“Can you make Jalay blind?”
The agent huffed and replied, “Of course I can. Will I? No. You can’t just go blinding people for no good reason. We do try to keep a low profile.” A pause. “Jalay Chapman,” he recited from memory. “I met him yesterday. Squat kid, right?”
“More like fat-ass,” said Russo. “Why’d you talk to him?”
“It was part of my search for Deron Bishop.”
Russo flashed on the first meeting between him and Agent Ruiz, to the picture he had held up of Deron. At the time, it seemed like a fair question. But based on what he knew now, it no longer seemed necessary. “You know where I am, right? How?”
In the portal, the agent tapped the back of his neck.
“Then—”
“Why don’t I go pick up Deron Bishop wherever he is? Because there’s something wrong with that boy.”
“No shit,” agreed Russo.
“With his Guardian chip, I mean. It went off the grid on Sunday. No one noticed until his mother called the locals. By then, there was no trace of him. Until last night.”
Russo widened his eyes, prompting for more information.
“He pops up intermittently now, but we can’t trust the data because at one point, it showed him outside the walls. And no one goes outside the walls.”
“Why not?”
Agent Ruiz sighed. “The signal only reaches so far. If you’re not on a networked road, the veneer stops working. Could you imagine what that would do to someone who had depended on it all their lives?”
It sounded like a challenge. “We should do that,” said Russo, unable to stop himself. “We should bring the whole damn thing to the ground!”
“And strike two,” said Ruiz.
“Shit, don’t shake your head at me! You’re the one that can’t find one little boy even with a tracking chip in his neck. I don’t even know why I’m listening to you anymore.”
“Because you know the alternative.” His voice was surprisingly stern. Something flashed on his veneer, replacing the slight anger with a friendly façade. “Besides, I think Deron would be a great test mission for you. All you have to do is bring him in and your acceptance into the program is assured. Why is that funny?”
Russo considered the question. How about the fact that the people who were supposed to be looking for a missing person cared so little that they would put his classmate on the case? How insignificant did that make Deron? It was almost vindication for the way Russo had treated him over the years.
“Nothing,” he replied at last. “I accept your mission.” He flourished his best salute.
Yes, he thought to himself, I’ll find Deron. But when I do, I’m going to put his chip to rest.
Permanently.
47 - Rosalia
There was magic happening at school, some kind of spell that made the classes drag on without end, that made the clocks take twice as long to change to the next minute. Rosalia tried to keep her eyes off the time, but it was either that or acknowledge the daydreams that had been haunting her since arriving at school. At first, she thought they were just random ideas not unlike the myriad of things going through her head at any given time. But then after lunch, as time slowed even further, she began to reconcile what she could only catch glimpses of in her subconscious. Sitting in the back of the classroom with her palette tilted away from prying eyes, she transformed her fantasies into veneer. The results were confusing at best.
Some of the images were still vague: what appeared to be a leg, slender fingers, and even a lock of hair suspended in mid-air. There was always the chance that her conscious mind was affecting the veneer, an excuse she used when faces started to appear, first hers, then Ilya’s. As the colors changed under her finger, the images became more defined, until she was looking at the outline of Ilya on her side, returning an intense gaze, her hand extending into the foreground and out of frame. The bean bag chair under her began to glow, as did the walls behind. Rosalia recognized her room, but the memory of Ilya in that pose wasn’t there.
A sexual fantasy, she thought, about Ilya.
Rosalia swiped at her palette, erasing the image and banishing it from her memory. She concentrated on the clock, unable to hear the teacher’s voice over the ones in her head that were now questioning things that were better left unanswered. Deron popped into being, a head to toe reproduction suspended in an empty construct. Piece by piece, she stripped him down until he was completely naked. Then, appearing from the left, Rosalia, equally nude, walked into his embrace. Even in the confines of a poorly defined daydream, she could see the love in his eyes, even though she could not match his passion.
Questions: If he didn’t excite her, then what did? Where were the butterflies that were supposed to be dancing in her stomach? Why when her mind wandered did she imagine Ilya and not Deron?
“Ssh,” she whispered. There would be plenty of time to figure things out, especially with the world slowing down around her. The only time things moved at a normal speed was between classes and even those brief recesses had lost their appeal now that Ilya seemed to show up during each one, smiling as if there were a secret between them. It reminded her of the way she looked—leered?—at her in the shower so many lifetimes ago, that same kind of smile whose intentions she just couldn’t be sure of. Then there was her admission, something Rosalia accepted without much surprise at the time. Now, it was beginning to trouble her. Dropping her head to the desk, she lamented the lack of answers.
An eternity later, the spell holding the school hostage finally broke. When the last bell rang out, Rosalia hurried to her locker, intent on taking her things and never returning. It only took a few minutes to make it outside where the world was surprisingly gloomy.
Dark clouds hung overhead and gave Easton an artificial dusk. It wasn’t until she started away from campus and heard that voice behind her that she realized she was trying to escape Ilya, avoid the conversations they might have.
“Hey,” said Ilya, jogging to catch up. “Where you headed?”
Rosalia nodded towards the parking lot. “Home,” she replied, feeling suddenly reticent.
“Oh,” said Ilya. She was clutching her palette to her chest and shifting in place. “I was,” she began, then stopped, looked around. “Do you want to hang out?”
“I don’t know if you should come over again tonight,” said Rosalia, looking homeward. There was lightning in the distance. “Lynn was pretty pissed off this morning.”
“I didn’t mean that. We could go to Perrault’s and get some smoothies or something.”
Rosalia faced her friend, intrigued by the hopefulness in her voice. Or was it desperation? “Sure,” she agreed. “It looks like it’s going to rain.”
Ilya tilted her head back and took a deep breath. “Not yet, but soon.”
They walked side by side, squeezing between cars, their hips touching occasionally as Ilya stopped short to let a car pass by. Rosalia reflected on the innocence of such encounters, how before it had been harmless to put her hand on Ilya, or for Ilya to put her arm around Rosalia. Now, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if each contact meant something more. It was clear that Ilya cared for her as a friend, but it could have been deeper than that. There might have been true attraction there, so deep that if Rosalia had admitted her daydreams, it would probably lead to a wild night of discovering the intricacies of lesbian sex. Rosalia shook her head, cleared away the encroaching mental images.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ilya.
A good question, though it had a million answers, all as valid as the next. Rosalia lined them up in rows and columns, threw a mental dart, and chose one at random. “I’ve barely thought of Deron all day. I haven’t called his mom. I haven’t talked to Sebo.” The guilt overwhelmed her now that the box had been opened. “What does that mean?”
“I could tell you, but you won’t like it.” Ilya slipped her hand under Rosalia’s arm.
“Go ahead.”
The
y stopped at a crosswalk, waited for the guard to let them pass.
“The worst part of losing someone is thinking you’ll never get over it.” Her voice was mournful, as if Deron’s fate had already been decided. “Then one day you think of him a little less and then a little less. You start learning to live without him. But then you feel guilty about it, so the cycle repeats.” A squeeze on her arm. “You can’t rush it. I’ll help you no matter how long it takes.”
Rosalia wouldn’t get over Deron that easily, certainly not in just a few days. If he were truly gone, it would be years before she could even function normally. At least, that’s the future she imagined. He was the only one she wanted to spend time with, the only one she wanted to take her to the movies.
“You would be my friend, right?” she asked.
Ilya scoffed. “I am your friend. I’ve wanted to be your friend for a long time but you were always so busy with Deron.” Something flashed on her face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I get it,” said Rosalia, finishing the train of thought.
If Deron hadn’t gone into the hospital, Ilya would have never stepped in and filled a void. The void never would have existed. How long had Ilya been waiting for such an opportunity? It made Rosalia wonder how many other interesting people went to school at Easton Central and how many of them she had ignored for so long just to spend time with her boyfriend. Besides, it wasn’t Deron that was the sure thing. Boyfriends came and went, but having a true friend to commiserate with was invaluable. Ilya was someone she could talk to, share secrets with, and figure things out with. Even just moaning about Deron had made her feel better.
The neighborhoods looked different in the twilight. The veneers were glowing brightly, but behind them, the clouds seemed to absorb all the color. Ahead, the line of businesses on Parker Avenue disagreed on the time of day. Some of them were lit in their nighttime garb, bright neons that drew the eye even at a great distance. Others looked dark, like a shell with a few holes poked in them through which a soft inner light shone.
Increasing rumbles of thunder made them pick up the pace. It felt a little backwards, since Rosalia was in no hurry to get home. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation with her dad, not after her little outburst with Lynn that morning.
“I have to convince my dad I’m not a lesbian,” said Rosalia.
“I had to convince my dad that I was,” replied Ilya, chuckling.
“You told them? What did they say?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Mom’s always blitzed by noon and dad’s got bigger problems.” She shook her head. “Babushka thinks it’s just a phase I’m going through.”
“Is it?”
The smile faded and Ilya withdrew her hand.
Rosalia couldn’t help but feel the emptiness of the reverse gesture. Her arm was alone out there now and she was surprised to realize she wanted someone to hold it.
“I just feel what I feel. Like you and Deron. You don’t question that you love him. Not because you’re unsure but because you accept what you feel. I like who I like. I don’t know why people think just because I’m a girl and you’re—they’re a girl that it’s somehow wrong. Love is never wrong.”
It made sense.
Rosalia looked at the people around her and saw for the first time just a variety of veneers, biological portals that could be reconciled into anything, even to look like a member of the opposite sex. There was nothing to differentiate them except for the shape of their bodies, protrusions from their chest or pants. If everyone looked the same and gender was simply the presence or omission of a body part, did that change the emotional connection? Did that somehow change love?
Rosalia lost herself in speculation as they approached Parker. Then, while waiting at the light to cross out of the neighborhood, she heard a quiet yelp from Ilya. Turning quickly, she watched the Ukrainian’s face twist in confusion.
“What is it?”
“De—,” she tried to say, but her voice faltered. Instead, she raised a shaky finger and pointed.
The same force that had crippled Ilya overtook Rosalia. Breathing became difficult as she took in the figure leaning against a news kiosk. He was disheveled, his veneer a mess, but it was undoubtedly Deron. Pessimism screamed at her from the periphery, questioning the vision that stood what seemed like only a few feet away. Then those eyes came up, those eyes that in any color or condition she would have recognized as ones that loved her like no other.
He was there.
She turned to Ilya, to ask her to confirm the mirage, only to find her gone. Turning around, she saw her walking away, her head bowed and shaking. The palette she had been holding hung loosely in her hand, swinging as she walked. Rosalia called out to her, twice, but got no response. Ilya never even looked back.
Overhead, thunder rumbled, but Rosalia could still feel the warmth of a single ray of sunshine on her back.
And just like that, Ilya slipped into the realm of unimportance. The only thing that mattered in the world was waiting behind her, standing around nonchalantly as if he hadn’t been missing for days.
Be there, she prayed, turning around slowly.
48 - Deron
She was beautiful.
Deron almost didn’t recognize her at a distance, just one of two random girls standing at the corner of the intersection waiting to cross. But then one of them looked in his direction, a little tall to be Rosalia. Her black hair framed a face full of sudden consternation. The emotional display wasn’t one of happiness, wasn’t the joy that Deron would have expected from his girlfriend. Instead, she lifted her hand and pointed in his direction.
That’s when he focused on the girl standing next to her, a familiar figure with an unfamiliar veneer. Only, it wasn’t a veneer; he was seeing the real her, the real Rosalia. All the worry about what was underneath faded away at the sight of this stranger. It was in her eyes, in the way her body resisted the urge to cross the street in front of the fast-moving cars.
Deron wanted nothing more than to reconcile her true appearance. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t think of words to describe her that didn’t do her a disservice. Still, his mind threw them out, compared her hair to the color of the sun, a color no one could truly know without going blind. Then, once she had crossed the street, broken into an awkward jog, he saw those eyes staring back at him.
His heart pounded; her eyes were blue. And not the dark blue of the clouds overhead or the neon blue of the signs on Parker Avenue, but light blue, like the skies on a cloudless day.
In every imagined reunion, he had seen her at a distance, then she him. She would come running, throw her arms around him, and put him off balance. They would fall to the ground in each other’s embrace, laughing, so happy to be together again. But that didn’t happen. Rosalia didn’t jump into his arms; she slowed a few yards away and took her last steps cautiously. The happiness that had bloomed in her face wilted. Deron watched her eyebrows dip and then suddenly regain their composure. He was at a loss for words, as if the whole affair had occurred without warning.
It was Rosalia that spoke first, licking her lips slightly before saying, “It is you.” It sounded like an accusation, as if she realized that his return meant he wasn’t dead, that he better have a good excuse for going away without explanation. “Where have you...?”
Deron wanted to tell her everything, but revealing the nature of his flight would just cause more problems, more concern on that emotive face of hers. He realized it enchanted him with its simultaneous perfection and imperfection. It was comforting to know that she was pretty under her mask, that her veneers were extensions of something true and not a blatant lie like everything else.
“Say something,” she pleaded, her voice cracking.
“I missed you,” he replied, opting for the simplest sentence in the queue. There was no better way to say it.
The barrier between them crumbled and Rosalia flowed into the empty space. She slipped her arms around
Deron’s neck and pulled him closer.
She smelled like flowers.
It was a perfume she wore often and even without sight he would have known it was her just by the scent. Safe in her embrace, Deron thought back over the last few days and regretted all the times he doubted he’d ever see her again.
“You smell,” said the voice at his ear, followed by a giggle that evoked a stream of memories. Rosalia pulled back so that he could see she was smiling. When he mirrored the expression, she said, “I should be mad at you.”
“Are you?” He tried to grin, but thought the better of it.
“Yes.” Withdrawing, she crossed her arms in demonstration.
Thunder exploded overhead, so close that it caused both of them to look up. On the air, the smell of rain intensified.
“Can we go somewhere?”
“I was going to Perrault’s,” she offered.
Deron looked towards Parker Avenue; it would be too noisy in the smoothie shop, too many people. “How about our place?”
That she didn’t ask him to clarify made him smile. He took her hand and led her across Parker Avenue, through the mini-strips, and into the fringes of the neighborhoods. She said nothing as they walked, but every time he glanced at her, he found her looking back at him.
“I like it outside,” said Deron. “It’s more colorful.” He had to concentrate to see the veneer and each time he tried, it got a little harder, until finally he couldn’t stand the pressure in his head. There was nothing to do but accept the ubiquitous evercrete, the signs with nothing on them, and the blonde hair floating on the gusts of wind beside him. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
Her freckled cheeks blushed slightly.
“I never knew you had blonde hair though.” He reached up and pulled a piece of it out of the air. “You should wear this color all the time.”
“My hair’s not...” she started, trailing off in confusion.
Too soon, Deron thought. Clenching his fists, he pulled his vision back, examined the veneer for a few seconds, and then released. Today, she was wearing a light brown that glowed at the tips.
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