The Divinity Bureau

by Tessa Clare

  My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I know,” Roman says sheepishly. “I feel like we’ve spent a lot of time apologizing to each other.”

  “So, don’t,” I say breathlessly. “This is who you are, and this is who I am. And I still want to be here.”

  Roman shakes his head. “Being an ass isn’t in my nature. I want to make this one up to you.”

  I smile. I want to protest, but I can’t say no to that. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Are you doing anything this weekend?”

  “No,” I say breathlessly, even though I’m positive that I’m scheduled to work. “What do you have in mind?”

  That’s one lie that I can be okay with – and I’m positive that I can convince Tate to take my shift.

  Roman grins. “You’ll see. I’ll pick you up this Saturday at noon?”

  I nod. “That works for me.” I turn on my heel, prepared to head back into my car. Then a thought hits me. “Roman?”

  “Yeah?”

  I attempt to sound serious, but a smile still makes its way to my face. “This makeup date better be epic.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROMAN

  I t’s three minutes past noon when I find myself parked outside the gates to the McIntyre estate. A vehicle – though it looks more like a spaceship, it’s cylinder shape covered in reflective glass and tinted windows – is parked on the side of the road. As soon as I pull up, one of the doors slowly lifts open, revealing April. She’s wearing a sundress, sitting cross-legged inside the vehicle. Tan leather and computer screens take up most of the backseat of the car.

  “Is it okay if I drive this time?” she asks.

  I agree, but I want to tell her that typing an address into a computer isn’t driving. But I step into the vehicle anyways, happy to trade my stick shift and roaring engine for a half hour of relaxation.

  It’s been a long week.

  It’s been three weeks since the bureau’s election report was released – almost a month – which means that those who are on the list are rapidly approaching their thirty-day deadline. The district chairmen and women have been running around wildly in an attempt to get through all their hearings; which, in turn, leads to their staff running around wildly as well. I glance at April, who is nonchalantly flipping through channels on the television in search for the weather report. Had I not noticed her name on the election list, she would probably be scrambling as well.

  I push the thought aside. While it makes me feel better to know that I saved her life, it doesn’t entitle me to anything. And that’s why I still haven’t told her.

  When I’m not working on the latest broken system, I’m analyzing the data from Gideon’s computer. So far, I have yet to find anything of interest. I managed to skim through every single picture on Gideon’s computer, most of which are pictures of him at conferences and events. The most notable photo is one of Gideon and Macy McIntyre, which made me shudder. I spent hours researching any possible connections that the two might have had. I learned that the picture was taken at a fundraiser for Henrik McIntyre’s campaign. At best, it was a publicity stunt. At worse, it was another dead end. Maybe I’m better off giving up. It’s fruitless, and I doubt April will appreciate me nosing into her family history.

  My mind is brought back to the present when I recognize the cross streets of our destination.

  “We’re here,” I say.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” a too-loud robotic voice purrs.

  I jump, still not used to the luxuries of a self-driving car. My worries worsen when the car attempts to parallel park. I grip the steering wheel, but it’s locked in place. I glance over at April, who’s checking something on her Mobiroid, barely even noticing the car moving. She doesn’t even look up when it stops suddenly (at least, it feels sudden to me). I glance behind me to make sure we haven’t hit another car. We haven’t, but we’re still too close for comfort. I can’t believe April lets this thing drive her around every day.

  Our destination is a hovering skyscraper that is rumored to have the best observation deck in the country. I’ve never been to the top. Jenneka was afraid of heights, and I never had the guts to go on my own. But I’ve always wanted to go, and after living in the Midwest region for two years, I’m figuring that it’s time I cross that item off my bucket list.

  Once I’m certain that the car will stop moving, I glance in April’s direction. “Are you ready?”

  She closes the app on her Mobiroid and starts digging through her purse. “Just give me a second to find my mask.”

  I already have mine pulled out of my pocket, and I put it on while April’s digging for hers. It takes her a few minutes, and I soak in the view of her unmasked face. She’s so beautiful. I chose the location because I heard the observation deck is indoors, which means that she won’t need a mask. We can take in the view, and maybe I can know what it’s like to kiss those full lips…

  I shove the thought aside as she pulls out her mask and puts it on. She nods in my direction, and we step out of the car.

  The observation deck is a historic landmark. A century and a half ago, it was the tallest building in the world. Though that was before carbon nanotubes, 3D printing, and robot swarm construction, so that title has long passed elsewhere. One also used to be able to see for miles, even all the way to the 70th district, but the atmospheric changes have reduced the view to mostly the 200th district. Still, I figured it’d be interesting to watch how people used to work back in the 21st century. And even with the smog, I still expected the view to be magical.

  Unfortunately, when I glance in April’s direction, I can see that she isn’t sharing my enthusiasm.

  My face falls. “What’s wrong?”

  April holds her hand out to point at the crowd standing in front of us. People are lining up around the corner, heading towards the building’s entrance. Her voice is muffled through her mask, but I can still hear the dejected tone. “We’re never going to get in.”

  “Yes, we will,” I say optimistically. I don’t care if I need to wait in line. “We just need to wait a little bit.”

  April raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, skeptical on my interpretation of ‘a little bit.’

  “Maybe we should grab lunch and come back?”

  “We’ll get lunch after this. I promise.”

  April lets out a groan, a loud indication that she doesn’t want to wait that long. But I’m optimistic that we can get in and out fairly quickly. While there’s a hoard of people entering the building, there are sure to be just as many people leaving it. Once we’re inside, all we’d need to do is take an elevator to the top, take a few pictures, and (hopefully) share a romantic moment.

  Unfortunately, the look on April’s face is anything but romantic.

  I find the last person in line and fall behind them. April begrudgingly trails behind me, adjusting the strap on her face mask. To distract her, I unlock my Mobiroid and start to pull up the guidebook I’d downloaded. “Did you know the windows are made of glass and rubber?”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  I keep going. “They redid it during the Great Rebellion of District 500. Apparently, the windows took some damage, so they redesigned them to be bulletproof.”

  April raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know that? I had to learn about the tower’s windows to pass the third grade.”

  “What? How? At that age, I was learning about the history of genetically modified potatoes!”

  April looks at me as though a lightbulb had just turned on in her mind. “You know, that makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  She points to the guidebook that is now occupying the screen on my Mobiroid. “Only tourists download these. I had to listen to the guided tour for my elementary school field trips – twice.”

  “There’s a guided tour?” I ask, suddenly excited. “How much is it?”

  April shakes her head. “It’s not worth the money.” Sh
e pauses, still skeptically eying the line in front of us. “Where are you from again?”

  “The 402nd District.”

  “Where is that?”

  “West State,” I answer. “Near the Rocky Mountains. I went to college in District 530, though I couldn’t get a job out there. I ended up moving here for an old girlfriend.”

  “Interesting,” April says flatly, though her tone indicates that she doesn’t want to talk about my ex-girlfriends. She goes on, “Two of my grandparents were chairmen for the Divinity Bureau district in the surrounding districts near 530.”

  “I know,” I say instinctively, resulting in a tilted head from April. I learned that detail from Gideon’s computer, but I’m not ready to delve into that yet. “Err – I read it somewhere.”

  April nods, appearing to accept my answer. This brings me to my next question.

  “You’ve asked me all these questions,” I point out. “But I still don’t know a thing about you.” Other than bits and pieces on Gideon’s computer.

  April shrugs. “There’s not really a lot to know. I come from a long line of politicians. My family is wealthy. All you have to do is think of your stereotypical rich girl, and you’ve probably figured out a majority of who I am.”

  “My stereotype of a rich girl doesn’t involve a minimum wage job at a coffee shop.”

  April laughs, a hint of pink staining her cheeks. “I got cut off from my trust fund.” I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. “What do you want to know?”

  Everything.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I ask.

  April bursts out laughing. “Really? Is that all you want to know?”

  “Oh, there’s more,” I warn with a grin. “I’m just asking the first thing that came to mind.”

  “Red,” April replies.

  I think about it for a moment. “That makes sense. The lettering on your protest sign was red. I thought you were trying to make it look like blood.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find things to write with?”

  “Not at all, actually,” I answer. “I don’t know why we’d need to. We have computers and telecommunication devices.” I flash the wrist that has my Mobiroid attached to it. “There’s no point in wasting your time and money.”

  “True. Next question.”

  The next question comes easily. “Would you rather fight a horse-sized duck or one hundred duck-sized horses?”

  April throws her head back laughing. “A horse-sized duck. Your mention of duck-sized guts really turned me off. Next!”

  “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

  “A politician.”

  I’m taken aback. I thought that being the daughter of Henrik McIntyre would turn her off from a political career. “Are you serious?”

  April thinks about it. “Well, actually – I wanted to be the Queen of the Confederal Districts. Unfortunately, that job doesn’t exist.”

  “Is politics still something that you want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” April admits. “You should have seen my dad. He was always so… secretive. And the way he talked was like…” She looks away, lost in the memory. “Well, he had a really monotone voice. He always chose his words carefully. I think most of his success was because he could bore you to death. I don’t think I’d be good at that.” She pauses. “My feet hurt. Let’s sit.”

  I don’t have the chance to utter another word before April plops herself onto the concrete ground. She immediately pulls her heels off her feet as soon as she’s comfortable. I feel awkward hovering over her, so I find a spot next to her and plop onto the ground.

  “You know,” I say, circling back to our conversation. “From what I know about you, I think you’re a badass. And I think you can be good at anything that you want to be good at.”

  April turns to look at me, a wide smile on her face that’s making my stomach churn. “Do you really think that?”

  I wrap an arm around her tiny frame and pull her closer to me.

  “I really do,” I answer softly, and I mean that.

  She lets out a breath as she leans her head against my shoulder.

  “Cool,” she says, her voice light. “I think that I want to be good at cutting lines to tourist attractions.”

  It takes an extra second to comprehend what April is saying; but when I do, I burst out laughing. “That’ll just make you an expert at being an asshole.”

  “I can live with that,” she says with a grin. Despite her claims, though, she doesn’t appear to have any desire to move from her spot – and neither do I.

  The moment of calm is shortly interrupted by a stomach growl. I’m not sure if it came from me or April, but April is the first to voice my thoughts. “I could really use some food.”

  I agree, but I’m worried about losing our place in line. The crowd behind us is only getting bigger, and I don’t want to wait any longer than I need to.

  April sits up first. “How about if we just hit up a café and come back? By then, the line should have died down a little…”

  I stand up behind her, though I tug on her arm to keep her from leaving the line. “No, no, no. We’re already moving…” April gives me a skeptical look that I purposefully ignore. “I have an idea. How about you save our spot in line, and I’ll run across the street and grab us some food? We can eat while we wait.”

  April hesitates. I’m guessing that she’d rather enjoy her meal inside a warm café instead of the smoggy streets of District 200. But she eyes the ever-growing line behind her and concedes. “Alright, fine.”

  I grin. “Anything in particular that you’re in the mood for?”

  April shrugs. “Surprise me. I’m not picky – just as long as it doesn’t have marinara sauce, pickles, or anything spicy.” She pauses. “Also, extra bonus if it has pesto.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “I’ll be back in ten minutes – twenty minutes, tops. Don’t go anywhere without me.”

  I give her a kiss on the cheek, causing her eyes to widen. I make my way across the street. When I turn to glance at April, she has a hand on the cheek where I had kissed her.

  I order a grilled chicken panini for April, requesting for extra pesto to be added to her sandwich. I got a ham and cheese panini for myself.

  When I make my way across the street ten minutes later, I notice that April isn’t where I left her. I scan the line before finding that she had moved several feet forward, much to my delight. Unfortunately, April doesn’t share my enthusiasm.

  “The line attendant came by,” she says, taking the sandwich from my hand. “She said that it’d be a three-hour wait.”

  My eyes widen. “A three-hour wait? That’s absurd!”

  “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised,” April says lamely. “It is the weekend.” She takes another look at the line in front of us and sighs. “Listen, Roman. Do you want to just take a raincheck on the observation deck? Maybe we can go to the park or the pier…”

  I shake my head. “No, no. It can’t be three hours. We've already been waiting for an hour, so it must be three hours for the people behind us. Besides, I’m sure it’ll clear out. The line will probably empty out when people get tired of waiting.”

  April takes another look at the line, not seeing any signs of it clearing out anytime soon. “Roman…”

  “Come on,” I plead because I’m excited about this and I have no problems with waiting – just as long as I get to wait with her. “It won’t be too bad. Besides, it’ll give us time to hang out.”

  I’m positive that she’s going to say no, and I won’t blame her if she does. There’s plenty of things to do in District 200, and I’d be happy to take her anywhere that she wants to go. But to my surprise, she agrees.

  “Alright fine,” she says, unwrapping the sandwich in her hand. “I’m hungry, though.”

  She takes a seat on the sidewalk, and I sit next to her. She takes off her face mask, giving me an unobstructed view of her. We eat in silence
, devouring our food. Technically, we’re not supposed to eat outside (something about the smog making its way into our food). But I know she’s hungry, and I am, too. Every once in a while, we need to scoot a few inches forward to keep the line moving, but I don’t think that a few inches will matter. I’m halfway through my panini when April crinkles the wrap that her sandwich had come in.

  “This was good,” she says heartily. “Thank you.”

  I turn to glance at her, noticing a streak of green on her chin. “You have pesto on your chin.”

  She wipes her chin with a handkerchief, but she had only succeeded in spreading the green.

  I laugh, bemused by the confused expression on her face. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  I take the handkerchief from her hand and press it against her chin. She turns her head so that she’s facing me. As I wipe all traces of green from her face, I can’t help but notice how close her face is to mine – and how her steel eyes keep darting towards my lips. I can hardly breathe. All it would take is a few inches to close the distance between the two of us, but I don’t want our first kiss to be in line while April has basil on her chin. But I’m having a hard time pulling away.

  April is the first to break the moment.

  “How old are you?” she asks suddenly.

  The question makes me burst into a coughing fit, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the smog. I start digging through my pocket for the face mask.

  “Does it…” I start to ask, not wanting her to think I’m avoiding the question, but I’m interrupted by another coughing fit. “Does it matter?”

  At 25, I’m not abhorrently old, but at nineteen, she might disagree. It’s not uncommon for couples to have several decades between them; but it’s still relatively taboo.