by Hannah Ross
When her stomach rumbled, she realized she really was hungry. Lunch was a very light affair in anticipation of the ball, and she missed the splendid supper that was to be served. Where should I eat? She cast a dubious glance up and down the dark street and saw a hamburger joint, a small pizza parlor, and a shabby all-night café. Mother would faint at the notion of me eating at one of these places. The thought made the corners of her mouth curl up. The Dahls ate at home, alone or with guests, though sometimes they dined out, generally at the Van Wullens'. A few times, they all went to some select restaurant where a social event was thrown in honor of the President.
Priscilla's stomach again insisted on sustenance, and after a few more moments' deliberation, she decided on the pizza parlor.
The place was small and dingy, with sharp-angled square tables covered with chipped Formica, but the delicious smell of warm bread enveloped her. She closed the door behind her and took a few steps inside, trying to look as natural as possible. A few people looked up at her, but to Priscilla's relief, none paid her any attention. At least nobody's pointing and yelling, "Hey look! There's the President's daughter. She must have run off!" And it's not very crowded. Maybe that's good. A few people finished their dinner and were talking, with dried crusts and smears of tomato sauce left on old, thin plastic plates. Someone called for a beer. A slim, gum-chewing girl was clearing a table. It looks like it's about to close for the night. Will they even serve me?
She shrugged off her backpack and settled into a seat at one of the tables. A rotund, efficient-looking woman with a bun of dyed blonde hair stepped out from behind the counter and approached her.
"You're in luck. We're just taking the last pizzas out of the oven. There's plain and pepperoni. What'll it be?"
"Um… plain, please." Priscilla hoped she didn't look as though the whole situation was a complete novelty to her. For a moment she envied the carefree ease of the girl emptying ash-trays and collecting paper cups a few tables away. "And an orange soda, if you have it."
Two minutes later, the woman placed before her a plate with a generous slice of pizza, along with a can of soda. Then she retreated into the kitchen, where a gushing faucet filled a three-bay sink full of pots and pans that were being scrubbed at the end of a long day. A boy's voice yelled, "Look where you're goin'! I nearly slipped!"
The scents of tomato sauce, basil, and melted cheese wafting up from the plate made Priscilla's stomach rumble again. She picked up her slice, took a tentative bite, and was pleasantly surprised. "Mmm." This is good, simple food, like what Tilly used to make for us when we were little.
She took another bite, and another, and cleared her plate in minutes. Then she leaned back, flicked open her can of soda, and sat sipping and thinking. Where should I go next? The city looks big and rambling, but Father keeps everything under control. And he has the security force and police at his disposal. Once he realizes I'm gone and sets them into motion, I don't stand a chance. Nobody can get away from him. Besides, even if I managed to hide here, there's the question of money. I have no idea of how much things cost. I suppose I have enough to live cheaply somewhere for a while, but what will I do when the money runs out? I need a place to lie low. Someplace where I won't be discovered, where I can earn a living for a time. But who would hire a sixteen-year-old with no papers and no experience or skills? If I go around looking for a job, I'll probably be turned in to the police before I can blink.
She mulled it over until the solution hit her. I'll cross the Boundary! In the past two years, since restrictions were eased, a thin trickle of pioneers made their way out of the overpriced, over-crowded Islands into the wild open country beyond, ignoring the ever-present threat of pollution, re-settling old towns and repairing old farmhouses. I suppose all sorts of crackpots live there, but all things considered, that's my best chance. The police don't cross the Boundary unless it's unavoidable, and the farms and settlements are scattered. I can easily hide out there.
A loud, "You up for some more?" startled her out of her thoughts. It was the blonde woman again. She had taken off her apron and was standing next to the table, staring down at the empty plate with a satisfied look. "It was good, eh? I only serve what's good and fresh. And only use real cheese. None of that fake plastic stuff for me, thank you very much. That's why the place is always full. Not at this hour, of course, but you can hardly get a table for lunch. So… You want another slice?"
"Yes, please, and another soda." Priscilla looked around at the empty, darkened parlor. How long have I been sitting here thinking?
The rest of the staff having been dismissed, the woman strode into the kitchen and returned with two more slices of the excellent pizza. "Eat up," she said as she set them down. "We don't keep leftovers anyway, and you look like you could use some food."
Priscilla smiled, recalling the lavish brunches, sumptuous tea trays, and seven-course suppers of Silver Oaks. "Thanks. I am kind of hungry."
The blonde woman seemed to be in no hurry. She lowered herself into a chair opposite Priscilla, and it groaned in protest under her weight. She rested one elbow upon the table and propped her chin upon her hand. Her long nails were painted fuchsia, and the small metal name tag on her vast bosom read Cindy.
"It's late for a girl to be out alone."
Priscilla shrugged before deciding she could risk a small degree of openness. Besides, the woman reminded her of Tilly, with her stout, motherly, down-to-earth manner.
Cindy nodded. "Problems with your folks, huh?"
"You could say that."
She looked at the backpack. "So where are you headed?"
Priscilla took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into water. It's alright. She doesn't know me, and I have to ask someone. As casually as she could, she asked, "You wouldn't happen to know the quickest way to get across the Boundary?"
Cindy's heavily outlined eyebrows rose a notch. "Across the Boundary? And what might a decent-looking girl like you go there for?"
"My aunt and uncle live at one of the new settlements. I'm going to stay with them for a while."
Cindy looked surprised. "I'd never have guessed someone like you might have relatives in those parts, but I suppose every family has its quirks."
"What do you mean, someone like me?"
"Nice. Quiet. Clean and smart-looking. I know people, kid, and I know the sort that goes across the Boundary. And I'm not the type to stick my nose into other people's business, but if I were you, girly, I'd go back home, unpack that bag, and go to school Monday morning." When Priscilla said nothing, she shrugged her massive shoulders and went on. "But if you're dead set on going there, you can buy a bus ticket. Wait, do you have a pass?"
Priscilla felt her stomach fill with lead. I don't believe I forgot about the pass!
Cindy read the answer in her face. "No pass, huh? Well, then, your best bet would be to go to the big truck parking lot over on the West side, and ask around. Some trucks go across the Boundary every day carrying supplies and such. Ask one of the drivers for a lift. They usually don't mind a bit of company along the road. Be nice. Buy them a coffee or something. With some luck you'll pass through. Things aren't like they used to be. Usually if it's a truck they'll only ask the driver to show his papers at the Crossing."
"How come you know all this stuff?"
Cindy sighed. "I have a nephew who's no good. He went there and back with those truck drivers many times. But it's different with him. He's a strong boy and used to roughing it. Someone like you, though…" Her head shook. "Will you be all right?"
"I'll manage." She tried to project a confidence she didn't feel.
A few minutes later, she left Cindy's pizza parlor, clutching a brown paper bag filled with leftover garlic bread and Cheese Wheels. In an all-night store she picked up a container of chocolate milk. Then she found a small cheap motel where nobody asked her for her name, only for payment in advance before the sleepy receptionist behind the desk gave her a tarnished key. The room was small and dingy, with
a lingering scent of cigarette smoke, but Priscilla relished the sense of freedom. She sat cross-legged on the bed, eating Cheese Wheels and drinking chocolate milk and watching shows on TV until she felt sleepy enough to doze off on the narrow, lumpy bed.
2
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Sunday, March 16
As the first grey light of dawn broke, Ben stood outside the barn, looking out over the stream and hills beyond, happy to think the past week of warming weather meant spring finally arrived. Mornings were still frosty, but sunny days left only thin patches of snow here and there that would likely disappear entirely if today's sky was as cloudless as yesterday's.
"Yes, I'll go with you," said a voice behind him. "Jimmy Stone will, too."
"Go where?"
A few more steps brought Tom alongside his life-long friend. "Are you seriously going to stand there and pretend you don't want to saddle up right this minute and race to see Raven?"
Ben sighed. "I do, but—"
"But nothing. You've been moping around for weeks and frankly, I think a lot of folks will be happy to see you go so you can come back happy as you always do after vising the Ravens. Spring's here. Traveling's not a danger anymore. So how about I help you with the milking, we eat our fill of whatever Gabby's cooking this morning, and then saddle up and get going."
"The horses are out of shape. We'll have to take it easy."
"I know. I figure we can ride and walk until dusk, overnight in the cave, and reach their winter camp sometime tomorrow afternoon."
"Sounds like a plan. C'mon. The girls' udders are probably ready to burst."
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Priscilla's nerves tingled as the rising sun woke her. I have to hurry. Cindy said most truck drivers prefer to leave early, and I have to get a ride with one of them. The police must be looking for me by now. Though if I know my father, he'll make sure the press doesn't find out, so I won't see any posters with my face underneath the word "MISSING". I hope.
In the early morning chill, she stood at the edge of the enormous parking lot, watching it come alive. Some drivers were brisk and efficient, checking their cargo and preparing to set off. Some stood milling around, drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting. Priscilla appraised the various figures, wondering who was most likely to give her a lift without asking awkward questions.
A few rejections and suspicious glances later, she had the good luck to stumble upon Matt, a cheerful, almost bald, thickset man of about thirty-five. The little hair he still had was gathered in a thin ponytail at the back of his head. He wore mud-colored khaki pants and a faded T-shirt with cracked and peeling letters that read Victoria Springs Island Resort.
"I used to work for them," he explained in response to her raised eyebrows. "A fine place, but one hellish job. I'm much better off now, ferrying stuff back and forth across the Boundary."
To Priscilla's relief, Matt did not pry into her story. He thought himself clever enough to deduce it. "Running away from school, are we?" His tone permitted no contradiction. "Can't blame you. I used to do that myself when I was your age. Only crossing the Boundary wasn't an option back then, and there were precious few places to run to. But no matter. I never went back for my senior year, and that's that. No regrets, either. I've been independent ever since."
"So you'll give me a lift?" she asked, just to make absolutely clear.
"Sure. The Border Patrol guys rarely raise a fuss anymore unless you look real suspicious. They won't pay no mind to a slip of a girl like you. But what, if I might ask, do you plan on doing out there?"
"I have some relatives I'm going to." She smiled, but could tell Matt wasn't entirely convinced, even though he didn't press the point. Instead, he swung open the cabin door and made a generous, welcoming gesture.
"Hop in, then." He climbed in after her, slamming the door so hard as to make the whole cabin shake. Then he turned the radio dial, passing over a catchy tune, a news report, and a basketball game. Suddenly, as if struck by an unexpected thought, he turned off the radio altogether.
"Hey. You haven't told me your name yet."
A name! So simple and obvious, yet she hadn't thought of it before.
Priscilla always hated her name. It had such a bulky, old-fashioned sound. As a little girl, she yearned for a simple and pleasant-sounding name that would roll easily off the tongue. She often fantasized about exchanging Priscilla for Grace or Kate or Anne – something short and to the point. When her mother vetoed the idea, she spent a few weeks trying to make people call her by her middle name, the one that sprang to mind.
"Nell," she said, settling back against the worn, faded fabric of the truck seat. "My name is Nell."
* * *
Priscilla sat and waited quietly each of the three times Matt stopped to make deliveries before they approached the Boundary. As he predicted, the guards at the crossing paid her no mind.
After his initial chattiness, he fell into silence as she stared at the wild countryside that was unlike anything she ever saw before. A few minutes after she noticed the condition of the road improved, she saw the town ahead.
"This is Resurrection Town, my final stop," he said as he braked in front of a small general store. "Was nice meeting you, Nell."
She nodded, reached for her backpack, and stepped down from the cabin. "Thanks for the lift, Matt. I really appreciate it."
He gave her a look of sudden doubt. "Look here. You'll be fine, right?"
"Of course. My uncle lives just a little way out of town. I'm sure I'll find someone to drive me over to his farm."
"Right." Matt nodded. "Well, good luck, Nell."
A worker hurried out of the shop and, together with Matt, began unloading boxes of flour, oats, jams, preserves, sugar, soap, shampoo, and toilet paper. Earlier, as they drove, Matt told her that as a general rule, the cross-Boundary settlements were able to provide pretty well for themselves when it came to milk, eggs, meat, fruit, and vegetables, which surprised her.
She watched them work for a few minutes before she raised her right arm in farewell, turned, and walked down the street. Despite preparing herself, she felt a small pang of loneliness. The drive in Matt's truck was long and companionable. Twice, they stopped for coffee, and once for burgers and fries, for which she insisted on paying. Now she felt how very much on her own she was.
The town was like no place she saw before. The houses and buildings were an interesting mix of pre-War restorations and new structures, hastily and cheaply put together. It looked pitiful in a way, but overall, there was a vigorous air all around. The streets were filled with bustling people and the steady hum of working men, and she soon realized it felt more than just different. It was like being abroad, like the time her father took the family on an official visit to Switzerland, one of the very few nations that suffered no destruction during the War. She was sure no one would look for her here. But what on earth would she do with herself?
A twinge of hunger reminded her it was time for lunch. A quick scan of the main street yielded only one food establishment, Pat's Diner, which was full of workers consuming their meatballs and beans, or sausages and mash, in a hurried, concentrated way. Priscilla edged her way to an empty table at the back and sat down as quietly and inconspicuously as she could. Looks like I'm the only teenager in the place.
A harried-looking waitress came over to take her order. Tired of eating fries, she said, "I'll take a portion of chicken and baked beans. And an orange juice."
When the waitress set down her order, Priscilla looked into the contents of her glass. Diluted concentrate. And this has to be made with local water from the rivers or lakes or wells out here. Could it be tainted by pollution from the War? Do they filter it? It would probably seem weird if I asked. The people here must drink this stuff all the time, though. I guess there's no choice. She took a cautious sip and found it tasted normal. Then she tried a bite of the chicken and smiled. Just the wa
y I like it. No strange spices and just enough salt to bring out the flavor.
When she finished her meal, she walked to the counter, which served as a bar, cash register, and book-keeping station combined. Pat, a puffing, fat, middle-aged man, stood there pouring beer for the workmen and yelling orders to someone in the kitchen. Despite the strength of his voice, she doubted anyone heard him, as the clatter of pots and pans was unbelievable.
"Excuse me," she said.
Pat tore his eyes away from a ledger of columns and numbers and shot her an annoyed look, much like her father used to do when she was little and interrupted his peace in the upstairs office.
"Yes?" The man's tone all but spelled you better be quick.
Priscilla spoke louder, so her voice might be heard above the clatter and din from the kitchen and the hubbub of men clamoring for beer. "I was wondering if you need an extra worker around here."
Pat stuck a toothpick between his front teeth. "Nope. I got no vacancies. This here is a family business. Me and my wife and our two daughters are doing just fine by ourselves. I can't afford hired help. And if I could, I wouldn't hire you. No offense, but you don't look strong enough, and you don't move quick enough."
"Do you know anyone who is looking for help around here?"
Pat spared her one last glance as he refilled a tankard with beer. "You might want to try Fred's Farm Supplies, down the street."
Fred's Farm Supplies was less of a madhouse, and Fred, to Priscilla's great dismay, proved more perceptive than Pat. Tall and lanky, he peered at her from behind square horn-rimmed spectacles.
"No," he said, his voice kind but firm. "I'm afraid I can't hire you."