back. Yup. They got him.

  “Wait! Wait wait wait wait!”

  I take off after them.

  But they can’t hear me over the engine. I’m running through the snow toward them, but now the wind is picking up.

  The plane is getting ready for takeoff, with its engine blasting and the snow whipping around in a frenzy, and this is basically it.

  This is it.

  The plane is literally leaving the runway, and I blew it.

  I fucking blew it.

  14

  I never was that good at being brave.

  Even the small things I did, the jujitsu, the fancy stuff, I always knew I would win. Against those lunkheads in the Applebee’s? Against those lunkheads in the alley behind the bunker bar? I knew I would win. And it’s not truly brave if you know you’re going to win.

  But this . . .

  This I can’t win.

  This is an airplane, taking off, on a snowy runway somewhere outside of Moscow. Who am I, Ethan Hunt? On my best days, I’d be sunk. But now, hobbling around in the snow after being shot and kicked and then kicked again. Forget it. That’s all she wrote.

  Somewhere to my left, through the snow, I can hear Dimitri rolling around, swearing to himself.

  “You’re a horrible father!”

  I yell it over the engine.

  “And you are weak American. Go home to Mommy.”

  He practically spits it out at me.

  And that’s when it hits me. This is it for home. This is it for my family. For my mom and my dad and whatever life, whatever future, we have together.

  No.

  No, I won’t go quietly into the night.

  Before I know it I am running with everything I have to the end of the tarmac to beat the airplane. I get about thirty feet from the tip of the nose, right there, right in front of it in the runway, blocking its path.

  It’s just me, now, little beat-up me with the snow swirling all around in circles and the sound of the jet engine like a shriek. It’s just me against this plane.

  What is it Viva said in training? Before I crashed the Viper? If you lose control on a wet or snowy surface, it can be much harder to regain control.

  I have to get closer.

  The closer I get, the more they’re forced to jerk to the side.

  And lose control.

  On a wet or snowy surface.

  (In this case, practically an ice-skating rink.)

  I get closer.

/>   And closer still.

  I stand there, looking up into the cockpit, right at the pilot. I stand there. One small girl against the world.

  And it’s not me looking at me from above anymore. Suddenly, it’s me inside myself, not from a distance. Suddenly, I get to be me again.

  There’s no irony to it, no snark, no safety belts, no precautions.

  In this moment, this moment where I get to be me again, I stand for everything that I’ve ever known and everything that I’ve ever loved.

  And I stand tall.

  Later, I get to hear the recap of the conversation in the cockpit at this very moment. It goes something like this . . .

  Pilot: “You want I run her over? She is already injured, so it wouldn’t be—”

  Uri: “No! No. Just give me a second . . . FUCK! These American girls are so annoying!”

  And then he gives the order.

  But what it looks like from here, from down here on the tarmac . . .

  Is that I stopped the plane.

  I stopped.

  A.

  Goddamned.

  Airplane.

  15

  I’ve never been on a private jet before. All I can really gather, in my cursory inspection of the cabin, is that I guess billionaires really like wood paneling. That’s fine. I’m not here to judge. But I will tell you this. You could shoot an American Apparel ad in here, against any of these walls, without paying a cent on production design. And I’m pretty sure that’s not what they were going for.

  Raynes is sitting in the back, handcuffed to his seat.

  “Is that really necessary? I mean, what’s he going to do? Fly out at ten thousand feet? Make a hot move out into the abyss?”

  “It is precaution.”

  That’s Ice Queen.

  “Okay, I just have to tell you that you’re basically slaying it with that hat.”

  She looks genuinely surprised.

  “But please tell me that’s not real fur.”

  “No. It’s Valentino.”

  “Oh, I love Valentino! I really liked his fall collection last year. I especially liked that dress with the heart on it. The chiffon one.”

  Uri looks at the two of us, puzzled.

  “Yes. I have dress.” Wow. Queen Elsa actually possesses the bee’s knees of all dresses made in the history of mankind.

  “Okay, I’m totally peanut butter and jealous.”

  She smiles.

  See.

  Social skills.

  “Uri, I would just like to thank you for not running me over.”

  “You are welcome, but you are also pain in my asshole.”

  “Right. I get it. But, Uri, I think it behooves me to ask . . . what in the actual hell is going on here? You do realize your dad is, like, rolling around on the tarmac back there in the snow.”

  And this is true. I can only imagine him cursing the heavens above as we ascended into the great wide open.

  Karma.

  “You see, American Paige, your boyfriend is expensive man. He catch good price. My father wanted to sell him to highest bidder. In this case, highest bidder was sultan in Dubai.”

  “So we’re going to Dubai?”

  “Not quite.” Queen Elsa is very pleased with herself.

  “You see, I have girlfriend, too.” Uri gives a loving look to Queen Elsa, who, I have to admit, is not so Ice-y anymore.

  “And girlfriend tells me secret. And I get better deal. Citizenship. In America. And price. Not as big. But America is place for hip-hop. Is worth it.”

  “Wait. From who? From the CIA?”

  “No. From horrible Republican billionaire who want to parade him around like pink pony. Maybe tip next election.”

  “Maybe make pageant for hillbilly.”

  That’s Ice Queen. She doesn’t seem to like hillbilly.

  “So, where are we landing?”

  “Texas.”

  “NOOOOOOOOOooooooooooo! No no no no no! Okay, listen to me. Raynes? Are you listening?”

  “Um. Yes.”

  “You’re going to go to jail. You know that, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re going to rot inside a jail for the rest of your life. No reporters. No soapbox. Nothing. Forever. Like, even after the singularity. Like, I’ll be half robot and you will still be an inferior full human. And our cyborg/human forbidden love will be prohibited yet romantic.”

  Queen Elsa and Uri share a look.

  “But that’s not important right now! What’s important is . . . I can fix this. If . . . you promise . . . you promise not to release the list. I’m not saving you just for you to let all those other people die. No way. Do you understand?”

  Raynes looks at me.

  “So, to recap: your choices are . . . rot in jail past the singularity, which is speculated to be around two thousand forty-three, or . . . destroy the list and I’ll save you.”

  Uri chimes in.

  “Sounds like easy choice, bro.”

  “Don’t say bro.” That’s me.

  “Why not? Why not say bro?”

  “Sound like douche bag.” That’s Ice Queen.

  She and I share a look. The international language of girl-dom.

  Raynes thinks it over. We stare at each other in a temporary détente.

  “Were you really going to kill me back there?”

  “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t going to. But I’m not one hundred percent sure. I’m like ninety-eight percent sure. Maybe ninety-seven.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Well, duh. I kind of like you. A little bit. Not like a lot. Like oh, I think about this person at night and I wonder what they’re doing and when I listen to Elliott Smith it makes me think of him because we listened to him at Ramallah Café one night high above the Moscow city lights . . .”

  “How romantic.” That moment of sarcasm was brought to you by Ice Queen.

  Raynes and I share a look. Finally, he nods.

  “Okay.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “Yes. You have my word.”

  “YAAAASSS!!” I jump about three feet in the air. “Also, I would like to offer you the side opportunity of being my boyfriend.”

  He smiles. “I don’t think so.”

  “Ouch.” Uri chimes in.

  “It’s okay. I get it. I know we might have some trust issues. It’s hard to get over it when your girlfriend almost kills you.”

  Raynes and I share a look. We’re okay. Whatever happens, he and I, we’re Switzerland.

  I turn to Uri. “Okay, now, Uri. Do you really want to be an American?”

  “Of course. I going to be hip-hop star.”

  Again, Queen Elsa and I share a look. I think we have both decided to spare him the conversation about unrealistic expectations. “Okay, well, here’s the thing, Uri. I’m going to ask you, now, to do something. And I’m going to tell you what I know to be true, in my heart of hearts, way underneath all my snarkiness and sarcasm. But the truth is . . . being an American doesn’t have to do with having a fast car or a lot of money or being famous. It means doing the right thing. And I’m asking you now, Uri. I’m asking you with all my heart, here, to do the right thing.”

  “Da.” Uri puffs his narrow chest. “I will be best American.”

  “Excellent. Where’s your phone?”

  16

  The arrival terminal of the Oakland International Airport is white and stainless steel, with a sign above the entry that says “Welcome!” in over forty different languages: “Dobrodošli, 欢迎, Vítáme tĕ, Bienvenue, , Willkommen, Καλώς, Aloha, Benvenuto, Shalom, Dobro pozhalovat.”

  It’s a sleepy airport. Usually fairly empty.

  Except today.

  Today, the Oakland International Airport looks almost like Coachella.

  The entire entry is covered from wall to wall with a sea of expectant faces, signs, and banners.

  Let’s be honest. Most of them are Berkeley students and faculty. Bu
t there’s quite a few people from San Francisco, too, and Portland, and eight news trucks parked outside with journalists rushing all over the place and, yes, even some celebrities. I don’t mean to drop names, but there is Susan Sarandon and Mark Ruffalo, and over there is Michael Moore. Don’t look over. Just act casual. Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.

  If you’re wondering if they’re here to see you, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but the answer is no. And they’re certainly not here to see me, as I am just a cog in the proverbial wheel.

  But this cog in the wheel did manage to do something I never thought this cog in the wheel could do.

  This cog managed . . . through God or Buddha or Allah or Yahweh or whoever you happen to believe in . . . to sound the alarm through Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Instagram, Snapchat, email, smoke signals, messenger pigeon, and anything else you can imagine.

  I told them Raynes was coming.

  I told them where we were landing.

  And when.

  And I told them, everyone, that they had to come, and bring everyone they knew or had ever met who cared about this country and the future of this country.

  I told them Sean Raynes would be taken to some supersecret prison under the cover of night and probably executed unless they were there. All of them.

  That they were his last shot at freedom.

  And that this was their moment.

  You want to know a secret? Something I wouldn’t tell a soul except for you, who I’m telling now, now that we’ve been through so much together? I really didn’t think this was going to work. I thought I was crazy. I thought I was grasping at straws. I thought I might go to jail.

  But looking out at the hundreds and hundreds of faces, all cheering Raynes, throngs of them, forming a circle around Raynes, protecting Raynes, chanting, “Liberty!” and, “Our rights! Raynes rights!” it hits me. It’s actually working.

  The police are just standing there, on the outskirts of the throngs, looking at one another, waiting for an order. But there’s no order being given. Even if they could get to him, no one wants to be the one to give the order; no one wants to drag Raynes out in front of the cameras. Not with all of this. It could be a career ender. For the police. For the mayor. For whoever it is that gives that order.

  And I could kiss this Northern California liberal ground.

  Because it worked.