Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  “Got it,” said the agent. “Corner of Seventeenth and Fitzgerald. Can you get out onto the street?”

  “No!” yelled Jalay. “Holly Street!”

  “Great. You should be safe as long as you are in a public area. Start walking towards Sixteenth. I’ve got a cruiser en route. Just wave them down when you see them.”

  Jalay banged his fists against the column. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

  “There’s no need to thank me, Mr. Chapman. Protecting the citizens of this great city is my job. With your help, we should be able to put Russo Rivera away for a very long time.”

  Jalay went silent, dumbfounded. Staring at the agent in the portal, he struggled to understand what was going on. Then he heard boots sloshing through puddles and turned to see Russo approaching with a grin on his face. Jalay stood and backed away from the column, considering all options. He stopped when his back hit the low wall of the parking garage. Behind him, the rain fell close by; he would barely have to extend his hand to touch it. Taking his eyes off his enemy for a split second, he examined the view over the railing.

  “Seven floors to freedom,” said Jordan, her voice far away.

  Stopping at the column, Russo looked down at the glowing portal. The agent was still visible, still staring into the virtual camera as if expecting Jalay to say something. Russo touched the evercrete and dragged the portal up. He nodded cordially.

  “Not very efficient,” mumbled the agent.

  “Only pussies call the cops,” said Russo, looking at Jalay again. “I thought you were better than that.”

  “Unnecessary banter,” the agent pointed out. “Don’t forget we’re evaluating your performance, Rivera.”

  What the hell was he talking about? Were they...

  “You,” said Jalay, struggling to point at the portal. “You’re working with an agent?”

  Russo raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “So what?”

  “Do you know who he works for?!”

  “Not really,” admitted Russo. “Something with a V, right?”

  “Fucking Vinestead!” Jalay’s voice broke and he felt a tinge at the back of his throat.

  “You’ve been a busy little boy,” said Agent Ruiz, shaking his head.

  Jalay ignored the agent. “Do you know what Vinestead is? What they do?”

  “They’re going to make me a Seer,” replied Russo.

  It was a small opening, but it was his only angle. “Is that what you really think? You think they’re just going to turn over that kind of power to a kid? To a dropout? You’re a fucking loser, Russo! Why do you think they’d trust you with anything?”

  Anger rippled through Russo’s veneer, but it revealed a moment of consideration in its wake—a tiny crack.

  “You don’t know these people. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  “And you do?” demanded Russo. “You’re suddenly an expert on agents? All you know is pizza and porn. And look where that’s gotten you.”

  “I know how to reconcile,” he corrected, “better than you and most people in this town. I can look at a veneer and tell you if someone imagined it or if they saw it for real. There’s a difference that people like you could never detect. I know truth when I see it.”

  “And what is the truth?” asked the agent, somewhat impassively.

  “Chips,” barked Jalay. “Chips and wires in our bodies and brains. All controlled by Vinestead.” By the looks on their faces, he knew the conspiracy theories he had dismissed one by one over the last few days were actually true. All of the things he had seen in Canvas, all of the posts on the messages boards about the history of a company once known as Vinestead International, were all true. He felt the shock as the world shifted in place, became a different version of itself in an instant.

  Russo bit his lip and shook his head. The agent mirrored.

  Jalay could barely ask, “What?”

  “I was just supposed to beat him up, right?” asked Russo.

  The agent shrugged in response.

  “But now he knows.”

  They were talking as if he wasn’t even standing there.

  “And people who know,” continued Russo, “are a threat to the stability of Easton and Vinestead.”

  “I don’t abide threats,” hissed Agent Ruiz.

  “Me neither,” said Russo.

  While that was true, it was worse now that the agent was backing up his psychosis.

  “I suggest a summary execution.” Russo obviously delighted in saying those words.

  “Authorized,” said the agent. “Report back when it’s done and I’ll send a scrub team by.”

  It sounded so official, so cold, that by the time the words registered in Jalay’s head, the portal had disappeared from the column. All that remained was Russo and his smile. As the rain fell and the pall grew, his lips tightened into a thin line. It was the same one he had worn the night their partnership came to an end. Remembering the conversation, Jalay couldn’t help but laugh. It felt wrong, to laugh at such a time, when every inch of his body was as tense as it had ever been, but the absurdity of it, the off-hand prophecy that was suddenly coming true, was too much to ignore.

  “I knew you would take it too far,” said Jalay.

  “As far as necessary.”

  Jalay put his hands on the evercrete barrier; it was wet and smooth. “If I stepped on your heel,” he repeated from memory. “But beating me up won’t be good enough this time, will it?”

  Russo took a step forward.

  How long Jalay’s eyes had been moist was unclear, but he finally felt the first tear start down his cheeks.

  “I knew it,” he said.

  “Then you’re ready,” declared Russo.

  “No.” On all counts, no.

  “Did you know your Guardian chip will keep operating even after you’re dead?”

  “Wha—” He wasn’t able to get the question out before Russo charged. There was a brief struggle, which was better than a fistfight, since it gave Jalay a slight advantage. Russo seemed to have trouble with his weight, but soon Jalay felt himself go off balance. The barrier wall dug into his back and suddenly one leg was off the ground. With every ounce of strength, he tried to push it back down, tried to find something better to hold onto instead of the slick evercrete. Russo pushed with his shoulder and then he was leaning out over the alley below. Pulling his chin to his chest, Jalay got a look at Russo’s face.

  So much anger. So much determination.

  There was never a chance, he realized. And then his other foot came off the ground and the world began to move in all the wrong ways. In the brief freefall, he heard Jordan’s voice whispering in his ear.

  “Seven floors to freedom.”

  56 - Rosalia

  “The most important thing you can do is let go out of the world,” said Coach Stiles. She was subbing for Coach Baird and instead of making the class run on the treadmills for an hour, she had given them the option of doing free weights or yoga. Naturally, the boys had flocked to the machine room, leaving Rosalia to join the smaller group of girls in the padded studio. There were eight of them, including Ilya, plus one Vince Covert, who took a position at the back of the room. Rosalia tried to ignore his running commentary and instead focused on the coach’s dilettante mantras.

  “When the mind is free from distraction, it can focus on bringing the body into harmony.” She brought her hands down into a prayer pose, lifted her right leg, and placed her foot against her knee. “Tree stance,” she announced. “Take your time, shift your weight. If you fall out, don’t worry. Just work yourself back into position.”

  Rosalia lifted her foot, wobbled a bit, and then found balance. Next to her, Ilya looked serene and steady. She already had her hands in the air and an empty look on her face.

  “Clear your mind,” said Coach Stiles, her voice soothing. “Focus on the moment. It’s just you and your body.”

  Ilya snickered and when Rosalia looked over, she smiled b
ack conspiratorially.

  “Don’t think about all the things you have to do today. Tests, homework, lectures. None of it exists in this moment. Deep breath everyone. And switch.” She waited as ten feet hit the padded mats and ten more lifted into position. “The past does not exist.”

  Easy for you to say, thought Rosalia. The first half of class had breezed by; the surprisingly intense yoga had distracted her from yesterday’s events and last night’s dreams. But when they switched to balance postures, she found she didn’t have to concentrate on her body as much. As a result, her mind wandered, began to pull at the threads of memory.

  “All right, is everyone feeling relaxed?”

  An affirmative murmur went up from the small crowd.

  “Let’s take a seat and finish up with corpse pose.” When Vera Delgado made a noise, Coach Stiles added, “It’s just a name, people. It’s also the most difficult of yoga poses. Everyone on their backs please.”

  Rosalia collapsed onto her butt and then reclined on the mat. Despite the coach’s advice, she thought about Deron, about him waking up and discovering her gone. She hoped he didn’t take it too hard.

  “Put your arms by your side and flex nothing,” instructed the coach. “Just let everything go limp.”

  A masculine giggle came from the back of the room.

  “Quiet, Mr. Covert. We must have complete silence. I want everyone to visualize the silence in your mind. Walk towards it. Embrace it if you can.”

  Shutting her eyes, Rosalia blotted out the light from the ceiling. In the resulting darkness, she sought out the shape of silence, but couldn’t imagine its form. Every time she moved in a direction, an image of Deron would appear. She opened her eyes in frustration and turned her head to the side to find a sympathetic Ilya smiling back at her.

  “One more deep breath and we’re done.” Coach Stiles sat up and crossed her legs. “I hope you all enjoyed this. When you’re with me next year, you’ll do stuff like this more often.” She glanced at the clock. “That’s it for today, people,” she said. “Except you, Mr. Covert. I’d like a word with you.”

  The other girls laughed amongst themselves as Rosalia stood and headed for the hallway. She knew Ilya was in step beside her, but she didn’t feel like talking just yet. In the locker room, she shed her sports bra and workout shorts, felt Ilya’s eyes drinking in her body as she reached to remove her underwear. The memories faded in like a liquid veneer, showcasing all the times she had caught Ilya minding someone else’s business. Before, it had just seemed like the odd behavior of a quirky foreign girl. But now that she knew how much Ilya liked her, it seemed to suggest...

  Rosalia shook her head and slipped out of her underwear. Pulling her towel around her quickly, she shuffled over to the shower stall and waited while the water warmed up. Naturally, Ilya took the stall beside her, stepping into the freezing water and gasping enthusiastically.

  “That’s what I needed,” said Ilya, pulling her hair back. She spun it around twice and locked it into a bun with a clip.

  It felt like Ilya had been trying to initiate conversation all morning, but Rosalia didn’t want to talk about Deron, didn’t want to try justifying what she had done. She didn’t even understand it herself; her need of Deron was equal to her need of the veneer, yet she had chosen Easton over him. The admission didn’t fix anything, didn’t resolve his problems or hers, just brought guilt and more guilt.

  “It’s warm now,” said Ilya, turning her chest to the falling water.

  The tile partition only let her see down to Ilya’s shoulders, but the image of water beading on her breasts flashed in Rosalia’s head. Gritting her teeth to force it away, she wondered if her lesbian friend’s habits were rubbing off on her.

  “Thanks,” replied Rosalia, stepping absently into the water. It was hot, making her recoil.

  “You’re not sunny Rosalia today.”

  “You’re not dark Ilya,” she shot back, too much bitterness in her voice.

  “Why should I be dark today? My best friend got her boyfriend back.”

  Rosalia glanced over, tried to see past the faux sincerity on Ilya’s face. She was smiling for all she was worth, but something in her eyes wasn’t right, some glimmer of steely concentration. “I,” she started to reply, but when the counter-argument threatened to come out, she suddenly felt out of breath.

  “What happened?” asked Ilya, stepping up to the partition.

  Rosalia tried to escape the question by putting her face into the falling water.

  “Everything’s okay, right? He’s coming back...” She trailed off as Rosalia shook her head.

  “He can’t see the veneer,” she explained, the concept still incredulous to her. “He can’t see street signs or portals or anything that I reconcile.” She looked up, looked for support in the Ukrainian’s eyes. “He wanted me to leave Easton with him. To go somewhere where there’s no veneer at all.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Rosalia’s lower lip trembled. “I’m here, aren’t I?” An aborted sob as she turned away. “I’m here at school when I should be waking up next to him.” It was easy to leave him the night before, but now, several hours removed, she couldn’t remember the line of thinking that had taken her away from him. She closed her eyes as if pain were a bright light that could simply be turned off.

  “You left him?”

  She nodded. “After everything. After all we did. But I didn’t know he couldn’t see! How could I have known that?”

  “I couldn’t imagine it,” Ilya broke in.

  “Why not? You don’t even like reconciling.”

  “What? Of course I do,” she replied. “I like pretty things and Easton is full of them. All the streets are lit up, all the people are pretty. And you, being able to reconcile like you do. Why would you want to give that up?”

  “Because I love him!” Her sudden retort got the attention of a few girls, but they kept their commentary to whispers. “Because I love him,” she repeated, quieter, less sure of her answer.

  “You can love him without throwing away your gift,” said Ilya, matching Rosalia’s tone. “Just because you didn’t go with him—”

  “I’m a horrible person,” said Rosalia, cleaning up the foul language she had used in her head. She could only think of Deron and how he had risked so much, only to have his girlfriend abandon him in the end. He thought he could rely on the one thing that should have remained constant. And she had left him.

  Unable to contain it any longer, Rosalia let out the tears she had been fighting all morning. They came out stronger and faster than she had expected, rattling her entire body and making it hard to stand. She dipped once, put her hand out on the partition to steady herself. Maybe it was that desperate grab that alarmed Ilya; in a flash, she was standing next to Rosalia, hands clasped on her shoulders. There was no way to stop her from bringing her body close to Rosalia’s, no way to get a signal from her brain to her muscles without more sadness spilling out of her.

  “Okay,” said Ilya, pulling Rosalia’s head into her shoulder. “It will pass,” she assured her, speaking with the practiced patience of Nurse Hendricks. “Let it hurt,” she whispered, and then a bit louder to someone else, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

  I’ll tell you, thought Rosalia, imagining how two naked girls locked in an awkward embrace would appear to the rest of the class.

  It was such a tiny voice holding protest in the back of her mind. The rest of her didn’t care, just wanted someone to hold, someone to tell her that it would all be okay. Wrapping her arms around Ilya’s back, Rosalia allowed herself to be pulled further into the embrace, felt her chest collide with Ilya’s. She cried harder at that, wondering how she had gone from Deron’s thin but masculine arms to Ilya’s gentle hands. She was softer, curvy where Deron had been jutting bones and sharp elbows.

  Out of nowhere, Rosalia laughed. “Look at me,” she said. “Look at us.”

  “What about us?” asked Ilya, pulling b
ack.

  They stared at each other for a moment before Rosalia replied. “We’re hugging in the shower.” Then, remembering her surroundings, she looked around. The shower room was empty; Ilya had chased the onlookers away. “Our secret is out,” she lamented.

  “What secret is that?” Ilya’s hand had moved to the side of Rosalia’s face and she routed the wet strands of hair around her ear.

  “Everyone’s going to think we’re lesbians.”

  “I am,” reminded Ilya, grinning.

  “But I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice taking on that flirty tone again. “Have you ever even kissed a girl?”

  Rosalia shook her head, tried to read the intent in Ilya’s raised eyebrow. Even if it had been hiding under a veneer, it didn’t take a genius to see where this was headed. When Ilya’s lips moved a little closer, Rosalia retreated, shook her head more urgently.

  “What?” asked Ilya.

  “I... can’t.” It wasn’t the same as being face to face with Deron. With him, there was desire, a need to join with him physically. But with Ilya, there was nothing.

  Ilya’s eyes glistened as her smile returned. “Your cunt is an inch from mine and you can’t even kiss me?” Again, she moved, got close enough for Rosalia to feel her breath on her upper lip.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rosalia, meekly. She dropped her arms and gently pushed Ilya away.

  The Ukrainian stood there for a moment, visibly hurt, but not without pride. She brought her hands down from Rosalia’s neck, brushing against both of her breasts, and then traced lines down her stomach. The clearly erotic gesture made Rosalia think of how Deron had done a similar movement the night before. She laughed and sobbed at the same time, unsure of how things had changed so dramatically in such a short time. The tiniest pressure on her hip bones made her look down to see Ilya’s hands still lingering. And again, it triggered a memory, only this one wasn’t of her abandoned boyfriend. She saw her own room, dark, with back-lit veneers scrolling on the walls. Beside her was Ilya, staring back with lustful eyes, not watching where her hand moved but obviously concentrating on it.