by Martha Adele
I take my shower, get dressed, tell Caitlyn as kindly as I can goodbye, and head off to work. When I get to the building, I head into Mr. Trolly’s office.
“Ms. Wamsley, good morning. I trust you had a fun evening?”
I nod. “As good as it could have been.” I’m not telling him what happened.
“Are you ready for today’s assignments?”
I nod again. “Yes, sir.”
“Fabulous.” He hands me a camera. “Go and photograph the people as they arrive at the conference building for the meeting today. Come back immediately afterward with the memory chip.”
“Yes, sir.” I take the camera and do as I am told. When I get to the conference building, it is an hour or two before people begin showing up. I listen to the reporters scream questions at the attendees as they exit their cars and head into the building with their guards.
The reporter right beside me, as I take pictures, is screaming her questions the loudest. She shouts the same questions at every person who walks by. “Do you have any comments on the prison bombings? Do you have any plans on acting against the poisonings in State Three?”
After never being answered, she gets rowdy and begins cursing at the politicians. Her cursing is followed by her being escorted off the premises.
I can’t help but be glad they kicked her out. I can tell that a few other people around me are happy too. Without her screaming in my ear the whole time, I managed to get the best pictures of the day. I even took one of a few of the politicians smiling at me.
Once I take the best shots I can and all the politicians arrive, I head back to the office and give Mr. Trolly the memory card. He takes it from me and plugs it into his hologram base.
“Though some of these are blurry”—he swipes through the pictures on his hologram screen—“and a few of them are awful, I think you managed to take a few brilliant pictures.” He hands me another memory chip and slides me a box with slips of paper in it. “Go ahead and choose.”
I reach into the pile and pull out a slip, hoping it isn’t as bad as my job last time, which was photography of a debate. In this job, Mr. Trolly lets his photographers pick their weekly assignments and bring back what they get when they are satisfied with their work. We have individual assignments every day, but he gives us one to work on over the course of the week as well. Though some of them don’t have a due date, mine does.
I have now been assigned to interview the main designer of Capitol Park’s garden and take pictures of each section by tomorrow night. Mr. Trolly waves me out of the room, and I head out to the lobby. Using one of the wall phones, I call the number listed on the paper and get the garden’s designer.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Hi, Mr. Smith, my name is Mavis Wamsley. I work for Mr. Trolly, the—”
“Yes! Trolly called me earlier today and said that I’d be getting a call from you.”
I stay quiet for a moment as I realize he set me up to take this assignment. “Yes, sir. So do you have any time tonight to speak?”
“No, not tonight. How about tomorrow?”
“That works for me. What time?”
“How about sevenish at the Palace by the bar?”
“Sounds good to me. Thank you very much, sir.”
“Okay. I will see you tomorrow, Ms. Wamsley. I will be the one wearing a hat.”
He hangs up the phone, and I head out of the building. From what I’ve heard, the Palace is a restaurant just a few miles down the road from here, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get to.
All I can do now is hope there is not more than one person wearing a hat.
Once I finish my four-mile walk or so to the park, I am relieved to find a nice cool spring breeze coming through the large metal arch. At the top, it has the bronze letters spelling out “Capitol Park” in a decorative font, along with metal vines and leaves making its way down the sides.
I snap a photo of the beautifully designed arch and take a step through and look around to find flower beds lining the fences, tall and thick trees that seem perfectly kept, and people walking their dogs and children.
Click.
I snap a photo of a couple swinging a little girl in between them as they walk, all with large smiles covering their faces.
Click.
I snap a photo of a little babbling brook running through the park, along with a little wooden bridge that reminds me of the one that leads to Derek’s house.
Click.
I follow one of the stone paths to a large flower garden that is fenced in, one that you can only enter and exit through a gate. I enter in and snap pictures of the flowers, the people enjoying looking at the landscape, and a little girl trying to pick one of the lilies.
Click.
I take an extra picture as the girl manages to tear the flower out of the ground before her parents can do anything.
I go on and on and take pictures of everything, from the birds to the shoes I find left in the grass. Once I get toward the center of the park, following a path through the shade of the trees, I find a large chessboard where the pieces are almost as tall as me. I snap a few pictures of the kids playing around with them, even though they aren’t playing the correct way.
I make my way over to them and notice that the pieces are magnetized to the board so that no one can steal them, but that you can still slide them on and off the spaces as you please.
“Hey!” One of the kids sees me with the camera and waves at me. “Take my picture!” He hops up on top of the knight and sits on the horse’s head. “Look at me!”
I chuckle and snap a few photos of all the kids trying to get onto the pieces. Once I take almost thirty pictures of them alone, I wave the kids goodbye and continue down the path to find dozens of stone chess tables positioned in the shade of one of the largest trees I have seen in a long time.
I take a picture of two old men playing chess together and manage to capture the exact moment that one puts the other into checkmate. His large smile as he moves his piece makes this photo one of my favorites that I have ever taken.
I continue through the beautiful park and think. Why is the designer wanting to see me at the bar? It’s not like I am going to drink. In Frieden, it is legal for eighteen-year-olds to drink, but that doesn’t mean I am going to. Last time I drank was before Steven died. Sure, I snuck in a drink or two every now and then, but it was nothing serious. I promised myself I would never become as bad as my dad.
I can be around alcohol. I mean, I did great at the ball last night. I didn’t have any, even though they were free and colorful. So why would I pay for some tomorrow if I don’t even need it?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sam
It’s fitting. Very fitting.
I spend my crappy life scooping crap.
Now that Mom’s gone, I will have to do both her work and mine if I want to keep the house. Mr. Gohaki told me that I didn’t have to start working this soon if I didn’t want to, but I told him I would. He also offered to give me a roommate to help out, but I told him no.
If I need to get a roommate, I’ll ask, but until then, I can do all the work myself.
The barn door creaks open as I finish cleaning out the last chicken box and placing the old bedding into the wheelbarrow. When I turn and look, I find Aspen standing in the doorway of the coop.
“Hey,” she says to me.
I turn back to the new hay bale and pull the strings off. Once I get the hay free and loose, I pull some off to make the new chicken beds. “Hey.” I pull my shirt up a tad bit to cover the back of the chain of my mother’s gemstone necklace that I picked up this morning. I keep it under my shirt so that it won’t get dirty with all the crap I have to deal with.
“I, um …” She gestures over her shoulder. “I was ju
st at your house. I came to drop off a cake that my mom baked for you last night.” I look over to her without a word and she chuckles. “I mean, I would have baked the cake, but I can’t bake at all. I either burn it, or it comes out too dry, or something happens and whatever I was making gets ruined.” She slows herself down and takes a breath. “Also, you may want to start locking your doors.”
I let a slight smile rise up on my face. “Thank you,” I tell her.
She steps into the coop, tears at the hay bale, and begins to help me fix the dozens and dozens of chicken beds. “So how are you feeling?”
I shrug. What am I supposed to say?
“If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.” She shoves some of the hay into another chicken bed and fluffs it just right. “Did you have anyone stay with you last night?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Do you have anyone for tonight?”
“No. I don’t really want anyone.”
She nods and stuffs another box. “Okay, but if you ever change your mind and don’t want to be alone, you can stay with us.”
“Thanks.” As I stuff another box, I turn back to Aspen. It hits me that Carrol is really upset too. She was sobbing almost as hard as I was when she found out. “How about you? How are you and your mom doing?”
She shrugs. “My mom is really upset. She was crying all last night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Mom is generally an emotional person, so it isn’t supershocking that she is upset.” Aspen stuffs another box. “She probably wouldn’t be crying as much if she wouldn’t have found out that I was the one who found her.”
“Wait,” I say, setting my pile of fluffed hay down. “What?”
Aspen hesitates to finish stuffing her box, but forces herself to anyway. “I had gone over to your house to visit you. When I got to the door, I was about to knock when I saw Bonnie on the floor.” She rises back up and fixes her posture. “I knew something was wrong, so I ran in and over to her, but it was too late.”
I freeze. I have been so upset and wallowing in so much self-pity that I haven’t even considered the effect that this has had on other people. “I’m so sorry, Aspen.”
We stand in silence, frozen in thought. After the crow of one of the roosters snaps us back, Aspen gives me a little smile. “Let me know how you like the cake.” She heads over to the coop door, brushing the hay off her hands and clothes.
“I don’t know if I can eat a whole cake by myself.” Yes, I could. “You and your mom should come over later and have some.”
She gives me another smile and nods. As she exits the coop and heads on her way, something becomes overwhelmingly obvious.
I like her.
I don’t have time to like anyone, and I definitely don’t have the temperament for it, but I do.
I like her.
Mavis
When I enter the Palace for the first time, I realize it is nothing like I imagined it originally. The marble countertops of the front desk and the sleek and perfect wooden cabinets and columns make this place seem much fancier than I anticipated.
I ask one of the women at the front where the bar is, and she looks me up and down. “How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen, but I’m actually just here to interview someone.”
She gives me a judgmental look and pulls me aside to one of the wall scanners. Once I scan my wrist and my picture, age, weight, and home address pops up, the woman completely changes her persona. “Well, that’s great! Sorry about that.” She gives me the brightest smile I have seen all day. “I have to be careful, you know. Let me show you to the bar.”
As she ushers me through the crowd, I see Janice sitting with one of the other officials, along with people who look to be overdressed. I assume she is in the middle of a business meeting, so I say nothing and continue walking with the woman. She brings me over to the bar, and I see a balding middle-age man who seems to be about my height, with his hat placed down on the countertop.
“Mr. Smith?” I say as the lady walks off.
He turns around and looks at me with an even brighter smile. “Ms. Wamsley! I’ve been saving you a barstool.” He slides it out and pats it on the cushion. “Sit, sit.”
I head on over and take the seat. “Thank you.”
“Would you like a drink? I’m buying.”
I shake my head and pull out my notepad. “A water would be nice.”
He takes a swig of his drink and turns to the bartender. “Would you please get this lady a glass of water?”
He nods and gives me the drink. I take it and turn back to Mr. Smith. “Would you mind if we get started?”
“No problem at all!”
I flip open the notepad and read off the questions that Mr. Trolly gave me to ask. “What inspired you to become a garden designer?”
“Well, I’ve always loved design, and I had always been into art and so this is like being able to bring art to life for everyone to enjoy.”
I nod and scribble down his answer. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Smith. What about time? How long did it take you to design the layout of the park?” I follow Mr. Smith’s gaze over my shoulder to find a man who looks to be only a few years older than me two barstools away. He is only having a water just as I am, which strikes me as odd.
I go through a whole list of questions and get all the answers I need within half an hour. Once I finish up my final question, I look back to Mr. Smith to find his forehead becoming sweaty.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he answers. “Listen, I am really honored that you came to ask me all this, but I was just wondering if we could wrap this up.”
I nod. “Yes, sir. I think I’m okay. I got everything I need.” I slide my camera bag over and ask him, “Would you like your picture taken?”
His smile grows, and he hops down to the ground. “Oh no, thank you. I’m sorry, it’s just that I have a date.” He puts his hat on and makes his way out of sight. I can’t help but chuckle at how nervous he seemed to be about being late.
I remain seated and sip my water for a bit. I watch the bartender take his glass and clean it out with soap and water, making sure not a single inch of it remains unwashed.
Everyone around me seems to be happy with their drinks. The sudden urge to try one of the colorful alcohols rises within me, but I shove it back away.
I am old enough to drink. The drinking age is eighteen, so why shouldn’t I? I’m not on the job anymore. I went and did what I was supposed to.
I’m not my dad. I’m not going to go overboard. I mean, worse comes to worse, I could just get one of the nonalcoholic ones.
“Hey.” The man two seats over from me gives me a small smile. “Are you freelance, or do you work for someone?”
“What?” I ask him, confused.
He chuckles and scoots one seat over to me. “The camera.” He points to my bag. “Do you work for yourself or someone else?”
“Oh, I work for someone else.”
“That’s what I thought.” He takes a sip of his water. “I assumed you were here to interview that guy rather than coming here to take pictures of the bar.” He looks around and smirks. “Though it is a very nice one.”
I chuckle, “Yeah. I didn’t know if he wanted his picture taken or not, so I brought it just in case.”
“I understand.” He extends his hand to me and smiles. “I’m Werner.”
I shake his hand and smile back. “Mavis.”
We let go, and he looks back to his drink. “I find that I take the best shot from above rather than from below.”
I nod. “Well, it depends.” I take a sip of my drink and look back to him. “There are some angles that work better for certain things.”
“Yeah?” He sips his water once again. “Like what
?”
“Well, I mean, I like taking photos of buildings from a low angle, you know? Buildings, certain plants, and most structures, I guess.”
He nods. “I see. Have you had any pictures published? Any I may know of?”
“I have had a few published in the newspaper, but not many.” My eyes catch a glimpse of a man at the very end of the bar looking in our direction. Werner turns around and notices the man as well. Rising to my feet, I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Werner.” I have to go and turn in the questions and my pictures.
“It was nice meeting you too. Maybe I will see you around sometime.”
I nod. “Hopefully.” I look over to the man at the end of the bar to see him grab his napkin off the counter and walk away.
I head out of the Palace and walk down the road until I am able to flag down a cab. When I finally get into a car, a large thundering roar echoes through the town.
The driver spins around and looks at me as I buckle in. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. After a moment of silence, I tell him my office’s address, and we take off. As we drive down the road, we are passed by what feels like dozens of first-responder vehicles heading the opposite way.
“Oh my,” the driver says to himself. “I really hope everyone is okay.”
I nod in agreement, but say nothing. I really hope so too.
Logan
I stand by John as everyone gathers around the hologram screen to listen to one of Oswald’s advisors address the nation.
“This heartless and vicious attack on the Palace killed ninety-eight people. There were no survivors. The forensic evidence confirms that this was a homemade bomb, and as of right now, we are assuming that this attack was the result of a Bestellen extremist. The three officials that were targeted and killed in the attack were Emily Hash, Terrance Parrott, and Janice Ludley. They were having a business meeting over dinner with …”