Dissidence

by Jamie Canosa

  ***

  The morning started with me presenting the idea of possible greater rewards to Syms and his staff of four men and one woman, all dressed in fancy-shmancy suits that had a way of making me feel wildly inadequate. None of them were happy to hear it, and when I didn’t have specifics to present them with, things just went downhill. It’s been nonstop arguing by everyone in the room for hours.

  President Syms refuses to flat out accept anything, Connor refuses to budge on anything, Peter has been taking opposing positions to everything Connor has to say, and my head is spinning like a top. It’s nearly dinner time, and not a single thing has been accomplished.

  “You can’t seriously expect us to be okay with you keeping those camps operational. They have to be shut down,” Connor demands for the billionth time today.

  “They don’t need to be shut down. They need to be manned differently. Make them a job people can be assigned to,” Peter argues, I think just for the sake of arguing.

  “That’s as bad as forcing them to work there. People don’t have a say over work assignments, you know that. It’s exactly the same thing, only without trying to hide it.”

  “It is not. There could be regular work hours, and weekends. People could go home at the end of the day.”

  That’s a pretty big difference, but I can see Connor’s point, too. Finally, maintenance won’t be the worst possible job out there anymore. Everyone is at each other’s throats. Half our group agrees with Connor, half with Peter, and they’re all still waiting to see where I stand.

  In my world, there are two people that I trust implicitly, just two. So what am I supposed to do when they are at odds about everything? It’s too much. The room starts feeling like it’s closing in on me, and the air is getting too thin. For a moment, I wonder if it’s some kind of trap, but then I realize I’m the only one feeling these effects. My chest feels tight, and I wonder if a heart attack would excuse me from any future meetings. Not likely.

  I can’t do this. Not now, not like this. How am I supposed to think with everyone staring at me, everyone waiting for me to pick a side, and no matter what I decide, I know I’ll be letting someone down? Without caring one bit what anyone thinks, I bail right there in the middle of the meeting. It was either that or have a breakdown right there in front of everyone.

  I can feel the irritating sting of tears building in my eyes as I plow down the hallway, looking for somewhere to hide. I just need to be alone for a minute, to catch my breath, to compose myself.

  Or not. As soon as I duck into a vacant conference room, a sob erupts from deep in my chest. No matter how much I swipe at them, the tears just keep coming. Why does it always have to come down to me? I wish someone would just tell me what to do. What do they expect from me?

  “Girlie?” I hear Connor inching his way, cautiously, into the room behind me. “You all right?”

  I try to compose myself enough to steady my voice before answering, but a heavy hand folds over my shoulder. “Kaleigh?”

  Before I can spout off some generic ‘I’m fine’ statement, he turns me around, revealing all of my glorious wretchedness. Snot and tears mingle on my blotchy red face with puffy eyes. His ever present mask slips, revealing the real Connor underneath. A Connor that’s usually hidden behind his easy smile and wry humor. A Connor that I’ve only glimpsed once or twice before.

  Without a word, his hand slides down my arm and around my waist as his other arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close. I bury my face in his chest, afraid of seeing the pity that I’m sure must be burning like wildfire in his eyes. The ache in my throat eases as I stop trying to hold back the tears. This is the second time this week I’ve cried on some boy’s shoulder. If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d be mortified.

  “It’s okay,” Connor coos, stroking my hair lightly. “Everything’s all right, Girlie.”

  I try and fail to accept his assurances. Connor continues to hold me until I’m able to compose myself enough to pull back slightly, and look up at him. The mask is still tucked away, leaving him looking nearly as vulnerable as I feel standing here in my post meltdown condition, wrapped in his strong arms.

  “I’m sure I’m a mess.” I try to lighten the mood with a little self-deprecating humor, but it falls short.

  Connor doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t even smile. He just shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re beautiful.”

  His confused and almost frightened gaze latches onto mine, and, before I can recognize what’s happening, his lips are on mine. Softly at first, as light as a feather, as though he’s testing the waters, but when I don’t pull away, he deepens the kiss, sealing his lips over mine. It’s still innocent, sweet and warm, and mind numbingly unexpected. That’s why I think I hesitate. For just this second, I don’t have to think about anything at all. Kissing Connor is like a momentary vacation for my brain. Then my blissful oblivion is shattered by the sound of footsteps.

  Chapter 32

  My senses come rushing back to me, and I push Connor away. I don’t mean it to be harsh, I’m just surprised. And, like things could get any worse, Peter’s standing in the doorway gaping at the two of us. Before I can string together enough coherent words to form a sentence, however, he’s gone again.

  “Connor I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t do this . . . not now,” I stammer, being the eloquent speaker that I am. “I just . . . with everything . . . I . . . I can’t.”

  If he understood any of that, he deserves a medal.

  “I understand.” Give the man a medal. “It’s all right.”

  He picks a stray hair from my damp cheek and tucks it behind my ear. I wish he wouldn’t do that, it’s very distracting.

  “But maybe you’d better go explain that to him.” He jerks his head towards the doorway where Peter’s just disappeared.

  Connor’s right. I should probably put that fire out before it really gets started, so before I have to say anything else, I make a beeline for the door. Peter isn’t difficult to find. He’s the only one in the halls besides the President’s guards, and they’re all dressed in black, so he sort of sticks out like a sore thumb in his light blue t-shirt and jeans.

  “Peter?”

  “What?” His voice is gruff, and he refuses to meet my eyes, making the situation all the more uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t mean . . . he surprised me . . . I just . . .” Great, here I go again.

  What does it matter to him, anyway? He can’t seriously believe I’ll side with Connor just because he kissed me. He should know me better than that. Besides, I’m not even sure what that kiss meant anyway, to him, to me, to anyone. I can feel the stinging sensation starting to build again behind my eyes, and I shut them to keep the tears at bay. The last thing I need is to look like some prissy crybaby in front of Peter, too. Despite my best efforts, though, one or two squeeze under my eyelids. I’m just so tired, I can’t fight them anymore. I’m so sick of fighting everything all the time.

  A warm finger brushes across my cheek bone, gently wiping away the evidence of my instability with a faint sigh. “What’s wrong, Leigh?”

  “What isn’t wrong, Peter?”

  “Touché.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, but, in a moment, it’s gone again.

  “Will it ever be over? Will life ever go back to normal?”

  “I don’t know.” He takes a step back. “Kaleigh, why did you come back for me? In the camp, I mean.”

  “Because, Peter, I couldn’t just leave you there. Not when it was my fault you got sent there in the first place. You know that.”

  “So, that’s it then, you came out of guilt?”

  “Peter, you’re my best friend.”

  “Is that all we’re ever going to be, Leigh? Friends?”

  And there it is. Suddenly, everything makes perfect sense, and I feel like I’ve been broadsided by a freight train. How did I not see that coming? Now what am I supposed to do? Like I didn’t have enough problems before. I star
t to stammer out some completely incoherent response, but Peter cuts me off.

  “It’s all right. I know I have the worst possible timing on the face of the planet. It’s just . . . seeing you back there . . . with him . . . I . . .” At least I’m not the only one here with speech issues at the moment.

  “Peter, I told you, Connor kissed me. He surprised me. That’s all.”

  “But, did you want him to? Did you kiss him back?”

  Did I? It all happened so quickly.

  “I don’t know.” I answer as honestly as I can. “Peter, I just don’t know. Everything is such a mess, and my brain is so fried right now, I just don’t know anything anymore.” I’m starting to sound slightly hysterical, but I can’t stop myself. “Everyone wants me to make decisions, and no one can agree on anything, and I have no idea what I’m doing, and I don’t know what the right answers are . . . about anything.”

  I’m breathing hard by the time my little rant wraps up. So much for not looking like a prissy crybaby. Peter moves closer so that he’s standing directly in front of me again. So close I can smell the soap he used in the shower this morning.

  “Okay, okay. All right.” He lays a hand on my shoulder to try and calm me before I hyperventilate or something. “Leigh, breathe. It’s all going to work out, okay?”

  I take a deep, slow breath, and a slight smile graces Peter’s lips, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “There. Better?”

  I nod, feeling more than a little foolish. Why does he always see me at my worst?

  “I know you’re under a lot of pressure in there, and I know I’m not making it any easier on you, and I’m sorry. You can do this, Leigh. We can do this. All of us, together, all right? It’s going to be fine.”

  “What if it isn’t?” I can barely hear my own words as I voice my greatest fear to him. “What if I mess this opportunity up for everyone?”

  “You won’t.” He sounds so confident. I don’t know how he can be, but it gives me courage. If Peter really believes that we can do this, then maybe we can.

  ***

  The next morning, things are still tense between all of us. At breakfast, Peter only nods hello, and then clears out as soon as his food is finished. Connor hasn’t made an appearance at all, and I can’t remember him ever missing a meal time. Great work, I’ve managed to alienate the two people I care most about in the world.

  I just wish we could forget about Connor kissing me and everything Peter said last night, but apparently those kinds of things are not easy to forget. In fact, I was up half the night thinking about them instead of what I should have been thinking about. I’ve never thought of either of them like that before. I’ve never allowed myself to because it was never an option. It’s still not an option. It’s not like any of us actually gets to choose who we spend our lives with. Cue ah-ha moment.

  We’re supposed to be meeting with Syms and his staff again later on today, for what I’m not sure . . . more arguing? Probably. After I finish my cereal, I head back to my room and stretch out on the bed. Before World War IV gets started in there, I need to make up my mind about a few things. Today, when people want my opinion, I’m going to have one to give them. And, if my thoughts keep going the way they’re going now, it’s going to be a doozy.

  The biggest point of contention yesterday was over the work camps. Syms was right—as loath as I am to admit it—we do still need the resources, and someone has to produce them, but Connor was right, too. The way they go about it is wrong and needs to change. I think Peter made the best point when he suggested it be made a regular paying job, but it would still really suck to get assigned there. Unless we could make it more appealing somehow, more pay, better hours, something. Then some people may actually want to work there. Why not let them? Why not let everyone work wherever they want? The suckier the job, the more it pays. Oh, I would have made a fortune as a cashier.

  And why stop there? Syms already told us that they use the assignments as a way to control the population because they lack any real control, but if we return the military to him, then he won’t need that anymore. Why not allow everyone to make their own decisions about everything? Where they live, who they marry. I’m on a roll now, and there’s no stopping me, but it makes sense . . . to me, anyway.

  Convinced I have come up with the perfect solution to make everyone happy, I saunter into the meeting room with an idiot grin plastered on my face. They all look ready to fight already, but I squash that with a quick tap of the papers I’m carrying. Peter shoots me a questioning glance as I make my way around the room, but I just hand him one and move on. It took two hours to write them all, and I think I may have carpal tunnel syndrome now, but it’s worth it when the room plunges into silence as everyone reads.

  “If we’re going to do this, then we need to be sure that those of us who can’t fight will be protected. We have elderly people and kids from a colony that tried to help us, and a few injured. They’ll all need some place safe to go, and some may require medical care.” I lay my last point out verbally, assuming he can’t possibly argue with that one.

  “We’ll do what we can for those who need care. These are some good ideas, and we can discuss the implementation of some of them . . .”

  “No, not some of them,” Peter interrupts, “all of them.”

  “You can’t possibly expect . . .” Syms begins again.

  “But we do,” Connor insists.

  Syms’ staff plunges into the debate, and suddenly, everyone’s shouting again. The room erupts into chaos, and I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.

  “Enough!” I shout to be heard over the ruckus. Did I seriously just shout at the President and his staff? “No disrespect, Mr. President, but this is ridiculous. They gave everything to Perman because he had something they needed. Now, we have what you need, and you think you can negotiate every little point. We may not be soldiers, or businessmen, or anything like that, but we’re not as dumb as you seem to think we are, either. You know what we have to offer you, and you know what we want in return. You can take it or leave it, but I’m done negotiating.”

  I turn on my heel and head for the door before they can decide to have me arrested. Is it even legal to talk to the President like that? Apparently my big mouth hasn’t completely abandoned me.

  Besides the dining hall and the meeting room, the only other place I know how to find in this maze of a complex is my bedroom, so I head there. I wonder if they’ll decide to just let Perman deal with me after all, send me back to another work camp. In that case, I could just escape again, or maybe start another rebellion. Then again, the only other option would probably be to kill me, and put me out of their misery. That thought takes away some of my steam, and I slump down on my bed.

  Not ten minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. I thought it would take longer than that to decide what to do with me. Must not have been a difficult decision. Hell, they really are going to kill me. But when I open the door, it’s not guards waiting to take me away to a firing squad. It’s only Peter.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, anxiously twisting my fingers into a pretzel.

  “I’m not sure. After your outburst back there, they decided none of us were necessary any longer if there weren’t going to be any more negotiations, so they kicked us all out. I think they’re trying to decide what to do now.”

  “What to do with me, you mean. They probably want to shoot me.”

  “Well, I’d only let that happen if they offered me the gun.”

  “Hey.” I’m not really feeling the love in here.

  “I’m only teasing, Leigh.” I study his sneakers, which are toe to toe with mine. “Hey, look at me.” His voice is serious, demanding my obedience. If that wasn’t enough, a finger slips under my chin and tips my head gently back, until I’m looking at him full in the face. “I will never let anyone hurt you again.” His gaze drops to my still bruised cheek for a moment before returning to mine. “Never.”

  I swallow hard
against the lump forming in my throat. His stare is so intense that I don’t know what to say. Luckily, I don’t have to say anything, because after a moment, he releases my gaze and takes a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you now. I was . . . I was just afraid of losing my shot before I ever took it. But if you can hold off making any decisions, then maybe we can talk more about it when this is all over?”

  I’m still at a loss for words—not a common problem for me—so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “The only decision I’m making right now is what to eat for dinner.”

  My stomach has been rumbling for the past hour, and now that I’m slightly less convinced I’m going to die, my appetite is returning with a vengeance.

  “Good.” He laughs, and I can’t describe what a relief it is to see him smile.

  Now that that’s settled, we just have a President to convince to agree to our terms, and an attack to plan. No sweat.

  ***

  It takes Syms three whole days to reach his decision. He and his cronies must have had a lot to discuss. Either that, or the choice was simple, and he was just punishing me with the stress of having to wait to hear it. If it’s the second, he does an excellent job, because I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown—another nervous breakdown—by the time he invites us back to the conference room.

  Connor shoots me a sly smile when I come into the room. Mostly he’s gone back to acting like nothing ever happened between us, but he always looks like there’s something he’s just dying to say. Whatever it is, he hasn’t said it yet. I know he’s trying to cut me some slack, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

  We take our seats, opposite the President and his team who are already seated. Something about the looks on their faces gives me hope . . . that is, until Syms opens his mouth. “Don’t you understand? The strategic unions work. There hasn’t been a single physical confrontation between the colonies in a hundred years. It works better than just the threat of greater force alone.”