by Rachel Gold
Yeah, we do.
She wrote, I’ll work on the scene. I can write about us together. I’ll make sure I include a moment like this.
That would be amazing!
I miss you so much, she said. I can’t wait to see you again.
Me too! Omg, I want to drive down right now, I replied.
You should!
I can’t. Big test this week and I have a bunch of stuff to do around the house. And the stupid garden that I hate.
Why do you have it then? she asked.
My father thought that girls should know how to keep gardens. But I hated everything about it: dirt, bugs, thorns, sneezy pollen, hot sun, muggy clouds, and that morally superior way of looking at you that flowers have. They’re all: hey, I’m happy with sunshine and some moisture, why can’t you be?
Last fall when I told him I didn’t want to take care of the garden anymore, he said I was being selfish and lazy and shortsighted. I protested that it was getting in the way of school. His compromise was to hire a guy to help me with the work, which left me having to supervise a stoner kid who didn’t know shit about flowers either.
But telling all that to Sierra seemed pathetic.
I told her: My father.
Sierra wrote: Bummer. I’ll get working on our scene. Go read up on the story, did you see the latest twist? Lord Ocean is protesting the allegiance between me and Lord Stone. We might have to send you to steal blackmail materials from Ocean, to keep him in line.
I wonder if he’s got a stash of old god porn, I wrote back.
Hahaha! That’s genius. You NEED to write that!
I’ll get right on that, I said. It’ll give me something to do while I miss you.
She said: Hey, don’t get TOO distracted from missing me!
I couldn’t if I wanted to and I don’t want to! You’re all I think about. You’re amazing.
You are too. Get your dad to let you come down again soon, I can’t wait to see you. I’ve got to go do reading for class, but now I’m all distracted thinking about that weekend at your house. I don’t know how I’m going to focus.
She signed off and I happily swung my chair from side to side. I’d made someone that distracted. She’d been here, in my bed. Knowing that I’d had that much impact, that she couldn’t wait to see me, felt powerful.
I went to read about the plot twist she mentioned and throw myself into the story because it was an extension of Sierra. It was the easiest way for me to be close to her while she was so far away.
* * *
I sent Isaac a pic of Sierra in one of her dresses-with-boots outfits with the caption: girlfriend!!!!!!
He texted back: Cute! Way to go! Senior?
First year of college, I replied.
Do we need to have the sex talk?
I grinned at my phone. Isaac had a strong disgusting-boy streak, but he was a champion of girl things when he had to be. He was the one who went out and bought me tampons when I first got my period and was dying of embarrassment.
He texted: There’s safe sex for girls together, right? You are going to wrap it.
Yeah, I texted.
There’d been a lot of sex already with nothing wrapped. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what to wrap. (And with what?) Crap.
Chapter Fifteen
I coasted through the first week after Sierra’s visit on the memory of her in my bed, on the couch, and leaning against the granite kitchen counter wearing nothing but one of my flannel shirts. The next week wasn’t so easy; I needed to touch her again, but I had three more weeks until the end of the school year.
I texted Isaac: I want to see my girlfriend!! How do I get him to let me drive down to the Cities? He’s going to harp on me about school?
Your grades okay? Isaac wrote back.
Don’t even.
Hah. Have you tried the people angle? Like how you need more social time to be well-rounded?
You rock!
My father was coming home late and in a bad mood because his case was floundering (while I secretly cheered, since he represented some mining/processing company out to pollute the world).
I waited for an evening when he seemed less tense. He was on the couch with a drink and his endless piles of paper from his briefcase. I left my Pepsi glass in the kitchen and stood by the side of the couch. He’d taken off his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
“All my homework’s done,” I said.
“Good.”
“Can I go back down to the Cities this weekend or maybe next? We’re in the middle of this big story project.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared at me with iced mocha eyes. “You have finals coming up.”
“I can study in the Cities. Sierra’s in college for English and Blake’s doing math way beyond where I am. They’ll help.”
He lowered his heavy eyebrows and I wanted to back away. “Do you think for a minute I believe you’ll study if you go visit these kids?”
“It’s an important part of the maturation process to have friends,” I countered. “I need more time around people to be well-rounded. You should be glad I have a social life.”
“There is no reason you can’t have one here.”
There were so many reasons I didn’t know where to start.
“I just want to spend time with my friends,” I said. Not adding: you know, with people who get me, who like me, who want me around.
He stood up and squared his shoulders, which showed how much broader than me he was. “Are all your grades B+ or higher?”
I contemplated my shoes. Was it better to run for it or push through?
“Most of them are As,” I said.
“Except.”
“I’m getting a C in American history. But I’ve got an A+ in AP Art History and As in the others.”
He went into the kitchen and refilled his glass with ice and scotch. I heard him pour the last of the ice out of my Pepsi glass and jam it into the dishwasher, as if I’d carelessly left it there, as if I hadn’t intended to refill it.
Coming back to the couch, but not sitting, he said, “The good architecture schools are not going to take a girl who can’t apply herself at a level better than a C.”
“I hate history. And that class is late in the day and the teacher is boring.”
“High school history is a very simple subject: names and dates. Are you being lazy or stubborn? Or is this an attempt to sabotage your life?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer that. He sat down, put his drink on the coffee table and bent forward to shuffle his papers.
“Do you think people care about all of your excuses?” he asked. “Do you think excuses will buy you anything in the real world?”
“They’re not excuses,” I protested. “You’ve talked to my friends in the Cities, you know it’s cool for me to stay there. You don’t want me here. Why can’t I drive down for a few days? I’ll get the history grade up, I promise.”
“It is not ‘cool,’” he said. “You’re being dramatic, Lauren. These few weeks aren’t that long in the grand scheme. You need to focus and not be so emotional. Learn to delay gratification. Friends come and go, but your grades determine your future. You may not want to do the work, but you need to start growing up.”
He said a few more things after that, but I tuned out the words. I heard the message between them loud and clear: Why can’t you be like Isaac? Why are you interested in all these stupid, frivolous things? Why can’t you go to school all day, do your homework, and keep the house and yard neat with a smile? That’s what girls are supposed to do, after all. What’s wrong with you?
He ended with, “You don’t know how lucky you are to have all this. We didn’t have anything like this when I was your age. We shouldn’t have spoiled you. You have no appreciation. No work ethic.”
Maybe he was right. We had the cabin-mansion and I didn’t know a lot of other kids with cars at sixteen. I could afford any college I wanted (that I could get into). I was never hungry. He
never yelled or hit me.
There had to be something wrong with me that I couldn’t appreciate all this. I was a fucked-up person, made wrong inside so that I couldn’t be happy.
“Sorry,” I muttered and slunk off while he turned back to the piles of paper.
I wanted to slam my bedroom door, but I eased it closed. (The last time I’d slammed it, my father took it off its hinges for a week to teach me that we don’t fuck around with doors.)
I ignored the textbooks on my short bookcase. Volume nine of What Did You Eat Yesterday? was on my nightstand, but I couldn’t get interested enough to pick it up. I went to the story. I had nothing to add.
Opening my big sketchbook to the illustration of Zeno and the Queen of Rogues, I ran my fingers along the side of the page, feeling the thickness of the paper. I wanted to be inside the image. But it looked wrong to me now. The perspective was off, warping the side of Zeno’s face.
I tore it out of the book, crumpled it and threw it across my room.
I jumped up and ran to get it. I smoothed it out on the surface of my drawing table. I wanted to make it right and I wanted to tear it up.
I felt like I was exploding inside. No, that I already had. I was a burned-out shell.
I found a scene with the Queen of Rogues in it and pressed my fingers against the screen. I wanted to touch Sierra, to feel her holding me. I could call her, but what if my father heard me talking to her? Would I get another lecture about how my friends didn’t matter and how a spoiled girl like me had to learn to make it in the world?
Sierra wasn’t online. It was getting late and she had to work in the morning. It wasn’t fair to insist on her attention because I couldn’t deal with my own drama.
Tiredness pressed behind my eyes. If I turned off the light and got into bed, the emptiness would come over me. I’d try to see what was outside the universe again. I’d start falling into nothingness and I’d freak out. I had to keep the lights on. I had to think about the story.
At midnight, I heard my father getting ready for bed and made myself turn off my light. I read in the illumination from the laptop screen. It was far enough from the door that he wouldn’t notice the weak glow.
Around one a.m., Blake posted a new scene. I wanted to talk to her because she knew Sierra and I could feel connected to Sierra through her. Was that an okay thing to do?
I messaged her: Hey.
She replied right away: Zeno! What’s shaking?
Catching up on the story. Did you see the scene Sierra wrote about the Queen and Zeno?
Yep, interesting. Is that going to make Zeno a target from Dustin’s character?
He doesn’t seem like the vengeful type, I wrote. I didn’t want to talk about the story as much as I wanted to talk about real life, so I added: Sierra came up to see me about two weeks ago. Did she tell you?
I heard all about it, Blake said.
You did?
She won’t stop talking about you. There was a pause and she added: Not that anyone wants her to.
What’s she saying?
No worries, nothing too revealing. She said you’re a great kisser. I said, I know.
Blake inserting herself. Maybe it wasn’t that everyone was fascinated by her, maybe she drew attention to herself on purpose because she liked it.
You’re cool with all that? I asked.
With how you kiss?
I could picture her impish expression as she wrote that.
No, with the fact that Sierra and I are together, I replied.
Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? I know you’re only a few days younger than me, but believe me, I lost my virginity way before you. I’m glad you’ve got someone.
I want to come down and visit again, I said. But I probably can’t before the end of the school year. My father’s being tough about grades and finals.
Did you tell him you have a girlfriend?
No!
I’d typed it without thinking. I shouldn’t have said it. She’d think he was homophobic and that wasn’t it—but I couldn’t define what it was.
I didn’t think he cared, she wrote.
He mostly ignores that I’m a lesbian, I told her. But he’d probably say no, like I’m too young for sex. But also…
I stared at the screen for a long time. So long that Blake’s name got the “away” flag by it and I wondered if she’d gone to bed. This felt easier if I was talking into space rather than to a person.
I wrote: When he knows what I like, he can use it against me. He’d tell me I can’t visit so he has that leverage to make me do what he wants. He’d hold it hostage. Like I have to show up for events and dress nice and all that shit.
Most of the time it’s like he doesn’t realize I’m here and then suddenly he wants to make sure I’m getting good grades and that I look right and I’m behaving right. I don’t know if he forgets he’s a parent or…
I paused again as the words formed in my mind. Did I want to say them? Blake said I could tell her anything. Did she already know what was going on? Did she know it better than I did? Because I couldn’t figure it out.
I don’t think my father likes me, I typed. He adores my brother. He’s always telling people what Isaac is doing. Isaac has this amazing internship now and he’s meeting all these important people. And my father stares at me like I’m a train wreck and he can’t figure out what went wrong. Or like I shouldn’t be here. Like somebody dropped off a daughter when he wasn’t paying attention and he hasn’t figured out how that happened.
I think he lets me live with him because that’s what a successful lawyer with a family does. It’s this picture in his mind. But in reality, I’m in his way. And I’m not doing my adoring daughter role right. I should be happy with everything I have but I feel like I’m crazy. I get so angry and there isn’t any reason. Nothing bad is happening but I feel crazy all the time.
I read over the words and wanted to take them back. If my father saw me talk like that, he’d hate me even more.
It felt like his hatred could reach back through my body, through my history, and unmake me.
I was shaking, breathing fast and shallowly, simply from typing words on a screen. Clearly losing my mind. Definitely the dramatic mess.
Blake’s status switched from “away” to “available” and she wrote: It’s okay that you feel crazy. Don’t beat yourself up about how you feel.
What?
Trust me. It’s okay to feel what you feel, even if it seems crazy. Don’t let other people belittle how you feel. You can lose a lot that way.
I think most of it’s already gone, I said, realizing the truth of the words as I typed.
Then let’s go find it.
My eyes burned. A hot tear pushed itself down my cheek and onto my shirt. I pressed my hands against my face, lowered my head and cried, hard and silently for a long time.
She made it sound so possible and I knew she believed it was. In my chest, a tight darkness like a dense walnut showed a hair-thin crack glimmering with light.
She was away again, but I typed anyway.
How do I find things when I don’t even know what I’ve lost? I asked.
She came back and said: I thought you were the greatest thief in the galaxy. You can figure out how to steal them back. Write it into the story. I’ll come with you.
That’s brilliant.
All in a day’s work, dear girl.
That made me smile. I wrote, Hey, I should get to bed. Why are you up?
Infinities, she replied.
You know they’ll still be there in the morning. Thank you…for all of it.
Go to bed, Lauren.
You too. If you can’t sleep, you can do what I do—work out more of the story in your head. Help me figure out how a thief steals herself back.
I sat for a few more minutes, but she didn’t reply and her status went to “away” again. Maybe she’d gone back to the story. Or she took my advice. Or she thought I was a meddlesome jerk for telling her what to do.
Zeno huddled between two crates, shivering and flickering like a bad hologram transmission. Cypher knelt in front of her. She watched Zeno for a moment, then glanced around the room, checking for cameras, assassins, guards, spies, anomalies. When her gaze returned to Zeno, she had relaxed a fraction. Zeno was almost as good at picking unseen, defended corners as she was.
She wished she could put her arms around Zeno and teleport her to someplace even safer, but she couldn’t. Whatever magic gave Cypher her teleport ability, it could only move somewhat static things, like human bodies. She didn’t think it could move a bunch of sentient nanites. What did Zeno call herself anyway? A colony?
“Hey, you’re flickering,” she said.
Zeno looked up, her eyes shifting color and shape. “Bomb,” she said, the word shivering on her lips. “Blew me out. Trying to pull together. Lost some. Damaged.”
Cypher nodded. “Can you walk?”
Zeno shook her head. “Time. Heals,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.
Cypher laughed. “Not fast enough. Be right back.”
She teleported down to the medlab, making one of the nurses scream and leap sideways to see Cypher fold out of the zero point energy. She took what she’d come for and then had to walk, sadly like a normal, out the door and down the hall to the elevator. The contents of the box were like Zeno: not in a form that could be teleported.
Zeno was still crammed into her three-walled space, looking as miserable as she had when Cypher left her.
Cypher set down the box of medical-grade nanites and opened it. The swarm rose up, seeking whatever human-type body they were supposed to heal. Zeno’s eyes lit and she held up shaking hands. The nanites streamed into her.
Curious, Cypher put her palm along Zeno’s cheek. The cool surface raced with electricity. Over the next seconds she felt the surface, the skin under her hand, turn warm and solid. Zeno was filling in like a hologram turning into the person it projected.