Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  The friendly expression disappeared from Ilya’s face as a moment of recognition passed between them.

  “Have... we...?” asked Rosalia.

  Ilya used her thumb to trace the outline of Rosalia’s pelvis while her fingers pressed into her hips.

  Rosalia slapped the offending hand away and moved as far back into the stall as she could. She felt cold and cornered, afraid of what Ilya might do when pushed. Her face showed nothing but restrained amusement.

  “Mellow brings out the best in you,” said Ilya, taking a couple of steps back. She reached for her towel and wrapped it around her body. “Who was I to argue with a latent dyke?” Then, with a smile more artificial than any veneer, she said, “You shouldn’t feel bad about Deron.” She glanced down at Rosalia’s legs. “I mean, he wasn’t really your first, you know?”

  Rosalia sank to the shower floor as Ilya walked away. She had been wrong about her. The girl with the pretty face did have a veneer, but it wasn’t one that could be reconciled. It was all in the way she talked, the way she smiled—a completely fake persona stapled to the real her. It had come off so easily. One day Ilya was just a strange girl in the background of her life and the next she was intriguing, exotic, and friendly. No one changed that fast, not in any meaningful way.

  “Fuck!” she cried, drawing out the hidden syllables.

  57 - Deron

  From the safety of the fourth floor landing, Deron watched as the agent paced the hallway outside his dad’s apartment. His movements were very methodical; three steps in one direction, pivot on the lead foot, and then repeat, each stride the width of the door frame. At first, he had tried banging on the door and calling Deron’s name. Then, when the pacing began, Deron thought the agent was just going to wait him out, but after a couple of hours, when the door downstairs swung open, he realized the man had just been standing guard.

  The footsteps of the second agent were loud on the bare steps, though he moved with much less urgency than his partner. There was something familiar about him that Deron couldn’t place until the man began to talk. Just hearing his voice brought him back to the night at the gate. He flashed on the business card and read the name easily.

  “He inside?” asked Agent Memo Ruiz as he crested the third floor landing.

  The other agent completed his pivot and nodded curtly. “Yeah. I spotted him in the window and came inside, but he’s not answering.”

  “Did you knock, Agent Fitch?” Ruiz undid the strap around his waist and shed the damp trench coat.

  “Of course I knocked. I was gonna force entry, but... Memo, you shoulda seen what this kid did.”

  The agent slung his coat over the banister. “Which was?”

  “He reconciled everything. I mean, everything.”

  “Probably just some kids messing with you.”

  “Yeah, him” said Fitch, gesturing to the door with his thumb. “He was doing it from the window.”

  Agent Ruiz sighed and adjusted the cuffs on his shirt. “Aaron, you know the sheep can’t do that. Especially not some punk kid.”

  Deron felt something sharp poke him in the stomach; he had to look down to make sure nothing was there. He had been entertaining the idea of approaching Ruiz, explaining himself, and asking for help. After all, he seemed like a nice guy back at the gate. But now, referring to Deron as a punk kid... It didn’t sound like the first time he had used those words.

  “I know,” said Fitch, staring at the door as if he could see through it. “He put a veneer on my car, so I changed it back.” He turned to make eye contact. “I was touching my car. He wasn’t.”

  So that was real. It could have all been in Deron’s head, but here was proof that at least one other person saw it... whatever it was.

  Ignoring his partner, Ruiz nodded towards the door. “Shall we go in?”

  “Do we have enough to force—”

  Agent Ruiz lifted a leg and slammed it into the door near its handle. A loud crack sounded in the hallway, but the barrier held. A subsequent kick broke it off its hinges and the two agents rushed inside, with Ruiz shouting Deron’s name and ordering him to surrender.

  Instantly, Deron was up and running down the stairs, taking two or three at a time in a desperate bid to get outside before the agents noticed. On the third floor, he whipped around the banisters, feeling his shoes give a little on the smooth tile. He was so preoccupied with not falling that he didn’t see the blur erupting from his dad’s apartment. It collided with Deron just as he was making a turn and though he tried to hold the wooden railing, his fingers slipped and he fell to the floor. Before he could catch his breath, the blur was upon him.

  “Got you, you little shit,” said Agent Fitch. He pulled Deron up by his collar and forced him against the railing.

  Agent Ruiz appeared in the doorway and ordered quietly, “Bring him inside.”

  Deron tried to go limp, but Fitch was strong and had no trouble pulling him into the apartment. The agent threw him onto the couch in front of Ruiz, who stared blankly as if lost in thought.

  It was a veneer, Deron realized. He relied on it so much that he didn’t even bother emoting anymore.

  “Agent Fitch, please see to the gawkers.”

  Fitch hesitated, motioned to Deron. “Him too?”

  “You got a problem with the way I do things?”

  The agent shrugged in response. “You’re the boss, boss.”

  Agent Ruiz said nothing.

  “Alright,” said Fitch, turning on the spot. He yelled at the onlookers in the hallway, “Back in your homes, people. This ain’t no road show.”

  For a long minute, Agent Ruiz stood staring at the open door. Then, like a television changing channels, he plunked down into the recliner and said, “So... broken chip. What’s that like?”

  Deron raised his eyebrows and tried to play dumb.

  “Come on,” urged the agent. “I know your chip is acting up. You’ve been popping on and off the grid for days. So either you invented some kind of jamming device or you damaged your chip. It was the fall, right? In...” He shut one eye in concentration. “Paramel.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “People talk. God, do people talk. Even when they don’t think they’re saying anything, they’re talking. Russo, Jalay, Sebo, Ilya...” He enumerated the names on his fingers. “That Sebo...”

  He didn’t mention Rosalia, Deron noticed.

  “Or... was it the fight with Russo? I reviewed the medical scans and they said nothing was wrong with you, but you know doctors.”

  Deron shrugged, prompting the agent to sit up.

  “Why did you run?”

  The pristine rivers bordering Dos Presas flashed in his head. He wanted to be back there, away from the veneer and the agents, even if that meant without Rosalia.

  Ruiz cleared his throat. “You went outside the walls, didn’t you?”

  “I got lost,” said Deron.

  “You know it’s a crime to leave the city except through the approved gates? And I didn’t see your name on any registers.”

  “I want a lawyer.” The phrase came to him out of nowhere; he didn’t even know how to go about getting one.

  “Ah,” said Ruiz, sitting back. “Hardball. I can play hardball. I’m the captain of the fucking team.” He let the silence build, passed the time by rocking in the recliner.

  Finally, Deron couldn’t take the waiting any longer. “I was scared,” he admitted, wondering if the ignorance defense would save him. “I couldn’t see and I thought I’d be banished.”

  “Banished?” asked the agent, as if the word were new to him.

  “Thrown out of Easton.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Mr. Ficcone said—”

  Agent Ruiz’ laughter filled the room. “Do you believe everything that cheap-suit simpleton says? Your chip is just a device! Did it ever occur to you that we could just fix it? It happens all the time. People go into the hospital complaining about the venee
r and they just fix ‘em up.”

  Deron tried to respond, but his entire body had gone numb. Everything had been a waste. Rosalia, leaving him in the middle of the night, unable to give up a world she loved more than him. There was no unlearning that fact, but with time he could have accepted it, maybe even changed it.

  “So I can stay?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Ruiz, “you can be fixed, that’s for sure. Whether you can stay depends on if I can prove you were outside the city without authorization. And the penalty for that is severe.” He shook his head gloomily. “Very severe.”

  Fighting the urge to throw up, Deron tightened his fists and dug his fingernails into his palms.

  “You’ll go away for a very long time,” continued the agent. “Unless...”

  “Unless what?”

  “Let’s just say I have some pull with the local authorities. I could get your desertion charge dropped, get your chip fixed up, and send you on your way.”

  “What’s the catch?” he asked.

  Agent Ruiz smiled independently from his veneer. “You know, you’re not the only truant in Easton. We’re very interested to talk to your friend Russo again.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “He’s a suspect in a murder investigation. I need you to draw him out for us.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” asked Deron, crossing his arms.

  “That’s your problem, isn’t it?” The agent stood abruptly and walked to the window. “You have twenty-four hours. If you don’t deliver Russo by noon tomorrow, I take you in for desertion. And don’t think I won’t find you.” Turning, he tried to appear sincere. “This is your chance to go back to your life, Deron. Give me Russo and all will be forgiven.” He wiped his hands in an empty gesture.

  It sounded ridiculous, but so did reconciling an entire street.

  Standing, Deron considered his options, thought how happy Rosalia would be to know he could stay, that they could still be together. All he had to do was get Russo out in the open and the plan for that was already brewing in his head.

  “I can reconcile,” said Deron, “but not all the time.”

  The agent nodded. “Fascinating.”

  “So I can’t call you,” he explained. “Meet me at the football field at Central. Tonight, ten o’clock.”

  Agent Ruiz raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can get him there? You do not want to waste my time.”

  “He’ll be there,” said Deron, turning on the spot. When he was safely out of earshot, he added, “Either that, or I’ll be long gone by then.”

  58 - Sebo

  “I miss you.”

  The sentiment appeared on Sebo’s palette during lunch as he was finishing up a burrito slathered in chili and shredded cheese. He was sitting at the glass bar, essentially a line of stools under a high table that ran the length of the cafeteria’s outer windows. From his vantage point, he could see the rain falling outside, waning and intensifying every few minutes. Running his fingers through his hair, he smiled at the instant message on his palette.

  Sure, Jordan was only sending the message because he had configured her to do so, but it didn’t make it any less important. She missed him and in a way, he missed her. Spending the night with her, watching her sleep in a bed that was ostensibly on the other side of the room, had been strangely comforting. Randomly throughout the night, she would snore a little, not enough to be annoying, but enough to get his attention. Then she’d turn on her side, the covers slipping from her naked body, and give a little moan. Sebo watched contently for a while before falling asleep, happy to know she would be there in the morning.

  Jordan was doing stretches when he awoke and as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, he watched her come out of a difficult plough position. With every movement, he delighted in the detail of her body, in the skin that bunched up and released. A doll would have done no such thing. Her imperfections made her more lifelike. Though they were slight, they made her appear as an actual human being instead of a technologically advanced blow-up doll. And though he couldn’t touch her, could only stand next to the wall and stare into her eyes, it was enough.

  Sebo grinned and tapped the reply box with his finger. “What are you wearing?” he asked her, but there was no reply. Maybe she wasn’t set up to respond intelligently to queries. He shrugged, pondered whether the omission of conversational aptitude had been intentional or not. Chewing thoughtfully, he stared out the window again, wondering how an assumed intelligence like Jordan would fare in one of his accelerated learning classes.

  Outside, a blanket of gray clouds gave Easton a strange atmosphere that was accented by lightning flashing soundlessly in the distance. Sebo searched for the words to describe it.

  Dreary. Miserable. That wasn’t what Easton was about. That was what having veneers was supposed to prevent.

  The veneer was still there, for instance, on the house across the street, but through the rain it looked muddled. The two-story townhome had been reconciled with red brick, though underneath it was likely evercrete, same as everything else. Each townhome had its own unique flair, whether it brick or siding, giving the row a disjointed feel. At least they had left room for a little natural growth in the form of a park to the right of the row, bordered on both sides by tall Cedars. They towered above the homes, their canopies providing shade for the students that lingered there after school.

  A discordant splash of white caught his attention outside. Straining to see through the rain, he thought he spied someone standing in the wooded area, leaning out from behind a tree. It looked like a boy, about the same height as...

  “Fuck a duck,” whispered Sebo, lowering the uneaten piece of burrito and pushing his plate away. He slipped his palette into his backpack and hopped off the stool. Without taking his eyes off the aberration for fear of losing it, he made his way over to the double doors that led out to the plaza. One of the lunchroom monitors was sitting on a chair by the exit, but she said nothing as Sebo pushed on the crossbar and stuck his head outside. Without the foggy windows in his way, he had a clearer view of the ghost who resembled Deron. Uncertainly, Sebo waved his hand.

  When the white flash waved back, even beckoned him, he broke free from the door and rushed across the plaza, vaguely cognizant of the lunch monitor calling his name behind him. Sprinting across the street, he watched the apparition disappear behind a tree.

  “Deron?” he asked, coming to a stop a few feet away. He walked around the ancient trunk slowly until he could see the figure. Its veneer was messed up, but it somewhat resembled his long lost friend. “Is that you?”

  “Hey.” He smiled, but it appeared to take considerable effort on his part.

  “Are you alright?” It wasn’t difficult to see the goose bumps on Deron’s arms or the shiver that ran up his body every few seconds. “How long have you been standing out here?”

  “Not long,” he replied.

  “Are you aware that everyone’s looking for you? The police—”

  “I know.”

  “Does Rosa know you’re back?”

  His lower jaw jutted forward. “She knows. She didn’t tell you?”

  “I saw her before lunch, but she was already walking into class. When did you see her?”

  “Last night.” Pain altered his voice like an accent.

  Sebo crossed his arms against the encroaching cold. “What happened?”

  As expected, Deron just shrugged, played the tormented soul, and kept whatever injustice he felt he had suffered inside.

  “Rosa looked sad today,” said Sebo, recalling the carefully reconciled veneer on her face, the one that was supposed to cover up any real show of emotion.

  “We broke up,” he said tightly. “Actually, she dumped me.”

  “That bitch!” said Sebo.

  Deron laughed and shook his head in disagreement. His eyes drifted away for a moment and then he asked in a serious tone, “Would you look after her?”

  Sebo felt his face
scrunch up. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. If things don’t go right.” He shivered at some involuntary thought. “Just keep an eye on her for me.”

  Listening to Deron ramble made Sebo uncomfortable, anxious. “What are you talking about?”

  “I need to talk to Jalay. Can you give him a message?”

  “He’s not even here today. What would you want from him anyway?”

  “Not him. Russo.” His face grew dark and intense.

  The new evolution made Sebo smile. Through gnashed teeth, he asked, “You mean...”

  “I owe him,” he continued. “I really owe him.”

  Sebo punched his own open palm. “Fucking yes!” He pulled his palette from his bag, grimaced at the few rain drops that made it through the canopy to land on its surface. “Wait,” he said suddenly. “Why don’t you—”

  “I can’t reconcile anymore,” he explained. “Sometimes I think I can touch things in a portal, but I can’t see it so I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I need to get a message to Russo and I don’t want him knowing I can’t see.”

  “Is this what you were talking about on the bus?”

  Deron shrugged. “It’s gotten worse since then. Or better. I don’t know.”

  Sebo nodded and brought up the Easton Central directory. He found Russo’s name on the list and clicked into his mail program. “What do you want it to say?”

  “Tell him I want to meet at the football field tonight. Ten o’clock.”

  “Excellent,” said Sebo, reconciling the message onto the portal. “Though we can’t be certain he even reads his school mail anymore.” With a quick swipe, he brought up the instant messenger and sent the text to Jalay, instructing him to forward it on to Russo.

  “Don’t tell Rosie about this, okay? She might change her mind and show up and that wouldn’t be good.”

  Sebo bit his lip. “I can’t believe she dumped you. I wouldn’t have expected that from her.”

  “It wasn’t all bad,” said Deron. “There was a parting gift involved.”

  It took a moment for him to catch on, but Sebo finally asked, “Third base?” When Deron just smiled, he added, “All the way?”