I chuckle. It’s a sickly sound. “I don’t know. I’m just...I’m tired, I guess.” Overwhelmed. “In fact,” I stand and run my hands through my hair, “I think I’m going to go upstairs. Try to get my head straight.”
Figure out what the hell my next step is.
Dad’s brows rise in surprise. “Oh, okay. Can I get you anything?”
I shake my head and turn to the steps. Before I reach them, Dad calls my name.
“By the way, your mailbox lit up earlier this morning. You may want to check it out.”
Nodding, I walk over to the TV. I tap the screen and various boxes come up. I hit the one that says D. Archer Mail. All my emails pop up—well, the last hundred of them at least. I read the subject lines of the three most current. One is from Pitt Medical, one is from Penn State. And one is from PMAA. I open that email, and as I read the words—kind, congratulatory words, words I’ve wanted to read for the last five years of my life—something inside me twists and clenches.
Dear Mr. Archer:
We received your test scores, teacher recommendation letters, and essays and it is with great excitement that we offer you a place in the PMAA family as a Pre-Surg I. Please click here for salary and benefits package. Orientation is November 13, 2054 at 9 AM, where world-renowned surgeon Alex Bartone will begin onsite training.
It’s strange. This letter is all I ever wanted, but now it suddenly doesn’t seem so important. It’s the key to my future, but it doesn’t seem all that bright anymore. It’s been the goal I strived for and now that I’ve achieved it, I’ve never felt more hollow.
I don’t know how long I stand there, my mind blank and riotous all at once. It’s only when I feel a hand on my shoulder that I snap out of my haze. I look over. Dad is beside me, his eyes on mine. He’d never read my mail but I can tell, from the look in his eyes, he knows what I just saw.
Dad asks, “Do you want me to write them? Explain what happened? Maybe they’ll give you an extension.”
I lower my gaze. My fingers brush against the small item that's still in my pocket. Recited words float through my head.
I love your laugh. I promise to work as hard as I can to hear that laugh as often as I can. Victoria…
“No,” I answer. “You don’t have to do that.”
My love for you was instant.
“Derek, you can still do this. You can still move out, take that job, and…” He trails off, an embarrassed look crossing his face as I meet his gaze, as he realizes what he was about to say, and what he couldn’t.
I nod. “You’re right. I could still do everything you said…”
My feelings won’t ever change.
“…but it wouldn’t mean anything.”
“It would mean something,” he says.
“No, Dad. Because she won’t be a part of it.”
Will you marry me?
VICTORIA
It's hot. My sweat soaks my clothes until I feel like they're disintegrating, tearing, like water weighing down a Kleenex. I curl myself in a ball and cry. I can't stop crying. And it's dirty. The ground beneath all this hay is nothing but dirt. And it smells like urine and body odor and that's when I realize what the hay is for. Like some rodent’s cage, it's my bedding and my bathroom. The thought makes me jerk up and wipe at my face more and more and more and harder and harder and harder until my skin cracks and my face bleeds and I tear myself to pieces.
DEREK
Internet curfew is three in the morning. And when I can no longer look up every article and post, comment, and mention on The Corps I can find (which, unfortunately, isn’t a lot), I pull up a blank word document and start typing. I begin with the moment I finished my test to the moment I hugged Dad goodnight just a few hours ago. And then I read it, over and over, as if I magically wrote down something I hadn’t known before. I read it over and over, until I finally fall asleep at the keys.
VICTORIA
Daybreak. Heartbreak.
Jace comes in with a woman with brown hair. He nods at me, then leaves. The woman extends a black dress to me. It's the brightest, boldest color in this tear-stained room.
And she says: Get dressed.
And she tells me: We need to be in the car by ten.
And she tells me: The funeral starts at eleven.
And the heat and the smells and the dirt all go away.
Nothing matters after that.
DEREK
Funerals have, for the most part, remained the same in the last thirty years. The biggest difference now is that everyone is cremated. It was deemed too hazardous to the world for a coffin and all its metals and brass to be buried. Government agreed. So now it's cremation.
The funeral is at William’s house. I’ve never been there before. I plug the address into Dad's GPS and we all ride over together. Mom gets incredibly car sick, so she lies in back with a damp cloth over her eyes. I sit in the passenger seat, only half-listening to Dad as he talks about baseball. Apparently the Pirates are in their eighteenth straight winning season.
No, as we pass miles and miles of trees and green, I can only think of one thing.
Victoria.
<><><>
“Here by yourself?”
She’s gorgeous. The eyes, the lips, the nose, the hair. The sum of the parts is breathtaking, to be sure, but each part is its own thing of beauty. I’m still trying to formulate a reply when she sits down on the couch beside me. Just like that, the party around us fades away, the music and laughter and talking all seems to hush. It’s like a camera zoomed in on us, and everything else is darkness.
“My name’s Victoria.”
I nod. She raises an eyebrow and that’s when I suddenly, mortifyingly realize she’s waiting for me to answer back.
“Derek. Derek Archer.”
“Well, Derek Derek Archer, are you here by yourself?”
I lick my dry lips, my mind racing to find the coolest answer to the simplest yes or no question. It’s suddenly imperative that I impress this girl. It’s all I want to do, and I have a feeling, it will be all I’ll ever want to do.
“No,” I finally say. “I’m here with a friend…who’s, uh, around…somewhere.” I chuckle, though it sounds more like a wheezy, dying sigh. I clear my throat. “How about you? Are you here by yourself?”
“My friends left me for a beer run. I’m here by my lonesome, which is why I came up to you.”
“Oh?” Smooth.
“Yeah. To be honest, I saw you the minute you walked in."
"Oh?" Jesus. Kill me.
"Mmm-hmm. I took one look at you and knew I wanted your attention.”
"Oh—uh," I clear my throat. "Why’s that?”
Her grin is small, but her expression is pure confidence. “Because I knew it would delight me.”
I feel like I’m suddenly freefalling, like the couch beneath me just disappeared. It’s baffling and bewildering and exhilarating as hell.
“You’re very direct,” I say.
“I go after what I want.”
“Do you always get it?”
“No one’s turned me down yet.”
“You know,” I say, taking in the loveliness, the focus, the pure fierceness of her features, “a part of me thinks no one ever will.”
“I feel the same way.” And she winks at me. “For their sake more than mine.”
She touches my arm, her skin soft as velveteen, and she laughs at the next thing I say. We talk all night, neither one of us realizing when the party was over.
VICTORIA
My wrists hurt. The handcuffs are too tight. And my legs are sore. The metal bar in front of me that I am cuffed to makes it impossible to sit comfortably. And the soldier beside me smells like sour cream. Tears freefall from my face but I can't reach up to wipe them away. The thick strap across my chest and shoulders make it impossible to move. Sobs explode from my mouth and wrack my body like machine gun fire. I gasp for breath.
Jace is in the front passenger's seat. He looks at me. I shu
t my eyes against a burst of pain in my chest. And that's when I feel it. Cool, soft, dry. It sweeps delicately across my cheeks.
I open my eyes just in time to see Jace put his handkerchief back in his pocket.
DEREK
William's house is not as big as Mr. King's, but it's still large enough for a General Motors factory to take up residence in very nicely. Victoria's talked about it before. Apparently, there's a downstairs apartment—whatever that means—in addition to the rest of the house’s three bathrooms and six bedrooms. Why all the space for a guy and his wife, I'll never know. But unlike Mr. King's house, William obviously has more, um, modern taste in designing. If Mr. King's house was decorated circa 1800's England, then William's was something out of Spaceship Interiors. Lots of chrome, lots of steel, lots of glass.
I hate it.
My parents and I move toward the back of the house to the kitchen. There's already a huge throng of people milling about or huddled on couches, sharing their grief. So far, I know no one. I haven't seen the casket yet either. No idea where it could be at this point and a part of me absolutely dreads when I have to see it. Another part of me is saying suck it up, that's what you're here for. And another part of me…another part of me just wants to collapse, fall asleep, and have someone wake me when it’s over. There’s an unreal, dream-like quality about this whole thing, and if not for the shooting pain in my head and heart, I could almost believe it was just that. A dream. A nightmare.
Finally, a familiar face: William. God, the family resemblance is so strong the recoil of a shotgun blast would be less painful. The same brown eyes, the same chestnuts-roasting-over-an-open-fire hair that is somehow always styled as if he stepped out of a magazine cover for Yuppie International. The same cheekbones, the same facial planes, the same lips. Everyone, and I mean everyone, agrees that little William K. is the spitting image of his father, and isn't he so, so lucky?
Sure, lucky. Great word. That's exactly what I would call William right now. Luckiest guy on earth.
I mean, he may be an asshole. He may be angry and curt. But I can't help but feel sorry for him. He's burying his father today. I make my way over to him. Whispers light the way like streetlights:
What will happen to Mr. King's company?
Will William take over?
Where's the daughter?
Second one in two months. Ridiculous.
Something needs to be done here.
I still don't understand what happened.
“William,” I say, extending my hand, “I'm sorry. Despite what happened yesterday....I am sorry for everything.”
He accepts it and shakes it once. He nods. “Thank you.”
Robin, his wife, comes up to us then. She's William's antithesis in every way and it's probably why they've managed to stay married for so long. In fact, she kind of reminds me of Victoria. Whereas William can be closed off, Robin is an open book, and she encourages others to be the same way. William doesn't laugh easily; Robin laughs all the time. William can make you feel lower than scum when he pierces you with his eyes; Robin's aqua-colored ones have a way of making you feel welcome, as if you are old friends.
“Robin,” I say as I envelop her in a hug. When we step back, she wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I'm sorry,” she says. Her eyes are beet red, and she is wiping at her face. “I can't quit crying.”
“It's perfectly okay. Don't apologize.”
“I just can't stand that Victoria isn't here. She should be here. The doctors aren't letting her go.”
“The doctors?” I ask with a frown.
“Yeah. You'd think they'd understand since this is her father's funeral, but they don't care. It's all about insurance for them.”
I'm about to ask what the hell she means but then William leans in and whispers in her ear. I can't make out what he says, but she nods and then leaves. I look at William quizzically but then it hits me.
“You haven't told her.”
“I haven't told anyone.” He adds quietly, “I hope you haven't either.”
“No. I've kept it to myself, except my parents. They won't say anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Then I ask, “What excuse did you tell Robin about Victoria?”
William's iBullet goes off. He quickly silences it. “She has malaria.”
I blink. “Malaria?” Even though the disease made a comeback in 2043 (I studied it, as well as small pox and polio and a bunch of others, during sophomore year) it still sounds ridiculous. But I guess all lies sound ridiculous when you know the truth.
Finally losing some of his composure, he says, “Robin is my wife. I'll tell her when I want and how I want.” He steps close to me and angles his body so we're shoulder to shoulder. He turns his head. “No one needs to know my sister is being charged for my father's murder. No one. Do I make myself clear?”
“Why isn't she here, really?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“She should be allowed to say goodbye.”
He steps away from me then and joins Robin, who is talking with my parents. I shake my head; I can't help it. Just when I'm feeling the most empathetic towards the guy, he goes and does something like this and I'm pissed at him all over again.
I'm about to turn away, but that's when I see someone approach William. He looks vaguely familiar. I move closer. (Yeah, call me nebby.) William and the man head through the glass double-doors leading out onto the side lawn. I can't hear what they're saying, but judging by their body language, it's not about ice skating. I've never seen William look so tense—and that’s saying something. He shakes his head over and over. He runs his hand through his hair. Finally, he steps back. He raises his arms as if in defeat and walks away. The man turns back toward the glass doors. As he opens them, he meets my gaze. Like a deer in headlights, I can't look away, I can't move. I can only stand stock-still as he approaches me.
Captain Pearce.
DEREK
“Derek, don't say my name, don't talk.”
I do a double-take. The accent is gone. He sounds just like everyone else. He's practically unrecognizable in his civilian clothes. It’s weird, like when I saw my o-chem teacher at the mall and out of his natural habitat. But that air of authority still lingers around Captain Pearce and he’s still got that posture. Now, he just looks a bit more, uh, non-threatening. That is, until I get a close up look at his face. Dark circles are under his blood shot eyes. There’s a bit of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. I believe the word I’m looking for here is: turbulent. Whatever is going on with him, it’s not anything easy. Considering he’s the captain of one of the world’s most controversial armies, I guess that’s par for the course though.
“Walk with me,” he says, already heading back outside. I follow him to the edge of the lawn. Finally, he turns to me and, in his real accent, says, “Yes, she's here.”
Relief rushes through me and just as quickly, excitement fills me up. I practically sag to the floor. “Can I see her?”
“Derek, let me stress that no one here knows what happened. Mr. King has been extremely clear that the facts of the case must remain under wraps.”
Mr. King? Oh, he means William.
“Victoria is here with me, under the guise that I am her doctor. Her cover story is that she contracted malaria the night she came into the hospital with her father. As you know, there are different types of the disease, but for our purposes it's a mild case.”
“Just enough to keep her away from people, but not bad enough to force her into quarantine.”
“That's right.” He furtively glances around, as if making sure no one can overhear him. Satisfied it's just us, he says, “Victoria is here to say goodbye. That's it. She's not here to talk to anyone. She's not here for people to pay their respects to. Do I make myself clear?”
“So what are you saying? I can't talk to her?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying, yes.”
My shoulde
rs slump. I shut my eyes. I shift on my feet, grind my teeth. I feel like he just showed me paradise and then burned the bridge to get to it. The urge to just plow over him and find Victoria is so strong I can actually feel my weight start to shift, my eyes open to sketch out the exits. Captain Pearce can't be everywhere at once. I mean, there are so many people here, I could easily slip out. I could find a way to get to Victoria. Someone must’ve driven her here, so I could sneak into the car that drove her; hell, I could pretend to be the driver. Or maybe I just grab her and go, run like the devil is chasing us, and never look back. Hope blooms in my chest. Or maybe...
“Derek,” he says, “You don't want to do anything rash right now. Do you understand?”
His voice brings me back to reality. The gravity of it, the seriousness. And there's something even darker twisted in the syllables that I'm not sure how to decipher. My gaze flickers from him to the people still in the house. I can't see my parents anymore. I look back at Captain Pearce. Some of the desperate urge to bulldoze over him is gone.
He nods. “Wise decision.”
Captain Pearce goes inside. I lean my head back, letting a cool breeze wrap around me. I breathe in and out several times, just trying to clear my head. It doesn't work.
I open my eyes and a bright light shines right in them. I squint and blink, unprepared for such concentrated light. I glance up to see what caused it. My breath is taken away.
Four snipers are on the roofs of surrounding buildings, their guns trained on every exit.
VICTORIA
The guest bedroom is smaller than I remember. Or maybe that’s because I was so young last time I was here. William had just bought the house, but since Robin had to go out of town for a work emergency, he had to move in by himself. Now, if you ask him, it was my idea to sleep over, to check out the new place. But the truth is, he asked me. Because the truth is, for all his poise and polish, my big brother was terrified of being alone in a strange new house.
Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series) Page 6