by Nick Courage
Compared to Scott, it’s even more obvious that Conor’s the cool one. I hadn’t noticed before, but Scott’s white shirt is inexplicably wet and tucked into his also-wet khaki shorts. It doesn’t help that he’s absentmindedly cradling and stroking the top half of his arm like it’s a half-drowned kitten.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling suddenly sorry for having punched him so hard. “Don’t know my own . . .” I laugh, remembering how I’d flexed my skinny arms for Dad earlier this morning, and then compose myself. “Don’t know my own strength anymore.”
“Ha,” Scott says without inflection, not really laughing, but startled into it by my sort-of apology. “Don’t know why you care about weird old Moonie any . . .”
“That’s settled, then,” Conor says too loudly, cutting Scott off as he claps his hands on both of our backs. He double taps mine, a non-vocal appeal to reason, as he wipes his Scott hand dry on his shorts. “No fights today!”
In that moment, I realize that it’s not just the jerseys. After Tom and Rachel, Conor is definitely the coolest person I know. Still, a lot of that coolness is trickle-down from Ben, who vanished five or so years ago, leaving the Zone and never coming back. Although “vanished” is a little dramatic: Ben got a job with the federale government. No one really knows what he does, but he lives up north now and seems to be doing well for himself. Conor gets a care package in the mail about twice a year filled with stuff you can’t get in the city: the skateboard and jerseys, sour gummies that hurt to eat, comic books . . .
Since there’s no regular postal service in the Zone, the packages are a really big deal. They have to be flown into the nearest airport a few hours away and then driven in by a courier service. Which is all very thoughtful and nice and everything, but everyone agrees that of course Conor would be happier with his brother back in the Zone. He’s told me as much before, when Scott wasn’t around making everything into a joke.
Wet-shirted, goofball Scott.
In the five seconds since I said I was sorry, he’s decided he’s a gymnast: gripping the handrail as tightly as possible, he’s inched his feet out from beneath himself until, arms taut, he’s almost parallel to the ground.
Kids have started grouping in the front lawn now, clumps of tittering khaki and white. We’re the odd men out: Conor’s wearing a bright red soccer jersey, Scott’s acting like the village idiot, I’m showing a lot of skin, and everyone’s looking at us. Despite attempts at subtlety, most are obvious gawkers—and I feel a little embarrassed at how the attention makes my chest swell. Outside of Conor and Scott, I don’t have many friends. I never felt much like putting in the effort . . . my condition is easier to deal with as a secret, and life is hard enough without everyone thinking I’m some sort of freak.
Still, one group in particular has me staring back: a girl with white-blonde hair pulled tightly into a glossy ponytail and her three brunette friends. They’re all sporting cuffed shorts and rolled-up sleeves, which I’d forgotten was a “thing” with the more popular girls in the Zone. It’s only because I’m staring at their clothes, trying to decide whether or not I look like I’m wearing a girl shirt, that I notice blondie covertly glancing at us.
At first I look quickly down, trying not to make eye contact—but after a few agonizing seconds I sneak a peek. She’s mousey, but in a nice way; it’s more a furtive smallness than a physical similarity. The brown-haired girls are all laughing around her, brassy and loud, but she holds back, her cheeks pinched in concentration. She’s cute, in a weird, quiet way, and my electric heart thrills at the thought of her looking at me.
Except . . . I realize, deflating as I follow her gaze, she wasn’t looking at me. Connecting the dots, I’m a little disappointed but not at all surprised to see Conor making eyes back at her across the gardens. They’re good eyes, too, like . . . heartthrob eyes. I can’t imagine even thinking about trying to look at someone like that.
It’s no wonder he’s got the mouse girl hooked.
When Conor finally notices that he’s been caught in the act, he winks, totally without embarrassment, and—not missing a beat—twitches his head toward our buddy Scott, who’s still stretching himself out from the handrail. It’s obvious what he has in mind. I shake my head no, but it’s too late. Before good sense gets the better of me, we’re both on Scott, pinching his mysteriously wet back and sides.
“No,” Scott yells, drawing it out from his diaphragm like he’s being tortured on a rack, cursing a too-cruel world before he draws his final black breath. A few more pinches and he finally lets go of the rail, catching himself in an uneventful squat. I offer him a hand, and he bounces up with it, landing an inch from my nose again, which gets a laugh out of Conor and me. Some kids are staring, but the mouse and her friends, who’ve formed a whisper-tight circle, have deliberately turned their backs to us.
“Nothing to see here!” Conor yells as Scott waves, but by then everyone’s lost interest. Still, I think, noticing that Conor has untied his rucksack and is holding it open while Scott stands behind him with his trademark lopsided grin, it’s looking like today might turn out to be more interesting than most. “Hank, we know where you go in the afternoons,” Conor says, his voice low, but playful. I try to keep my expression as blank as possible, mentally retracing my last week of ascents, wondering which one I slipped up on, and when they stopped believing me about Grammy. I knew this was going to happen, that someone was going to find me out sooner or later. That it’s Conor and Scott makes me feel slightly less unhappy about it, but still . . .
The attic’s mine.
“We wanna come with you, Hank,” Conor whispers, wrapping an arm around my bare shoulders; piquing my interest despite my reservations.
I guess it wouldn’t be so terrible, I admit to myself, mourning and quickly moving on from the loss of my quiet afternoons. We could all go up there and hang out together; it could be . . . fun. But, as much as I want to give in to Conor and Scott, something feels off.
“What’s in the bag, Con?” I ask, nosing in for a closer look.
Scott’s hands flutter excitedly at his sides as Conor tilts the opening of his rucksack toward me. Swaddled loosely in white undershirts is a big plastic bottle of soda, something I haven’t seen—much less tasted—in years. Ever since the Embargos, the Zone hasn’t been a very sweet place to live. Before I lucked into Foods, I’d probably eaten either vegetables or loaf every meal, a regretful side effect of our larger shift toward self-sufficiency.
I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry and expectant.
“From Ben?” I whisper hoarsely.
Conor nods, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ve been saving it for something special.”
“I mean, it’s just broken chairs,” I say, licking my lips. “Dust.”
“Not the attic, stupid. The girls,” he says, pulling his rucksack closed. “Julia and Alice want to drink it with us up there.”
Conor waits for me to be impressed, but I must look as confused as I feel, because after an awkward silence he continues, exasperated: “Only you could live in a place as small as the Zone, come to the Library almost every day, and not know any of the kids here.” The same group of tittering girls from before—with Mouse still silent in their midst—waves noisily from the far side of the garden, more at Conor and Scott than at me, driving the point home:
I’m clueless.
Still, we all wave back, returning their sly smiles.
“As if you don’t already know, Hank,” Conor says out of the side of his mouth. “Julia’s the girl whose butt you were staring at earlier, the blonde one, and Alice is her friend who lives literally two doors down from you.”
“I was—” I start, flustered, bare arms flapping. “I was looking at her shirt!”
“Sure you were, Hinkles.”
“I . . . she . . .” But it’s not worth explaining. Conor doesn’t care whether or not I was really looking at Julia’s butt, so I decide to switch tactics.
“You want me to br
ing you chuckleheads and those girls up to the attic to drink some soda?” I ask, and Conor nods, smiling. It strikes me that I can probably convince them to do this somewhere else; that I can keep the secret of the attic safe, at least for now. “Even though it’s just broken stuff up there?”
Conor nods, and I realize with a sinking feeling that it’s probably the attic or nothing. That this was all planned before I knew anything about it. “We need to do it in private,” Scott says too loudly, drawing everyone in the front yard’s attention again. He flinches, then repeats himself in a conspiratorial whisper. “We need to do it in private.”
“All right, all right, everyone heard you the first time,” I say. “Emphasis on everyone.”
Knowing what I know about the soda and the girls, the morning drags on. And it’s not because I’m worried—getting everyone into the attic without anyone else noticing shouldn’t be much harder than just sneaking in myself; it’s just a matter of timing. And I’m not nervous, either—at least not the way Conor and Scott are nervous. Although, I do have to admit that every time I think about the cola buried in Conor’s bag, I feel my mouth go wet.
I’m just distracted by the Other Side.
I keep thinking back to Rachel and Tom, remembering Foods and flaking gold mannequins and river mud coffee and the dusty guitar laying on my bed, the one I wish I was back home learning how to play. In comparison, the attic seems so small now. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I almost can’t believe I ever cared about keeping it secret. My world is bigger now, bigger than the Library and bigger than the Green Zone.
Leaning back against the old oak tree, I try to make myself think about what the Other Side means, Zone-wise—if it really changes everything like I think it might. But I can’t focus. Conor and Scott are running around making more plans than our afternoon sneak necessitates, stalking by Mouse and Alice’s group of friends, motioning them over to look in Conor’s rucksack. Colluding. They make whispered arrangements to meet on the third-floor balcony at the back of the Library when the noon bell rings, everyone arriving separately, climbing through my secret window one at a time so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves. But of course what happens is that Conor, Scott, and I show up together and then, shortly after, the girls arrive en masse. The girls from before, plus two more girls, which is not according to plan.
Neither Scott nor Conor seem as put out as I am about that.
Mouse pats her glossy blonde hair with the tips of her fingers, checking for strays, and explains the extra girls in an appropriately squeaky voice: “They wanted to come, too.” It’s enough for Scott, who’s biting his cheeks to hold back a grin.
“More than enough to go around,” Conor says, clutching the rucksack with the precious soda to his chest. “Shall we?”
I consider my friends for a few seconds, taking stock of the moment. Conor and Scott . . . and the girls—a wash of coy smiles and flushed pink cheeks that I try not to stare at; the trees reaching out behind them and the unusual quiet blanketing us all—no rumble of the street cars on the Avenue, no white noise. Just a warm breeze rustling leaves and all the kids in the garden squishing crawlies or soundlessly saving them; some muffled hammering from the Grey Zone.
And then, all of a sudden: an explosive loudness, like I’d been underwater and have finally come up for air—shouts and laughter from the yard, shovels scraping rocky dirt. The beep and squeal of oversized trucks parking on the Avenue. I shake my head clear and start for the drainpipe, quickly scanning the School to make sure the coast is clear.
“C’mon,” I say, hoisting myself up, bracket by bracket, until I’m perched—squatting—on the Library’s black tar roof. I look down to make sure I’m being followed up the pipe and then quickly prop open the hatch to the attic. Through the hatch is an actual ladder, made of wood shined glossy through over a hundred years of use.
I usher the first girl, whose name I didn’t catch before our ascent to the roof, through the hatch. One on one, I feel less self-conscious, and notice that she has a nice face that’s screwed up with determination, and honey-colored skin, her arms dusted with almost-white hairs, even though the hair on her head is a dark walnut brown. At first her eyes focus on the horizon behind me, the view of the city sprawling out from the top of the Library, and then, when she sees the hole and the second ladder, she hesitates.
“Quickly,” I remind her. “It’ll hold.”
It’s the same with the other girls, and then Mouse, and then Scott, and finally Conor, who claps me on the back one last time before he descends into the attic. I scan the yard again, surreptitiously, making sure no one’s seen us. Not that I’ll be able to do anything if they have. The realization stretches unpleasantly in the pit of my stomach, but we seem to be clear, so I jump down behind them, letting the smooth wooden sides of the ladder glide through my hands as I fall.
I land on the tips of my toes, knees bent, barely making a sound.
The light, as usual, is something else. The early afternoon sun refracts around the room in the borrowed blues and oranges and reds of the stained glass windows lining the walls, the dust-heavy air slowly dancing its way through the rays.
“Nice place,” Conor says, arm propped on one of the stacks of the broken chairs. Everyone else stands in a semicircle, faces mottled with the rainbow colors from the windows. They’re all strangely still, except for Mouse, who walks over to a jumble of crystals propped against cracked wainscoting; once upon a time, a chandelier. “I always wondered what it was like in here,” she says in a hushed voice, picking up a loose crystal and rubbing it clean. She’s acting like she’s in church or something, which is so much how I’ve always felt here that I want to reach out and squeeze her hand.
I don’t, though.
Meanwhile, Scott picks at some disintegrating pink insulation peeking out from beneath the beadboard walls, then runs his finger across the top of a wobble-legged bookshelf and inspects the resulting streak.
“Kinda crummy, though, right?”
“It’s perfect,” Conor says with happy finality, unveiling the soda bottle and unscrewing the cap with a half-hearted fizz. “To Hank,” he proclaims, squaring his shoulders and taking the first theatrical swig.
He passes it to Scott, who does the same and passes it to Mouse, who does the same and passes it to me. I can’t tell if it’s because the soda has been sitting for too long or because I’m just not used to it anymore, but it tastes so sharp and acidic on my tongue that I barely notice the bubbles. The sweetness is there too, though, and I help myself to a deep swallow before passing it on to the tanned girl whose name I didn’t catch, who does the same and passes it on to her friend, the girl with translucent-looking freckles, who passes it to Alice, who—now that I think about it—does look vaguely familiar.
We pass the bottle until it’s mostly gone, which doesn’t take too long—after a few rounds Scott takes a triple gulp, causing the last of the soda to bubble and dribble down his chin and onto his shirt, which had finally dried in the heat of the attic. Alice and Freckles and the girl with the honey skin think this is hilarious, and it is, but I’m suddenly feeling too wired to laugh. The coffee at Foods was strong, but it made me feel like I could take on the world. Conor’s soda just makes me nervous, like I can feel it bubbling through my veins and giving me the shakes.
Everybody else seems fine, if a little goofy. Mouse stands on one leg like a flamingo while Freckles and Honey crack up about Scott, who’s trying to suck the soda out of his shirt. Meanwhile, Conor has capped the bottle and is sitting on the dusty floor in a ray of orange sunlight, flicking it so it spins lackadaisically, like a tired top.
“You know what might be fun,” he ventures, trailing off with a wistful look in his eyes. We all immediately, instinctively stare at the wearily spinning bottle while Conor gives it another lazy flick.
I would be lying if I didn’t have a suspicion that this might happen when I first heard about the attic plan, and—from the hesit
antly expectant looks on everyone else’s faces—they all knew, too. I must’ve decided, subconsciously, not to acknowledge this possibility . . . but it was always there. That’s why they all came, I realize. Why it had to be in secret. Even little Mouse, who’s still balancing on one leg, although she’s started to wobble a little bit.
“Okay,” she says gamely, looking directly at me with wild eyes.
Scott stops sucking on his shirt long enough to shout, “Me, too!” momentarily breaking the spell. But Conor flicks the bottle again, and it has a hypnotizing effect on the room, drawing everyone into a tight, cross-legged circle in the center of the floor.
Except for me.
The soda has intensified the anxious feeling I had just before I jumped down into the attic, and I feel shaky, like my skeleton’s moving at a different speed than the rest of my body. Which sounds terrible, but it’s not; just different. Despite my trembling bones, everything seems to slow down: I feel every pump of my artificial heart, and I’m strangely aware of parts of my body I never knew existed. Like the things in my lungs filtering the dusty attic air, letting me breathe freely and deeply, which I’m trying to do now. My suddenly sensitive skin is also breathing, exchanging atoms with the books and the broken chairs and the kaleidoscope sunlight.
I’m quietly freaking out, is what’s happening.
“C’mon, Hank,” Conor says, casually patting the scuffed and dented floor beside him.
Turning to face him seems to take forever, but finally I feel myself slowly shake my head no. “You still have to do it if it lands on you,” he says with finality, his attention already back on the spinning bottle.
That’s okay, I think, willing the bottle not to land on me. It’ll never land on me.